The River of Souls

The two-masted brigantine was called Wanderer. From its shabby, near-derelict appearance it looked to have wandered on one too many voyages, yet here it was in the harbor of Charles Town on an early morning in the second week of August, taking on trunks, crates and barrels and a few passengers who wished for the comfort and cobblestones of the Old World beneath their feet.

A modest crowd had gathered on the dock to see the ship off. It was the next vessel bound for England, and ships coming in and out invariably drew sightseers. Count Anton Mannerheim Dahlgren and his young charge moved through the throng toward the gangplank, carrying canvas bags that held their clothes. They had lived together for three days in a small boarding-house on the outskirts of Charles Town, waiting for this vessel to be prepared for the crossing. They had hardly spoken to each other, even as they took their meals in the kitchen, and because there was only a narrow single bed the younger man slept on a mat on the floor. They spoke to no one else, either, and the landlady decided there must be something wrong with the younger man, for the way he sat and stared into empty space for such long periods of time.

A bell had begun ringing on the dock, signalling the imminent departure of the noble but weatherbeaten and ill-used Wanderer, that all who should be aboard were aboard and all who were visiting should be off.

The black-bearded and gaunt Matthew Corbett would never be recognized by any of the proper gents and fine ladies who had attended the Sword of Damocles Ball little more than a month ago. His clothes were clean and simple and he was well-washed, but he was a different man. Surely in this crowd there were some of those who had attended that night, and seen the young problem-solver from New York best the brutish Magnus Muldoon in a duel involving a comb, but that young man had returned to New York, as far as they knew. But still….weren’t there whisperings that the young man had left his clothes and belongings at the Carringtons’ inn, and that—the shame of it—he had neglected to pay the total of his bill?

It was so hot these days in Charles Town. Who knew what became of some people? Many came and many went, and if this young man was missing someone would come from New York to look for him, eventually. Or perhaps not, but life and the parties went on.

The talk of this summer, however, was centered on an unlikely source. The beast himself, the hermit from the woods, the black-bearded monster. Only…Magnus Muldoon was no longer such a beast, and certainly he appeared to be no monster after shaving off that horrid beard. Oh yes! said the women at their gatherings. The man is young!

And he has set up shop right there on Front Street, to sell the most beautiful bottles. He makes these himself, if you can warrant it! Of course the shop is rather small, but one should stroll in there to take a peek…and not just at the bottles, but at Mr. Muldoon himself. For in a clean suit, a white shirt and with his hair combed—properly so—and his square jaw showing…well, he nearly appears a gentleman.

And—lean in closely, for here is the real story! Have you heard…that Pandora Prisskitt herself has walked into that shop? Yes, her curiosity got the best of her! She had to go in, but accompanied by Fanny Walton so as not to seem too brash. And here…here…is the thing. Fanny Walton told Cynthia Meddows, who told Amy Blair…that Pandora Prisskitt batted her eyes at this new version of Magnus Muldoon, for you have heard that he has come into some money, have you not? And…you will see this for yourself, ladies, if you happen to stroll in there…he could be said to be handsome. Now of course he has not the family, nor the estate, that matters…but…isn’t it just too delicious?

Oh…his reaction to Pandora?

He smiled at her, sold her a bottle at the regular price, and said Good day to you, ma’am.

The stories, the stories…how they swirled around the parties, lawns and porches of Charles Town. But what was lesser known was that Magnus Muldoon had returned the horse Dolly to her stable, and had twice rowed seven miles up the Solstice River to seek a body that could not be found.

Matthew Corbett, a man without a past, followed Count Dahlgren through the crowd. He was still having flashes of memory—a blurred face here, the snippet of a name there, such things as the quick images of a hawk descending with its talons ready to rip and tear, a man crashing through a mansion’s window and what appeared to be a castle of white stones crumbling into ruin over a cliff—but nothing would remain. He could not hold onto anything. He had no choice but to follow this killer onto Wanderer, and hope that in three months’ time and in the city of London he might discover who he truly was, and why this Professor Fell wished so fervently to reward him.

As they moved through the crowd, Matthew happened to look upon a man and woman standing nearby. They were both dressed extravagantly and seemed to be among the elite, though they were an odd pair. The woman was high-wigged and corpulent and dressed up like a pink piece of cake, or rather a hasty pudding. The man was long and lean and much older than the female, and he wore a black suit with gray stripes and a black tricorn atop a powdered wig. Matthew’s gaze went to the man’s face and stayed there. He abruptly stopped and felt a chill on this blazingly-hot morning. The man’s head turned and the dark, hooded eyes in a long-jawed face that seemed a virtual patchwork quilt of deep lines and wrinkles fixed upon Matthew with what might have been holy—or unholy—power.

“Move along,” said Dahlgren.

“Wait,” Matthew said, trying to put this man’s face in its proper picture, but he couldn’t frame it. “I think…I know that man.”

“Come on!” Dahlgren’s voice was harsher. “Keep moving!”

Suddenly the man seemed to recognize Matthew as well, and took a jolt. Dahlgren reached out to grasp Matthew’s shirt, but Matthew pulled free and approached the man even as the other fellow worked his way through the crowd to Matthew.

“God above!” said the man, in a voice that might soar up to deafen thunder but in this case was quiet, restrained and earthbound. “It’s you! Much the worse for wear, I see! I hardly recognized you!” He glanced back at his dollop of pudding. “Listen, Matthew,” he said, leaning in close. “I have no idea why you are here, but I have a good situation. I am no longer Exodus Jerusalem, I am called Earl Thomas Kattenburg, from the country of…well, that matters not, as long as she doesn’t study her geography and she is liberal with her purse. I know we had our differences, but…please…refrain from any attempt at vengeance, would you? Here.” He slid two gold coins from a pocket and into Matthew’s hand. “And again, my sympathies at the untimely passing of Magistrate Woodward.”

“Who?” Matthew asked.

The man’s frown might have knocked ravens from the air. “Who?” he repeated. “You know fully well who!” He peered more deeply into Matthew’s eyes and saw they were glazed over like ice on a millpond. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I know you,” said Matthew. “But…from where? I can’t remember. My head…is so full of fog.”

“Ve are to be aboard our ship. Come along!” Count Dahlgren was suddenly at Matthew’s side, grasping an elbow to guide him. “Good day, sir,” he said to Earl Thomas Kattenburg, known in another life and guise as the hellfire preacher Exodus Jerusalem, who had been so bent on throwing Rachel Howarth to either the witch-burning flames or his own lecherous desires.

“Here! Just a moment! What’s wrong with Mr. Corbett?” the earl inquired, grasping hold of Matthew’s other elbow.

“He…has suffered an accident,” Dahlgren replied tersely. “Ve are going to London, to get him cured. Again…good day, sir.” With a forced, gray-toothed smile the count pulled Matthew away, and the wrinkled earl took the opportunity to remove the two coins from the young man’s hand and replace them where they ought to be, in his own pocket.

“Pity,” he said as they moved off, but his flesh-hooded eyes were cold. “Farewell, Matthew!” he called. “Surely we shall meet again, on this winding and unpredictable river we call life!” Then he realized he was becoming too much Exodus Jerusalem again, and anyway the stricken lad did not respond, and neither did Matthew Corbett look to left nor right as he went up the gangplank, but only ahead as if gauging his life one careful step at a time.

Soon the lines were cast off, Wanderer was rowed out by its pair of pilotboats, its sails bloomed wide and the ship shuddered like an old woman just waking up from a bad dream. It caught the wind and began to sail away, into the tides of the Atlantic, on one more journey of its often-erratic and sometimes calamitous existence. After awhile the crowd moved on, as crowds do when there is nothing left of any interest to see.

But one man stopped and looked back toward the dwindling sight of Wanderer, and as he stood next to his corpulent pink lady of the open purse he frowned and rubbed his chin, and wondered whether someone ought to know that Matthew Corbett was ill, had seemingly lost his memory, and was being taken to London by—it also seemed—a small measure of force. Or was it a larger measure than it appeared?

But who would he tell? He was many things, but no Good Samaritan. It would be too much of an effort, as well. He recalled something his father, a true hellfire preacher, had told him as a little boy.

Every soul must bear their own burden, fight their own fight, and break free from their own prison.

He stared at the departing ship, with a valiant young man aboard who was obviously faced with all three of those tribulations.

“I wish you well,” he said, and he surprised himself because he meant it.

Then he turned away, took hold of the offered hand that gave even a wretch such as he a place in this troubled and turbulent world, and he returned to the comfort of his life.