"The Mississippi Mystery" - Part One

 

Part One

Mississippi, 1860

            Young Samuel Clemens imagined how much of a mad captain he appeared to the crew of the Jefferson, his fourth steamboat since earning his pilot’s license a year prior – and the first that he had a chance of captaining himself. It was the Jefferson’s maiden voyage up the Mississippi. Its rust color stood out from the lush greenery that bordered the sparkling clear waters. Personally, Samuel hated it; he preferred the ship to be pearly white instead.

            Thankfully, one of his crewmembers was a familiar face – Grant Marsh, who served with Samuel aboard the A.B. Chambers, their previous steamer. At the sprite age of 25, Marsh proved himself quite the capable navigator, hence why Samuel personally recommended him as first mate on the Jefferson.

            His second mate, on the other hand, was quite the stickler.

            Lucas Casey was just a few years removed in age from both Samuel and Marsh. The Jefferson was his first real chance of proving himself as a reliable second mate, having worked as a clerk on his prior steamer, which was mostly the reason for his ‘stickler’ nature. Even during pre-embarkation, Casey couldn’t resist talking back whenever Samuel gave him an order.

            In particular, Samuel regulated, “That boiler needs checking before we leave.”

            And Casey’s response: “Mr. Clemens, if I may be so bold, we checked the boiler four times already. Surely you don’t believe—”

            “MR. CASEY!” Marsh thundered, his commanding tone jittering Casey and a few nearby deckhands – a freed slave among them. “I do reckon Mr. Clemens gave you an order. My advice to you, if you wish to serve aboard the Jefferson before it has even taken its first crossing of the Mississippi, is to do as you are told. Is that understood?”

            Reluctantly, Casey followed his orders.

            Once their second mate left their side, Marsh consulted with Clemens, “Forgive me, Sam. Casey’s young and brash, but he’s a good crewman. And he doesn’t realize you have good reason to worry about the boiler.”

            Samuel took a few somber puffs on his cigar. “Much obliged, Grant.”

            Not another word was said on the matter. The two men just stood along the bow, observing the boarding passengers and loading cargo (including a man-sized crate), as they traversed up the stages. Among them was an austere young gentleman in a white suit, with short blond hair and a pair of icy blue eyes.

            Samuel and Marsh were cursed with knowledge about this man.

            “Oh, no,” Marsh hissed. “It’s Carlson Kincaid.”

            Those who had the fortune of living in Mississippi – specifically the Biloxi region – knew of the Kincaid family. The patriarch, Douglas, had passed away a month ago, leaving his plantation to Carlson, his only living son. The Kincaids owned many slaves on their plantation, but Carlson only brought one with him aboard the Jefferson – a frail, bushy-haired Mandingo dressed in ragged clothes that were only suitable for a slave.

            “What a fine mornin’ this is, sirs!” Carlson approached Samuel and Marsh, expressing a jubilant conduct that betrayed his stern veneer. “Which one of you would happen to be the captain of this fine vessel?”

            “That would be me, Mr. Kincaid,” Samuel said after a quick puff.

            Carlson stuck his hand out to him. “And you are…?”

            “Samuel Clemens,” he accepted the handshake. Carlson had a mighty grip.

            “My condolences, Mr. Clemens.”

            “Beg your pardon?”

            “For your brother, Henry…tragic what happened to him aboard the Pennsylvania.”

            “Well, much obliged, Mr. Kincaid…but that was two years ago.”

            “And yet, you still carry that hurt, don’t you? It’s never quite easy for anyone to lose a loved one.”

            Samuel couldn’t quite tell if Carlson was truly sincere in his sympathy.

            He got his immediate answer when the subject was changed without a hint of reluctance. “I am certainly lookin’ forward to this voyage up the Mississippi,” Carlson boasted. He then flippantly gestured to his slave, who was burdened with the lone task of hauling Carlson’s surplus luggage whilst balancing on the left stage. “Hopefully, there’s a place somewhere for Rooney. The boy works himself pretty hard and therefore carries with him a stench that could kill flies. Last thing we need is for him to kill everybody on board.” He followed his callous joke with a wheezy cackle that agitated the ears of Samuel and Marsh.

            “Rooney is more than welcome to room in the negro cabin, Mr. Kincaid,” Marsh accommodated.

            As the three men looked Rooney’s way, they were struck by the majestic sight that contrasted with the slave’s crude appearance. Walking up the adjacent stage was an incredibly attractive young brunette in an alluring black dress that showed her toned shoulders. Her hazel-brown eyes took in the sight of the Jefferson as she boarded, captivated by the virgin steamer.

            Just the sight of this woman took away the breaths of Samuel, Marsh, and Carlson – Samuel’s in the literal sense, as he was puffing on his cigar at the time and let out a slight cough.

            Carlson wasted no time in courting her. “Why, hello, my dear,” he said. “Welcome aboard! My name’s Carlson Kincaid…of the Biloxi Kincaids, if you aren’t familiar.”

            “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kincaid,” the brunette said. “I’m Clementine Walker.”

            Carlson was even more awestruck. “Well, shut my mouth! You wouldn’t happen to be the same Clementine Walker from Tennessee who wrote The Impossible Diary, would you? That is quite the best-seller you’ve concocted! Got all the yanks up north ravin’ ‘bout it! They’re callin’ you the next Mary Shelley!”

            Clementine blushed. “Much appreciated, Mr. Kincaid.”

            “Although I do have one minor criticism with some of the negroes you write in your story – placed in situations and roles that’d be impossible in actual life,” Carlson reviewed.

            “Well, the word ‘impossible’ is in the title, Mr. Kincaid,” Clementine teased.

            Carlson let out a wheezy cackle. “Ain’t that the truth!” Looking past the author, he spotted a strapping young man in a fine black suit approach with two suitcases. Carlson was crestfallen when he noticed him. Clearing his throat, he said, “Am I to presume this good sir is your husband?”

            “Merely an acquaintance,” Clementine said, much to Carlson’s elation. “This gentle companion of mine is…”

            “Remy LeBeau,” the man introduced himself, setting down one of the suitcases to hold his hand out to Carlson.

            “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. LeBeau.” Carlson accepted the handshake with another of his signature mighty grips. However, he learned rather suddenly how much mightier LeBeau’s grip was as it strained on his hand. Carlson yielded before his fingers snapped like twigs. He watched as LeBeau retrieved his suitcase and suggested, “That negro’s work, son. Let my boy Rooney here handle your—ROONEY!!!”

            All eyes looked to the slave, who continued to struggle up the stage.

            One of Kincaid’s cases had fallen out from Rooney’s care, splashing right into the river. Needless to say, Carlson was furious, yelling obscenities and a few racial epithets at Rooney, who somehow managed to waver onto the deck. He had no time to catch his breath with Carlson deriding him.

            Samuel shook his head disapprovingly at the inhumane treatment.

            His sentiments on the cruel display were harmonized among Marsh, LeBeau, and especially Clementine, whose face stiffened with rage. Samuel was the only one to notice it but opted not to give it – nor Carlson’s treatment of his slave – any further attention. “I’ll be up in the house whenever we’re ready to embark,” he notified Marsh, who acknowledged with a nod.

            “Mr. Twain!” He suddenly heard LeBeau call out to someone. Initially, he didn’t turn around, believing the young man to be referring to another passenger coming aboard the Jefferson. But, when he turned to look at him, he discovered that it was him LeBeau was addressing. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir!”

            Samuel frowned. “I’m afraid you have me confused for someone else, Mr. LeBeau. I don’t have any reputation warranted for recognition.” On that humbled confession, Samuel departed for the pilot house.

            Marsh was left to inform Clementine and LeBeau, “Breakfast will be shortly at eight and dinner will be this evening at eight. Luncheons are available at your leisure between those hours. There’s a bell in your cabin that will be there to notify you. Should you need any other accommodations, please do not hesitate to give a ring, so our stewards may accommodate you.”

            Clementine curtsied. “Much appreciated, sir.”

            She and LeBeau proceeded to head to their cabin. As soon as they were alone there, the pair made a sudden transformation in posture, demeanor, and accents. Whereas Clementine Walker and Remy LeBeau appeared as common late 19th century southerners, they were in actuality visitors from another time, space, and reality.

            ‘Clementine Walker’ was the alias for Rania, a Time Lord from another dimension, currently in the body of her sixth incarnation.

            ‘Remy LeBeau’ was the alias for Tyler Thorne, Rania’s human companion.

            “Ohhh, man!” Rania groaned, tugging at her corset. “My hearts feel like they’re squished against each other!”

            Tyler sat on the bed, removing his boots to rub his aching feet. “I miss my Nikes.”

            Rania frowned at him. “Hey, you wanna maybe chill on the spoilers next time?”

            “What’re you talkin’ about?” Tyler frowned back at her.

            “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Twain?” Rania recited his earlier salutation. “Samuel Clemens hasn’t become Mark Twain yet!”

            “Yeah, what’s up with that? I know there’s a steamboat named after him in Disneyland, but I had no idea Mark Twain captained steamboats. Is this another one of those ‘only in an alternate universe’ things?”

            “Not exactly,” Rania said. “Clemens started his career in boats like this way before he became an author. He was also a miner in Nevada and a writer for the Territorial Enterprise, which is where he started writing under the name ‘Mark Twain’.”

            Tyler smirked from the impromptu lesson in literature history. He stood up from the cabin bed to snuggle up with Rania. “You are one awesome teacher, ya know that?”

            Rania giggled. “You’re not the first person who’s told me that.”

            After a quick passionate kiss, Tyler asked her, “Speaking of which, is Craig gonna be alright in the TARDIS? After seeing what that smug Kincaid did to that slave, I’m a little worried. This wasn’t exactly the best time in American history.”

            “Don’t I know it,” Rania gagged. “But Craig will be fine. I set the perception filter on the TARDIS the moment before I sent it and Craig into Jefferson’s cargo hold. As long as he keeps his lil’ butt inside the ship and focuses on his book report, he’s safe from people like Kincaid and whatever business he’s really got goin’ on aboard the Jefferson.”

            “So, the Spartans’ tip is for real?” Tyler questioned. “How does a racist idiot like that get his mitts on an alien species?”

            “That’s what we’re here to find out.”