The Steampunk Trilogy (11 page)

“Perfesser, that foreign scow ye got moored at yer dock ’pears to be on fire.”

“What?!”

Agassiz went to look. True enough, clouds of bluish smoke poured from the cabin of the
Sie Koe
,
whence Cezar and Dottie had retreated for a brief rest “und a zpell of dinking.”

Running from his study, followed by Stormfield, Agassiz had the presence of mind to snatch a canvas fire-bucket from its hook by the back door.

Once on the small dock, he scooped the bucket full of seawater and ran up the boarding plank of the South African ship.

“Hold tight, brave sailors, help’s a-comin’!” shouted Stormfield. The fisherman barreled past Agassiz, smashing open the cabin door with his shoulder.

Agassiz tossed the bucket of seawater indiscriminately into the smoke-filled cabin.

A yowl erupted from the cabin. “Mine Gott, vot ist dis inzult?!”

With the source of the pungent smoke apparently quenched and the door open, the cabin began to clear. After a moment or two, Agassiz could see a simple scene.

Jacob Cezar sat in a rocking chair, the loyal Dottie curled animal-like at his feet. Both held long-stemmed pipes, now extinguished.

“Can’t a man und his vife have a zimple zmoke vitout bringing down der zecond Flood on demzelves?”

“We thought there was a fire. . . .” faltered Agassiz.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Vee vas chust enjoying a pipe or two of
dacka
,
to zoothe der nerves und ztimulate der brain.”

“
Tacka
?”

“No,
dacka
! You remember me zaying dot first night dot D’guzeri vas going to apply a herb to der fetiche to activate it? Vell, dot herb ist
dacka
,
vot grows in mine country. D’guzeri has to zteep der fetiche in a
dacka
tea for two months before he can zay his zpells over it. Dot’s how I know he hasn’t used it yet. But der dime is fast running out on us. I estimate a veek or zo left.”

“Exactly what is this
dacka
?
Do you have a sample?”

“Zhure, I got plenty left. Here.”

Agassiz examined the proffered herb and soon recognized it. “Why, this is simply Deccan hemp,
cannibis sativa
.
What’s so special about it?”

“Ach,
dacka
ist different in every land, depending on der zoil, rain, zun und zo forth. For instance, on der vay here, I ztopped off in Jamaica, und found vot dey call
ganja
to be quite unique. However, only Zouth African
dacka
vill zerve to activate der fetiche.”

Captain Stormfield spoke up. “Ye claim this here herb is some kind of snake-oil, good for what ails you?”

“You bet! Vant to dry zome?”

“Don’t mind iffen I do.” Stormfield began to stuff his pipe full.

“How about you, Louis? I got an extra pipe around here zomeplace.”

Agassiz impatiently waved away the offer. “I have more important things to do this afternoon than sit around like a Red Indian passing the peace pipe. I have to visit my patron, Lowell, on a personal matter. I shall expect to see you at supper, where we will discuss what to do next.”

“Jah, zomeding vas chust about to dawn on me in connection vit D’guzeri’s vereabouts ven you doused me. I’ll try to reconstruct it now.”

Captain Stormfield, having inhaled several huge puffs, appeared even more animated and loquacious than his wont. “So, old hoss, where do ye and your black crow of a lady hail from?”

“Der Cape of Good Hope.”

“And ye sailed this brig all the way up yourself?”

“You bet.”

“Well now, that’s uncommon fine sailing. Tell me, what kind of sextant do you favor?”

“Ach, I use an old British Hadley vot mine fodder left me—”

Agassiz left the two mariners deep in discussion. After changing into his best surtout and a splendid beaver hat, he set out for the house of John Amory Lowell, his wealthy benefactor.

John Amory Lowell was a member of the American aristocracy, and, while this set was not exactly on a par with the Rothschilds, its members were quite well off: Lowell had a whole milltown named after his family. Along with fourteen other clans, his family formed “the Associates,” the secret rulers of Boston, the dwellers in the fashionable Tontine Crescent. The Associates controlled twenty percent of the cotton spindelage in America, thirty-nine percent of the insurance capital in Massachusetts and forty percent of the state’s banking resources.

Like all parvenus, however, they were eager to flaunt their intellectual distinction and “taste.” It was this lust for cultural currency that Agassiz had been able to so adroitly exploit.

Lowell lived on Beacon Hill, within sight of the State House: specifically in an elegant Park Street townhouse designed by the famed architect Charles Bulfinch.

Toward this luxurious domicile Agassiz now bent his footsteps.

Past the varied architecture of the city he strolled, past the newer buildings on Tremont Street with their trend-setting bowfronts, past the older brick structures, hued in a spectrum of reds and oranges, pale salmon, even black-purple, and past many structures done in rough “Boston granite style.” He passed the wooden Gothic structure that housed the clothing store of Oak Hall, the grocery emporium of Batchelder and Snyder, and the Boylston Market.

Several obvious cattlemen, attracted by the Fair at Brighton Market, sat outside the Exchange Coffeehouse, discussing the finer points of steers. Carriages clattered by on all sides, and the general commerce of the flourishing city—nexus of half a dozen railways and as many tollpikes—transacted itself feverishly, as if the whole world depended on it.

Posters soliciting volunteer soldiers to fight in the Mexican War, now in its second year, were everywhere. (Desertions, it was reported in the
Evening Traveler
,
were rife, some of the soldiers, recent immigrants, actually going over to the Mexican side!)

Men of Boston!!!

President Polk sounds the call to arms!

Rally round the bold, gallant and lion-hearted General Taylor!

He will lead you to victory and glory against the vile Hispanic!

Help secure Texas for the Union!

Pay of $7 a month!

Upon discharge, a bonus!

$24 and 160 acres of frontier land!

(Possession of all limbs and a sound constitution a bonus prerequisite.)

(Land might contain Indians.)

Agassiz arrived at the Park Street residence and was admitted by a servant. Waiting in the ornate parlor, he barely had time to admire the bibelots arranged on the Italianate mahogany sideboard, to flip through a page or two of the latest issue of
Gleason’s Pictorial
,
before Lowell, a compact and self-confident figure of middle years, plainly attired, stepped in.

“Professor Agassiz, what a goddamn pleasant surprise! You’ll have to excuse my tardiness, but I was talking business with Mayor Quincy. Quince and I agreed—the goddamn city needs more land! Too much acreage is wasted in marsh and mudflats. Nothing but goddamn birds and fishes and plants there! Can’t have it. Once the waterworks from Lake Cochituate are finished, we intend to double the city’s population! Even the fill we took from Beacon Hill and Pemberton Hill didn’t create enough land for that! I think we’ll dismantle Fort Hill next and fill up the Town Cove. Plenty of Irish donkeys available for that! Can’t let the goddamn landsharks get wind of the plan yet, though, or they’ll drive up the prices, so keep it under your goddamn hat! Now, what can I do for you?”

Agassiz exaggerated his charming accent. “Mister Lowell, you are aware of the new chair being endowed at Harvard by your compeer, Mister Lawrence?”

“Of course, of course. What of it?”

“Well, I would imagine that you, as my sponsor, would have a vested interest in helping me secure the position. Should it go to one of those rude fellows Rogers or Hall, it would hardly reflect well on your discernment in supporting me, the exemplar of European science. Do you agree?”

“Christ, yes! That job’s got to be yours. What the goddamn hell is Lawrence doing, even considering anyone else? I’ll twist his goddamn arm—”

“Oh, no, Mister Lowell, nothing so drastic. It would not do to have the slightest tinge of impropriety connected with this appointment. All I ask is that you host a party whereat I may make my case to Mister Lawrence. Rest assured, I will convince him that I am the only man for the job.”

“It’s done. What do you say to next Friday? I’ll have the invitations sent out first thing tomorrow. We’ll invite everybody who’s anybody in this goddamn town. Maybe you can give a little lecture. Keep it entertaining, though. Work in some of that ‘genetic instinct’ stuff. Mating habits of the goddamn savages, maybe. Get my drift?”

Agassiz winced. The topic was entirely too close to home. “I will endeavor to entertain as well as educate, sir.”

“By jingo, that’s my boy! Let’s have a goddamn drink to seal the matter!”

Several “goddamn drinks” later, Agassiz made his unsteady way home.

Vomiting over the side of the East Boston ferry did little to increase his appetite for supper.

Nonetheless, he forced himself to sit down at the head of the table. It would not do for the leader of the scientific household to shirk any of his duties. And, he was always a little afraid of mutiny by Desor, should his grip appear to be slackening on the reins of the establishment.

That worthy entered the dining room after the rest of the establishment was already seated, including Cezar. (Agassiz would not suffer Dottie to eat with the others, and had banished her to the kitchen with Jane.) With Desor was his cousin, Maurice.

Maurice Desor turned out to be a plump bantam of a man dressed like a Beau Brummell. His cousin introduced him around. Maurice pulled out a chair, plopped down and lunged for a bowl of boiled potatoes garnished with parsley.

During the course of the meal, the only time Maurice stopped eating was when he was pompously declaiming on the latest intellectual trends of Paris.

“You haven’t read Marx, Professor? How can you call yourself educated? The man’s a genius, potentially the most explosive intellectual of our time. I have devoured his
Misère de la philosophie
.
He’s working now on something even more spectacular, with his collaborator, Friederich Engels. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him either? I thought not. They call it their ‘Communist Manifesto.’ When it’s published, it will spell an end to the reign of wealth and privilege, of all aristocrats, whether endowed or self-made, and their toadies such as yourself.”

Agassiz banged his fist down on the table, causing the silverware to perform a tarantella.

“That’s quite enough, Mister Desor! I am no sycophant to the rich, I am a man of science, a nobler calling than you can possibly imagine. If you truly object to the way I earn my living, I do not see why you partake so generously of my food and drink.”

“Property is theft, so to take from the rich is no crime.”

“Bah! You may chop logic like Aquinas, but I warn you—and you too, Edward—that if you want to remain here, you will keep a civil tongue in your head and show some respect toward your employer.”

Maurice muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “
Aprè
s moi, le déluge
,” but Agassiz let it pass. Rising, the Swiss scientist said, “I have had a hard day, with distressing personal news, and you’ll excuse me if I retire early.”

His four sympathetic assistants wishing him a restful night, Agassiz left the table.

Cezar caught up with him in the hallway.

“Louis, I dink I have a new lead on D’guzeri’s vhere-abouts—”

“Please, Jacob, save it for the morning.”

“Very vell. Zleep tight, und don’t let der horned znakes bite.”

“Thank you.”

In the middle of the night, Agassiz was awakened by a strange, albeit pleasant sensation. After a moment’s deliberation, he ascertained that it involved the application of someone’s oral equipment against his generative member.

Reaching timorously down, he found Jane’s familiar braid, and relaxed.

His climax was eminently satisfying, despite an image of Cecile flashing briefly before his eyes.

When Jane was snuggled against him, Agassiz dared ask, “You’ve never done that before, my girl. Where on earth did you ever learn—”

He stopped.

He suspected the answer.

But he did not want it confirmed.

5

A STICKY SITUATION

T
HE MORNING POST
contained only one letter relating to the search for the sorcerer. Unfortunately, it was from Hosea Clay.

Sirs:

I ain’t heerd from you in the past twenty-four hours, so I am forced to conclude that you are demandin of more proof that this slave is yourn. Herewith please find enclosed as of this date in response to yourn of the last, which I ain’t got yet, etc., etc., another token of its identity. Let this suffice to close our deal, before this creetur is plumb dismantled. Also, you owe for the table scraps with what I been sloppin it.

Yourn,

H.C.

Regarding the unopened package which had accompanied the letter, Agassiz gave a shudder. Letter and package both soon followed the earlier correspondence into the stove. He would issue instructions to Jane to stoke the cast-iron Moloch red-hot tonight.

Still in his robe, sipping coffee from a China cup decorated with celestial carp (
Cyprinus carpio
),
Agassiz awaited the arrival of Jacob Cezar. The man and his monkey bride had been still abed when Agassiz arose, and the scientist had experienced distaste at the notion of disturbing them.

The abomination they represented still rankled Agassiz. Every minute he had to remind himself that Cezar was a necessary link to the vast fame that awaited him, Agassiz, as the discoverer of the Cosmogonic Locus, the well of creation. When they captured T’guzeri, Agassiz would need Cezar to interrogate the sorcerer in his native Khoi-San language. But once they had wormed the information from the Bushman, the South African and his bestial mate would be expelled with a few choice vituperations, not to mention some well-deserved corporal chastisement, administered by Pourtales, perhaps, who was a strapping fellow.

Hoping to get a little work done on one of his monographs in progress, Agassiz turned to his sideboard full of papers.

There, atop one stack, where Jane had doubtlessly put it while straightening, lay his Mother’s letter about Cecile.

What was to be done about his newly invalid wife? Exactly what did he owe her? Poor fond foolish Cecile. . . .

She had never been the adjunct to his career that he had envisioned. There was no question, of course, of returning to Europe to succor her. Europe had plenty of competent doctors. He would send more money. That was it. A bank draft for a few hundred dollars extra would ease her confinement and make household life easier. Though it pained him to divert any money from his scientific enterprises, he would contact his banker right away.

A knock sounded. “Enter, please.”

Jacob Cezar, dressed in a new suit borrowed from Pourtales (the travel-stained outfit he had worn across the Atlantic had been deemed distinctly disreputable), advanced into the study. Agassiz was pleased to see that the Hottentot did not accompany him. Perhaps the South African was finally learning some manners. . . .

“Are you ready now to hear mine insight about vhere Dottie und I dink D’guzeri might be?”

“Yes, my mind is more composed this morning. Yesterday was an awful day. I can hardly imagine today will be so bad. Please, what have you deduced?”

Cezar proudly stroked his tuft of chin-whiskers before announcing, “D’guzeri ist hiding vit der Underground Railroad!”

Agassiz leapt to his feet. “Of course! What more natural place for a Negro to go to ground? Our prey has no doubt prevailed on the dimwitted Abolitionists to conceal him. It’s not hard to pull the wool over eyes full of stars, I always say. Well, well, this is splendid. He’s practically in our hands now. All that remains is for us to go to the nearest Underground Railroad Station, expose T’guzeri’s imposture and demand that he be handed over to us. It’s as simple as that.”

Cezar waited for Agassiz to run down to silence. Then he asked, “You know chust vhere der nearest Ztation ist?”

“Well, no, not exactly—”

“I didn’t dink zo. Vhere’s dot leave us, den?”

“I believe the Quakers are anti-slavery. Perhaps we could seek out a member of that sect and ask him?”

“Dot’s like asking a Londoner picked at random to give you an introduction to der Queen Victoria! No, Dottie und I have a fellow in mind.”

“And who might that be?”

“Villiam Lloyd Garrison, der publisher of der
Liberator
.”

“I’ve heard of him. A regular rabble-rouser, that one. I understand that some years ago he was actually attacked by a mob here in the city who disagreed with his fiery emancipation rhetoric. I’d prefer to deal with someone more rational, but I suppose that anyone involved with the Underground Railroad is automatically disqualified. Well, shall we seek him out?”

“Ja, chust let me get Dottie.”

“Oh, come now, Jacob, is her presence really necessary? The fact that Garrison is an ardent abolitionist does not signify that he has forgotten he’s still a white man. I hardly think he cares to meet Negroes socially. A man can keep his private life separate from his politics, you know.”

“No, vee need Dottie vit us.”

Agassiz threw his hands ceilingward. “I won’t argue the point. But if you insist on bringing her along, at least let her wait outside Garrison’s office until we gauge his attitude.”

“Zhure ding.”

Soon, the threesome were making the ferry crossing to the wharves along Broad Street. The harbor, as usual, was exceedingly busy, a moving forest of masts. In mid-passage they were nearly swamped by a steam-powered paddlewheel vessel named the
Jenny Lind
.

“Dottie und I heard der Zvedish Nightingale zing vun night at der Johannesburg opera. Zo beautiful zhe vas!”

“You took that savage to the opera? What a waste! How could she appreciate such a sublime experience?”

“Ach, you underestimate my vife. Besides, ist not music der universal language?”

“Not for beasts.”

Cezar was silent for a moment. Then he said with sincere pity. “Zomeday dese views of yours vill give you much pain, Louis. I zee it clearly.”

Agassiz said nothing in reply.

From Broad Street, they walked down Congress, took a left on Channing, and soon arrived at Devonshire Street. In the next block they found the building housing the headquarters of that incendiary journal, the
Liberator
.

On the third floor they paused outside the proper door, stencilled with the paper’s name.

“Now, remember what I said. Dottie must wait outside, preferably for the entire interview, so that we do not risk offending Garrison.”

“All right already, chust go in.”

This being the office of a public enterprise, Agassiz forebore from knocking and simply entered.

The entire premises of the
Liberator
was a single cramped room overflowing with books and papers. A desk covered with a mishmash of pamphlets and broadsides occupied one corner. Behind the desk was seated a white man who had to be Garrison. In his lap was seated a black man with his arms around Garrison’s neck.

Had the tableau consisted of Medusa and her sister, Agassiz could not have been more effectively petrified. His brain effectively suspended operations, much like the striking mill-girls of the Lowell Female Labor Reform Association.

Garrison and his partner appeared unembarrassed at being caught in such a compromising position. “Welcome to the headquarters of a new world, gentleman,” said Garrison. “A brotherhood of all mankind. How may we help you?”

“Mine name ist Jacob Cezar, und dis ist Professor Louis Agassiz.”

“Pleased to meet you. Allow me to introduce my best writer and finest friend, Mister Frederick Douglass.”

The black man got up off his partner’s lap with dignity and came forward with hand outstretched.

Agassiz’s immobility shattered. With widened eyes, he began to back up mindlessly, until he hit the wall. His feet kept shuffling uselessly.

Cezar diverted Douglass, clasping his hand. “You must excuse mine friend. He has had many droublesome dings happen to him lately, und ist a liddle on der edge. Allow me to zpeak for both of us. Vee are here zeeking contact vit der Underground Railroad.”

Garrison’s attitude instantly hardened. “Why?”

Cezar gave an abbreviated explanation of their quest. After Garrison had listened, he swivelled his chair to Douglass and said, “What do you think, Frederick?”

“It sounds most unlikely. I tend to think these two are slavehunters, come to drag our brothers and sisters back down below the Mason-Dixon line.”

“And so do I. Gentleman, your transparent subterfuge is an insult to our intelligence. Please go tell your masters, you Judases, that you have failed, and that they will not enjoy their heinous reign of blood, sweat and tears much longer. Soon, for a change, it will be they who will feel the lash!”

“No, really, vee are not—”

“Perhaps I could make an appeal.”

Dottie had appeared in the doorway. The addition of this new player appeared to spark Garrison’s interest.

“And who might you be, young lady?”

“Ngldatu Baartmann, sir.”

Garrison jumped up. “Not Ngldatu Baartmann of Capetown, whose astonishingly perceptive letters I have been printing lo! these many years!”

Dottie looked modestly down at her shoes. “The same.”

“Well, this is an honor. Why didn’t you two tell me you were connected with Miss Baartmann? This paints the picture in a whole different light. Of course, if Miss Baartmann says you need to contact the Railroad, then I have no compunctions about telling you.”

“We do, sir.”

“That is all I need to hear. The depot for Boston is run by Josephine St. Pierre Ruffin, out of her family business, the Ruffin Molasses Works in the North End. Do you know it?”

“Vee can find it.”

“Excellent! I wish you good luck locating this nefarious necromancer of yours. Farewell. And Miss Baartmann—keep those letters coming. You’re an inspiration to us all.”

“A tribute to our race,” added Douglass.

“The cause would be nowhere without your efforts, sir.”

Gathering the still stunned Agassiz, Cezar escorted him downstairs. The air of the street seemed to partially revive him.

“I told you vee needed Dottie, Louis.”

“Never—I never thought I would live to see such a sight! Why, it makes
your
relationship look positively normal.”

“Everyding ist relative, Louis. Dot’s vun of der lessons life teaches.”

“Perhaps. But I am a teacher also, and I never employed the switch so rudely.”

“Maybe you never had zuch a dumb ztudent.”

“Harumph!”

Journeying crosstown, Agassiz and his companions soon found themselves in the North End: a bewildering congery of crowded streets, formerly fashionable, now filling with Mediterranean, Semitic and Hibernian immigrants.

“It seems a shame,” said Agassiz, “that the ancestral lanes of Revere and Franklin should be given over to these lesser breeds.”

“Everybody needs a place to live. Und dese are der vuns who are building dis city.”

“They could at least show some decency and live like civilized human beings. Look at this tangle of public laundry, for instance. Disgusting.”

Agassiz waved one arm to indicate the many lines of drying clothes which were strung across the narrow streets barely above the level of traffic.

“Vun must make do vit vot vun has.”

“Following that philosophy, we’d all still be wearing soot and animal fat,” said Aggasiz, with a pointed glance at Dottie.

“Your European ztyle of dress, Professor Agassiz, vould not last a day in der bush.”

“I have no intention of dwelling in your wasteland. The sooner all such places are subsumed within Western civilization, the better off the world will be.”

Ascending dirt-surfaced Salem Street, dominated at its head by the Old North Church, they maintained a prickly silence amongst themselves.

Hull Street doglegged at the top of Salem, a further ascent.

At the crest, they paused for Agassiz to regain his breath, resting at the gates of the Copps Hill Burial Ground. The Swiss mountaineer chided himself. He was getting too stout. Where was the young goat who had leaped across glacial fissures?

They were now at the highest point in the North End. From here they could see Charlestown, connected to the North End by the longest bridge in America. Rearing up in that district was the newly erected Bunker Hill Monument, 6600 tons of stone in the shape of a proudly erect shaft denoting the nation’s potency.

Dottie spoke. “I am glad to see this graveyard. Here is buried Prince Hall, a black soldier of the Revolution.”

Agassiz harumphed again. “I prefer to note the cenotaph of Cotton Mather, a fine scholar.”

“Look,” said Cezar, “dere’s der Ruffin company.”

Across the way stood an impressively wide wooden structure several stories tall, wearing a signboard with molasses-gold lettering that proclaimed RUFFIN MOLASSES WORKS.

“Let us introduce ourselves, using Garrison as our reference, and claim the scoundrel they are mistakenly sheltering. Should they refuse, we will simply threaten to expose their illegal setup to the authorities.”

Inset into the large warehouse door was a smaller one. Agassiz tried the latch, but it was locked. He banged on the door.

A narrow sliding panel shot violently back. Outlined by the opening was some fair freckled skin and a pair of fanatical blue eyes.

“Go away! We’re closed!”

The panel slammed shut.

Agassiz tugged on a sideburn thoughtfully. “Something seems amiss here. I doubt if that gruff voice belonged to Josephine Ruffin. We must seek an ingress.”

“Dottie und I vill go around dis vay, und you go der udder.”

Aggasiz found himself venturing down a narrow alley littered with rubbish. In the lurking shadows, he was convinced he saw the glaring red eyes of pestilential rats (
Ratti norvegici
).
He wished he had thought to avail himself of Pourtales’s alpenstock, with its sharp tip . . .

Was that a small window above his head? It was. Now, if these discarded crates would serve as a platform. . . .