The Steampunk Trilogy (13 page)

“Ah, that’s the problem with a lot o’ them Marblehead critters. They ain’t stable outside o’ the region for more’n a few hours. Queer, ain’t it?”

“It’s more than queer, it’s totally unscientific.”

“So is life, Louie. F’rinstance, consider this jugged twat you and Jake are a-huntin’ for—”

Agassiz clapped both hands to his forehead. “My God, Cezar! You told him about the fetiche? What of our ruse? You were supposed to be a Guianese planter, if you recall.”

“Ach, I plumb forgot minezelf, vot vit der camaraderie of der happy-veed und all. Bezides, I figured maybe Danny might be able to help us.”

Captain Stormfield squinched one nearly closed eye completely shut in a wink betokening secrecy. “Aye, your faith’s not misplaced, Jake. I’ll take this secret down to Davey Jones’s Locker before I let that dirty Hun or Polack get their hands on your mother-in-law’s pisser. And, as it so happens, I got myself a hunch as to where T’guzeri might be a-headin’.”

Agassiz was beside himself. “Just keep your blasted hunches to yourself, Captain. We don’t need your lame Yankee intuition. Jacob and I will solve this matter using our superior European wits.”

Affronted, Captain Stormfield stood. “Them’s almost fightin’ words, Louie. It didn’t take much more’n that to make us redblooded Yankees kick out old King George. I fought against that swellhead, I’ll have ye know, and I don’t cotton to tyrants any more nowadays than I did then. Until I gets a suitably humble apology from ye, I’ll be a-witholdin of my valley-bill information.”

“It makes no difference to me.”

“We’ll just see about that. Come on, old Puss, let’s be a-goin’. Never let it be said we couldn’t reckon when we wasn’t wanted.”

Reaching down to the floor, Captain Stormfield picked up a leash which led away into a shadowy corner. He tugged on it.

From the corner emerged a huge fish wearing a collar and walking on its stiff fins. By its distinctive barbels, Agassiz recognized it as
Ictalurus nebulosus
,
the bullhead catfish.

As the catfish passed Agassiz’s ankles, it plainly hissed at him.

Agassiz felt weak. The smoke, the arguments, the futility of their quest—It was all too much. He experienced the need to relax in some convivial setting, preferably with a drink. . . .

“Jacob, if anyone comes looking for me, I’ll be at the Culling House Oyster Bar. But please don’t send them unless it’s of major importance.”

“Ja, for zhure. Kick back und let your hair down.”

The Culling House stood not a quarter mile from Agassiz’s quarters. Outside the sprawling weatherbeaten structure towered a pile of bivalve shells as tall as the masts of a clipper ship, the accumulation of decades.

Inside the rude interior, so unlike the elegant hostelries of Neufchâtel, Agassiz sat himself down amid the boisterous lunchtime crowd of quahoggers and clammers and lobstermen and ordered several dozen oysters and a pint of porter.

After an encore of his order, he began to feel a little better.

It was then that Edward Desor intruded.

“Excuse my impertinence, Agass, but you’ve just received a letter from your high-hat friend, Lowell. I took the liberty of opening it, since it was marked ‘urgent.’ He needs to know what kind of arrangements to make for your talk at the dinner-party Friday. It had best be nothing too elaborate, as it’s only two days away.”

“Hmmm, I haven’t even chosen my topic yet. . . . The salacious moneygrubber ordered something on savage mating habits, as if I were a hack for hire. Well, he’ll not get it! I’ll stick to natural philosophy. Let’s see, what organism haven’t I touched on yet in my lectures . . .?”

Agassiz’s eye was caught by a shell hanging above the bar. “Of course, the noble horseshoe crab! I’ll make splendid capital of the fact that
Xiphosura
is native to America. Surely that will ingratiate me to Lawrence. Very good. I’ll need an easel for my diagrams, and a lectern of course. And why not bring a live specimen? The ladies will squeal prettily, as if a hundred mice were loose! That should do it. Desor! Are you listening to me?”

Desor’s attention was riveted on a red-headed barmaid in a lowcut muslin dress who, bending over to wipe a spill, appeared in imminent danger of spilling out her own freckled breasts.

Recovering his wits, the assistant said, “Yes, of course. One hundred. Am I right?”

Listening none too closely himself, Agassiz said, “Yes, correct. See tit—I mean, see to it then.”

For the next brace of days, Agassiz worked on his lecture. It had to be perfect. This party was supremely important for his future. Nothing must be left to chance. In spare moments, he added a line or two to the textbook he was working on with Augustus A. Gould,
Principles of Zoology
.
It was to be his first American publication, and must be suitably impressive.

By Friday’s dawn, no new information on the possible whereabouts of the Hottentot sorcerer had been forthcoming, and Agassiz resolved that, come the morrow, he would apply all his intellect to quickly wrapping up this tedious affair.

When the afternoon post arrived, it brought a letter from Agassiz’s Mama.

Dearest Son,

This missive will convey no good news, I fear. Cecile’s condition is, at best, stable. She spends most of her day sketching, which pursuit, as you well know, always amused and relaxed her. You will find enclosed a family portrait she recently completed.

The children are well. Alex is rapidly becoming the very paragon of young manhood, and frequently speaks, so I am told, of the father he has not seen for so long. Do you think it possible that some day he, being the eldest, might be permitted to join you in America?

My fondest thoughts,

Mama

His son. Agassiz had almost forgotten he had offspring. . . . What would it mean to have Alex with him? Was the East Boston establishment a fit place to raise a child? Certainly not under the current manic circumstances. But if, as he surely would, he moved to Cambridge in connection with his new position, then a more genteel atmosphere would prevail.

But a child could not be properly raised in a household lacking in feminine influence. As Cecile was unfit for travel, he would have to find a suitable substitute. A nurse, a governess—

A wife.

Agassiz instantly berated himself. What was he thinking? His wife not even dead yet, and his mind speculating on her replacement . . .? Was he an unfeeling monster?

Still, it did not pay to be unprepared for any likely eventuality.

In his bedroom, Agassiz began to lay out his evening clothes. He was intent on brushing the lint from his frockcoat when he was startled by the appearance of Cezar at the infamous window where he had first materialized, on that night which seemed geological ages ago.

“Must you make a habit of such unconventional entrances?”

“Ach, pardon mine rough manners, but vee colonial dypes live differently from you civilized gentry. Vhy, on der estates outside Capetown it’s considered overnice if you pause at der door to kick der chiraffe zhit from your boots.”

“I’m sure it’s quite pleasant to emulate the savages you so unconcernedly dwell among, if you haven’t any higher aspirations. Now, how may I help you?”

“I chust heard you’re going to zome kind of ving-ding tonight. Vot’s der chances of me coming vit you?”

“Why?”

“Vell, first, I might chance to overhear zomeding dot’s relevant to our zearch. Und zecond, I’m a visitor here to dis country, und zo far I haven’t gotten to zee anyding. I thought it might be fun to mingle vit der American upper-crust.”

“Hmmm. . . . I suppose you could be of interest to some of the more jaded grande dames, much as a new breed of lapdog might be. And the rest of the staff is coming, so it’s only fair. I do have some responsibility as your host—”

A sudden thought occured to Agassiz. “You have no intention of bringing your inky mate, do you?”

“Ach, no. Dottie’s not big on dese formal affairs.”

“All right then. But you must be on your best behavior. Nothing can go wrong. And please try to remember our agreed-upon ruse.”

“Ja, I grow der capybaras on der banks of der Orinoco.”

Agassiz snorted. “The people you will soon be meeting are not known for their appreciation of irony. And may I also suggest that you don appropriate dress? See Pourtales.”

“Zhure.”

After Cezar’s departure there came a polite tapping on the door. Agassiz called out permission to enter.

The door swung open upon a startling sight.

Standing in the doorway was a Red Indian clad in full native costume, down to a hatchet held beneath his shell-belt. His imperturbable face with its aquiline nose seemed carved from red marble.

Agassiz’s hands went instinctively to his hair. He knew with absolute certainty that he was about to be scalped. Three hundred years of frustrated revenge gleamed in the eyes of the Rousseau-ian Noble Savage. He had known all along that America was unsafe. To think that his personal pelt would soon be hanging as a trophy in some smoky lodge—

The Indian advanced on moccasined feet. Agassiz sought to retreat, but was hindered by the bed.

Edward Desor emerged from behind the buckskinned brave. Beneath his minuscule mustache, he wore a cruel and vindictive smile.

“Agass, what troubles you? Surely you were not frightened . . .?”

Seeking to recover his composure and the upper hand, Agassiz demanded, “What is the meaning of this intrusion, Edward?”

“I was merely following your behest, Agass. You recall that you ordered me to secure a native guide for our expedition to Lake Superior . . .? Well, allow me to introduce Chief Snapping Turtle of the Ojibway tribe. He arrived today, forwarded by a Hudson Bay Company agent in Michigan.”

Chief Snapping Turtle silently raised a hand, palm outward. Agassiz tentatively did likewise.

“Does he speak any civilized tongue?”

“Not that I have been able to determine. I am trying to secure an interpreter. . . .”

“Well, very commendable, Edward. Now that you have introduced us, you may take your leave.”

“There is one small problem. The Chief has no place to stay.

“He can stay here, of course. Inform Jane to set an extra place at breakfast.”

“And what’s to be done with him while we all attend the party tonight?”

“My God, that’s right. We can’t leave him alone with Jane. You know the Indian’s propensity for raping white women—I suppose we’ll just have to bring him along.”

And so it was that a most unusual party of nine boarded the seven o’clock ferry departing the East Boston shore. Agassiz and Cezar led the entourage, followed by the whispering pair of cousins, Maurice and Edward Desor. Pourtales, Girard, Burkhardt and Sorel, having adopted Chief Snapping Turtle as one of their number, brought up the rear.

Once on the mainland, they sought conveyance to Lowell’s home. Unfortunately, all that was available for hire was an open buckboard.

Seated next to the driver, with the others crouched or standing in the back, Agassiz was forced to stoically endure the shouts and catcalls of all the urchins—and quite a few adults—along the way.

“It’s the circus!” “Hey, Mister Barnum!” “Where’s the bearded lady?!” “Daddy, I don’t see no clowns!”

By the time they reached the Beacon Hill residence of his patron, Agassiz was utterly mortified. He hastened inside to escape the jeering crowd that had trailed them, and announced himself and the others to the butler. Shortly, the nine found themselves being led through the mansion until they arrived at the wide double doors—now retracted into their wall-niches—which opened onto a splendid ballroom.

The enormous high-ceilinged room was lit by chandeliers bearing live tapers, and ultra-modern gas fixtures. Along one wall ran linen-covered tables burdened with dishes of every description: whole pigs, steamship rounds, squabs, buffalo steaks. Silver ladles projected from crystal bowls of champagne punch. At the far end of the room was a temporary stage raised a half-foot or so above the gleaming parquet floor. Close to a hundred people, not counting servants, filled the room, gaily laughing and chatting, drinking and eating. All the men were powerful and stalwart-looking in their suits; the women in their gowns, representing every shade of the rainbow, were sylphlike and delicate.

Agassiz turned to Cezar. “So, my friend, you see how we do things here in my adopted country. Why, this residence even boasts indoor water closets! Not bad, hey?”

Cezar did not seem impressed. “I’m zhure dey vere alzo very zatisified vit demzelves at Nero’s court, or Louis der Fourteenth’s. But vot do I know, I’m chust a country boy from a
dorpie
in Kaffraria.”

“Well, try to show some breeding tonight. Ah, here’s our host—”

John Amory Lowell strode decisively across the room. His starched collar stood up almost to his ears, the knot of his black tie was as big as a grapefruit, and a gold chain thick as a string of sausages made a catenary across his vest.

“It’s about goddamn time you got here, Professor. Thought you got waylaid by a gang of Irish hooligans or some goddamn thing. Who’re all these roughnecks? Never mind, I don’t need to know. And an Indian? That’s what I like about you, Agassiz, you’ve always got a surprise up your goddamn sleeve. Well, let them mingle and enjoy themselves. Go ahead, fellows, spread out and sample the grub. You come with me, Louie. There’s some people you have to meet.”

Lowell grabbed Agassiz’s elbow and steered him off. They made a beeline for a knot of people clustered around what appeared to be a midget.

Upon closer inspection, the midget proved to be an exceedingly elderly man who seemed to have shrank with age. Across his bald pate ran a few strands of wispy white hair. He resembled a bundle of sticks wrapped in too much black cloth, like an Indian’s teepee packed for travel.

“Abbot,” called out Lowell, “here’s Agassiz. The goddamn smartest fellow you ever met, and the man you’re going to give that Harvard job to. Louie, this is Abbot Lawrence.”

Agassiz extended his hand. “I am honored to meet you, Mister Lawrence. May I just say that I think that you and Mister Lowell have done more with your mills to advance civilization than any other non-scientist. . . .”