Sarah Canary (30 page)

‘What other man?’ Emmaline asked the captain. Her mother reached over and removed the end of her ribbon from her mouth.

‘When we succeeded in raising the canoe, there was a third man clinging to the gunwales underneath. He escaped from the crew, who were only trying to help him, and ran like a madman into the ship. The
Lotta White
is not a big boat and we have not searched her thoroughly, but we have not yet been able to locate him. He is a passenger now, B.J. I would like to know who he is.’

‘He’s a stowaway!’ said Emmaline. ‘He’s a shipwreck and a stowaway.’

Adelaide felt that Captain Wescott’s approach was too threatening. She knelt beside B.J., making herself smaller, although B.J. wouldn’t see this unless he came out from beneath his blanket. ‘Who else was on the canoe with you, B.J.?’ she asked gently. Emmaline came to stand beside her, her white dress flickering red, reflecting the coal fire.

‘Two Indians and a postman.’

‘A postman?’

‘From Seabeck.’ The blanket moved. ‘Will Purdy. You remember. You held a gun on him, too. They all swam into shore, though. They were going to make a fire and eat clams and oysters.’

‘Like Mr Carroll’s poem,’ said Emmaline. ‘“The Walrus and the Carpenter.” Remember how the Walrus held “his pocket handkerchief before his streaming eyes”? Like Marmy.’ She was sucking on her ribbon again, covertly using the side of her mouth farthest from her mother. Mrs Maynard sniffled.

‘I know Purdy,’ said Captain Wescott. ‘This man was not Will Purdy. Who else?’

‘No one.’

‘Who else?’ Captain Wescott demanded. ‘A very short man with a large mustache.’

B.J. lowered the blanket to just below his eyes. ‘Dark hair?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Light eyes?’

‘I think so.’

‘Oh,’ said B.J. ‘Oh. Well, that must have been Harold. His canoe tipped over, too.’

‘Tom,’ said Chin. He tossed restlessly about in his blanket, exposing his naked chest.

‘Or Tom,’ said B.J. ‘Might be Tom,’ He moved himself and his blanket closer to the Chinese man, covered him up again. More coal went into the fire. The red light flickered across the gold of Emmaline’s hair like some unnatural dawn.

~ * ~

As soon as Adelaide understood who Harold was, she returned to the captain’s cabin. To her relief, the door remained locked. Inside, Lydia lay on the bed sleeping, curled up like a cat, her knees at her chest, her full skirts mounded over her legs. Adelaide’s coat lay kicked to the side, by Lydia’s feet. Adelaide remembered suddenly that she had left the gun and the knife in the coat’s pocket. She sat on the foot of the bed to retrieve them. Careless, careless. The cabin felt especially chilly after the warmth of the boiler room. She covered Lydia with the coat.

She was as stealthy as she could be, but still she woke Lydia. One of Lydia’s cheeks was creased from the folds in the bedding. Her eyelids were heavy and hung at half-mast. She appeared to recognize Adelaide, although Adelaide couldn’t have said exactly what about her face or eyes communicated this recognition. But she wasn’t mistaken, because Lydia hummed at her, eight notes in sequence from the song Adelaide had been singing earlier.
Twas there a-as the-e blackbird.
The last note went sharp, but Adelaide was touched. This was the most responsive Lydia had ever been to her. ‘I won’t let you hang, Lydia,’ she promised, slipping the weapons into her dress pocket. ‘Lydia Palmer. I wouldn’t take you back if that were going to happen to you.’ No woman had been hanged yet in California, although Laura D. Fair had come pretty close. There simply weren’t enough women on the West Coast to be wasting them in this way.

Adelaide thought she had dealt fairly deftly with B.J. and his Chinese companion. She was no longer concerned that they could stop her. And there was no reason to worry that Harold would be any more of a problem. It was just that he was the third obstacle to appear unexpectedly on board the
Pumpkin.
Adelaide had a sort of fairy-tale foreboding about the number three. Three wishes. Three dragons. Three tasks. One, spin a handful of straw into gold. Two, spin two handfuls of straw into gold. Three, spin a roomful of straw into gold. Do it by morning and the king will marry you. Fail and the king will have you killed. And then, the creators of that particular fairy tale would have you believe, the girl had a happy marriage and a reasonable sex life with that murderous, avaricious bully until some dwarf stole her son. If this was the best love could do in the fairy tales, it was no wonder love in the real world was a bit of a disappointment.

The
Pumpkin’s
whistle sounded three blasts. Adelaide found that her hands were shaking.

She tried to calm herself by making plans. Adelaide had always been a forward-looking person. So, when the trial was over, she would take Lydia with her on the lecture circuit. People would come to see Lydia and stay to hear Adelaide. Adelaide would dress Lydia just as she was dressed now: modest, nothing tasteless or exploitative. A locket, perhaps. Adelaide heard someone running in the corridor past her door. Followed by someone else.

Of course, Lydia would not be expected to perform in any way. Or even to appear if this were difficult for her. Absolutely no more Wild Woman shows. But she probably wouldn’t mind merely sitting to the side of the stage with a nurse to care for her. A nurse could be paid for out of the proceeds of the lectures. No expense would be spared in Adelaide’s efforts to restore Lydia to sanity or to keep her safe and comfortable. Shouts at the end of the corridor.
Here! Where? There! Stop! Stop!

Adelaide stood up and turned her back on Lydia, pulling up her dress to substitute a clean menstrual rag. She tried to find a way to dispose discreetly of the used one. The little cabin did not have many hiding holes, but a recent newspaper lay folded on a board that had been hammered into the cabin wall as a desktop. Adelaide tore away a section on the Modoc Indian’s murder of General Canby and dropped the little packet beside the bed, telling herself she would deal with it better later. She wiped her hands on her inside hem and sat beside Lydia again, cross-legged in the space between Lydia’s feet and underneath her own coat. Once she was seated, she became very tired. Body tired only. Her mind still hopped from thing to thing to thing. Modocs, her mind said briefly. Seabeck. Her mind created a funny picture of B.J. and Purdy at the bridge with their hair blown all about by the wind and their mouths open. Someday, her mind said, with no explanation. San Francisco. Menstrual rags (a thought directed at her body with some contempt). Harold. Harold. Footsteps raced back through the corridor.

Just let me lie down, her body asked nicely. Two minutes. Give me two minutes. It’s been a long day. It had been a long night. Sleeping in chairs. Climbing in trees. Sailing in sloops. Sky, land, water. The full ticket. Just let me sleep a little. Adelaide yawned. Her mind and body were always wanting different things. It was pretty much a permanent condition. Probably this wasn’t true only of her. Probably everyone felt this way.

One blast from the
Pumpkin’s
whistle. Was this an all clear? Had Harold finally been brought to bay? ‘Harold is here,’ she told Lydia, who yawned back. ‘Now, why do you suppose he’s come?’ And why hadn’t Harold declared himself as the manager of the Alaskan Wild Woman? Why had he tried to hide? Just how much did he really know about Lydia?

Rain coated the porthole. Adelaide listened to the sound of the engine, paddle buckets, whistles, and steam. Everything working to its own rhythm.
Pumpkin, Pumpkin, Pumpkin,
the engine said. The steamer rocked. The door was safely locked.
Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
Adelaide thought sleepily.
Had a wife and couldn’t keep her. Locked her in a pumpkin shell. And there he kept her very well.
An insidious, ugly little rhyme that made her mind skip like a stone over water, back to harems and across to keyholes. The captain’s cabin was as small as a cell. There was only the one tiny window. She reminded herself that she was protecting Lydia, not imprisoning her. She was rescuing Lydia. What would have happened to Lydia if Adelaide had not come along? She only wanted to help. Adelaide leaned against the wall of the cabin, closing her eyes.

Someone knocked on the door. ‘Mrs Byrd?’ Captain Wescott stood outside. Adelaide looked at her watch. Seven o’clock. Time for dinner and then the dock at Tacoma. Soon she and Lydia would be sailing to San Francisco, or they would not be. ‘Mrs Byrd,’ said Captain Wescott, ‘I’m afraid I must trouble you again.’

‘What is it?’ asked Adelaide, ready to be alarmed, but not alarmed yet, still sleepy, quite hungry. Perhaps the Chinese man’s condition had taken a turn for the worse.

‘This is rather difficult. Please open the door so that we can talk.’

‘What about?’ Adelaide didn’t like the tone of his voice. Behind the forced gallantry, a new awkwardness. An embarrassment.

‘Please open the door.’

Harold must have revealed himself and demanded Lydia. Adelaide tried to think what to do. She sat up, patting her hair into place. ‘Has that madman been captured?’ she asked, stressing the
mad
before the
man
in hopes of discrediting any claims Harold might make.

‘No. Not yet. Soon.’ But there were whispers outside. Captain Wescott was not alone. Adelaide rose and went to the door. She knelt beside it, putting her ear to the keyhole, trying to hear.

Captain Wescott spoke. ‘We are conducting a thorough search. We would like all the passengers to gather together in the passenger cabin until we are finished. For their own safety.’

‘We’re safer here,’ said Adelaide. ‘But thank you.’

More whispers. Adelaide heard her name. Her real name, the name she had signed onto the steamer’s register for Lydia. She slid one hand down the bubbled white paint of the cabin door. She tried to look through the keyhole. A round blue eye looked back. It blinked. Adelaide jumped to her feet. ‘She’s in there!’ Emmaline said excitedly. ‘I can see her.’

‘Mrs Byrd, you must open the door. We must search my cabin. Indeed, we’ve looked everywhere else.’

‘Really,’ said Adelaide in amazement. What was she being accused of now? ‘There is no one here but me and my companion. Who is very ill. I do assure you. Your quarters are too small for me to be mistaken.’

‘I was suspicious the moment she demanded a private cabin.’ Adelaide identified Mrs Maynard’s voice, whispering, but loudly enough to be heard over the engine, loudly enough to slip through the brass keyhole.

‘Mrs Byrd, you must open the door,’ the captain said.

Adelaide looked at the porthole. Far too small for her hips. Far too small for Lydia. And anyway, where would she go next? She retrieved the veil and pinned it into Lydia’s hair. Lydia’s nose made a large bump in the middle of the veil. The black net clung to her face and dipped into her nostrils when she inhaled. It waved like a flag when she exhaled. ‘Please,’ Adelaide said to Lydia. ‘Just for a few minutes.’ Lydia removed the veil at once, pulling at the pins so she lost some of her hair. Adelaide replaced the veil. Lydia removed it. Adelaide replaced it, catching Lydia’s hands and lacing the fingers together. Lydia struggled away from her, freeing her hands, batting the veil onto the floor.

‘Mrs Byrd, you must open the door.’ Adelaide pulled her coat tighter around Lydia’s chin. She pushed Lydia until Lydia rolled onto her side with her back to the door. ‘Mrs Byrd.’ Adelaide glanced back at Lydia, whose face, at least temporarily, could not be seen. She fitted the key to the keyhole and turned it. The doorknob rotated. Captain Wescott opened the door. His splendid uniform was untarnished, but his face was slightly red. He stood there holding his hat. Emmaline’s hands were clasped together under her chin in excitement. She had evidently been pressed against the keyhole. There was a keyhole shape on her cheek and she stumbled forward into the room when the door swung open. Mrs Maynard hovered in the corridor behind.

Adelaide heard Lydia’s body shifting on the bed. Emmaline’s eyes widened. Adelaide blocked her at the doorway. ‘Perhaps now you can explain this intrusion, Captain Wescott?’ she said icily. ‘Although I doubt very much that your explanation will satisfy me.’

‘I do apologize.’ Captain Wescott would not look at her. ‘Mrs Maynard believes you have a man inside the cabin. Of course, she is mistaken. If we may just see your companion?’

‘I recognized you.’ Mrs Maynard’s voice was shrill and certain. ‘And I went straight to the captain. Who showed me the ship’s register. You’re not Mrs Byrd. You’re not even married. You’re Miss Adelaide Dixon. The suffragist. I heard you speak once in Boston on a topic I will not even allow to pass my lips.’

‘Trollops,’ said Emmaline. The ears of her bow had started to droop and the ends of her hair had started to snarl. A bit of blue stain marked the corner of her mouth. Adelaide thought she looked better this way.

Captain Wescott’s face betrayed shock. He leaned down to correct Emmaline. ‘The fair but frail,’ he suggested stiffly.

‘Exactly,’ said Mrs Maynard. Her brown hair was coming loose and strayed about her temples. The corner of Adelaide’s own handkerchief showed in the bosom of her dress. ‘Miss Dixon. A trollop by any other name. And since you
are
Adelaide Dixon, your companion cannot possibly be. I was suspicious the moment I saw your companion. No woman walks like that. Not a womanly walk. Not a womanly voice. I know a man when I see one, even if he’s wearing pannier and a veil. You have concealed your identity in order to frolic with a man right under our noses in the captain’s own cabin. Don’t try to deny it, Miss Dixon.’