John Wray - Canaan's Tongue

“Glorious day to be on the river,” he chirruped.

“Quite,” I said, staring out at the dung-colored water.

“I deduce from your manner, Mr. Ball, that you’ve spent enough time on the Mississippi to be inoculated to its charms.”

I shrugged. “Twelve years this September.”

“ Twelve! That’s long enough, by God.” Barker rested his elbows on the railing. “I’ll bet you’ve seen your share of devilment along this old creek.”

“Devilment?” I said, smiling at his choice of phrase.

“Which poet was it, Mr. Ball, who wrote—: ‘Skirt if you can its ebon tongue, its languid, fluvial curls. .’?”

“I know nothing about poetry,” I lied. In fact I had a volume of Blake in my pocket at that very moment.

Barker rolled his eyes at me. “I’m sure you remember — it was set to music — quite a popular ditty, in its day—” He stopped in mid-sentence and rapped me fiercely on the chest—: “What tune were you whistling just now?”

I looked at him sharply. “Tune?”

He nodded. “You were torturing it to death against the rail.”

“Some old gospel or other,” I answered as casually as possible. “The name of it escapes me, I’m afraid.”

He took me passionately by the arm. “You must sing it for me, Mr. Ball!”

“I have no voice for singing, Mr. Barker,” I said curtly. “You’ve said as much yourself. I’ve only just now tortured—”

“ Blast you!” he cried out before I could finish. “No matter! I remember it now.” Climbing three steps up the port stairs, so that our faces were level with one another, he began to croon, in a reedy but not unpleasant voice, tapping a lively accompaniment on the rail—:

Be-hold, the Lord of E-gypt comes riding on a cloud,

The i-dols all shall trem-ble, the pha-raohs cry a — loud—;

Five ci-ties down in E-gypt shall talk in Canaan’s tongue,

The first of these is Mem-phis, the City of the Sun!

He paused to catch his breath. “Shall I push on?”

He was a step above me now, staring down at me with the same moist-eyed glee he’d previously directed at the river. He was about to begin the second verse when I caught hold of him by his sleeve—:

“You sing charmingly, Mr. Barker—; but that song is a melancholy one to me.” I fixed my dead eye on him as balefully as I could. “A matter of the heart.”

He gave an impish little laugh. “But you were just now whistling it yourself!”

“It’s the words, sir, since you press me.” I took hold of his elbow and led him down into the bar, away from the river, out of public view. “As to the tune, it’s not so very different from ‘Bringing In the Sheep.’ ”

Barker let out a gasp. “Great Josh! I suppose it isn’t!”

We chose a table with a clear view of the river, and Barker sat down with his back to me, content, it seemed, to brood upon its evening majesty. Here was a chance to slip quietly away—: Barker seemed to have forgotten me completely. Instead I found myself sipping quinine-water mixed with bourbon. My mind was a puddle of confusion.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Barker?” I asked. “Are you perhaps a waistcoat-merchant?”

“Hardly that,” said Barker unperturbedly. He turned and looked me frankly in the eye. “I’m a ferreter by trade, Mr. Ball. I ferret things out.”

Another long moment passed, during which the cogs of my brain came grudgingly into rotation. “You’re a Pinkerton,” I said at last.

“Not in the general sense!” Barker said cheerily. “You might say I’m a specialist of sorts.” He lowered his voice. “The nigger question, actually.”

“Runaways, you mean?” The urge to bolt was full upon me now.

“Correct, sirrah! That’s it exactly. Runaways.” Barker’s round head bobbed like the buoy it so resembled. “Runaways are my purview.” He tittered. “I shouldn’t tell you that, of course.”

I set my bourbon-and-quinine down carefully. If this man was a bounty-hunter, as he claimed, then he was the most wretched bounty-hunter ever born. One met with no shortage of naturals, jackasses, and madmen on the Mississippi—; the possibility could not be ruled out, however, that he was speaking to me in some manner of code. I racked my addled brain for a reply.

“My dear fellow,” Barker said after a time, “don’t look so stuffed and gutted! Have you never met a nigger-man before?”

“Not of your caliber,” I answered, truthfully enough.

He heaved a sigh. “They run off regular as clock-work, poor desperate creatures—; and if they stay out long enough, I find ’em. I find ’em, I catch ’em, and I coffle ’em together. Then a courier takes them back down-river and collects the bounty for me.” He gave me a wink, an action that lifted his left ear a good two inches above his right. “Often as not, I have to track those sons of Samuel down and recover my commission.” He lowered his voice. “Between you, me, and the mud on your shoe, it’s barely worth the effort!”

I stared at him in silence. He was taking on a supernatural quality for me now. “Sounds like a tiresome business,” I said at last.

“It is that, Mr. Ball. Very tiresome, and taxing. It helps to have a hobby-horse — anything at all — to wick away one’s worries.” He turned to look out at the water again, smiling at it as if in benediction. “Mine’s a trifle childish, but it seems to turn the trick. I study the kabala.”

“A privilege to meet you, Mr. Barker,” I said, already on my feet. “I get off in a quarter-hour, so if you’ll kindly excuse—”

“In a quarter -hour?” Barker squealed. “Where, for pity’s sake? There’s nothing up ahead of us but cottonwoods and muck!”

“A cottage, belonging to a relative of mine,” I said tightly. “On Island 37—”

“Island 37 !” Barker sang out, slapping the table-top in triumph. “I knew you lived a life of intrigue, Mr. Ball!”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I mumbled, backing out onto the deck. “My aunty’s boy, Thaddeus, has a tubercular hip—”

“Don’t slink off like some sort of pick-pocket, Virgil!” Barker said, jumping up from the table. “I may call you Virgil?”

“Not slinking — begging your pardon — my cabin—”

“Favor me with your card, at the very least!”

“No card either, damn you!” I snapped, struggling against the urge to pitch myself into the river.

“Take mine, then,” Barker said, pressing a moist wad of paper into my hand. Before I could answer him he’d disappeared, quinine-water and all, like a jack-rabbit into its burrow.

I reeled back to my cabin in a daze. Who in Christ’s name was this Barker? I did my level best to know each member of our fraternity by sight, if not by name—; but I’d never before laid eyes on him, I was certain. On the other hand (“contrary-wise,” as the Redeemer would say), the Trade was growing more byzantine by the hour. It was just conceivable that Barker was a colleague—; but if so, what the devil was he playing at? I forced myself to walk measuredly about my cabin, taking deep, deliberate breaths, and in time I recovered my calm. There was nothing for it, I decided, but to carry on. Either the man was as pudding-headed as he seemed, or he was sporting with me masterfully—: I’d discover which, most likely, when I tried to disembark.

When the landing arrived, however, there was neither hide nor hair of him. As the steamer pulled up and the hitch-ties were thrown, I remembered the paper he’d given me and dug it out of my pocket. It was bare of print save for this device—: