Glory Planet Page 2

  And it was so.

  And it was then that I turned to give fresh orders to those who had worked with me, and found that it was not, as I had thought, my own men—but the Saint-in-Charge and a half dozen of the Singers.

  the whistle. "Down gangway!" called the Old Man from the bridge. Richmond Queen had arrived.

  First aboard was Leinster, the Agent, closely followed by Banat, the Stevedore, and his gang. We shook hands, then Leinster went up to the bridge to see the Old Man whilst Banat and I arranged the loading and discharge of cargo.

  "Only forty bales of cotton for Albany," I said. "We should be away before dark. It'll be a nice clear night for the Narrows."

  "You'll not be away before midnight. Don't forget the Show Boat."

  "Oh, yes. Of course. The Show Boat. We almost lost the damn' thing in the blow. Was there any damage here?"

  "The roof off Long's store and all the windows out of the chapel. And there'll not be much sugar this season."

  "Oh, well. We must take the rough with the smooth. Any mail to go?"

  "Leinster has it. About three pigeon loads northbound, six pigeons up river. There'll be a dozen bags surface mail coming down later."

  The discharging was well under way—barrels of salt fish, bundles of agricultural tools, bales of cotton cloth—when we went up to the Old Man's cabin in the texas. When we knocked at his door he called us in, motioned us to the settee, passed the glasses, the rum bottle, the lime squash and the chattee of cold water.

  He said, "I suppose Banat has told you that we shall be here until midnight. As soon as the cargo's finished I shall back out from the levee, then lay her starboard side—the Show Boat side—to. They have their own gangway, but your men'll have to rig it for them. You'll have to put a mooring gang ashore, too— I think that you'll be able to manage quite well using the cabbage trees as posts. Oh, before I forget—the Preacher was up just now asking if we could run a steam line to the Show Boat's calliope. If you see the Chief you might get it organized."

  I filled Leinster's glass, and then my own.

  "Your very good health, sir," I said. Then: "This Show Boat. Is attendance at the service compulsory for our personnel?"

  "No. I've already made that quite clear to both the Saint-in-Charge and the Preacher. If anybody wants to go, that's a different matter. But, even then, I'd like you to make sure that the Second Mate and his watch are in their bunks by twenty-two hundred hours. I'll want 'em alert for the run through the Narrows."

  "I'll see to that, sir. Oh, is your arrival letter ready yet? I'll get the mail off if Mr. Leinster will let me have it."

  "Here you are," said the Agent. "This lot, New Orleans. A couple of bundles for Albany. One for Teddington. Three for Baton Rouge. Another one for St. Louis."

  "H'm. Afraid we'll have to send the St. Louis mail via Baton Rouge. There were only two St. Louis birds —and they died. How many birds are you letting us have, by the way?"

  "Half a dozen. The hamper'll be down before you sail."

  "Hope they're healthy. Want any birds put ashore here?"

  "We could do with a few for up river, if you can spare 'em."

  "Albany I can let you have, Teddington and Richmond—three of each. I was hoping that you'd let me have St. Louis . . . Still, we should be able to get some from Maid of Kingston when we pass her."

  I finished my drink, excused myself, picked up the mail and went along aft to the pigeon house. Banat came with me, watched as I took the birds out of their port marked cages, attached the thin cylinders to their legs.

  "The mail must fly," he said.

  "The mail must fly," I replied. "You know—they used to say that back on Earth . . . There's a pile of old books in my grandfather's house—they escaped the burning somehow. One of 'em's about some utterly fantastic country called the United States, and about the time when the people were just learning to fly. The incredible speeds their . . . airplanes, I think they called them . . . did! A hundred and fifty miles an hour! And they had these machines running an air mail service all over the country, in all sorts of weather . . ."

  "Machine worship," said Banat gravely. "You want to be careful what you say."

  "Oh, it was just a book," I replied. I took the hamper into which I had put the pigeons, carried it out on deck, opened it. The air was full of the beating of wings.

  "Talking of flying," said Banat, "have you noticed anything about the cargoes you're taking to Albany these days?"

  "More cotton than usual. More rubber. Why?"

  "There are rumors. Don't be surprised if there's a Holy War before long. The Apostate's riding for a fall. Machines. And . . . flying/"

  "Cotton . . . rubber . . . flying ... I don't see the connection. Anyhow—Albany is Albany, and Beulah Land is Beulah Land, and as long as Albany minds its own business it's no concern of ours."

  "Be careful what you say, Whitley. I know you, but other people don't—might take you for a Fifth Columnist when the day comes for the choosing of sides. Besides—didn't the first Bishop say, 'So far shall the machine come, but no farther'?"

  "Mr. Whitley! I sincerely hope that you don't say these things in the hearing of the Saint or the Preacher!"

  "I've said worse," I told him.

  By this time the cargo was finished, and I sent the hands to stations. The forward ramp was hoisted up and clear, and Richmond Queen backed out and away from the levee, her bows swinging to port under the influence of starboard wheel and rudder. I heard the bells as the Old Man came ahead, heard the threshing of the wheel cease and then resume with a different rhythm. We came into the bank at a shallow angle and a heaving line was thrown from the foredeck of the Show Boat to the men whom I had stationed ashore—to its other end was bent a mooring line from our own foredeck. I waited until a hasty but secure hitch had been thrown around the bole of one of the cabbage trees, then told the Carpenter, who was at the controls of the steam capstan, to heave away. As soon as the weight came on the line the tree bent and shook, and from the thick, broad leaves at its crown soared a flock of balloon birds, their almost supersonic squeaking painful to the ear.

  "Make fast!" called the Old Man.

  We came astern, then, just a touch, and fell alongside the bank. Looking aft, I could see the stern moorings being passed ashore.

  Taking the Bosun and four hands I went aboard the Show Boat.

  Standing by the gangway was the Saint-in-Charge, the Bishop's daughter. I was surprised by the warmth of her smile, the friendliness of her manner.

  She said, "So the Lord's work will soon begin, Mr. Whitley, thanks to you."

  "Yes, Holiness. But I must ask you and your ladies to keep clear while I get this gangway down. Bosun! Don't let those lashings go until you've got the weight on the tackle!"

  "It is good to bring a little light and joy to these backward communities . . ."

  "Yes. You on the beach there! Keep out of the mucking way, can't you? Easy Bosun, easy! Don't let it go with a bloody run!"

  "A brand to be plucked from the burning," she said —and the flicker of amusement in her eyes and around her mouth belied the solemnity of her official title.

  "I'm sorry," I told her, "but I'm only a rough and tough riverman and I talk the only language I know."

  "I must take lessons."

  "All right, Bosun. That'll do the gangway. Have the pressure lamps rigged before you knock off."

  "Will any of your people be attending the Gospel Show?"

  "Some will be. But will there be enough seating?"

  "Come and see."

  She led me inside, into the Show Boat's auditorium. It was dark—the pressure lamps had not yet been lit—but there was enough light for me to see the stage, with the organ at one side of it, the rows of benches.

  "Two hundred and fifty from ashore," she said, "even allowing for those from the outlying farms and plantations. There will be room for all."

  We walked up the aisle, climbed the steps to the little stage.

 
At the head of the steps she stumbled, fell against me. I held her longer than was necessary, felt the warmth and the softness and the firmness of her body through her clothing. I was reluctant to let her go— and she, I somehow knew, was reluctant to be let go. Suddenly she stiffened, got her hands between us and pushed herself away from me. She whispered, "There is a time and a place ... or there may be a time and a place. But not here. Not now."

  Then from the upper deck came the first blaring notes of the calliope, the big steam organ, playing, Shall we gather at the river?

  And she was a Saint again, and I was a mere river-man; so I was not a little surprised when she came to my cabin just before dinner that evening.

  When we had finished dinner Captain Beynon leaned back in his chair, lit a cheroot. Talking was difficult in the saloon, had been throughout the meal; the steam organ aboard the Show Boat had been blaring away without a break.

  "How may billets of timber have you burned to keep that thing going, Chief?" asked the Old Man.

  "Couldn't say offhand, Cap'n," replied old Seabright. "But I'm thinking of taking extra at the next bunkering stop if we're to get this at every port."

  "Do so. We'll charge it up to the Saints. Any of you ladies and gentlemen attending the worship?"

  Surprisingly, the people from Albany said that they would be going. I said that I'd better go, too, to make sure that my juniors and crew members didn't stay overlong and miss out on sleep before sailing time.

  "Then you and I will play cribbage, Chief," said the Old Man.

  The rest of us came out on deck, out of the harsh glare of the pressure lamps. Richmond Queen was in darkness, but the Show Boat was brightly lit, both with her own lamps and with those that had been borrowed from me.

  We boarded her from our own main deck, walked for'ard and round the house to watch the people from ashore coming up her gangway. There were men, women—and hordes of children. And there were the flying things. In a great living cloud they swirled and eddied around the pressure lamps. I wished that I'd remembered to smear the exposed portions of my skin with repellent.

  The crowd was thinning now and we fell in behind the last stragglers, passed through the double screen doors, walked into the auditorium. We found empty benches at the back. Hardly were we seated when two of the girl singers passed swiftly from lamp to lamp, turning them off, until there was only the light on the stage remaining. There was the organ, to one side, and at her seat the white-clad organist, and at the back the great, black banner showing the burning globe of lost Earth, the green and fertile sphere of Beulah Land and the shining rocket, Wyndham's Ark, in transit between the two.

  Above us the calliope roared and screamed, Shall we gather at the river?—roared and screamed at first, then faded, faded, and the organ on the stage took up the melody softly, subtly, without a break, and the six tall, girl trumpeters who marched in took it up too and tossed it to the people in long, round, golden notes, and behind it, underneath it all, was the soft muted rhythm of the drums.

  The Gospel Singers came in then, and behind them was the Saint, her pale hair coiled in its halo, her mouth wide and red.

  The Saint was there and, flanking her, one on either side, were two black-clad preachers—one of them, I guessed, would be the spiritual leader of Point Macdonald. The Saint was there, swaying ever so slightly in time to the music, gliding to the front of the stage. Behind her the Singers were swaying too and then, as she raised her arms, adding their voices to the melody of organ and trumpets and drums.

  This was not the first Gospel Show I had seen—but it was the first one of this standard that I had seen. There was an air of professional competence that would not have seemed out of place in the finest theaters in Albany, and that did seem out of place aboard a Gospel Show Boat.

  But the audience loved it. It was one person's show, one woman's show. The Singers, the organist, the trumpeters and the drummers were just the instruments upon which her personality played. Yes—and the congregation too. She cried, "Sing!" and we sang. Had she said, "Weep!" we should have wept. And, frankly, I was feeling a little scared.

  So it went on—songs, and solos, and the organ and the trumpets and the drums and then, towards the finish, the procession of sinners to the Mercy Seat while the Singers, to the murmuring organ, whispered Standing in the need of prayer.

  "Much more of this," muttered the woman from Albany seated next to me, "and they'll have me up there, telling all."

  "And may I be around to hear it," said her husband.

  "Look!" she ejaculated. "The Preacher!"

  There was tension on the stage—a tension that spread to the audience. The black-gowned preacher, the Chaplain from the Show Boat, his face pale, was walking towards the Mercy Seat, slowly, unsteadily. The Saint, her face almost as white as her robes, put out her hand to stop him. He tried to shake her off— but there was strength in that hand, that arm. Roughly she swung him around so that he faced her. We saw her lips moving, his moving as he replied. We saw the gesture she made to the choir, to the organist, and heard the music swell. And the other preacher, the Point Macdonald Preacher, was hovering uncertainly around his colleague and his superior, his stupid, kindly face heavy with worry.

  The singing stopped abruptly and the six trumpet ers marched to the front of the stage, raising their instruments. When the last notes of the fanfare had

  died away the Saint advanced, both arms upraised.

  "There is an announcement," she cried, her voice clear and full. "It is one that you will be sorry to hear, and one that I am sorry to make. My people, I am taking your preacher from you. As the direct representative of the Bishop of Beulah Land I am empowered to appoint and to transfer, and it seemed to me that Preacher Lewis, your kindly pastor, lacks experience of the great world beyond his parish. What could be better for him than a voyage up river in the Show Boat? And Preacher Browning, out of the goodness of his heart, has expressed his willingness to look after your spiritual welfare until such time as Preacher Lewis, rich with the fruit of his far travelings, returns . . ."

  She stood there on the stage, an arm over the shoulders of each of the two preachers. As the choir sang God be with you till we meet again she smiled bravely, but even from where we were sitting we could see the tears glistening in her eyes.

  The Albany woman snorted. "What did this Preacher Lewis do to her? She hates his guts, for all her crocodile tears. She wants him out."

  I thought, It's just as well that she does. It will make life a little less complicated . . .

  I got to my feet, caught the Second Mate's eye—he was sitting on the next bench.

  "It's your bedtime," I told him. "And when you get back aboard, make sure that the pigeon house is locked. Tell the Third to keep his eye on the New Orleans birds especially ... It wouldn't surprise me if the Preacher tried to sneak a letter away to the Palace in New Orleans. But not with my pigeons, he won't."

  The show was almost over now. The Saint still held the stage, still held her own people and the congregation in the hollow of her hand, still dominated the proceedings. Both preachers had left, presumably to pack their gear. And so, I noticed, had one of the trumpeters—a slim, dark girl who seemed to be one of the Saint's favorites.

  At last there was the final hymn—When the roll is called up yonder—with really splendid work from the drums and trumpets. And then the auditorium was emptying. Some of the people were singing softly, and the muted buzz of the flying things that swirled around the pressure lamps was a murmurous undertone to the music. Out in the darkness a horse whinnied, and there was the raucous braying of a mule. Out in the darkness, too, flashed and glimmered the dipping, wheeling firebirds, weaving their endless patterns of rainbow light against the blackness of sky and jungle.

  Pushing through the crowd that still cluttered up the approach to the gangway came Leinster, the Agent, followed by two men carrying a hamper. He saw me standing on deck, came up to me.

  "Your pigeons," he said. He looked an
noyed about something. "Got any spare New Orleans birds?"

  "No. I thought you had plenty."

  "I had plenty." "What happened?"

  "Oh," he said with a wave of his hand, "nothing. Nothing at all. But if I find out who it was put the cat in among the pigeons there'll be murder done."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Looking back at it all, it seems incredible that nobody suspected any relationship between the Bishop's daughter and me. Adelie needed someone to talk to, and I learned that what drove her was resentment at not being a man, and a determination to become a power both on land and on the river. The preacher had been transferred simply because he was useless to her.

  But there was still my job to be done. There was Richmond Queen to be taken up river. Past forest and jungle we slid, plain and mountain, beach and mud flat. Past the long ripples marking submerged reefs and banks we glided, past the white, broken water along the rocks off Tyler's Point. By night the river threw back the light of our lamps, the glare from our funnels, by day it reflected the twin columns

  36

  of thick, black smoke rolling upwards to the overcast.

  Town after town, village after village, became merely one more name in our Log Book, one more record of time alongside and time away, cargo discharged and cargo loaded, mail pigeons released. Town after town, village after village, was strengthened in its faith by Adelie Dale and her Gospel Singers, was prepared, just that little more, for the Holy War soon to be declared against Albany.

  At Memphis we fell in with Kingston Maid, her captain holding her there so that his crew and passengers could attend the Gospel Show. He told us all the news from up river, including the rumors that Duke John of Albany hoped soon to put a fleet of flying ships in the air.

  "I've never seen the things," he said. "I haven't met anybody who's actually seen one himself. But everybody's talking about 'em, and they say that he's going to bomb New Orleans unless the Bishop plays ball."