Джеймс Кейн - Mignon

When I didn’t respond he got sore, and circled the tailor shop at one side to return to the headquarters boat without going back through the hotel. I went in and at last got a place for dinner, which wasn’t too bad: corned beef, cabbage, potato, rice pudding with rum sauce, and real coffee — the first sign of a change when the Union comes to town. When I went out into the lobby again, Ball was back of the stagecoach desk, a grizzled, seamy two-striper who looked like an old river pilot, which is probably what he was. He was talking to a woman about her son who’d been captured, but spotted me and called me over, telling her to wait. He shook hands, saying: “Mr. Cresap, Sandy Gregg said you’d come — I know you by his description.”

“I’m easy described,” I said, waving the stick.

“He never mentioned it. He spoke only about your beauty — and that torn fifty-dollar bill you have. Could I see it just once, Mr. Cresap?”

I got one half of it out, and when he loved it as though it was alive I realized I had a pass, by just a crazy accident, to a lodge I’d never heard of. He said: “It’s the old smuggler’s talisman, and my, how that carries me back. Mr. Cresap, before annexation, and the tariff changes of Forty-six, everything was protected — from jumping jacks to sewing machines — and the smuggling that went on, especially here in the South, had to be seen to be believed. Jefferson, Texas, was the Lone-Star port of entry, and Shreveport of course was ours. We had, and still have, the long, narrow steamers, and what they took through the bayous — Twelve-Mile Bayou to Lake Caddo, and Big Bayou to Red River — ran into the millions, sir. And with every dummy manifest, I’d be given this same bill — a fifty torn once, to match a piece I had in my wallet. Well, when you show me this I know you have real friends, and I may as well tell you the truth — or they will. So : Our orders, here in the Navy, are to receipt for loyal cotton, whether captured or not. But which Red River cotton is loyal? As we hear, there’s none . It’s all been impressed, we’ve been told, by the Confederate bureau at Shreveport, for export — you know how they do? Haul to Texas, then ship through Mexico?”

I said I knew about it, and he went on: “So much for what we heard. There’s also the element of confusion. Did Sandy speak of the stencil?”

“... Stencil? I don’t think so.”

“When we capture a bale we stencil it USN to keep things straight. And the boys — no order was given, it was strictly a fo’c’sle idea — they put an extra stencil on, CSA — all perfectly honest, since it meant Cotton Stealing Association, U.S. Navy. But a court could easy conclude it meant Confederate States of America. Well now, couldn’t it? But why, you may ask, couldn’t a court open its mouth and inquire what the stencil meant? All right, since you ask, I’ll say. Under the law of prize, if the prize bears any marks, ‘sufficient to its adjudification’ — that’s what he said, adjudification — that closes the case, no more evidence can be heard. So the court can ’ t inquire, the law don’t permit it! So you, Mr. Cresap, are sitting in the soup, so far as cotton’s concerned that was stored in Rachal’s Warehouse, and that’s offered you for sale. Am I making the point clear?”

“I think I get it, yes.”

“CSA — CSA, they’re one and the same.”

“We could say, like Black Hawk — Black Hawk .”

“That’s it! War is war!”

Then, leaning close: “I ask you right out, Mr. Cresap: Have you bought in on this cotton or haven’t you?”

“Not actually, Lieutenant Ball.”

“Then don’t! Save your tin!”

“I’ll remember what you say. Thanks.”

He called the woman over, took the name of her son, and said he’d do what he could to get the boy released. Then he leaned back and started in again about the old days of the smugglers, in the time of the Texas Republic, when all of a sudden he stopped, as a man in moleskins, jackboots, and felt hat leaned over toward him. We were seated facing each other, he behind the desk, I beside it, my back to the lobby. He looked up, said: “Mr. Burke, I’m sorry I have no news — we’re taking nobody upriver until the occupation is complete.”

“But I must get to Shreveport,” said the familiar voice, “ before I leave for Springfield, to see to me interests there. I’ve a tremenjous opportunity to buy a parcel of cotton on the Sabine, back of the town—”

“The Pulaski dump?”

“Aye, a cache of five thousand bales, no less! ”

“But the Army has boats too. Why not see them?”

“The Army and I have our differences.”

“Well with this Army, who wouldn’t have differences — we have a few ourselves. But for two million in cotton, I wouldn’t be too damned proud. Why don’t you hop a wagon? You don’t need a pass for that.”

“ ’Tis an idea; I’ll think it over.”

They batted it back and forth, and perhaps to change the subject, Ball suddenly asked: “Did the little lady cross? To visit that grave in Pineville? Her mother’s, I think you said?”

“She’s — been a bit under the weather.”

“She still has Powell’s pass?”

“Aye — she remembers’m in her prayers.”

“Whenever she’s ready, any cutter’ll take her.”

“And she’s grateful, have no doubt of it.”

“Funny, Mr. Burke, I’ve often thought about it: How could they lay out this town so neat, with no place to bury people? No cemeteries here, you know. What’s the idea? Do they figure to live forever?”

“As they tell it, many of’m do.”

“Not Powell, unfortunately.”

“Have you word of the wretch who killed’m?”

“Not yet. But God help him when we catch up.”

“To that a brace of amens.”

They came back to her again, Burke saying how “slimsy” she’d felt today, “especially with the rain.” How long it went on, I don’t know, but more than just a few seconds, as I had my back to the lobby, and Burke couldn’t see who was there — and long enough for stuff to go through my head. I thought: Since when was she “slimsy” today? She hadn’t looked slimsy to me, and in fact was chock full of mean, rotten ginger. Then I thought: If she wasn’t slimsy, why should he say she was? To cover not using her pass, but then I thought: Why hasn’t she used it, for instance? I thought all that without caring too much. But then suddenly it hit me like a sledge: Suppose she’s not going to use it? Suppose it was just a trick to get Powell’s specimen signature, so Burke could forge the receipt the Navy wouldn’t give? And suppose that’s why Powell got killed, so he couldn’t deny his name in court? For one heartbeat, she was guilty as hell to me and one heartbeat again, I felt the same feeling as Booth had had in his eyes. But then, as always, came the excuse I made for her: Suppose, I thought, she knew nothing about the pass? Suppose he’d got it for her so he could forge the receipt, and conveniently forgot to tell her? That would tie in with the way she’d acted with me, bragging about the receipt, and certainly believing he had one. It would also put her, as soon as the Navy caught up — and figured why Powell was shot — right on the gallows step. Because, when they searched Burke’s papers, they’d find the pass in her name, the receipt with identical signature, and nothing to show she hadn’t been in on the trick.

By the time he looked down and saw me, I was well on my way, I knew, to solving two or three mysteries, all in one fell swoop. “Hello, Burke,” I said.

“... What are you doing here, Cresap?”