John Wray - Canaan's Tongue

It was gone.

“ Everything I’ve done? What the devil does that mean?” I said at last. But my voice was as guilty as an adulterer’s.

The Redeemer picked up the ledger-book, by way of an answer, and laid it triumphantly in my lap. “It means you leave in half an hour, Mr. Ball.”

“YOU’LL HAVE ANOTHER WHITE MAN WITH YOU, en passant, ” the Redeemer said as he walked me to the Panama House landing. It was dusk, and we made our way by the weak light that fell from the windows of the bar.

“Is that so?” I murmured, sunk in my misery like a carcass in a bog.

“More of an observer, really, than an active participant. Un spectateur objectif. ” He coughed into his hand. “Young Asa Trist.”

I laughed aloud at this. Let them all come to Memphis, I thought— madmen, naturals, epileptics, amnesiacs — what possible difference could it make? “You mean to put me to death, sir, I take it?”

He quickened his pace. “I needn’t explain the importance of the Trist family to the Trade, I hope. That boy’s been badgering me since the day he arrived. He’s harmless, really—; practically a child—”

“Kennedy’s told me what a cracked egg he is,” I said.

For once the Redeemer looked genuinely pained. “Asa wants to follow this delivery, that’s all. To get acquainted with the business. Does that seem so very cracked?”

“Everything to do with this run seems cracked,” I said. “Why is Trist so interested in the business, suddenly? He’s never cared a crumb before.”

“He fancies himself a scientist, Virgil. A rationalist, like yourself. Un homme de recherche. ”

He was leading me about by the nose now, and I knew it. “So Trist’s not coming along to learn the business, then,” I said. “It’s something else entirely.”

He shot me a plaintive look. “Don’t ask me to explain the ways of the gentry, dear K.”

“I swear to you, sir, if that loony mucks in my affairs—”

“Touché!” the Redeemer cried, as though I’d reasoned him to his knees. His manner had become steadily more theatrical as we walked, as if he were performing for a hidden audience. He passed his arm through mine almost bashfully, and proceeded to recite at the top of his lungs, as one might at the edge of a cataract—:

“It’s the same run as always, really—; just a bit more freight. Aim to pull in at sun-up, so you’ll have light to get them coffled by. Lafitte & Dobbins have left for St. Louis—; you can tie up at their berth. You know Stacey’s clearing-house, of course—”

“That is my privilege, yes.”

“Of course it is. But they’ve moved two streets westward.” He stopped again, watched me closely for a moment, then handed me a peach-colored envelope, embossed with letters of strident blue—:

STACEY & TALON

DEALERS IN NEGROES & BONDSMEN

21 COURT STREET, MEMPHIS

I was to take one of three new boats the Colonel had commissioned for us, sleek twenty-yarders that ran on steam against the current and floated back down-river like a barge. They showed less profile than a decent-sized pirogue, and drew less than half a yard of water when full—: perfect craft for smuggling. The Colonel liked to joke that if the Abolitionists had thought to invest in half a dozen, Canada would be an African protectorate by now.

When the Redeemer and I reached the landing, I could see straight-away from the lay of the boat — low in the water, canting subtly aftwards — that the slaves were already in the hold. This discovery caused me pain, though it took me a moment’s reflection to understand why.

“You knew before looking in my eye that I’d make this run,” I said.

“Parson’ll be along soon,” the Redeemer said airily, leading me up to the pilot-house. (He took a childish pride in these new skiffs of his, though he himself had never run one.) “You’ve piloted her before, if I remember rightly. Do I remember rightly?”

“Never with fifty-eight head on board.”

“Fifty- seven, Virgil.”

“Fifty-eight, sir, counting that cracked egg of yours.”

He tut-tutted with a finger. “Don’t fret on Trist’s account, Kansas. Parson will be on this run, remember. Has a way with dilettantes, as you may know. He takes the stuffing out of them.”

I made a face. “Who’ll take the stuffing out of Parson?”

“Parson thinks very highly of you, Virgil. Very. ” He touched his finger solemnly to his nose. “You might say he’s your biggest backer, just now, in our little circle.”

For no reason I could name, Barker came to mind again. He and the Redeemer were of a piece, somehow. Some invisible thread connected them.

“I met a curious sort of Pinkerton on the boat,” I said, as offhandedly as I could. “Made a production out of being a bounty-hunter. Practically wore it on his hat.”

The Redeemer made no answer for a spell. “Name?” he said finally.

“Gave his name as Barker.”

“Barker,” the Redeemer said. Bar— ker, ” he repeated, as though the name were Flemish, or possibly Japanese.

“A student of the black arts, apparently.”

“Morris P. Barker is familiar to me, thank you,” the Redeemer said curtly. “A known quantity.” His tongue clacked three times against his palate. When next he spoke, the words came out regular as playing-cards—:

“Morris P. Barker Is No Student Of The Black Arts.”

Just then the sound of rowing reached us, cautious and hollow-seeming in the dark, and a pirogue slid into view. A figure was standing in the bow like the prophet Elijah, his hands clasped fervently together—; the set of oars behind him looked for all the world to be managing themselves.

The Redeemer was still looking at me closely. “Have a chat with Parson, Virgil, the next time you’re feeling mystical. Mind the company you keep.”

“Shall I ask Parson about Barker, sir?”

“You’ll do no such thing, ” the Redeemer hissed, seizing me by my collar. “You’ll leave Parson to watch over those fifty-seven niggers, Kansas, and you’ll see this run through—; then you’ll come straight back to me. ” He let go of my collar disdainfully and turned away from me, struggling to catch his breath. I’d never seen him so distressed. “You’ll do no such thing as talk to Parson about Barker,” he said again, more evenly. “ No such thing, Virgil. Do you hear?”

The Redeemer was afraid of this Barker—; that much was plain. An idea — perhaps even, without my intending it, a plan — was beginning to take shape within me. “And Trist, sir?” I asked. “What am I to do with him?”

“I don’t give one cat’s diddle what happens to that sport of nature,” the Redeemer muttered. It was as near to a curse-word as I’d ever heard him use.

The pirogue pulled in soon after. Two shirtless niggers stood behind Parson in the bow. “Hey the boat!” the Redeemer sang out, stepping past me with evident relief.

Parson didn’t answer until he had firm land underneath him. “Fifty-seven souls?” he said, gathering up his skirts. His eyes were like two stones from the bottom of the river.

“Fifty-eight,” the Redeemer answered, giving me a wink. “Ziba Goss will be coming on this run.”

I breathed a quiet sigh of gratitude. Goss was one of our mulatto strikers, a sturdy sort, the first I’d ever shipped with—; with him along there was a chance, however slight, that we’d actually complete the run.

Parson only nodded. The two rowers turned the skiff about and glided off into the gloaming, stiff as undertaker’s dummies. Their manner didn’t surprise me terribly—: I felt much the same in Parson’s presence.