Dead water - Barbara Hambly [29]
“Not as of ten minutes ago,” replied January good-humoredly. “I expect he'll be stirrin' soon.”
“I thought he'd have more wits than to play cards with that Byrne feller in the Saloon.” The valet shook his head. “When Mr. Lockhart come down the river last week, that Mr. Byrne was on the same boat, all friendly as can be—stayed at the same hotel as Mr. Lockhart, too. 'Course, Mr. Lockhart don't see a thing funny in Mr. Byrne seekin' him out, but if a man's that friendly for no reason, I always wonder if there's somethin' behind it.”
He passed on, and January glanced down at the bow-deck again, wondering if he could relax his guard long enough to make sure Hannibal didn't arouse comment by making his own way down to the galley for coffee. The big bow hatch was open down to the hold, but the deck-hands were stowing the pulley-ropes of the crane on the jackstaff; no other trunks lay on the deck.
Deserting his post seemed safe enough. January passed down the starboard promenade side and rapped gently on Hannibal's door, receiving no answer, not much to his surprise. From there he descended the stair to the lower promenade, looking around him for Rose. A moment later he saw her come through the narrow space between a wood-pile and the starboard rails, encountering, as she did so, Cain the slave-dealer. They stopped, facing one another, for only an instant. Then Cain stepped back and aside to let her pass, and proceeded around her into the promenade where the female slaves were chained. Rose looked back over her shoulder at him, as if something in the meeting troubled her, then turned her head and saw January.
Relief swept her face and she quickened her step toward him, dodging two deck-hands piling still more wood near the galley door and stepping past the two maidservants Sophie and Julie, who were snatching a hasty cup of coffee between fixing their mistresses' hair and tidying up their mistresses' cabins and wardrobes. “My God, I'm glad I caught you,” breathed Rose. “Queen Régine is on the boat. I've found where she's hiding.”
“Sophie got me a sample of Mrs. Fischer's handwriting,” whispered Rose as she and January walked, as swiftly and unobtrusively as possible, past the chained coffles of slaves along the starboard promenade. “The doorway from the galley passway to the hold is padlocked, but there's a door at the bow as well. . . .”
“I've seen it,” said January. “The white deck-passengers sleep all around it.”
“Reason enough to keep it locked.” Rose grimaced at the recollection of Kyle and Sam. “There's no one near it now, though, and they've piled luggage in front of it, waiting to be lowered down the hatch.”
The slaves in Cain's coffle moved aside to let them pass, chained already to rings along the wall and some of them settling down, to sit where they would sit for the coming days of the voyage, their little bandannas of possessions tucked at their sides. A tall, slim young man chained closest to the engine-room door was saying reassuringly to the man chained beside him, “. . . mostly the ones that blow up are 'cause somebody does somethin' stupid in the engine-room. These things go up an' down the river all the time, with no more danger than ridin' a horse.”
“You know how many folks get killed ridin' horses, 'Rodus?”
Rose went on as they reached the corner of the 'tween-decks, “I marked with chalk the trunks and crates whose labels I checked—and there were several of the dozen I checked addressed to people who aren't on the boat, leaving aside entirely the crates and bales that are obviously commercial. I didn't see any of Mrs. Fischer's or Mr. Weems's, but I only had time to . . .” She paused, putting her head around the corner, watching the men on the deck.
Most of these were gathered around the door of the engine-room that opened onto the bow-deck, from which could be heard Molloy's bellowing