The Fugitive and the Vanishing Man

by Rod Duncan

  The forward anchor was a large stone, drilled through so that a rope could be tied. It was too big for the boy to lift, but he managed to roll it to the edge and push it over. The rope on the deck whipped after it, but only a few coils. It might be shallow enough to wade ashore. The stern anchor was a hunk of iron scrap. Together, they wouldn’t have held against a current. But in a quiet inlet on the coast of a lake, they proved easily enough for the job.

  “We’re more than halfway,” the master said, tamping tobacco into a pipe. “The boy will cook up supper.”

  The gruff demeanour he’d displayed all day had gone. Now he was all smiles. He puffed smoke into the evening air, making a veil between them.

  She went below, told the boy to go up top, to give her some privacy. They had a metal bucket in place of a chamber pot. This she used, then lugged it up to empty over the stern, feeling their eyes on her.

  Beyond the stones of the shore, the land was thick with scrub and small trees. She could see no lights. The vastness of the country was hard to understand. In England there was hardly a mile but someone would be living there. In America, she might set out on foot and not meet another human being in a week of walking. If she were to slip away in the night, it might not be so easy to find her way back to civilisation.

  They released the steam and allowed the fire to die down, but there was enough heat to cook more bacon on the shovel. The bread was stale for their evening meal but softened in the fat. This time the master offered her an apple. The boy seemed content without. As she bit into it, she remembered Tinker and had to blink away the threat of tears. If he’d been with her they could have taken turns to stay awake. Or her dear Julia. But she’d missed one night’s sleep already and was having to fight to keep her eyes open.

  “Is there a blanket for me?” she asked.

  The master nodded and the boy went off to fetch it. While neither of them were looking, she scooped a handful of coal chippings from the bunker.

  The blanket smelt of tobacco smoke. She accepted it, then picked her way to the back of the hold where a space had been left, surrounded by stacked barrels. It could only be reached via a narrow gap. There was no way out. But it gave her the best chance of living through the night.

  She lay under the blanket, knife and pistol close enough to grab, trying to stay awake for a few minutes more. The boy clambered up through the hatch. The master was pottering about up front, his shoes scraping on the boards. Then the lamp went out, leaving only the dull glow from the firebox.

  Moving silently, she uncovered herself and crawled forwards through the narrow gap and started placing the chippings of coal as she retreated back towards the blanket. Once she was covered again, sleep came instantly.

  Waking came in a rush. There had been a noise, half in and half out of her dream. Now all she could hear was the rushing of blood in her own head and the whisper of the coarse blanket as she pulled it away to free her arms.

  Somewhere close by, a chipping of coal crunched under a boot. She fumbled for the knife and pistol, then propped herself with her back against a barrel. He stepped forwards again. This time she made out the movement, the shift of a darker mass against the dark. He would be a knife man, she thought.

  His foot caught another chipping, sending it skittering across the boards. The dark form lowered itself over the place where she had been sleeping. She imagined his knife hand extending, the blade seeking out her flesh. She raised the unloaded pistol and pulled back the hammer. Its click was unmistakable. She heard his intake of breath.

  “I could tie you to the anchor,” she said. “Leave you on the bottom of the lake. The boy can steer the boat.”

  “I was sleepwalking,” he said.

  “Put down the weapon.”

  There was a soft sound. Not a knife. He started backing away, scattering the coal chips. She groped on the floor for what he had left and found a length of waxed cord tied to a wooden handle at each end. A knife may have many functions but a garrotte has only one. A shiver passed from her neck over her shoulders.

  He would not make the same mistake again. She followed him between the barrels then climbed the ladder, lifting the hatch to clamber out on deck. The lake air hit her, cold and damp.

  The boy’s eyes were wide with fright. Taking his blanket, she gestured with the gun, sending him below to join the master. Then she threaded a rope to stop the hatch opening again and took the blankets into the wheelhouse.

  This time she slept deeply, despite the cold. Waking in the thin light of dawn, she walked up and down the deck. And when her muscles had loosened she ran on the spot until the warmth started to flow through her body.

  Once she’d released the master, there’d be no going back into the hold. But the bucket was down there with them. So she used the anchor rope for balance and managed to relieve herself over the side. When she was clean and presentable again, she opened the hatch and stood back, holding the pistol so they would see it.

  The boy scurried out, with those scared-rabbit eyes. He walked once around the deck, as if merely taking the air, then dropped himself back through the hatch. She could hear them whispering below. Only then did the master emerge. He nodded towards her, a gesture of greeting, then carried on with his tasks. Just another morning, it seemed, the events of the night not worth the mention.

  “Is there a place to stop a few miles before Cleveland?” she asked.

  “There is.”

  Elizabeth lowered her gun and clicked the hammer gently to its rest. “Once you’ve put me down, I’ll give you the rest of your money.”

  The docking place turned out to be a cluster of factories, canneries and warehouses served by a long jetty. That suited Elizabeth well enough. The boy hopped ashore with her bag. She followed, the pistol resting heavy and reassuring in the pocket of her coat.

  She handed over the twenty dollars. Safer to leave the master embarrassed than angry. He stuffed it in his pocket then turned away without a word. The paddle wheels began to turn, slapping the water, and the Rosy Dawn chugged off into the lake. It wouldn’t be long before they put in at Cleveland. The Patent Office would be waiting. The master might clam up at first, fearing she’d put them onto him. But they’d have the story out of him soon enough. Agents would be swarming toward that jetty before the day was out.

  Wooden buildings big as warehouses lined the lakeside. Everything smelled of fish. Five men in blue overalls lounged in the sun next to an open doorway. She caught sight of drying racks within, row after row of them.

  One of the men was looking at her. The others followed his gaze. A woman travelling on her own will always be stared at, but she would present a doubly curious sight: oversized coat, over-stuffed bag, charcoal grey trilby. They might be talking about her for weeks. And she was dishevelled after a night sleeping on the deck of the Rosy Dawn. But that might work to her advantage. If she could find the right story to tell them.

  “Please help me,” she said.

  One of the men, who seemed older than the others, stood from the crate he’d been sitting on. Fish scales glinted on his overalls and in his grey beard.

  “Miss?”

  She stepped closer, dropped her voice. “It’s my father. My real father, not the one I was brought up by. It’s all a secret. And now the secret’s out. He’s after me!”

  The man’s brow furrowed. The others gathered around to listen. “Slow down, girl. Who’s after you?”

  “My real father. I’ve run away. I think they’re going to kill me.”

  “Who?”

  “The Patent Office.”

  They all recoiled on mention of the name, but only by a few inches.

  “Hold on there!” the old man whispered. “How do they get into this?”

  “My father – the real one – he’s a Patent Office agent.”

  The hint of scandal lit their eyes. Patent Office agents were supposed to be celibate. That didn’t stop rumours of carnality. The men leaned in once again, the smell of fish and tob
acco smoke overpowering.

  “If anyone found out, he’d be hanged,” she said.

  They nodded as one.

  “He’ll have me killed to stop the story. They’re after me even now. I need clothes to disguise myself. A man’s clothes, but smaller than this coat. And a place to change.”

  The lie worked so well that they refused to take her money. She did persuade them to accept Agent Winslow’s coat in exchange, though she warned them that it was stolen and to wait a month before trying to sell it.

  Having changed in the privacy of an unused smokehouse, she emerged to great astonishment from the men. So impressed were they by the transformation that each wanted to take her hand. They were tentative, but when she gripped back, as a man would, and shook firmly, they laughed. One even patted her on the shoulder, as he might have another man, though more gently. She slapped him on the back in return, hard enough to make him grin.

  The clothes fitted well enough, except for around the waist, which she had to bulk out with a cloth wrapped around next to her skin. The same cloth also flattened down her breasts. The trousers, which they called pants, were canvas and the same blue as the overalls. There was a grey shirt, a dull green jacket and a red cloth to tie around her neck. The hat was not unlike Winslow’s fedora, but dark brown leather instead of grey felt, the brim half an inch wider and ragged. She still needed a coat. But that was good, to one manner of thinking. She would find something warm and second-hand in Cleveland. And it was safer that none of these men could give a complete description of how she would come to look.

  She’d powdered her hands with a fragment of charred wood, then rubbed her chin to give a suggestion of stubble.

  “I wouldn’t know you from a boy,” the bearded man said. He beamed as if it were the greatest compliment.

  She blessed them all, speaking still in a female voice, then walked away with a female gait, until she was around the corner and out of their view. Only then did she allow the greater change to come over her, shifting her balance, leaning into her steps, steering out from the buildings to occupy the middle of the street.

  It seemed a down-at-heel industrial town. The few shoppers were working men and women. She strode past a tobacconist’s, a dry goods store, a vegetable barrow, a ropemaker’s.

  After three streets, she called into a gun shop and, using her male voice, bought powder and shot. The man who served her showed displeasure at the crisp, new banknote. But he took it in the end, giving coins and crumpled notes in change. Easier money to spend.

  She found a wagon of oil barrels about to set off towards Cleveland. The carter took some of her coins and let her climb into the back. They rattled and jolted along for an hour or so, until the buildings started to grow taller, the streets more crowded. When they reached the back of a queue of carriages and steamcars waiting to turn left, she slipped off the cart and joined the crowds on the sidewalk outside a line of boarding houses.

  The Patent Office would track her to the fish drying factory, but no further. She strode around the corner, not looking back, confident that she could not be followed, knowing that the greater danger now lay ahead.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 10

  Power was built on belief just as the castle had been built on the rock. The crumbling of either foundation would bring the edifice crashing down.

  The first lord – great-grandfather to the king – had used a looted cannon and a quantity of muskets to control Crown Point, extorting goods and food from trappers and traders passing on the Colombia River, hundreds of feet below. His genius had been to take only a tithe. In that way he’d been unlike the other warlords of the wild Oregon Territory. A begrudging order began to settle, so that a man paddling a load of furs downriver might feel a sense of relief on reaching those waters. He knew what he would need to pay. He could allow for it. And if bandits made camp beyond sight of the cannon, the Lord of Crown Point would send out raiding parties to take them down.

  But force of arms can only control the land. A nation is built on minds and hearts. It wasn’t enough that troublemakers were hunted. The traders also had to believe that it would be done and that their tithe would be spent for justice. The heads of bandits would be raised on spikes above the battlements.

  The great-grandfather had started it. But it was his son, the king’s great-uncle, who added magic to the mix, using it to fashion a belief in destiny where there had been none before. His magician had been a wild-eyed prophet with unkempt hair, who would fall down into fits, his mouth foaming. In that state, he would rant and rave in the language of spirits, which none present could understand, but which, when he had recovered, he was able to translate. And through those sayings it was discovered that the Lord of Crown Point would become the Lord of the Colombia River for hundreds of miles. He would become a king.

  The prophecy proved true. But the magicians who followed, bastard sons and grandsons of the first, were lesser men, falling more easily into alcoholic stupor than visionary fits. So that when Timon found a prophetess sheltering in a tavern, he brought her into the Great Hall of the castle, into the very presence of his brother, the king.

  She stood before the throne, her back to the warriors, accountants, armourers, courtiers and brightly dressed women of the royal household, her young son clinging to her skirts.

  The king’s magician stepped from the crowd and circled her. “This woman is false!” He spat the words.

  “But she saved my child,” said Timon. “He was dying.”

  “He would’ve grown hale without her.”

  “You didn’t see it.”

  Through all this, the woman who might have been a prophetess had stood looking down at the flagstones, avoiding the pleading eyes of her son.

  The King of Crown Point sighed. He could easily have dealt with her in private. But arguments of power held in the public gaze had a way of getting out of control. Doubly so when they concerned matters of faith. If someone had to die, it would be this woman, and that would leave another hungry orphan for him to feed.

  “Perhaps Timon’s son might have sweated off the fever without help,” the king suggested, in a conciliatory tone. “But none are harmed if a little magic helped with the healing.”

  The court magician stood tall, though this mainly pushed out his beer paunch. “No, sire! I can read her. This woman has no power over life or death.”

  “What say you?” This the king addressed to the woman, who stood just as tall as his magician, and whose gaze seemed more focused.

  “This man is afraid of me,” she said.

  “She lies.”

  They’d had their chance to back away. Neither had taken it. “Then we must have a contest,” said the king, resigned now.

  A murmur of excitement shifted through the court. Everyone was seeing it. A skull would be cracked on the stones. Timon had seemed upset by the woman’s chill reception but now he too was licking his lips. His hand dropped to the purse at his belt. A contest meant a wager. And people would lay down good money on the life or death of a magician.

  “Well?” asked the king.

  The court magician coughed, as if to clear his throat. It failed to quiet the whisper of conversations around the hall: the important business of fixing odds and placing bets. That was the way of things. Gambling was another kind of religion.

  The king clapped his hands. That did it. In the silence that followed, the court magician stepped to the centre of the room, turned a full circle, his gaze making the crowd back away. He put both hands on his head and his eyes rolled up in their sockets so that only the whites showed. He began to hum, a single low note, then hunched his shoulders forwards and his voice became suddenly resonant, making an otherworldly drone. The crowd backed away further. His mouth opened and closed making vowel sounds, which might have been some language of spirits. Then he dropped, or perhaps threw himself down, and silence closed in.

  The crowd had begun to creep forwards again but stopped dead when he sat, drawing
a great howling breath. Overacting.

  “She!” He pointed to the woman, her son clinging ever closer. “She has been sent by a demon to deceive you. My lord, I’ve seen it. In the world of the spirit, I’ve seen it. Whatever she says has been put in her mouth by an enemy. She would bring great harm.”

  They were all looking at the woman now, as she prised her child’s fingers from her leg and pushed him towards one of the king’s mistresses in the crowd, who, seeming to understand, took the boy and held him.

  The magician clambered back to his feet, staggering theatrically before finding his balance, whereon he folded his arms and stared hatred at the impostor. She glanced towards the king, who nodded for her to proceed.

  “I’m confused,” she said. “Is he claiming I have no magic? Or is he saying my magic has evil intent?”

  The king’s magician seemed not to have expected this question.

  “She’s weak!” he blurted. “And evil.”

  “Then, if I prove myself more powerful than you, I will have shown your claim to be false.”

  The king nodded.

  She advanced towards the fireplace, the crowd parting for her, then turned to face them and held up her hands, displaying their emptiness. Reaching two fingers into her narrow cuff, she extracted a small writing tablet, which seemed to be made of ivory. From her other cuff she produced a pencil.

  “Can you stop me reading your mind?” she asked the court magician. When he didn’t answer, she said: “You must direct your thoughts to a name. Then I will write it down. Use your magic to stop me. If you can.”

  The magician glanced to the king, as if looking for support.

  “Are you scared?” she asked.