Dead water - Barbara Hambly [50]
Tredgold turned from the tugging questions of a German woman to his wife's resolute profile—Mrs. Tredgold averted her face from him and called out in a voice like a parrot's “Cissy! Cissy, you keep those children where I can see them! Don't you let them go ashore!”
“We won't be goin' nowhere till nearly supper-time, given how long it'll take 'em to get up steam again,” added Lundy in his soft, humming voice. “Mr. Roberson and his family already went back to their visit with Colonel Quitman, and Colonel Davis has gone on to more visits, and God help Tredgold now when he tries to get his deck-hands out of the saloons . . . they'll be mostly too drunk to walk. Of course Gleet's taken his whole coffle up to the Imperial Hotel to try to drum up buyers. . . .”
Lundy glanced behind him at the men still chained to the starboard promenade, and Jubal Cain walking slowly along the rail before them, scanning the landing with his chilly amber gaze. “If it wasn't a woman's hand on the note, I'd suspect Gleet planned the whole thing, to give him time to peddle his wares in town.”
“As it turns out, it's just as well, sir,” said January diffidently. “My master's in trouble in town. Some gentleman”—It would be worse than useless, he knew, to set a hue and cry against Weems until he had evidence—“gave the sheriff the idea my master was a slave-stealer, and they put us both in jail. . . .”
Lundy's eyes narrowed sharply, and January went on. “A gentleman named Mr. Christmas got me out, and claimed he was with the Underground Railway. A churchman, he was. . . .”
“Churchman, my arse,” said the former pilot. “And you had the brains not to go with him? Let me shake your hand, my friend. Levi Christmas is one of the worst scoundrels on the river. For years he'd hold camp revival meetings, and preach so well, not a soul in the tent noticed when his friends went out and stole every horse outside. Lately—since there's been talk of the Underground Railway—he's gone into slave-stealing, promising the poor souls he's going to raise money for them by the old sale-and-escape game, then killing them to keep their mouths shut after he's collected four or five thousand dollars with their help. I'm surprised he let you get away.”
January was a bit surprised, too—and a bit disappointed. He'd have enjoyed beating the tar out of Levi Christmas. It was as he'd guessed, but the confirmation raised a wave of burning rage in him.
“I didn't know that, sir,” he said when he realized how long he'd been silent, and what his expression must look like. He wished he had dragged poor young Bobby out of the Stump instead of simply giving him a choice that the boy was clearly unfit to make. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “I told him I couldn't forsake my master. He must have figured he'd need me to consent to play his game, because he pressed me, but didn't try to use force. But my master's still in jail. . . .”
“I'll take care of that.” Lundy straightened up and groped for his cane. “You stay on board here, Ben. No sense taking chances on things getting any more complicated than they are. It's that weasel Rees, I bet . . . he makes a fair-enough living off bribes, he'll end up as sheriff himself one day, and God help the town then. You don't happen to know,” he added with a sharp sidelong look up at January, “who accused your master of slave-stealing, or why?”
And though Lundy tried to cover it with a casual tone, January thought there was a note of deeper and more intent concern in his voice than the query seemed to warrant.
“No, sir, I don't. I thank you for taking care of it—you're sure I can't go and help you in some way?”
“Just get me a cab if you'd be so kind.”
January was, in fact, glad to return to the safety of the Silver Moon after a brief excursion down to the landing to signal one of the hacks waiting in the shade of a warehouse. He had no desire to run into the Reverend Christmas on shore.