No Good Deed 50

The days congealed into weeks devoid of events or interest. Perhaps the boredom suffered by the passengers accounted for the rapturous reception accorded by them to the dire theatricals. For myself, I could not countenance suffering yet more choruses of the profoundly irritating 'Old Dan Tucker', and chose to be absent the long refectory at such times as it might be heard. On occasion, I would encounter the crouch-back, Augustine Bearce, who would offer me a slow wink as he left the vicinity of the makeshift bar. He did not attempt to engage me in conversation, however, and I was mightily glad of it. Of Miss Shepherd there was not a sign, as though she had departed the ship in the black of night, clambering over the side into an itinerant lighter, somewhere between Hannibal and Vicksburg. Mr Clemens was often to be seen scribbling in a notebook with a rather grimy looking pencil, the end of which he placed between his teeth from time to time as though it were a fine cigar.

One evening, shortly before our scheduled arrival at Natchez, I was standing at the refectory bar, meeting the former ship's agent cum bartender's conversational gambits with monosyllables and the occasional request for further libations, when Sir Garrick Cattermole made an entrance better than any he had made on any stage. The door swung wide, and he struck a most noble pose, with one arm outstretched and his chest thrust forward like a latter day Demosthenes. This effect was only slightly marred by his toppling like a felled cedar moments later. I sincerely hoped the lack of cuspidors did not inconvenience him too much, for his face had surely made close connection with the consequences thereof.

It was doubtless boredom which induced me to prod delicately at the fallen theatrical genius' ribs with toe of my boot. This produced no discernible effect. A gentle tap returned nothing but a prodigious snore and a few mumbled words. I took the only recourse remaining: that is, I gave him a hefty kick to the thoracic region. The outcome was far more satisfactory: Cattermole sat bolt upright and bellowed,

'Ah mother, would y'ever leave a poor boy alone wit' his dreams.'

This was something I felt had never been uttered by any Greek orator. I offered the dazed fellow an arm to assist his rising and called for another bottle of whiskey. To my surprise he refused the drink. At least for the polite period of several moments. I lifted my glass,

'To Dublin, city of dreams!'

He ran a finger round the inside of his collar and then rubbed a hand over his face.

'Twas no dream of mine, Mr Northrup.'

The look of disgust might have been prompted by the sight of what his hand had removed from his face, but the glassy stare was taking no account of what he saw on the palm of his hand.

'And why not, Sir Garrick?'

Perhaps he heard the contempt in my voice, for he fixed me with the gaze of a whipped hound, before giving a bitter laugh.

'Well, wouldn't an actor have a stage name, now?'

'So, a protégé of Kean?' I enquired, but he was not to be needled, I saw a only trembling of his lips and surmised that the glassy look in his eyes might be lacrimose in origin. After a moment or two he gave answer,

'I met him once, or it least he left a copper coin in my hat.'

'Was that in Dublin?'

Cattermole hawked, spat fiercely to the side and stared at the resultant gobbet as though such a thing as phlegmamancy might exist.

'No,' he said, 'that wasn't Dublin.'

The man seemed quite unlike his usual bombastic self. Had I not been so unconscionably bored, I might have said that it were an improvement. I asked him if he was, or had ever been, a native of Dublin.

'My family were from West Clare. The Mahons levelled our house and ate lobster in their own. I ran away to Dublin, I begged in the streets and when I could stand it no more, I killed a man for the ferry fare to Liverpool. I went to London and I begged in the streets there.'
He heaved a great sigh, before continuing,

'One day, a woman stopped. She kicked my hat over, the few coins rolled into the gutter. I leapt to my feet, I swear I would have hit her, though she could have been of an age with my departed mother. But she gripped my arm and hissed, 'You'll do.' I was much surprised, and, of course, quite weak with hunger and I let her take me where she wished.

'It was a large house in Holborn. The woman fed me well. So well that I was quite ill for days. When I recovered, the woman - Peggy, she said her name was – brought me downstairs to a large room, like a salon in a bordello, save that there was not a woman in sight, excepting Peggy herself. Many of the men were young, affecting powder and the fashions of a century ago. The woman told me that I was for special customers and that I would be well rewarded “for treating them kindly.” Many of the men that I treated kindly were actors, some were lawyers and some politicians. They often asked me to call them Jack or John, but some I recognised thanks to the gossip of the boys of the house.

'With the food and comfortable living, I grew quite large and cut the figure you see before you.'

He swept an arm out as if to show himself at his best. I stifled a laugh.

'In any event, Peggy let me go with a generous sum and I bought passage to the New World.'

'Why?' I asked.

'Did you know the Choctaw Indians sent money to the Irish poor?' He said, as a tear rolled down his cheek.