Barbara Hambly - Dead water

The ground squished under January's boots, and something moved—cat, rat, or gator—in the tangle of hackberry that surrounded the building's rear.

“Old Hunks lets me sleep in one of the cribs.” Hannibal led the way to a sort of long shed that stood behind the saloon, three of its four French doors open into mephitic blackness. The usual inhabitants of the rooms—and their customers—were presumably at the fight as well.

“It's exceedingly generous of him, considering how much he makes per night out of each room. He's from Dublin, and so regards me as a brother. He worked for years as a doorkeeper at the Covent Garden Opera in London. Sometimes after the place closes down for the night, I'll play on for him for hours.”

He opened the door of the fourth crib—none of them had locks—and held January's lantern inside for a moment before entering. Two rats retreated unhurriedly through a crack in the wall. The room was windowless but so rudely put together that in daylight there would have been plenty of light, ventilation, and—to judge by the careful arrangement of old tin pots and broken jars about the floor—almost certainly rain.

“Besides,” the fiddler went on, flicking a roach the size of a small mouse from the candle-holder and angling the candle to the lantern's flame, “I defy you to name an establishment in town this summer where you wouldn't be robbed. Everything respectable has closed down. Even the folks out in Milneburgh aren't holding many cotillions this year.”

January, settling himself on the goods-box that held most of Hannibal's books, had to agree. In former years, summers had been slow times, but every week or so there would be some banker or sugar-broker or town rentier hosting a ball in one of the big hotels by the lake. This year so far they had been few.

“You're lucky that you haven't had to rely on your music this year to butter your bread.” Hannibal produced from another goods-box a small bottle of sherry and a square black one of laudanum. He measured a tiny amount of the one and a tinier dose of the other into a tin cup and drank it down. “In honored poverty thy voice did weave / Songs consecrate to truth and liberty . . . ” After a moment's thought he took another fast sip of the laudanum alone, then stoppered both bottles and put them away. “What's happened? And how can I help?”

“I'm glad you asked.” January outlined for him what Hubert Granville had said about the absconding manager of the Bank of Louisiana, and about the need for secrecy that precluded enlisting the City Guards until hard evidence was secured.

“What I need,” said January, “is a master aboard the Silver Moon . A free black man traveling by himself draws comment. A slave is invisible, and I need to be invisible. In some circumstances a slave is safer than a free black man,” he added with a bitterness that had turned to irony over the years. “At least someone's going to complain if a slave disappears. And having a white man along to deal with the local authorities when we do find which trunks contain the money will be a help, too. Granville's paying us five hundred dollars.”

“In Bank of Louisiana notes?”

January laughed curtly. “Dryden says that when a man takes a wife and fathers children, he gives hostages to fortune. Disaster falls, not only on his head alone, but on the heads of those he loves. Rose and I have the chance to be something, to have something, to make something, rather than scraping along on what I can earn playing the piano for quadroon balls and what she gets translating Greek texts for booksellers. You can't go on all your life that way. It does something to you, as time wears on.”

He stopped, looking around the seedy darkness of the room, with weeds growing up through the cracks in the board floor and roaches spotting the wall behind the candle flame. Looking at Hannibal's face, thin with a lifetime of illness and pain, and at the long, sensitive hands in the frayed cuffs.

The fiddler's grin was wry under his graying mustache. “To save you and Athene from the life I daily live, amicus meus, I will gladly play the despot and spend my days in the company of tobacco-spitting Americans in a steamboat saloon—particularly at the Bank of Louisiana's expense. I think I have a shirt in here somewhere that will not violate the personation of a man with enough money to own a slave.”

On the other side of the thin partition wall, January heard a man curse in English, followed by a woman's protesting drawl, “Just gimme a minute. . . .” Bedropes creaked mightily.

“The fight must be over,” January opined.

A huge and comprehensively drunk boatman loomed suddenly in the doorway. “Look out, beautiful, 'cause here comes the very child that coined the name of Thunder! Cock-a-doodle-do!” He let fall his trousers, at which Hannibal promptly began to applaud.

The boatman retreated in confusion.

“Happens every week,” sighed the fiddler, pulling his valise from under the bed. “I've tried chalking NO GIRLS HERE on the door, but that doesn't seem to work either . . . and it doesn't help that occasionally one of the girls will entertain a customer here while I'm playing up front. . . .”

Shouts of laughter outside. “You done already , Kyle? I got me a pet jack-rabbit takes more time than that !”

“A man can live in this fashion for a time.” Hannibal sighed, fishing in yet another goods-box for his few shirts of threadbare linen. “A long time, in my case. And a strong woman can endure it for a few years. But as the playwright says, Money is the sinews of love, as of war . Poverty can break a marriage, and I love you and Rose too much to want to see you turn on each other, as the poor so often do, and your happiness vanish for want of hope.”

He tossed in his shaving tackle and three half-empty bottles of opium and sherry. “So it remains only to arm myself, like Prince Achilles before the walls of Troy. The silver cuishes first his thighs infold; Then o'er his breast was braced the hollow gold . . . .”

Hannibal held up a much-frayed and slightly too large silk waistcoat, which must have been expensive when it was new, with a triple-notched collar some twenty years out of style. “ The brazen sword a various baldric tied / That, starred with gems, hung glittering at his side . . . . Should I bring along a brazen sword, amicus meus ?” He snapped shut his valise. “Or the great paternal spear the poet speaks of? How dangerous is Weems?”

“I have no idea.” January pinched out the candle, which Hannibal slipped into his pocket as the two men stood listening beside the door, waiting for the customers at the other cribs to go inside. “Nor who his accomplices are, if he has any, or how many of them there are.”

The flimsy walls shuddered with the slamming of a door. A woman's voice purred, “Well, hello, handsome,” from the next room, and January and Hannibal stepped out into the muggy heat of the June night.

Hannibal pulled shut the door behind him, and gestured extravagantly with his free hand.

“So let it be!

Portents and prodigies are lost on me.

I know my fate: to die, to see no more

My much-loved parents and my native shore—

Enough—when Heaven ordains, I sink in night:

“Now perish Troy!” he said, and rushed to fight.”

Even in summer's doldrums, the levee at New Orleans never really slept. In winter, when boats came down-river with their decks stacked so deep in cotton that it blacked out the windows of the engine-room on the main deck and the staterooms above, they'd be lined up three and four deep at the wharves, so that passengers would have to walk across the sterns of several other boats to get to shore, and the shifting of barrels, hogsheads, bales, and crates would go on all night. In summer, when the river sagged twenty feet below its high-water mark and the big side-wheelers lay in their berths, goods still arrived from Europe and New York. Planters up-river still demanded delivery on bolts of silk and crates of crystal goblets packed in straw, and passengers still journeyed in the smaller stern-wheelers, which could travel where and when the larger craft could not.