Agassiz felt a vein in his temple throbbing. He tried to repress his anger. “I did no such ungallant thing. I spent the night in prison, and this morning nearly escaped a hideous session on the rack!”
Jane gasped, and threw herself into Agassiz’s arms.
“Oh, Louis, to think of it nearly makes me swoon! You poor, poor thing!”
Agassiz caught Dogberry watching with rather too much interest. “Ahem, thank you for your concern, Miss Pryke. Ah, allow me to introduce Mister Josiah Dogberry, a new member of the team. I believe Mister Dogberry could use some breakfast.”
“I should say! A dozen flapjacks and a rasher or two would sit nicely. But light on the insect parts.”
Leaving his servant to attend to Dogberry’s needs, Agassiz retreated to his study. He freshened himself by means of a ewer and basin, then had a short nap on the leather couch.
The arrival of the morning post served as cause for Jane to awaken him. Having informed him archly that the rest of the household was still abed—including Mister Dogberry—she waited patiently for Agassiz to read his mail.
Agassiz singled out three letters for immediate perusal. The first bore the return address of the dwarfish yet powerful Abbot Lawrence.
Striving to maintain the devil-may-care demeanor he had felt earlier—there were plenty of other schools that would have him, Yale for instance—Agassiz slit the envelope.
Dear Professor Agassiz:
I can’t say when I’ve had a more delightful time than I had last night. Probably not since Ben Franklin and I painted Philadelphia red back in ’88. I consider the success of the whole affair to be attributable to you and your charming staff. Damn that fly! Martha! Where was I? Oh, yes. You may count on my whole-hearted support for your candidacy for the new chair I am about to endow. Marvelous, isn’t it, the divergence of feminine anatomy . . .?
Sincerely yours,
A.L.
Agassiz realized he had been hunched forward tensely while reading. He now flopped back gratefully in the chair. Life was good. He was meant to succeed. All his problems would soon disappear. (But what had Cezar told—or showed—the millionaire about his African mate?)
The second letter was from Hosea Clay.
You dastardly rapscallion:
As you well know by now, sir, I was afixin to sever yet another token from your unclaimed slave when the brute availed hisself of a poker, whanged me upside the haid and made his escape. I have been convalesson these past few days, or you woulda received my alfred david about this shameful affair even sooner. Rest assured that my lawyer will be in contack with yourn, as soon as I employ one. The damages will be treemenjous.
Hurtfully yourn,
Hosea Clay
Another burden off his mind. Dare he try for three out of three . . .?
Dear Louis,
Please excuse the familiar salutation. I hope you do not consider me unladylike because of it. But I feel I know you so well after our heartfelt tete-a-tete of last night. Your philosophical insights stirred me to the depths of my womanly soul. I look forward to sharing many more such intimate confidences with you.
With deep affection I remain your good friend,
Lizzie Cary
Agassiz felt a warm glow pervading his nether regions. Thoughts of the lissome Lizzie stirred his genetic instincts.
“Jane, would you mind? I’ve had such a hard day. . . .”
“Oh, no, sir! I can practice that new trick I tried the other night.”
Kneeling before him, Jane began to unbutton his trousers.
At that moment the study door burst open.
Framed in the door was Jacob Cezar.
“Mine Gott, Louie, dank goodness you’re zafe! Vee didn’t know vot had hap—”
It dawned on Cezar what he was interrupting. “Oh, excuse me, I didn’t realize—”
It was too late for the intruder to back out, however. The noise had attracted the rest of the household. Prominent in the front ranks were Edward Desor and Dottie.
Desor said smugly, “So, this is the example you set for your staff, Agass?”
Jane sought an alibi. “No, sir, you don’t understand. It’s only—that is—I was only sewing a button onto the Master’s trousers!”
“A button? Where is it then? And what were you using for needle and thread? Perhaps you swallowed them? And it must have been an extra button, for I see none missing.”
“Oh, I—” Jane hid her face and burst into tears.
Dottie hastened to the side of the girl and lifted her to her feet. With an arm around her, she walked her through the embarrassed crowd.
Agassiz made to rise, realized that he dare not move with his unfastened placket, and settled for folding his hands primly over the offending spot while saying, “Edward, you don’t know the real meaning of this innocent tableau.”
“Please do not insult my intelligence, Agass. Were matters any more obvious, it could have been one of Sonrel’s lithographs for Fanny Hill. You may, however, rely on my loyalty and discretion—or as long as you merit them. I will leave you to reassemble yourself now.”
Soon, Cezar alone remained with Agassiz.
“Vell,” said the South African, “in mine country—”
“Oh, damn you and your bloody country to hell!”
“Dot’s not nice to zay to der vun who landed you your new chob at Harvard.”
“And exactly how did you do that?” asked Agassiz.
Cezar opened his mouth to speak, but Agassiz raised a hand to cut him short.
“On second thought, keep it to yourself.”
Cezar smiled. “Und Dottie.”
8
A FISH’S STORY
THE DELICATE CALIPERS looked like toothpicks in the ursine paws of Jacob Cezar. The tips of the measuring instrument disappeared into the woolly curls atop Dottie Cezar’s pate. Chewing on a willow stick to clean her teeth, swigging some native drink from a hollowed-out ostrich egg carried from home, the Hottentot sat patiently submitting to the examination. To pass the time she perused Balzac’s Nana in the original French, occasionally giggling.
Cezar called out the readings, just like a Mississippi riverboat sailor sounding the depths and yelling out, “Mark twain!”
“Dhree point zix, five point nine, den point dwelve. . . .”
Agassiz, seated at his work table, plotted the figures on an intricate graph, whilst simultaneously recording them in several rows and columns. At last, he held up his hand to signal that he had enough data.
“There,” said the scientist, “it’s just as I suspected. Craniometrically and phrenologically speaking, your Hottentot mate does not possess sufficient cerebral development to be classified as fully sentient. Like the rest of her race, she falls closer to a chimp in her mental development.”
“ Vot der hell are you jabbering about?”
Agassiz grew irritated. “Look, man, it’s all right here in black and white, mathematically incontrovertible. Why, her Bump of Sagacity is practically concave! Not to mention the distortion along her Node of Intellection, and her hypertrophied Curve of Amativeness. And the overall volume of her brainpan is clearly deficient. If Sam Morton were to get hold of her prepared skull, I wager he’d be able to fill it with only a few ounces of buckshot.”
Cezar threw the calipers across the room in disgust. One pointy leg embedded itself in the painting of Agassiz’s birthplace. “You’re der vun vit der head full of buckshot, Louie! Not zentient. . . . How can you zay zuch a ding, after practically living in Dottie’s lap for a month?”
Agassiz shuddered at the metaphor. “There’s no personal animosity involved, Jacob. It’s strictly a scientific finding. And you can’t argue with science! To be sure, your mate does exhibit certain instinctive qualities which might fool the layman into thinking she can reason like a human. But a clo
ser analysis will reveal that she comes no closer to true ratiocination than, than”—Agassiz struggled to find a suitably unlikely point of comparison—“than Tursiops truncatus, the bottle-nosed dolphin!”
Putting down her book, Dottie now spoke up. Agassiz was forced to admit that her English, though still rudimentary, had improved considerably since her arrival.
“Professor Agassiz, suppose I agree with you that I am inferior to the representatives of your white race? Suppose I call myself an animal? Do you not think that even animals deserve moral treatment?”
“Well, yes, within bounds. . . . Unless some benefit to humanity is at stake, that is.”
“Then how do you justify the vile abuse which is visited on the black slaves of your adopted land? The whippings, the separation of family members, the back-breaking labor from dawn to dusk. . . .”
Agassiz coughed and cleared his throat. He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. He found he could not meet the Bushwoman’s gaze. “This is ridiculous. I lower myself to the level of someone arguing metaphysics with a dog! Still, never let it be said that Agassiz ever failed to meet a challenge, however absurd! First off, you impudent thing, the American system is a pre-existing condition, one that I personally had no hand in establishing. I remain morally aloof from the whole question. Still, if one wished to defend the system, one could find many good points to it. First, it has succeeded in bringing Christianity to many souls who would otherwise have languished in spiritual ignorance. Second the material living conditions of American darkies are infinitely superior to their old standards. Wood and brick have replaced thorn and mud. Hearty bread and fresh milk more than substitute for grubs and roots.”
“Dere’s noding wrong vit a grub if you cook it right,” interjected Cezar.
Agassiz ignored the interruption. “And third, their brainless labor, which is basically good for their constitutions, has enabled the country as a whole to enjoy a higher standard of living. If it has to be procured at the cost of a few lashes—never meted out except when truly merited, as I understand it—then their servitude is quite justifiable. How would they live differently if they were free, anyway?”
Straightfaced, Dottie said, “You make it sound so appealing, Professor Agassiz. Perhaps you would care to trade places with a slave, if only for a day or so?”
Agassiz stood up, infuriated. “What a ludicrous suggestion! Imagine me, Louis Agassiz, out amid the cotton plants, wailing some Negro spiritual! You see, Jacob, how little this creature’s thought processes resemble those of a true human being? Even you must admit it now.”
“All I haff to admit is dot der image of you vit a zack of cotton on your back und zinging der Dahomey hoeing chants is vun I vould pay at least a dollar to zee.”
“Bah! This crazy talk is getting us nowhere.”
Cezar assumed a gloomy look. “Dot’s for zhure, Louis. Vee have no more idea today vhere D’guzeri is den vee did two veeks ago, after you got out of der prison. Und you know vot today marks, don’t you? Der end of der period during vhich Zaartjie’s quim vas zoaking up der virtues of der dacka brew. At any dime now, D’guzeri can go to der Cosmogonic Zpot und put der fetiche to use.”
“You needn’t remind me of all that. Don’t you think I’m worried about it too? But what can we do? I’ve exhausted my intellect, and still have no idea where to lay our hands on the scalawag. I thought for certain that we would find him in the last place we investigated.”
“Tvisting hawsers at der Ropewalk?”
“Well, they do use hemp there. . . . No, I admit we’re totally at sea. All we can hope now is that Kosciuszko or Bopp can lay their hands on him before he does anything awful. Although I do not exactly relish the thought of either of those maniacs gaining the fetiche for their own purposes. But perhaps they will tear themselves to pieces, like the Kilkenny cats.”
“Dose vuns are both bad news. I’d prefer not to dangle vit dem. Vell, before I get to feeling any lower, I’m going to mine boat for a pipe. Maybe Dottie und I vill dink of zomeding yet. Care to choin us?”
“No. I have some personal affairs to attend to.”
After Cezar and Dottie left, Agassiz summoned Jane.
“Can you spare a moment from your household chores, dear Jane? I’m in something of an unsettled mood. By the by, have I ever mentioned before that the blush in your cheeks reminds me of the delicate shade of apple blossoms?”
Jane stared at the floor, grinding with one delicate boot-tip some invisible bug on the carpet. “Lor’, Professor, I don’t know anymore how to take these compliments of yours. You see, there’s been something troubling my thoughts lately.”
Agassiz evinced impatience. “Well, out with it then, girl!’
“All right. But you’ve got to not mind me if I ramble a bit. This is hard for me to say. I don’t rightly know my own feelings yet, what with all the new books I’ve been reading.”
“Books? What books?”
“Just some lit’rature that Miss Dottie lent me. Some broadsides by Sojourner Truth and her friends. Pamphlets that talk about how women have always been put down and stepped on, used and abused by menfolk, who seduce ’em and cast ’em aside. How we generate more than half of the world’s wealth, but get less than our fair share of it. How we birth and raise all the children, clean all the houses, cook all the meals, then get beaten up for our troubles, laying our bruised bodies down in tears at night! How we must send off all our sons and husbands—worthless as they are!—to damn fool wars in furrin lands, war which we women had no say in startin’! How women are kin to the niggers of the world!”
Jane’s voice had been growing steadily louder and louder, until she uttered the last startling sentiment in what amounted to a shout.
Agassiz was dumbstruck. He suddenly realized that his jaw was on its way to becoming unhinged, rather like that of a boa constrictor (Boa constrictor), and snapped his mouth shut.
Quivering, Jane said defiantly, “There, I’ve said it! Now, will there be anything else, sir?”
“Nuh-nuh-no. Uh, thank you for sharing these novel sentiments with me, Jane. Perhaps we could discuss them at greater length later tonight—? No, I thought not. Well, be sure to indulge yourself with a longish teatime this afternoon, Jane.”
“I fully intend to!”
When his rebellious housemaid had departed with a slam of the door, Agassiz began softly to swear. Damn that Hottentot to the hottest circles of hell!
To soothe his temper and console his frustrated genetic instincts, Agassiz removed a much-creased note from his pocket and re-read it once more.
Dearest, sweetest Louis,
It seems incredible to me that you are truly mine; that you have chosen me to someday be your wife. You say you long for me to be by your side continually, to grace your home with “my smiling eyes.” How I dream of it! No place is home for me on earth but where you are.
I pray each night that the day may dawn soon!
Adoringly yours,
Lizzie
What did he need with the caresses of a scullion when he had the unconditional love of a beautiful, gracious and well-connected young lady of fine breeding, whose cousins included the wealthy and influential Perkinses, Gardiners and Cabots?
Consulting his appointment book and the fine Swiss watch the teary-eyed citizens of Neufchâtel had given him upon his departure, Agassiz saw that it was the hour scheduled for his meeting with the rice planter from South Carolina, Rory Cohoon. The man had obtained an introduction through Lowell—Cohoon was friends with many of the plantation owners who provided the textile magnate with his raw materials—and although Agassiz had no interest in meeting the Southerner, he thought it best to oblige his patron.
Agassiz had time only to add a few lines to his sketch for the grand Museum of Natural History that he intended to build in Cambridge, before Cohoon was announced.
“H
owdy, I say, howdy, Professor Ah-gass-ease! Allow me to shake your learned hand, son!”
Cohoon was dressed all in white, including a broad-brimmed hat. A large cigar protruded from one corner of his mouth. His fingers were circled with half a dozen rings. The pearl in his tiepin was as large as the egg of a quail (Colinus virginianus).
“I am pleased to meet you, sir. I have not previously had the privilege of greeting one of the South’s landed gentry. May I get you something to drink?”
“Do you make a Silver, I say, Silver Horseshoe up in these Yankee parts? If you do so, then bring them on, son. Bring them on, I say!”
Somewhat baffled, Agassiz temporized. “One moment, Mister Cohoon, and I’ll inquire.”
Summoning Jane—whose red-rimmed eyes and sour expression he could only hope Cohoon did not notice—Agassiz repeated the request.
Jane sniffled. “Do you mean three parts whiskey, two parts bourbon, one part vermouth, a dash of bitters, a splash of branch water, and a twist of lime?”
“Splendid! That’s it exactly! What an intelligent, I say, what an intelligent girl!”
“Uh, yes, I agree. . . .”
Jane soon fetched the drinks. After noisily quaffing a huge draught and pronouncing it “mighty splendid,” Cohoon broached the topic of his visit.
“I’m a rice planter, son. Fifty slaves and a hundred acres under water. You may not know it, but rice planting requires more intelligence than your cotton. You can’t broadcast, I say, you can’t just broadcast seed, you have to set out each plant individually. You have to know when to flood and when to drain them. Harvesting is mighty chancey. And then there’s maintenance on the dikes and gates and sluices. Taken all in all, it’s a devilishly tricky business.”
The Silver Horseshoe was beginning to raise Agassiz’s thinking to new levels of profundity. “I can well imagine.”
“Now, my problem is that your average nigger is hardly smart enough to lace his own shoes, never mind master the art of rice cultivation. I or my overseers have to watch them every minute. They seem to botch things as soon as you turn your back! What I was hoping to learn, I say, learn from you was some way of breeding a smarter nigger. Could you draw me up some scheme to increase their intelligence generation by generation? I know we’re talking long-range here, but it would be of immense benefit to the South. And maybe, I say, maybe we could toss in a few other factors while we’re at it? Could we get longer arms on them, and maybe a reduction, a reduction, I say, in the amount of sustenance they require? Their damned oats cost a fortune!”
The Steampunk Trilogy Page 17
