No Good Deed 13

My education at the feet -and sundry other parts- of a lunatic in an Edinburgh asylum had been, there was no gainsaying it, eclectic. The manner of its imparting was indeed varied, depending entirely on which historical figure he believed himself to be at the time. He had a great tendency toward Greek philosophers, but on reflection this may have been driven by an un-acknowledged admiration for their concept of the relationship between teacher and pupil. He was at great pains to instil in me a belief in Chryssipus' notion of causal necessity. My favourite aspect of this idea involved an assumption that 'everything that happens is preceded by something with which it is causally connected.' After all, if he had not chosen to educate the boy in the asylum, he - or rather I - would not have stolen his identity.

A man who reinvents himself once, will have no hesitation in doing so again, and therefore, with that one word of affirmation, so I did.

I followed Tom below decks. He did indeed lead me toward the galley, but only to divest himself of the tray and its contents. We passed through the galley, toward the stern. The engine room naturally enough was in the waist of the vessel, so as to be located near the great paddles to the port and starboard sides of the riverboat. The way through was strait, and hot. Four enormous black fellows shovelled coal into the steam engine whilst a man not quite a midget looked on, swearing oaths and sweating more than any of the men doing the work. He took off his peaked cap and stared at me, not addressing me directly but merely continuing to blaspheme, whether at the heat or the stokers, I knew not.

We entered a very narrow passage along the side of a mountainous heap of coal in the next compartment, my own raiment was covered in smuts and soot moments afterward. Tom's apron remained pristine white and his trousers a glossy black. This compartment was necessarily long. At the end of it we came upon a store-room. It was filled with sacks and crates and Tom informed me that it was the dry store for the galley. It might have measured twelve feet by twelve, the roof was sufficiently high to allow both of us to stand upright. On the far wall, there was - a hatch, I suppose I must call it – although it was a wooden door as would not have disgraced a farmer's outbuilding. It had a padlock through a hasp arrangement, but a determined child could have forced entry. Nonetheless, Tom produced a key and unlocked the door.

This compartment was smaller still than the dry store, by about a third. Cots stacked one atop the other in threes lined the walls, there were eighteen in all. No grown man could have slept in them, except they curl up like a dog.

'Who sleeps here, Tom?'

'We all do, Missuh Northrup.'

'All?'

'All the coloured people,' he said. 'They's our bunks.' He said it proudly.

'But...' I counted the bunks again.

Someone moved on three of the uppermost bunks. A sleepy voice enquired,

'What the hell's the time? Ah ain't had my turn!'

'Tain't time yet, Grover, go back to sleep.' Tom said.

'Missuh Northrup, lookit,' he whispered, pointing to the deck in the centre of the room. An exasperated sigh came from one of the bunks.

I saw nothing. Save that the deck was covered in sawdust. Tom pointed a toe and daintily described a square in the sawdust. Suddenly, he squatted and removed a section of the deck with his fingertips. Holding the square in one hand he pointed down into the dark.

'Lookit, Missuh Northrup!'

There was a cramped space, I could see water in the bottom. It was simply a space between the Negro quarters and the keel of the riverboat.

'At what, Tom?'

'Missuh Northrup, ain't nowhere written the Gospel Train gotta travel on rails.'