No Good Deed 39

Tempted though I was to begin in media re, I began as many had, in my experience, at a beginning. Had it been mine, I should have been very proud of it, and yet I was so, despite its fictive nature. I confessed to Scottish birth and some interest in writing, wherefore I had come to the Americas incognito, in search of inspiration and raw material. Owning to the name Edward Waverly, I recounted a tale of encounter and intrigue to account for my appearance as Anson Northrup. That man, I said, had accosted me in St Louis. He gave me a woeful history about gamblers, gambling and moneys owed to less savoury fellows than those with whom he was accustomed to treat. To lend this preposterous tale a sheen of veracity, I revealed that he had given me such funds as he had, save for a few dollars he placed in the pockets of my own clothes, after we had exchanged them in an upstairs room in a St. Louis saloon. Taking a sip of the reasonable vin ordinaire which Fishbein had delivered in silence, I finished my account so:

'So you see, Miss Shepherd, I am no more than the dupe of a talented liar.'

'As, perhaps, you would have me be, whatever your true name.'

She laughed, and I suspected that she might at last confide some intelligence that had been saved for the Northrup she had been expecting.

'Clearly you are an enterprising man, but you are an imposter. It would take only a word in the Café, here in Hannibal, or on one of the Riverboats to see you dead at the hand of one or many Negroes. Northrup has – how shall I phrase it – resonance and meaning along the Underground Railroad. Imagine the disappointment if a fraud were revealed. Whatever might such disappointed people do?'

She waited, although clearly I was not expected to answer, merely digest her words. She placed her own glass, barely sipped from, on a spindly legged table that stood between her seat and mine.

'So my Ship of Theseus, I do not care if you are Plato's carriage or Socrates', step you again into Heraclitus' river, or at least ride the Riverboat down it. The silver is on your charge, I expect you to ensure its use by and for the Freedom Ride.'

Being quite disgruntled by her mixed philosophical metaphors, I contented myself with the contemplation of a non-allegorical use for my grandfather's axe.

'Well?' Her chin came up and she looked at me expectantly. The golden butter tone of her skin under the candlelight caught my attention, and I was reminded of someone I could not quite place.

'What is it that you expect me to do?' I asked.

'You'll go to New Orleans and you will make sure that the silver boards the Grand Turk when it docks in The Crescent City.'

The woman was quite above herself, but I restricted myself to the enquiry,

'How?'

'Most boats are faster than the Turk, sir. I have booked you passage on the Enterprise. She leaves in the morning.'

The woman stood, Fishbein appeared and I was escorted to the street.