The Steampunk Trilogy (17 page)

“The family and I are heading north to Saratoga Springs for the summer. It gets so damn hot in the Carolinas that it makes your blood boil. Weather’s not fit for man nor beast. I even bring my hounds with me. They’re with Lily Belle at the hotel now. Rented the dogs their own room, I did! Of course, life at the plantation goes on. The niggers are out in the fields, I say, fifteen hours a day. Of course, the sun, I say, the sun doesn’t bother them. They can’t get any blacker, haw haw!”

Agassiz laughed too. More drinks were poured.

“That story, son, reminds me of this one slave of mine. Used to be an infamous free black in Philadelphia until I had him kidnapped. Pretended he was a lawyer, or some other such fool job. Riled me, I say, riled me no end. Well, once I had him in chains, I told him he could buy his freedom back. Took him three years of working overtime, three years, I say! No sooner was he back in the city than I had him waylaid again. Another three years, and I set him free—for a price. Just before I left, the slavers dumped him on my doorstep for the third time. All entirely legal in my state, of course. You should have seen the woolly-headed bastard cry!”

By the time Agassiz could get the jovial planter to leave, it was late afternoon and his head was swimming. Realizing that he had not checked today on his staff, he ventured shakily to his laboratory.

Maurice sat outside the workroom door at a small desk. “Do you have your papers in order?”

Agassiz’s head hurt. “Papers? What papers?”

“Your security clearance, your permits and your sponsorships. In triplicate.”

“Of course I don’t have any such foolish things. What is this? What’s going on?”

“We’ve implemented a new system, an apparatus to administer the resources of the proletariat. In short, the laboratory has undergone collectivization. We have modified Fourier’s notion of the phlanstery—”

“Collectivization be damned! This is my laboratory!” Agassiz began to hammer on the door. “Open up in there! Cease this nonsense immediately!”

“It won’t do any good to yell. They’re on strike.”

“Strike?!”

At this juncture the door opened and Edward Desor peered out. “Oh, it’s you, Agass. Please go away now, we’re busy. And I would suggest not throwing your weight around any more in the future. With what I’ve seen of your ribald behavior, you are in no position to demand anything.”

The door closed in Agassiz’s face before he could reply.

“I told you they wouldn’t take kindly to being disturbed. . . .”

Agassiz held his head. He was too jingled now to deal with this revolt. Air—he needed some fresh air. When he was his own master again, he would thrash them all—

Out on the back lawn, Agassiz looked toward Cezar’s ship. For a moment he thought he was seeing double. Then he realized that the
Dolly Peach
,
absent since his insulting of its skipper, was moored alongside the
Sie Koe
.

Agassiz stumbled up the boarding plank of the latter vessel and into the cabin. There sat Cezar, Stormfield and the Hottentot, heads bent in earnest confabulation.

Upon Agassiz’s entrance, Stormfield came aggressively to his feet.

“Perfesser, I’m here for that suitably humble apology ye owes me!”

“I just—”

Stormfield interrupted. “Good enough! Never let it be said that old Dan’l didn’t know when to bury the hatchet. Now, get your carcass over here. We’re havin’ a council o’ war. Ye see, we knows now where your Well of Creation is, and when that sorcerer plans to be there!”

The fumes in Agassiz’s brain cleared immediately. “Where is it? Tell me!”

“Why, where else but goldanged Marblehead?!”

“Your home port?”

“Kee-rect! But I knows ye won’t credit it without some explanation, so jest set yerself down and lissen.

“Before the White Man came to this country, there was an Injun settlement where Marblehead stands today. It was shunned by all the neighboring Red Men, the Narragansett and the Pequots, since the tribe in question—the Miskatonicks—had a reputation as bein’ unclean and unwholesome. Ye ken, the waters off Marblehead shore were just a-swarmin’ with strange creatures—in fact, new ones seemed to be born daily—and the local Injuns were tainted through intimate contact with the queer beasts.”

“You mean,” said Agassiz hopefully, “that they fed upon the strange flesh, violating certain dietary taboos?”

“No sir—I means what I said! They had carnal relations with the creatures. At least them as was fitted for it.”

Agassiz gagged, and had to be refreshed with a sip from one of Dottie’s ostrich eggs.

“I knows, it strikes one kind o’ hard, unless ye’ve grown up with the notion as I have. But it’s true. The Miskatonicks rogered and was rogered by certain of them fishes, giving birth to various halfbreeds, some o’ which lived on land, some in the sea.

“Now, one day in 1629, Clem Doliber was kicked out o’ Salem, just down the road from the Miskatonicks. Clem was a mean cuss, bound by neither conventions nor fear. He was booted out, in fact, for havin’ congress with a neighbor’s prize sow, then shootin’ the owner when the affronted fella politely asked Clem to disengage, lest he make the taste o’ the bacon go off. Well, with no place else to go, Clem sets out for the Miskatonick village.

“When he gets there, he finds it empty of all humans or animals or halfbreeds, with kettles still on the boil and blankets warm to the touch. There was no sign of a ruckus or massacree. Alls he could find was a wide trail of slime leadin’ into—or outta—the sea. So Clem settles into an empty teepee, and that was the beginnin of the white man’s occupation of Marblehead.

“The followin’ years seen an influx of refugees and desperadoes of every stripe. Marblehead became the dumpin’ grounds for the whole Thirteen Colonies. Why, it was worse than Rhode Island, and that’s sayin’ a lot! We had outcasts of any kind you could name, from all over the globe. My own ancestors, for instance, were Manxmen who worshipped Manannan mac Lir, God o’ the Sea. Persecuted by the Archbishop of Canterbury hisself, they lit out for the haven of the New World.

“And I’m plumb ashamed to admit it, but these bad white folks had morals as lax as those of the Injuns. They was not immune to the fishy charms of the merfolk, and continued to intermingle their vital essences with them.”

Agassiz lifted a hand wearily. “Stop right there, Captain Stormfield. Do you seriously expect me to believe this tall tale? It’s absolutely, scientifically impossible for men and fish to interbreed.”

“Impossible, is it? Then what do ye make o’ this?”

Captain Stormfield pushed back one sleeve of his greasy sweater and showed the underside of his muscled arm.

It was patterned with coarse green scales from the wrist on up. As he twisted it for Agassiz’s inspection, the scales sparkled in the candlelight.

“It ain’t no razzle-dazzle, Louie. I’m at least one-eighth fish myself, jest like everybody else in Marblehead. If ye be a ’header, ye can’t avoid callin’ some tuna ‘Uncle.’”

Cezar spoke up. “I believe him, Louie. Dey didn’t name der Marblehead boys during der Revolution der ‘Amphibious Regiment’ for noding! How do you dink dey vere able to get Vashington across der Delaware zo easily? Vhy, Danny dells me dot dey chust jumped in der vater und pulled der boats like der drained porpoises!”

Agassiz finally found his voice, although it was but a shade of its normal booming imperiousness. “Please roll down your sleeve. . . . Thank you. That is a sight no man of science should be exposed to. All right now. Suppose I grant you this incredible tale as prolegomenon. How can you be sure that T’guzeri is planning to carry out his scheme in your absurd town?”

“Why, I was told directly so by them as should know. Ye see, there’s always been two factions in Marblehead. There’s them mostly human men and women who live side by side with the fishfolk without thinking twice one way or the other about them. They gen’rally give them wide birth, ’cept when a seaweed-draped cousin comes callin’, friendly-like. They knows enough to steer clear of certain reefs and shoals, makin’ the proper salutes and obeisances when passin’ certain bays and suchlike.

“But then there’s the other ones, the bent and twisted humans, those with thinner, colder blood than most. They associate with the worst of the fishfolk as often as they can. These are the ones who actually worship the same gods the fishfolk do, gods like Dagon and Pahuanuiapitaaiterai. These rogues collaborate with the mermen in their obscure and diabolical schemes.

“One of these types—not the worst, I’m happy to say—is my cousin, Howard Phillips. He told me jest this mornin’—in general terms, ye understand—about what T’guzeri and his fellow conspirators have got planned for tomorrow night. Needless to say, I wasted no time in gettin’ over here with the news.”

Captain Stormfield now folded his (scaly) arms across his chest and waited proudly for Agassiz’s reaction.

Agassiz surveyed the expectant trio before him. Did they really expect him to give credence to this cockamamie tale? Baron Munchausen himself had never concocted anything half so wild. Were they playing him a for a fool, only to leave him caught with his pants down, so to speak, at the last moment?

Captain Stormfield said, “Excuse me a moment.” He picked up a ladle and scooped water from a bucket near the porthole. Pulling back the high neck of his sweater, he then anointed his highly visible gills.

Agassiz’s eyes assumed the proportions of those of a slow loris (
Nycticebus tardigradus
).
When he was partially recovered, he said, “The Coast Guard has put a large armed cruiser at my disposal. I shall requisition it for tomorrow night.”

9

MOBY DAGON

A
GASSIZ STOOD RESPLENDENTLY
outside the door to Temple Place No. 10, the luxurious residence known as “the Court,” home to the chaste and lovely Lizzie Cary. He was dressed in the closest thing to a uniform that he possessed: the red coat and trousers of the
Burschenschaft
,
the student club he had belonged to twenty years ago at Heidelberg. A trifle snug, he had thought, gazing at himself in the cheval-glass at home. But he still cut an imposing figure in his old school colors, and he needed all the confidence he could summon up today.

It was noon of the day he was to confront the Hottentot sorcerer in the fishing village of Marblehead, and Agassiz had come to make his goodbyes to the woman he loved and coveted. Although he fully expected to return unharmed to her—after all, what chance did primitive superstition stand, once the blazing light of science was turned upon it?—he could not resist the chance to make a florid declamation of his impending sacrifice.

Within minutes, Agassiz was kneeling beside his beloved, holding both her small hands as she sat on the chaise-longue in the Cary parlor. The long dark curls framing her face trembled with the emotions besetting her, as Agassiz explained—in a carefully edited version, of course—what he had learned and what he was about to undertake.

“Oh, Louis, I’m so frightened!”

“Don’t be, my dear. I am brave enough for both of us.”

“I can’t let you go alone, Louis. If anything were to happen to you, I would surely die of shock. Better for us to perish together in the jaws of some piscine horror than for me to live a moment without your presence!”

“Do you really mean that, my dear?”

“Yes, Louis, I do—with all my heart.”

Agassiz came to a quick decision. “Then you shall come with me, darling Lizzie. You shall stand by my side, like a true mate, under the strong shelter of my loving protection. Can you don some suitable rough clothing quickly?”

“I’ll wear the outfit I wore when we went butterfly hunting, and tell Daddy that we’re going on another such expedition. I’ll only be an hour or two.”

Good as her word, Lizzie was ready within the stipulated time. Before long, they were descending from a carriage outside East Boston headquarters.

“Our transportation should be arriving momentarily, dear. Let us wait inside.”

In the house, Agassiz found a party underway. Dogberry, Pourtales, Girard, Burckhardt, Sonrel, Maurice, and Edward Desor were uniting their voices in a chorus of “Black Lulu,” glasses full of champagne hoisted high. Chief Snapping Turtle shuffled around them, uttering wordless war whoops.

“What’s the meaning of this?” thundered Agassiz.

“Our latest monograph has been delivered from the printers,” explained Desor.

Agassiz snatched up a copy of the publication. The title page read:

AN INQUIRY INTO THE DIET OF THE

BATHYPTEROIDAE

BY

EDWARD DESOR

AND

HIS ASSISTANT,

LOUIS AGASSIZ

A veil of rage hung before Agassiz’s vision like the Aurora Borealis. He prepared to loose the full might of his fury upon the impudent Desor.

Totally unconcerned, Desor merely glance significantly at Lizzie and said, “Had any buttons sewn on lately, Agass?”

Agassiz collapsed like a pricked balloon. “
Touché
,
Edward. We shall discuss this later. Right now, I must be going.”

“Oh, have no fear, we’re all coming with you. Did you seriously think I’d let you hog all the glory? No, your loyal co-workers fully deserve to be with you at this historic moment, so that our names shall redound with yours throughout the history of natural philosophy.”

Chief Snapping Turtle, evidencing a new talent for civilized speech, now flourished his bow and arrows and declared, “Chief Snapping Turtle wantum fight Wishpoosh with Great White Father Louis. Giant Beaver God needum good licking.”

Realizing the futility of argument, Agassiz merely said, “Very well, then. Let us see if our ship has arrived.”

The party paraded out onto the greensward with a view of the busy bay.

Drawing nigh like one of the indomitable Viking ships that had visited Newport long before Columbus sailed was the Coast Guard Survey ship the
U.S.S. Bibb
.

The
Bibb
was actually a small clipper ship, built by the firm of Kennard and Williamson in Baltimore. One hundred and forty-three feet long, four hundred and ninety-four tons, triple-masted, drawing eleven feet forward but seventeen feet aft, she was small compared to the 2500-ton behemoths McKay was currently building. Still, she was an awesome sight. Surely she would strike dread into the hearts of T’guzeri and his Marblehead confederates.

One aspect of her even now struck fear—or at least distaste—into Agassiz: the figurehead, which was cast in the shape of a buxom, gaily painted mermaid.

Anchoring some distance offshore, the
Bibb
lowered a small boat from its davits. Soon it grounded, and the
Bibb’s
captain stepped ashore.

A young man of stalwart bearing, the captain strode decisively toward the waiting crowd. Agassiz was immediately impressed with his quiet competence.

“Lieutenant Charles Henry Davis, sir, at your command. May I just mention that I’ve read all your works, Professor Agassiz, and consider it the highest honor of my short career to accompany you on this mission.”

The words of praise slightly recompensed Agassiz for the vile treatment he had been forced to swallow from his assistant. He puffed up visibly. “Rest assured, Lieutenant, that your services will earn you immense credit in the annals of your nation and your race. We sail today for the greater glory of white American science and culture.”

At that moment, the disreputable figures of Jacob Cezar and his Hottentot paramour made their appearance on the deck of the
Sie Koe
.
Both were only partially dressed.

“Ahoy, der
Bibb
!
Vee are almost ready! Vun minute!”

Lieutenant Davis looked quite puzzled. Agassiz sought to explain. “They’re, um, experts on the enemy we are about to face. I thought they should accompany us. . . .”

Now Captain Stormfield poked his head out of the cabin of the
Dolly Peach
,
which had remained berthed overnight. The Marbleheader was combing his hair with what appeared to be a fresh specimen of the three-spine stickleback (
Gasterosteus aculeatus
).

“I’m a-gonna follow ye in my craft, Captain. Seems to me we could use a backup ship, just in case. I’ll try not to outrace ye!”

“He knows the local waters, . . .” faltered Agassiz.

It took two trips to ferry the twelve members of the motley expedition out to the
Bibb
.
But at last they were all aboard. The Bibb lifted anchor, luffed its sails, and they were underway, entering the diamond-scattered waters of Boston Bay, the
Dolly Peach
following.

Lieutenant Davis conducted Agassiz on a tour of the ship, not neglecting to mention their armament.

“We ship several cannon of moderate firepower. But considering the nature of our quarry as you outlined it, I also took the liberty of signing on a skilled harpooner for this trip. Allow me to introduce you.”

Lieutenant Davis brought Agassiz up to a somber bearded chap who was neatly coiling the rope attached to the heavy and wicked-looking instrument of his trade.

“Professor Agassiz, this is Mister Melville, a personal friend. I managed to convince him to leave his farm in Pittsfield for a day or two, though he has much plowing to do. Mister Melville has sailed the seven seas—on the fabled
Acushnet
,
amoung other whalers—and possesses a steady eye and hand that will no doubt serve us well. In addition, Mister Melville shares your own literary bent. Perhaps you’ve read one of his memoirs?
Typee
?
Omoo
?”

“I fear not. But I haven’t much time for pleasure reading of any sort. Your hand, Mister Melville—?”

Melville extended a calloused paw. “Call me Herman.”

After exchanging a few words concerning the habits of various cetaceans, Agassiz left the sailor-cum-author so that he might rejoin his own party.

His comrades from Europe he found engaged in a game of dice with several Jack Tars. Chubby Maurice was about to roll. “From each according to his means, to each according to his needs! Come on seven!” The noon ration of grog had been disbursed, and much conviviality was in evidence. Agassiz passed them by, with only a baleful glance directed toward Desor.

Chief Snapping Turtle, much to Agassiz’s astonishment, had found another member of his race with whom to converse, a tattooed red giant with a topknot.

“—then Queequeg say, “What you mean ‘we,’ white man?”

“Ho, ho, ho! Kici Manitu himself not say it better!”

By the starboard rail stood Josiah Dogberry, sketchbook and pencil in hand. Agassiz looked over the shoulder of the itinerant artiste: a few scalloped lines stood in for the multi-textured sea; the iron lighthouse on Minot’s Ledge was indicated by some verticals supporting a box; gulls were shallow V’s; clouds were squiggly circles.

Dogberry turned to face his employer. “I figured a record of our historic journey would be of inestimable value to future generations. What do you think, Lou?”

“The level of detail leaves much to the viewer’s imagination. . . .”

“Such is always the case with the best art, Lou.”

It was easy to track down Jacob Cezar: the smell of burning
dacka
provided a scent-trail for which no bloodhound was necessary.

The South African was seated on a coil of hemp rope, from which he had cut a length for his own use.

“Vee rushed off zo fast, I plumb forgot mine own ztash. Dis zstuff ist plenty rough, but as dey zay, any port in a ztorm.”

Agassiz paused beside the colonial. Now that the end of their enforced companionship was in sight, Agassiz tried to look back with nostalgia on their adventures. The past month had been a welcome and stimulating change from his accustomed scholarly routine, hadn’t it? True, the presence of Cezar’s black-skinned mate had been nearly insupportable at times. True, he had nearly been ignominiously drowned in molasses due to the man. True, he had been thrown into a torture pit amidst Iron Maidens and Procrustean Beds for his connection with him. And also true—

Agassiz gave up the attempt to regard the last four weeks with retrospective fondness. It had been an unmitigated nightmare, for deliverance from which he would drop to his knees and praise his Creator.

Still, he could afford at this point to be magnanimous.

“Well, Jacob, your quest is nearly over now, thanks to my help. It seems quite probable that you will be sailing off tomorrow evening at the latest.”

Cezar appeared reflective. “Ja, I’ll be glad to get back to mine liddle farm. Dis hurly-burly city life ist not for old Jake. Give me der savannah und der vildebeest over der artificial ztone und der policeman any dime.” Cezar sighed. “Ztill, it vill be a vhile before I see Kaffraria again. Dere’ll be a ztop in Paris to return Saartjie’s qvim to der Museum, und who knows vhere else Dottie vill vant to visit . . .”

“Speaking of the Hottentot, where is she?”

“Oh, zhe’s gone forvard to vit your Lizzie to make vit der girl-dalk.”

Agassiz took off like a cheetah (
Acinonyxjubatus
).

Dottie and Lizzie stood by the prow, spray sprinkling their faces. Lizzie looked particularly pale, and the Hottentot was half-supporting her.

“Remove your evil hands from my fiancée!”

Dottie replied calmly, “She is simply a little sea-sick, Professor Agassiz. And I thought you were still married. . . .”

“My marital status is none of your affair, you—you heathen pickaninny!” Agassiz wrested the white woman away from the black one. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“Yes, Louis—I’m fine. I—I just need to lie down for a while.”

“Let’s see Captain Davis about a bunk.” Agassiz regarded the Hottentot grimly. “And as for you—”

Dottie smiled, revealing her primitive and hideous dentition. “Oh, there’s no need to worry about me, Professor. I feel great.”

“Humph!”

The
U.S.S. Bibb
sailed blithely north, beneath the gladsome July sun, its crew and passengers intent on their respective enterprises. The salty air, crisp as lettuce hearts, invigorated all souls. With each passing league, Agassiz felt more and more confident of imminent victory. Past Deer Island they sailed, past Winthrop, Nahant, Lynn and Swampscott. A meal was served. Agassiz unbent enough even to sample a puff off Cezar’s pipe—after carefully wiping the stem on his sleeve—but pronounced it unpalatable.

By late afternoon they were anchored off Cat Island, within sight of Peach’s Point. Marblehead Harbor, a northward-facing U-shaped bay, was actually to the south of them now. The low and shaggy buildings of the two-hundred-year-old town looked like lichened ruins straddling a buried giant.

Captain Davis regarded the evil village with a cold and calculating gaze, before pronouncing judgment on it. “One of these days they’ll go too far, these witches, and the folks in Washington will have to take notice. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if they brought an offshore bombardment down on their own heads one day. . . .”

Captain Stormfield, meanwhile, had anchored alongside and boarded the
Bibb
.

“My cousin Howie is supposed to row out at dusk to meet us and fill us in on the plans of the Deep Ones, as they call themselves on account of they fancy themselves so deep. We’ll just have to sit tight till then.”

Now the crew and passengers hunkered down to wait. A small knot of old salts congregated around Captain Stormfield to swap yarns. Before long, practically the whole complement of the
Bibb
sat at his feet, mesmerized by his tales, with the falling twilight settling on them like a warlock’s black mantle.

“Aye, many’s the night I’ve sat inside my bolted, shuttered house with my dear old Dolly, like all the other good folks o’ Marblehead, knowin’ that the Deep Ones was a-fixin’ to celebrate their unholy allegiance with the sea-critters. They would gather first in Washington Square beneath them contorted and twisty ancient trees with the branches that dangle like nooses. From there, they’d march up to the Old Burial Hill overlookin’ the town. There they’d raise up a few choice spirits, such as the souls o’ Margaret Scott and Wilmott Redd, who was both hanged as Satan’s apprentices. Then back down again, through the twisty, non-Euclidean streets they’d crawl, a-yelpin’ and a-howlin’ fit to beat the band, some o’ the legless citizens a-floppin’ their reekin’ squamous bodies through the dust! Down to the waterfront they’d hie themselves, there to be greeted by their infamous cohorts from the stinkin sea-floor. And then—well, ye don’t want to know what happened then. Suffice it to say that it’d require a heap o’ italics to convey.”