Adventures Page 13

  One day, when we had gotten to within a couple of hundred miles of the Cape, the savages who were still behind us and still tossing us an occasional fish or eel began screaming at the tops of their lungs.

  “What's the problem now?” I said, coming out of my cabin, where I had been thinking of ways to convince the belly dancer that her tan was fading.

  “Whales off the starboard bow, sir,” said Luthor.

  I looked, and sure enough, there were about twenty of the beasts making toward the ship, flopping and splashing and spraying up huge geysers of water from the tops of their noses, and otherwise looking very ominous.

  “Does this kind of thing happen very often, Mr. Christian?” I asked him, looking about for the nearest life preserver.

  “Well, that all depends, Captain Jones, sir,” he said.

  “On what?” I asked.

  “On whether we're in port or not, sir,” he replied.

  “We're on the high seas!” I pointed out to him.

  “Well, that does make it more likely, sir,” he agreed.

  “What do you do when they attack the ship?” I asked.

  “Personally, I close my eyes very tightly and pray that they'll go away,” said Luthor with obvious sincerity.

  “I suppose rifle bullets would just enrage them?” I asked.

  “I really have no idea,” said Luthor. “You can certainly try rifle bullets if you wish. Personally, I think I'm going to go below and grab a little nap.” He raced off before I could order him to remain on duty.

  The whales got to within two hundred yards, and our faithful natives suddenly unconverted and headed back toward the mouth of the Congo River, some two thousand miles north of us. The whales ignored them and drew even closer.

  “They look hungry,” said Ishmael, who had suddenly appeared at my side.

  “You ever seen a whale that didn't?” I asked out of curiosity.

  “Once,” he admitted. “Of course, it was dead.”

  “Of course,” I said. One of the whales got to within about twenty yards and I threw a sextant at it. It bounced off its nose without causing any injury that I could see.

  “Do whales eat people?” I asked.

  “I imagine whales eat pretty much what they want to,” said Ishmael, drawing closer as if for comfort.

  “I mean, maybe they'll go away and leave us alone,” I said hopefully.

  “Maybe,” he said doubtfully.

  “And maybe,” I said, struck by a sudden flash of inspiration, “they're just here to beg at the table.”

  “What are you talking about, Captain Jones?” said Ishmael.

  “Go down to the kitchen and bring up some of our tuna,” I said urgently. “Maybe if we give ’em some scraps they'll leave us alone.”

  He shrugged, raced down to the kitchen, and came up with a couple of kegs of tuna, one under each arm. We waited until two of the whales were so close we could have reached out and touched them, then threw the tuna into their gaping mouths.

  Then we stood back to see if we had guessed right—and the strangest thing happened. Their eyes went wide and began watering, one of them started coughing and heaving, and the other just rolled right on its back, belly-up, which certainly agreed with my own assessment of the tuna in the first place.

  The other whales took one look at their companions, then left as soon as Ishmael got some more tuna and began throwing it at them.

  Not too much happened after that, at least so far as whales and savages were concerned. Ishmael told me that the Slavs were getting ready to take over the ship if we didn't start feeding them meat, but I figured that we were only a few days out of port and there wasn't much sense stopping to find a source of meat this close to the end of our little voyage.

  Then, when we were just one day out of Cape Horn, the belly dancer approached me and asked if, in my dual capacity as captain of The Dying Quail and a man of the cloth, I could perform marriages onboard the ship.

  There was a little confusion just then, since I began explaining that I could consummate marriages with the best of them, but we finally got things straightened out, and that evening after dinner I pronounced her and the actor man and wife, the sentences to run concurrently.

  “That was very well done, sir,” said Luthor, stopping by my table after the ceremony.

  “Oh, indeed it was, sir,” agreed Ishmael, joining him.

  “Well, thank you very much, brothers,” I said. “Always happy to oblige young love in bloom.”

  “We were rather hoping you'd feel that way about it, sir,” said Luthor.

  “I'm not sure I follow you,” I said.

  “You may not have noticed it, sir,” said Ishmael, “but young love has been blooming all over the whole ruddy boat.”

  “Another marriage?” I said. “Bring ’em up here in front of me and I'll have ’em hitched in no time.”

  “Well, this one is a bit irregular,” said Ishmael, leaning over and whispering in my ear.

  I agreed as how it was a mite out of the ordinary, but once we got to haggling in earnest I found that fifty pounds was more than enough to assuage my conscience and eliminate any hint of irregularity, and an hour after the first ceremony, I married the three German girls to Ishmael, Luthor, and three of their shipmates.

  The man on watch called out that Cape Horn was within sight, and yet another couple decided that if they were ever going to get married, they would probably find less social opposition here than elsewhere. Fifty more pounds changed hands, and a few moments later I joined Kim Li Sang, the Korean dermatologist, to Eduardo Duarte, the Paraguayan writer.

  I made sure that there were no more weddings in the near offing, then called Ishmael and Luthor up from their rather crowded bridal bower. Luthor had a black eye, and Ishmael was missing a tooth.

  “What the hell happened?” I asked.

  “We had our first lovers’ tiff,” said Ishmael, spitting a little blood over the railing.

  “You ought to see the other six!” added Luthor.

  “Later, perhaps,” I said. “I've called you here for something a little more important.”

  “And what might that be, sir?” asked Luthor.

  “Do the Slavs still want to take over the ship?”

  “Indeed they do, sir,” said Ishmael.

  “Good,” I said. “Why don't you give me just enough time to move my gear out of Captain Roberts's quarters, and then tell them the ship is all theirs.”

  When the ship docked the next morning, there was a welcoming committee waiting for us, led by Captain Roberts himself. Evidently he had been fished out of the ocean by a passing cargo ship, which, not bothering to explore the Congo River and its environs, had beaten us to the Cape by almost a full day.

  The Slavs, who by this time had moved lock, stock, and barrel into the captain's quarters, were jailed as mutineers pending the outcome of an admiralty inquiry, while Ishmael Bledsoe and Luthor Christian were given citations of commendation for getting The Dying Quail into port only a day late, and were exonerated of all wrongdoing not directly connected with their wedding. The last I saw of them, they were sneaking off to parts unknown with the rest of their newly-made little family just as a Slavic translator arrived on the scene.

  As for me, I had one hundred crisp British pounds in my pocket, and having had my fill of the sea, I set off once again in search of the fortune that would finally result in the building of the Tabernacle of Saint Luke.

  Chapter 8

  AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART

  Cape Town didn't appear all that promising a place for the ex-captain of The Dying Quail to settle down, especially once Captain Roberts figured out why he'd been tossed overboard and started looking for me with a gun, so I took my leave one fine morning at about two o'clock and headed on up the eastern coastline. My money held out just fine until I got to Durban, which had a mule track, horses being too expensive for that part of the country. I picked out a likely-looking one named Saint Andrew, placed my money down. and w
atched him go into the final turn leading by two lengths when a pride of lions raced out of the veldt and attacked the field.

  The jockeys, most of whom were faster than their mounts anyway, jumped off and raced to safety, but none of the mules made it as far as the homestretch. The track, claiming that this was an act of God, refused to refund the bets, even though I, representing God, pointed out that what it mostly was was an act of lions. I could see we were likely to be arguing all day without solving anything, so I took the rest of my money and tried to put it all on a large black-maned lion who was just finishing off Saint Andrew. The track officials explained that it was against policy to make book on lions, and besides, they wouldn't give me more than three-to-five on the black-maned one.

  We did some real quick haggling amongst ourselves and finally they laid nine-to-ten against my lion, with no place or show betting. As soon as I put up my money the lion got up, yawned, stretched, and ambled back into the bush.

  “Off the course! Foul!” cried the steward. “Disqualified and placed last.”

  “How come you didn't disqualify him for eating Saint Andrew?” I demanded.

  “My dear sir,” said the steward in a patronizing voice, “he ran straight and true after Saint Andrew.”

  “I'm afraid I don't follow you, brother,” I said.

  “There is nothing in the rules about one participant eating another,” he continued. “But it clearly states that leaving the course is a foul.”

  “Am I to understand, brother,” I said, “that you have no intention of refunding either of my bets?”

  He nodded.

  “Who's in charge here?” I demanded. “I want to see the owner.”

  “The owner is Mrs. Emily Perrison,” said the steward, “but you won't find her here. She detests gambling.”

  “Then why the hell does she own a racetrack?” I asked.

  “For the same reason she owns almost everything else in this town: Her husband died and left it to her.”

  “A widow, you say. Is she young?”

  “Old enough to be your mother,” replied the steward. “And crazy as all get-out. Gives away most of her money to religious missions up north of here.”

  “Where in particular?” I asked.

  “Like I told you: up north.”

  “The whole world's up north,” I pointed out.

  “I don't know: Ethiopia, Chad, the Sudan. Somewhere up there.”

  “How would I find this Mrs. Perrison?” I asked.

  “I can't give out her address,” he said, “but if you'll just walk north and east you can't miss it.”

  I left both the racetrack and my hundred pounds behind me without a second thought. I had a few shiIlings left in my pocket, and I spent them on a shave and a little hair grease, after which I started walking to the northeast. The steward hadn't been kidding about not being able to miss my destination, because I soon passed, in rapid succession, Perrison's Dry Goods, Perrison's General Store, Perrison's Slaughterhouse and Restaurant, and the Perrison Daily Press. When I finally reached the long roadway leading to the Perrison homestead it was twilight, and it was dark by the time I walked up to the huge old wooden farmhouse.

  I spent a couple of minutes smoothing down my hair, brushing the dust off my clothes, and making sure the Good Book was prominently displayed, then knocked on the door. It was opened a moment later by a fat young man with a sullen face and piggy little eyes.

  “What do you want?” he whined.

  “Greetings,” I said pleasantly. “Is Emily Perrison at home?”

  “Who wants to know?” he asked, picking on a pimple.

  “What do you mean, who wants to know?” I said. “I want to know.”

  “Who are you?” he asked, rubbing his stubby little nose.

  “I am Doctor Lucifer Jones,” I said, forcing a friendly smile.

  “My mum don't need a doctor,” he said sullenly.

  “I'm not that kind of doctor,” I said. “Why not get your mother and let her decide?”

  He grunted, slammed the door in my face, and left me standing out there in the cold. A minute passed, then another, and finally the door opened again and I found myself facing Mrs. Emily Perrison.

  She was the pinkest woman I ever did see. She wore her hair up in a bun, and her face and body looked like someone was trying to balance a small balloon atop a bigger one. She had blue eyes, a broad nose, and lots of shiny white teeth, and she looked like she would never walk when she could mince.

  She reached out a ruffled arm and took my hand in hers.

  “Doctor Jones?”

  “The Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones,” I said, stooping over and kissing her fingers. They tasted of bread dough, and it reminded me that I hadn't eaten all day. “I'm back from your mission in Ethiopia to report on all the good work we've been doing with the money you so generously sent to us.”

  “But I made no contributions to Ethiopia,” she said, looking puzzled.

  “Well, they told me I was in Ethiopia, but it could have been Chad.”

  “I do make donations to a number of missions in Chad,” she said.

  “And right appreciative we are,” I said quickly. “It would just melt your heart to see all those little heathen children coming to church and singing hymns of a Sunday morning.”

  Her face lit up at that, and she invited me into the living room, which had a flock of overstuffed Victorian chairs and loveseats covered by hundreds of little doilies. There were a batch of paintings on the wall, mostly of flowers and apples and stuff like that, but they didn't hold a candle to the painting of Nellie Willoughby in the altogether that hung over the bar in the New Stanley Hotel.

  “By the way, who was that who met me at the door?” I asked.

  “That was my son, Horace,” she said apologetically.

  “A right charming lad he is,” I said quickly.

  “Well, Doctor Jones,” she said with a fluttery little sigh, “I've heard Horace called a good many things, but that's the very first time the word charming has ever been mentioned.”

  “All he needs is a little firm guidance from a Godfearing stepfather not unlike myself and he'll be right as rain.”

  “I'm glad you agree,” she said.

  “Agree with who and about what?” I asked.

  “With me, about Horace. I've recently allowed a certain gentleman to come calling, mainly because I too feel that the boy needs a father.”

  That wasn't exactly the solution I had in mind, but I just smiled and allowed as to how I'd like to meet such a lucky fellow before going back into the bush for another couple of quick rounds with Satan.

  She told me that I was in luck because he was coming over for dinner that very night. Then she got me some tea and started asking about the natives in Chad. I told her whatever sounded likely, embellishing a little bit here and there about their fertility rites and other such rituals, and explaining that it was due to her and her alone that these sinful goings-on had been stopped.

  Suddenly she reached out, grabbed my hand, and held it against her bosom, which was considerable when at rest but was throbbing to beat the band right then.

  “It must have been terribly difficult for a cultured gentleman like yourself to rub shoulders with such savages!” she said.

  “Somebody had to do it,” I said nobly. “And what Christian wouldn't gladly accept a little torture and some tropical diseases if it enabled him to spread the Word?” I shot her my saddest, most tragic smile. “And while I may have missed the companionship of a good Christian white woman during all them painful years, I couldn't have afforded to keep a wife or raise a family anyway, what with donating all my money to various leper colonies.”

  “You poor dear!” she breathed. “You're penniless?”

  I nodded. “But I ain't complaining, ma'am,” I said quickly. “I've got spiritual riches, and that's something I wouldn't trade with no one.”

  “Where did you plan to spend the night?” she asked.

&nbs
p; “I saw a real comfortable-looking bench behind the slaughterhouse,” I said. “And I'm sure in a week or two I can get used to the smell.”

  “I won't hear of it!” she exclaimed. “You'll stay right here in the house as our guest until you're ready to go out and do the Lord's work again.”

  “But ma'am,” I protested. “It just ain't right. Besides, I still get nightmares from the time they strung me up and tried to make me renounce Jesus. You wouldn't want to wake up during all that screaming. I mean, I know you feel deeply obligated because I've undergone all this suffering and privation for your pet charities, but...”

  “You're staying, and that's that!” she said firmly.

  I explained that it was morally wrong but that I was too weak and exhausted to argue with her anymore, so I'd have to abide by her decision. She was just reaching out to grab my face and press it on her bosom right next to my hand, and I took a deep breath on the assumption that there wasn't a lot of extra room there for air or anything else, when we were interrupted by a brisk knocking at the front door.

  She stood up, slightly flushed and looking pinker than ever, and walked to the door. A moment later she returned with a familiar figure who was dressed all in black: shirt, tie, vest, suit, socks, shoes, hat, belt, probably even underwear.

  “Doctor Jones,” said Emily, “I'd like to introduce you to my gentleman caller, Major Theodore Dobbins, late of His Majesty's armed forces.”

  I'm not sure which of us looked more surprised, but he recovered first and extended his hand.

  “My dear Doctor Jones,” he said. “How good it is to see you again!”

  “You two know each other?” asked Emily.

  “We've done a little missionary work together,” I said. “In fact, I think you could fairly say that the last time we got together we prevented a few hundred poor lost souls from becoming drug addicts.”