Master and Servant (Waterman), Page 4

CHAPTER FOUR

  "Hey," said Jesse, leaning his arms upon the curved railing of the steamer's bow, "did you know that you're in enemy territory?"

  Carr turned his head to look at the young man. He could barely see Jesse. Other masters besides themselves had ventured onto the topmost, viewing deck of the steamer – reserved for the pleasure of first-ranked masters and mastresses and their guests – in order to watch the dawn. But the captain of the steamer had kept the deck lights off, so as to provide fine viewing of the shoreline they were currently steaming alongside: Hoopers Island, actually a chain of three narrow islands off the mainland of the Third Landstead.

  This was the third day of Carr and Jesse's trip through the Dozen Landsteads. At Jesse's suggestion, they had made plans to visit Balmer, the port capital of the Ninth Landstead, which lay up-Bay of the Second Landstead. Balmer was the only town in the Dozen Landsteads that was large enough to qualify as a city, so Carr wasn't surprised that Jesse wanted to visit it.

  But thanks to a bitter trade dispute that had unexpectedly sprung up between the Second Landstead and the adjoining Ninth Landstead, all steamer service had abruptly stopped along the Western Shore of the Bay. As a result, any Second Landsteader travelling by water to Balmer was now forced to undertake a circuitous route: by private boat from Solomons Island to Smith Island in the Fifth Landstead, the landstead furthest down-Bay; by ferry from Smith Island to Crisfield, on the Fifth Landstead's mainland, which constitutes part of the Eastern Shore of the Bay; by steamer from Crisfield to Salisbury, the capital of the Fourth Landstead, also on the Eastern Shore; and then a transfer to another steamer that made its painfully slow way down-river from the Fourth Landstead, through the Hooper Strait, up the Honga River to Hoopers Island, and proceeded to make its way back down the Honga River till it reached the Bay. The steamer would then stop at more wharves along the Eastern Shore before finally crossing the Bay to arrive at Balmer.

  It would have been far, far easier for Carr to order Variel to drive them to Balmer. So his father had pointed out, frowning when he realized that Carr's route would take him through the landstead that a member of the House of His Master's Kindness should be most assiduous to avoid, unless he was in a boat that could retreat swiftly.

  Carr – who had envisioned the consequences of spending several hours confined in the same motorcar as Variel – had said to his father what he now said to Jesse: "My face isn't well known outside of my own House. I don't look like my father, and the newspapers aren't permitted to print my picture before I turn twenty-one. . . . How did you know that we were in hostile territory?" He kept his voice low enough that it could barely be heard under the soft splash of the water-paddle and the flutter of the steamer's flags. Most of the masters on the viewing deck were at the stern of the steamer, watching the sun rise over the castle on Lower Hoopers Island, but a few, like Carr and Jesse, had wandered up to the bow in order to watch the landscape ahead brighten.

  Jesse shrugged. "Rumors. There are lots of rumors, down below."

  Carr gave him a lingering look. One-third of an hour into the voyage from Salisbury, he had discovered that Jesse was missing from his stateroom, which was next to Carr's. Carr had searched all the rooms on the stateroom deck: the barber shop, the first-ranked masters' saloon, the masters' water closet, the dining room, and even – by way of a helpful mastress – the mastresses' water closet. His search was fruitless.

  A quick check of the viewing deck had showed that Jesse had not managed to finagle his way past the guards there. So Carr had gone below to explore the main deck: the second– and third-ranked masters' saloon, the galley, the mailroom, the package room, and the barroom.

  Finally, with no other options left, he had ventured into the bowels of the ship. Jesse was not in the cargo hold, nor in the boiler room, nor in the engine room. Instead, he turned out to be in the crammed space in the bow where the male servants slept, both the servant passengers and the servant crew. He was sitting on one of the bunk beds, listening to the servants tell bawdy jokes about the master of the House of His Master's Kindness.

  The jokes had cut off like a mast in a hurricane when Carr entered the room. Pretending that he had not heard the jokes, Carr had politely asked for Jesse's assistance in shifting the location of his trunk – a plausible excuse, for Jesse had insisted that they make this voyage without any accompanying servants. Jesse, smirking, had offered his farewells to the servants and had returned to the masters' decks.

  Now Jesse said, "The servants didn't tell me why you Second Landsteaders are the enemy, though. They seemed to assume I'd know."

  Carr mumbled something unintelligible. He was acutely conscious that, on this stage of the voyage, nearly all of the passengers were from the Third Landstead, and that first-ranked masters from that landstead were standing near him on the viewing deck. Fortunately, he recognized none of them; the dispute between the Third and Second Landsteads had been in existence long enough now that Carr had never been introduced socially to the heads of the Houses in this landstead.

  Only to their sons.

  Now he said, to avoid an unpleasant discussion, "We're coming up on the lowest of the three islands that make up Hoopers Island. Beyond that is the middle island, where we'll dock. My school is on the middle island."

  "You're one fucking brave kid," said Jesse; his tone suggested that he was only half in jest. "You chose a school that's in enemy territory?"

  Carr shook his head. His eye was on the landscape sliding by: the lower island, where the High Masters' council made its home in the crumbling castle, and beyond it, Hickory Cove on the middle island, where the steamer wharf reached forth from the land like a dredge reaching out to lick an oyster bar. He pointed. "You see that land jutting out just before the cove? Well, on the Bay side of it is a peninsula. Richland Point, it's called."

  "Richland." Jesse seemed to think this was hysterically funny; he laughed a long time before saying, "And that's where your school is."

  Carr nodded. "The school is owned by the High Masters and is open to students from any landstead. The land it's on was a gift from a previous High Master of the Third Landstead to the High Masters' council." Privately, he suspected that that particular High Master had simply been trying to get rid of unwanted marshland. If so, he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams: in the past five tri-decades, shore erosion had eaten away two-thirds of Richland Point, so that its ancient lamphouse was barely connected now to the rest of the middle island. The remaining land – painfully reclaimed marshland surrounded by still-existing marshland – was filled with vicious mosquitoes in the summer and was far too isolated in the winter. The current Head Master of the school cheerfully gave talks in chapel about the effect of the school's location on hardening the students' self-discipline.

  All well and good, but if the shore erosion continued at its present pace, Richland Point, and the school located on it, would disappear by the end of the present tri-century. Carr thought to himself that he ought to ask one of the scientific-minded members of his school what the cause of the rapid erosion was. There was a student in his own form whom he might ask . . . but Meredith was in the Third House, which meant that Carr would have to go through laborious negotiations with Meredith's liege-master in order to speak with the lad.

  Jesse was saying, "So the locals don't bother you?"

  "No, Hoopers Island is mainly inhabited by servants. There are a few third-ranked masters living there – mainly boat-masters – but almost no masters of higher rank. Even Hoopers Island's fleet master lives on the mainland, at Golden Hill."

  "That's where the Third Landstead's heir makes his home, right?" Jesse leaned forward, as though he might see the mansion of the heirship House that stood a few miles up-Bay of Hoopers Island. "What about the land past the steamboat wharf on this island? What's there?"

  "Just more watermen's houses. You can't see most of them from this part of the river. Up there at Bentley Cove—" He pointed at the jut of land on the middle island that
obscured their view of the upper island. "That's all marshland. We'd have to travel to the upper island before we saw any signs of community again. There's another harbor up there – Back Creek – as well as Long Creek and Gunners Cove, though not many watermen live next to Gunners Cove."

  "Why do they call it Gunners Cove?" Jesse asked.

  At that moment, clear as a crack of Bay ice at the end of winter, came the sound of gunfire. In the same instant, the fleet of the House of His Master's Kindness burst round Bentley Point, rushing like Ammippian war arrows through the grey dawn.

  "Down!" shouted Carr, envisioning what would come next; for extra measure, he grabbed Jesse and pulled him prone to the deck.

  Aware of his responsibilities as the highest-ranked master on the steamer, he raised his torso high enough to see what lay behind him. But no mastresses or children were on the viewing deck, and all of the masters – heeding the warning of Carr's shout or of the gunfire – had either fled through the doors to the lower decks or were flattening themselves against the deck. Carr turned his head toward the water in time to see, through the railings, an Oyster Navy schooner dash around Bentley Point, hot in pursuit of the skipjacks. The police had evidently not yet noticed the steamboat ahead, for the cannon on the schooner's bow boomed. The cannonball sped across the water and plunged into the river, just ahead of the steamer. The steamer emitted a loud whistle of protest.

  The fleet of His Master's Kindness, sensing salvation, sped toward the steamer, the skipjacks' sails full and proud in the breeze. As the fleet passed the bow of the steamer, Carr caught a glimpse of Rowlett, standing in the foremost boat and shouting orders to the captains of the boats behind him. Then the skipjacks were out of sight, hidden behind the squat steamer.

  The Oyster Navy sent another rain of rifle bullets in the direction of the fleet. Some of the bullets hit the steamer; women screamed on the lower decks. Then the rifles were silent; the naval police dared not fire at the skipjacks once they were hidden behind a steamer crowded with masters and their families. Already, Carr could hear the masters behind him growling their indignation at the policemen's action.

  Cautiously rising to his feet, Carr turned his head to look toward the stern. His House's fleet was well away now, rounding the lower island. From there, the boats would have an easy journey home to Carruthers Cliffs Cove; once upon the waters of the Bay, they would be free from pursuit, for the Oyster Navy had no power to arrest any watermen plying the wideness of the Bay waters. Only the shorelines and estuaries and winding rivers and creeks belonged to individual landsteads.

  Narrowing his eyes, Carr caught a glimpse of the dawn sunlight flashing off high mounds of oyster-shells on the retreating skipjacks. A good haul, especially for so late in the season; Carr's father would be satisfied by the night's work. The Third Landstead's tongers – whose oyster bars the dredgers had just invaded – would be less than satisfied.

  Carr was not as worried about them than as he was about the Oyster Navy.

  "You give fucking exciting tours, Carruthers," Jesse said cheerfully as he rose and brushed the dust off his recently bought trousers. "Who's the boys in blue over there? The ones who are looking like the mice got away from the cat?" He pointed at the police schooner, which – in defiance to watermen's tradition – was painted blue to represent the policemen's desire to transform criminals. The schooner had stopped alongside the steamer, no doubt so that the police could check that they had not injured any masters or mastresses.

  "Excuse me," Carr said, his voice more rough than he would have liked. "I need to see whether anyone was hurt on the other decks."

  To his credit, Jesse immediately stored away his smile. "Yeah, you're right. Stupid of me. I'll check the servants' deck; you check the rest."

  An hour later, they met in Jesse's stateroom and exchanged the same report: the only injury was to a policeman who had been winged by a bullet during the initial firefight between the Second Landsteaders and the Oyster Navy. As ill fortune would have it, the policeman was from the Third Landstead – was in fact the older brother of Meredith's liege-master. Carr set aside his concern about what had happened to the watermen on the boats of the House of His Master's Kindness. He had other matters weighing on his mind.

  He had felt obliged to introduce himself to the commander of the Oyster Navy, since the man had been appointed to his position by Carr's own uncle. The interview had not gone well. Carr had escaped further grilling only by insisting that, being a journeyman, he could not speak on his House's behalf. He had invited the commander to make an official protest by way of Carr's uncle. Carr was well aware that this would only shift the danger to another man, but what else could he do? Comrade Benjamin Carruthers's dredgers had been in waters where they did not belong, and for once they had been caught in the act of stealing. That they had managed to escape with their stolen goods could not ameliorate the consequences of orders issued by the master of the House of His Master's Kindness.

  "Okay," said Jesse, when Carr had explained, as best he could, what had taken place. "So what you're saying is that it's against the high law for your dad's fleet to catch oysters in another landstead, the Oyster Navy was started by the High Masters to enforce your nation's oyster laws, and your dad's fleet fled when they were on the point of arrest. For fuck's sake, Carruthers – how long has your dad been at this sort of thing?"

  "Three and two-thirds tri-years."

  "Eleven years." Jesse shook his head. "And nobody has thrown him in jail yet? I'm surprised that the High Master of your landstead hasn't removed him from power. Unless your dad does this with your High Master's permission?"

  Carr cleared his throat as he sat down on the bed. He could hear all the ordinary sounds of steamer life: people chatting, the whoosh of the engine, the mooing of cattle on the freight deck, and the swish of waves. "No. Our High Master was the one who suggested that the council start a naval police to patrol the shorelines and the inland waters. He was trying to prevent further fighting between the Second Landstead and the Third Landstead."

  "Fighting?" Jesse, who had been leaning over to stare out the porthole, straightened up.

  "With firearms. When we first heard rifle-fire this morning, I thought it was from the Hoopers Island tongers, defending their waters against the invading dredgers."

  "Tongers? Dredgers?" Jesse sat down on the bed beside him.

  It took Carr a while to explain, partly because of an interlude in which Jesse explained how danger always made him "horny." Fortunately, Jesse took gracefully Carr's second rejection.

  The conversation about methods of catching oysters took them away from the dangerous topics of sex and politics. At the end of the conversation, though, the young foreigner asked a question that – Carr was beginning to realize – was inevitable from Jesse: "What do your dad's servants think about all this?"

  "The watermen, you mean?" Carr hesitated before giving an indirect answer. "Well, it's not as though my father invented the idea of watermen venturing into the waters of other landsteads. Even the Third Landstead watermen have done that; every winter, there'll be disputes between the Third and Fourth Landstead tongers over which landstead owns the river that divides them. So watermen are used to fighting over territory."

  "Yeah, okay, but you're not talking about watermen fighting over oyster bars in a river that they both live next to. You're talking about your dad's dredgers sailing over a fucking wide Bay to reach the Third Landstead. What do his dredgers think of that?"

  He met Jesse's eyes then. "They're proud of it, most of them. They admire my father's boldness. They like the idea of stealing other men's oysters under the very nose of the Oyster Navy. Does that fit in with your idea that the masters in this nation are to blame for all the troubles here?"

  Jesse winced. "Ouch. No. Okay, I get you. It's not just masters versus servants. It's landstead versus landstead."

  "It's always been that way." Carr rose from the bed, kneading the back of his neck. "The Alliance of the Dozen L
andsteads is just that: a fragile alliance of landsteads that have gone to war with each other many times over the tri-centuries."

  "And they could go to war again, over this?" Jesse raised his eyes, sharp and thoughtful, to meet Carr's.

  Carr was slow in responding. "Not if our High Master can prevent it."

  Any reply Jesse might have made was obscured by a soft thud from the steamer, which had finally continued on its journey and had now reached the wharf at Hickory Cove, next to Hoopersville. Looking out of the porthole, Carr saw that the stevedores on the wharf were wasting no time in hefting forward the barrels and crates and sacks that awaited loading. Later in the year, the stevedores would be loading the bounty of the crabbing season: crabs, fish, and terrapins. Cantaloupes would wait alongside watermelons, while chickens would cackle in crates. Now, in the earliest days of warm weather, the offerings were more sparse: mainly the fur of muskrats that had been trapped on the mainland.

  The island received bounty in exchange for its offerings. As Carr watched, the steamer's stevedores began hauling out some of the steamboat's cargo from Salisbury: canned food; molasses and flour and sugar; bolts of cloth for the women . . .

  Carr blinked. Emerging from the steamer's hold, with a bolt of cloth tucked under his arm, was Jesse, who had slipped out of the stateroom without a sound. Jesse whistled between his teeth as he tossed the bolt into the waiting arms of a stevedore.

  Carr watched Jesse's antics for a while, a question forming in his mind. Then, for lack of an answer, he glanced over at the table beside Jesse's bed.

  If Jesse still possessed the gun, it remained hidden in his travelling bag. He had carefully stacked the guidebooks on the table, though. The topmost one, with its garish cover showing Prison City, had a bit of notepaper stuck in it as a bookmark. Carr carefully opened the book.

  The words on the paper were in surprisingly neat handwriting. "Anna's Port," it said. "Thirty miles from Green Village."

  Carr checked the entry for Green Village in the guidebook. Then he closed the book reflectively. Anna's Port was not one of this steamer's stops; Jesse would receive no easy opportunity to cross the border and visit Green Village in the First Landstead – nor Prison City, which lay below the village. Carr wondered whether Jesse knew that. On further reflection, he decided that it would be best not to raise the topic.

  Instead, he took the second book from the stack – A Concise History of the Dozen Landsteads – and settled down to read about the history of the Second Landstead, and about the family that had reigned over it since ancient times.