“I thought bootleggers knew how to move fast,” Cy said, shaking his head after snubbing the scow. He looked across the lock at Kevin who was swinging the gate closed. “Two full days to get from Harpers Ferry to Swains. You fellas ain’t exactly the Pony Express.”
Kevin chuckled. “I can’t speak for outlaws, Cy. But we Emorys like to practice what we call smart boating. Not fast boating.” He hopped back onto the scow. “Now if more locktenders was as committed as you are, we might of got here a bit sooner.”
“I ain’t no locktender,” Cy muttered, crossing the scow back to the berm. “God help me if I ever sink that low.” He limped across the grass and disappeared into the lockhouse.
Tom helped Kevin remove hatch five and the layer of firewood concealing the barrel. As they propped the barrel, Cy reappeared and set a five-gallon cask on the deck. Tom drew a sample from the tap into a tin cup, then handed it to Cy, who knocked back the whiskey and grimaced. He nodded before turning back toward the lockhouse.
Kevin smirked at Tom. “I guess he’s buying.” They wedged Cy’s cask into position beneath the barrel and used funnels to create a path from the tap to the cask head. Kevin twisted the tap wide open and whiskey flowed through the funnels into the cask. As Tom lifted the stoppered cask onto the hatch, Cy laid down a second five-gallon cask.
“It’s always gratifying to find a customer who appreciates a quality product,” Kevin said.
“Let’s hope I’m not the only one willing to pay for it,” Cy said. He carried the first cask into the lockhouse while Kevin and Tom filled the second and set it on the deck.
Kevin retreated to the cabin, where he knelt near the bottom stair to pull a metal toolbox out from under the drop-leaf table. The box had a clamshell top that was held shut by two clasps and a keyed lock-plate. Kevin gripped the suitcase-style handle. Heavy enough right now, he thought – at least fifteen pounds. But it should weigh a lot more after we leave Georgetown. Let’s give old Cyrus a chance to add his two bits.
He carried the box up to the deck and set it down against the forward wall of the cabin. Cy had vanished with the second cask, but he reappeared and limped back onto the scow.
“Well you just relieved us of ten gallons of fine whiskey,” Kevin said, removing his hat and running a hand through sweat-streaked hair. “Tom and I will understand if you want to keep it all for yourself, but if you was looking to sell, you should be able to fetch twelve dollars a gallon.”
“That’s about what I reckoned,” Cy said. He turned to face Kevin with watery eyes bordered by dark rings, and Kevin noticed that his stubble was tinged with gray.
“Since you’re a repeat customer,” Kevin said, “and we want to cultivate our relationship further, we’re going to offer you a favorable price this year.” He paused for effect and to insert an incremental pinch of tobacco. “Nine-seventy-five a gallon,” he said.
“That’s no bargain,” Cy said. He glared at Kevin for a moment. “But so be it. You can have thirty now and the rest of it on your trip back upstream.”
Kevin stopped working his chaw and squinted as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Tom let his knife plunge into the wooden hatch and wobble as he trained his dark eyes on Cy. “You might of told us you wasn’t prepared to pay cash before you carted off our whiskey,” he said with a hint of menace to his voice.
Cy gave Tom a dismissive look. “I plan to pay cash,” he said to Kevin. “But that means thirty now and the rest on Saturday.” Kevin and Tom exchanged glances but said nothing. “You don’t like it,” Cy said, “I can give you back your ten gallons.”
Ten gallons of what, Kevin thought. For all he knew, someone was already inside the lockhouse, replacing whiskey with water. Maybe that girl. He walked over to the rail and spat. “If you want credit, the price is ten-fifty per gallon,” he said. “We’ll take your thirty now and seventy-five more when we see you on Saturday.” Cy grunted his acceptance and handed over a small wad of bills. Kevin confirmed the sum and they shook hands.
Pulling a key chain from his pocket, Kevin knelt to unlock the toolbox. “Damn, I hate paper money,” he said to himself, adding the bills to a clip in the main compartment. “And here I was thinking I’d need the box to make change.” He closed the latches and locked the box. Standing up, he saw Tom unwinding the snub-line while Cy waited to open the wickets.
The lockhouse door opened and a figure emerged. It was Katie, carrying an empty basket. She glanced at the scow on her way to the side-yard, where she began to pull dry clothes from a clothesline. Cy and Tom swung the lock-keys as she passed, and the lock began to drain.
Kevin retrieved the feed bucket from the hayhouse and carried it to the berm. “I’m glad we was able to work out your purchase,” he said to Cy, who was watching the water recede. “We try to keep our whiskey affordable, which means keeping our costs down.” He smiled at Cy, who radiated indifference. “One thing we hate to do is pay for coal. Especially since we know coal is free, for anyone who works around a lock.” He turned and spat into the lock. “In that spirit, we’d be much obliged if you could spare us a bucket of canal-company coal from the lockhouse bin. We picked some up yesterday, but not enough to make it to Georgetown.”
Cy momentarily looked as if he might throw the bucket in the canal, but instead took it without a word and limped toward the lockhouse. Maybe he’s practicing his salesmanship, Kevin thought, suppressing a chuckle. He watched Cy enter the lockhouse, then headed for the side-yard. Katie’s back was turned as she unpinned a blouse from the clothesline and folded it over the basket. He walked up behind her quietly.
“That sure is a pretty shirt, Miss Elgin!”
Katie spun like a startled rabbit and the blouse came unfolded in her hands. Her eyes narrowed when she recognized Kevin, but she didn’t reply. Kevin extended his hand and lifted a dangling sleeve to the level of her waist. “I bet that would look especially nice on you,” he said. He draped the sleeve along her own and stroked it with his fingers. “I don’t suppose you’d like to try it on for me and Tom right now, would you?” Katie stepped backward and stared at him in silence, her hands holding the blouse at waist level as he wiped the corner of his mouth.
“You know,” he said, “I’m sorry the three of us was interrupted last summer while we was getting to know each other. I think we may get a more favorable opportunity, since we expect to make several runs down to Georgetown this year.” He stared at her with narrowed, mirthful eyes as a grin spread across his face. “We’ll be looking for you!” He winked and hurried to the walkway as Cy reappeared with the bucket of coal.
Chapter 16
The Big Fish
Tuesday, March 25, 1924
The next morning Kevin piloted the scow down through Widewater and the mules pulled easier with deeper water under the hull. Two hundred feet to their left, towering sycamores flared over the water from the steep pitch of the berm. As Widewater narrowed, Tom drove the mules along the downstream portion of the Log Wall, where the towpath crossed from Bear Island back onto the Maryland shore of the Potomac. Fifty feet below them the river glimmered through the trees as it drifted away from the towpath. The canal regained its usual dimensions, running straight for half a mile, and Kevin trained his eyes on the berm. When he saw the dirt scar, he cupped a hand to his mouth. “Ho, Tommy! Whoa now!”
Tom stopped the team and Kevin steered the scow toward a landing on the berm. He looped a line over the tiller, waited until the gap was right, and leapt with the coiled snub line. The scar was a path leading away from the canal, and he jogged a few steps along it as the bow nudged into the berm. He tied the snub line to a tree and turned up the path.