John Wray - Canaan's Tongue

Underneath was scribbled, in a loose, excitable hand—: MORRIS P. BARKER, RUNAWAYS. That was all. Barker did not appear out of the shadows to whistle at me or to clap me in irons, and I stepped off the Vesuvius not so much like a thief in the night as a school-boy who’s been told by his teacher to run along home and hunt squirrels. I all but cart-wheeled down the landing in my relief. But the thought of Barker — Barker blustering, Barker winking, Barker singing “City of the Sun” in his shrill, squirrelish voice — buzzed about me like a horse-fly. It followed me up to the Redeemer’s quarters, worrying me cruelly all the while—; then, all at once, it settled on the Redeemer’s brow and bit him.

June 8, 1860.

My Sweet Leah,

You may or may not care to hear about a rare type of character I met yesterdayon a pack steamer out of New Orleans — I will tell you about him anyhow. The boat was the Culpepper, bound for St. Paul, Minnesota (don’t you have an aunty there, my little cockrobin?) and I discovered him drinking sweet co fee and rootbitters in the pilot-house with none other than Horace Bixby, whom I cubbed under on the Paul Jones. Bixby’s new cub was at the wheel, sweating and mumbling to himself like I did on my first run, but Bixby payed him no attention. In fact it took that old eggbeater a good quarter-hour to privilege your Sam with so much as a nod, so immaculate was his devotion to his guest. There wasn’t much for me to do but take a seat on the bench and wait my turn. Thankfully I had the visitor to goggle at; and that passed the time for me nicely.

I’ll try to describe him for you.

The man who held the monopoly on Bixby’s attentions wore a three-quarterhat bu fed to looking-glass brightness, a shirtfront entirely appropriate for a visit to the “Opéra de l’Epoche,” a carbuncle breast-pin, gloves of white kid and boots of the butteriest patent leather. I nearly took him for the “Dauphin” of France when I first caught sight of him. He sat perched like a dove on the opposite bench; his English was fine, if a bit Creole in the delivery; he supported his palms on a cane of lacquered teechee-wood. From top to bottom, hat included, he was no more than four and one-half feet in height.

At this point you’re sure to think this no different from my other sketches, but I petition you (pussums!) for a half-dram of patience. Bixby took notice of me at last, and answered my smile with a granitic nod, evidently with the idea of sending me about my business; the dwarf, however, let it be known that he would tolerate my presence. Now: when I cubbed under Horace “Gomorrah” Bixby, damned to perdition if anybody got comfortable on his watch, let alone (by Jesus!) presumed to direct traffic; Bixby’s pilot-box was his Eden. To see the old tyrant dictated to under his own steam — by a frock-coated Tom Thumb, no less! — was too much for me by half. I made a small, confused noise, loosened my neck-tie, seized a lock of hair behind my ear and twisted with all my might. I was not, judging by the result, asleep; neither was I in my cups. Meanwhile, the conversation — such as it was — continued. All I could do was listen in astonishment.

The talk ran along the usual channels for a time; by and by it turned to negroes. Bixby said something to the effect that a darky’s worth proceeds from the weight of sack he’s able to carry without discomfort; he imagined himself, quite reasonably, to be speaking for us all. But Tom Thumb begged to differ.

“Some men of note, Mr. Bixby, equate the black race with the renegade angels mentioned in Leviticus, who lusted after the daughters of Men, and were cast out of Heaven on account of it.” He raised his co fee-cup thoughtfully to his lips. “From that point of view, the best measure of a darky—” (he lingered over the word, rolling it about on his tongue, delighting in it) “—would be the number of our daughters, mistresses, and wives that he has bedded.”

A slack-jawed silence fell. The sound of the paddlewheel rose up loud as thunder through the floor. I tried to guess, from the dwarf ’s expression, how he meant this speech to be received—; but I found his face expressionless. After perhaps a minute’s time, with no small expenditure of e fort, Bixby stammered:

“I can hardly concur with such—” (here he fell silent for a moment, gnashing his teeth) “—I could never—” (another splenetic stammer) “—Never conscience such a—”

“I quite agree, Mr. Bixby,” the dwarf interrupted. “No penalty could be too severe in such cases.”

“Certainly not,” said Bixby. His face was the color of a pomegranate.

“I don’t believe I’ve met your young associate. .?”

Bixby took a breath. “That’s Clemens, sir. One of my old cubs.”

The dwarf winked at me. “What’s your opinion, Mr. Clemens?”

As I was incapable of rational speech by then, I simply shrugged my shoulders.He nodded and set his cup back on its saucer.

“I apologize, gentlemen, if I’ve led us into muddied waters. Theology is an inexact science, I’m afraid.” He sighed. “Perhaps a dose of chemistry might help us in our quandary.”

“I see no quandary,” Bixby murmured, staring off into the distance. “A gallows is quickly made.”

“An acquaintance of mine — Asa Trist, of Cane River — you know him, perhaps, Mr. Clemens? He is about your age.”

“By name, sir,” I managed to reply. In fact Trist is well known on the river as an epileptic and a fool.

“As I was saying: this young man, since his earliest boyhood of a scientific bent, has made an exhaustive study of the human dermis, taking samples of about so—” (he held his thumb and forefinger perhaps a half an inch apart) “—from financiers and flatboatmen, priests and prostitutes alike. Some of his samples were taken in the grandest houses of New Orleans; a sizable number come from his own slaves. Immediately on taking a ‘cutting,’ as he terms it, he places it in a solution of one part saltpeter to two parts extract of albumen.” He paused to examine his glovetips. “A preservative solution, he informs me. I wonder if either of you can guess what happens next.”

Bixby and I remained speechless. The cub made a great show of interest in the river.

“No guesses?” said the visitor, in a voice that made it clear that he’d expected none. “Permit me to enlighten you!” His round cheeks puckered with excitement. “Mr. Trist has found, in every case, that the sample sheds a fine— one might almost say, a negligible — layer of particles into the astringent mixture,exposing a fundamental pigment that is blacker than the night your mothers, gentlemen, were so fortunate as to conceive you.”

This was too much for Bixby at last. “Nay, sir—; nay. I will not tolerate—”

“Tut, tut!” the little man said, holding up a finger. “We are each of us a darky, gentlemen; science has spoken. Au revoir!”

He hopped nimbly from the bench, snatched up his cane and disappeared down the ladder. Bixby immediately turned the whole of his attention to the e forts of his cub, not so much as twirling his whiskers at me for the remainder of the run.

Picture my surprise when I discovered, that same afternoon, that I’d been exchanging pleasantries with the notorious slave bandit Thaddeus Murel, and furthermore that he owned the boat, from the boiler to the watch on Bixby’s fob!