*****
It was far too nice a day to be locked in that stateroom with Barabbas, Barnabas thought, and Miss Kitty seemed to agree, twisting in and out of his legs, brushing against his calves as he descended the wide staircase of the JM White. He was used to all the curious stares by now. Since he had met Miss Kitty in Connecticut, or rather, since she had met him, they had been quite inseparable. All of which, of course, had been a minor scandal in New Haven. The way she would go with him to work, or to the shops. At first, he had asked her to stay home, as his position with Harrison, Horrison and Oates could hardly be advanced by having her always at his side, or worse, in his lap as he worked. But she was persistent and so adorable in her admiration of him that he relented. Words, of course, had flown that Moody had gone quite mad, and over such a little creature too, but he had long ago learned to put it out of mind. Besides, she had a way of pushing against his hand with her little black gloved paw that made all the whispers that much easier to bear, and he had never truly wanted to be a scrivener anyhow. As he passed the bemused and bewildered fellow passengers on the White he nodded to some, tipped his hat to others, and closed his ears to the whispers of all as he passed. He shook hands with the deck manager with a hearty “Good morning,” and walked out onto the promenade deck. Miss Kitty was beside him as ever, purring and not even giving the slightest attention to the hubbub behind her.
It was, indeed a very fine morning. Barnabas could never quite figure out what had possessed Barabbas to choose this route, all the way downriver to the port city, but he had never seen anything so fine as a morning like this. The steamer whistled its five tones to other boats passing upriver, and the mist was still thick in the air. All along the riverside he caught sight of colorful tropical birds, the likes of which he had despaired of ever seeing in Connecticut where he had been an amateur ornithologist. They all seemed so wild and raucous in their swooping flirtations and tribal mating rights. It wasn’t quite humid, just that perfect wrap of heat and moisture, as if upon rising one’s blanket had followed out into the sun. He had never been fond of the weather, or the birds in Connecticut, not that either minded one way or the other. Winters had always been far too cold, and the jays and cardinals, though colorful, were far too rude and abrupt. This seemed perfect to him, a proper greenhouse for men to grow. The magnolias were in bloom, and here and there between the willows and cottonwood he spied them, bushes in full flower distinguishing a proper estate from the cotton fields that backed onto the river.
“Coffee, suh?” The deck porter was at his shoulder, smiling, cup and saucer in hand. Barnabas smiled his thanks and inhaled the blend of chicory that they seemed to enjoy mixing into the beans below the Mason-Dixon. So much smoother, more elegant, he thought, than a straight shot of the bitter stuff. He took a sip and let it wash over his tongue like fine wine.
“Tell me, is it always so nice this time of year?” he asked.
The porter laughed. “This here’s Louisiana, suh,” he said, pronouncing it with a long, proud drawl. “Ain’t no time of year it isn’t lovely. Hot,” he laughed, “but always pretty to look at.”
Barnabas smiled and turned back to the river.
“You got a curious creature there, suh,” the porter said, nodding to Miss Kitty. “Never seen a cat wasn’t ‘fraid to death of water.”
“Oh?” Barnabas said, smirking.
“Cat that ain’t afraid of water ain’t afraid o’ nothing, I think,” the porter said.
Barnabas laughed, thinking of Miss Kitty’s last performance, in the hotel in Vicksburg. “No, I suppose you’re right,” he said. Miss Kitty was sprawled along the handrail at the bow, head turned to watch the cranes as they took flight through the mist. Her eyes were half closed against the sun, and she seemed to lean into it for warmth, her whole body in its skin tight tuxedo pressing to the rays in a way that was near obscene if it wasn’t coming from one so small. The porter followed Barnabas’ gaze and nodded slowly.
“Cat that ain’t afraid of nothin’ isn’ a good thing,” he said, watching her. “Seems right dangerous if you ask me.”
Barnabas chuckled. “Less dangerous, I should say, than a dog,” he said.
“If you say so, suh. If you say.” The porter walked off then, serving coffee to the other early rising passengers, all marked as Yankees for the habit. Barnabas went up to the bow and brushed his hand along Miss Kitty’s not-in-the-least-bit-dangerous chin. She nuzzled into his palm for a moment, before turning again to stare down river.
It was curious, however, Barnabas thought, looking down at her. Any other cat would be half out of its mind, no matter how tame, so close to all this water. Yet there she was, at the very edge of the stuff, and underneath the constant whuffing and chuffing of the steam engine and the rapple of the waterwheel, he could swear he heard her very distinct self-satisfied purr. Her pose, far from being wound up with tension, was loose and languid and sensual, as if this were her boat, bearing her to some Julius or Alexander.
Barnabas absently scratched behind her ears, looking down river with her towards New Orleans as it started to rise up along the riverbanks. “I hope you’re right” he said, half to himself, and as always, half to his companion. He had taken to thinking out loud quite often since they had met, though she didn’t seem to mind.
“I hope you’re right about this.” His hand touched his pocket, where his hope, his faith, were all folded up in a small torn out article from the Vicksburg Times, from only three days before.
II.
An Interview. A frightful Audience.