Dead water - Barbara Hambly [88]
“And the deck-hands wouldn't have gossiped about it?”
January spread his hands helplessly. “It wouldn't take much for them to disguise themselves as German or Irish deck-passengers. Gold and securities could be brought up a little at a time and concealed under his stateroom floor between the joists. The same applies to the flooring of the hold.”
And, when Hannibal looked startled, he added, “We did that all the time at Bellefleur—the adult slaves did, I was too young. They'd steal things—food, mostly, or things that could be sold to the river-traders for food—and bury them under the cabin floors. That's why most planters build slave cabins up off the ground, no matter what they like to say about proper air circulation. It's to make it harder for the slaves to bury things under the floor.”
“The things I missed by not being born an American.” Hannibal eased himself down stiffly between the wood-piles. “Dear gods, I'm tired. I have the distressing suspicion I would not have made a particularly good slave.” And he unstoppered his flask for a quick drink.
Privately suppressing his certainty that as a slave his friend would have died of overwork and consumption long before the age of forty, January said bracingly, “Of course you would have. You'd have been promoted to butler and be running the plantation. The way you turned Molloy's attempt to push you into a duel into an opportunity to finally search the trunks—”
“Which got us exactly nothing.”
“Nonsense. It was a Socratic exercise in finding out what we do not know, clearing the way to look for Truth.”
Under his graying mustache, the fiddler's mouth twitched in a smile.
“Weems must have suspected some kind of jiggery-pokery with the luggage the moment it started being off-loaded to spar over Horsehead Bar,” went on January. “He ran to check it the moment he could get himself clear of the work-gang. If he found a substantial portion of the gold or securities gone, of course he'd begin searching staterooms the moment it grew dark—”
“At which activity Molloy surprised him and threw him overboard while miraculously making it appear that he was in the pilot-house with Mr. Souter,” finished Hannibal. “Unless Souter was lying, but I can't for the life of me see why he would be.”
He shut his eyes, and leaned his head back against the wall of the 'tween-decks. The sun was nearly down, long shadows reaching out over the water and bringing a merciful degree of coolness. With the clanging of its bell softened by distance, the Wellington appeared around the bend, heading down-river in mid-channel. Voices shouted across the water—the wood-detail was forgotten as deck-hands hastened to lower the skiff and row out to exchange New Orleans newspapers for those of Memphis, St. Louis, and Louisville. January watched the small Wellington idly, blithe in its disregard even for low water, barreling southward with the rest of the torn-off branches and floating debris.
“That may be,” he told Hannibal, “only because we don't know much about Souter. Or Lundy. Or Byrne. Or Davis, for that matter—if Weems was blackmailing one man on this boat to get bribe-money to have pursuers shaken off his tail, there may have been others. If we can . . .”
A flash of blue and pink skirts appeared on the stair over their heads, and a moment later Rose came around the wood-piles. “La Pécheresse has gone to the Ladies' Parlor to slander Hannibal until dinner,” she reported cheerfully. “Having spent the entire morning doing so to Sophie, who now believes him to be the Devil incarnate.”
“Just what I needed to complete my happiness.” The fiddler opened his eyes. “I shall give her my mother's address so they can correspond on the subject.”
“I've promised I'll help her—Sophie, I mean. Mrs. Roberson's elder daughter, Emily, is still in mourning for her husband, and offered to lend her some blacks until the boat reaches Memphis. . . .”
“Emily, who's all of four feet tall and as big around as my arm?” asked Hannibal interestedly, getting painfully to his feet. “You dwarf,