“A WOMAN? You sent a woman? On my behalf? Oh hell no! Ain’t no way I’m paying for that.” Silas Farthingham was as mad as he had ever been. If he thought for one moment that he could have gotten away with killing Alfred Barnaby, he would have shot him right between the eyes just to watch him die. A pity Alfred Barnaby was so well known in this piddling town, he thought glumly. Damn southerners all to hell, anyway.
“Silas Farthingham. You will please remember this is my home,” Alfred rose up from his chair, unafraid of the irate bully before him. “There are ladies living here in this home; my wife among them. If you cannot control your temper and your language, I must ask you to leave.” Alfred walked over to his study door and opened it. “In fact, I insist upon it. Please do not return until you have yourself under control. Do not make me regret accepting you as a client anymore than I already do.”
Silas gaped like a fish. If Alfred Barnaby had declared that he had just lain an egg, Silas could not have been anymore astonished. Left without any recourse, Silas stomped past the attorney with ill grace. Outside the door he turned and said, "Looks like you have a pair after all.”
Alfred watched Silas Farthingham leave with the awareness he had just made a mortal enemy out of his client.
***
“Six days!” Eleanor Rosenthal shrieked. “Captain Donegal, I cannot be delayed that long.” She stomped her tiny foot in frustration. “I have to get to Fort Randall!”
Captain Donegal winced. “Begging your pardon, Ma’am,” Captain Donegal ruefully faced this pint-sized harridan. “That is as fast as those gears can get here. They have to be shipped from New York, you know. There is nothing else I can do.”
“And you are sure there is no other boat available to take us on to our destination?”
“None that are owned by Inland Coast Shipping, Mrs. Rosenthal. Of course, you are free to make other arrangements. Some of the passengers are doing just that.”
“Yes, but let me get this straight,” Her eyes pierced him with a shrewd glare. “The passengers that make different travel arrangements, do so at their own expense. Am I correct in assuming that?”
“Yes Ma’am. You are correct,” answered Captain Donegal stiffly.
How dare this chit of a girl barge in here, into his private office, and verbally attack him like this. There always has to be one like her on every trip, he grimaced, eyeing the irate young woman in front of him. She certainly did not look like any Pinkerton agent he had ever seen. If he hadn’t received the payment for her passage in person, he would never have believed it. The motto, "We Never Sleep," was too well known to doubt her authenicity.
Agent Rosenthal went right on with her tirade. “Am I also correct in assuming your company refuses to reimburse us for the portion of the trip we have not yet traveled?” Eleanor Rosenthal propped her dainty gloved hands on the edge of the scarred desk, and leaned towards Captain Donegal.
That worthy captain gazed longingly up at the yellowing, wrinkled, dog-eared map of the world pinned up on the wall above his desk vainly trying to calm himself. The map had belonged to his father, Captain Perigrin C. Donegal. His father had passed that map on to the younger Captain Donegal when he retired from Tatterstall, Wesson, and Gorhman, Atlantic Lines, Inc. Oh, to be free to sail the world on his own ship as his father had, thought Captain Donegal. No blasted steam engines to deal with. No prissy, demanding vixens glaring daggers at him because of a situation beyond his control.
Captain Donegal turned back towards Mrs. Rosenthal, and leaned over in his chair to within inches of her pert little nose. The chair squawked a protest at this unusual position. “As I said before, you are quite welcome to stay here on board The Halifax,” he reiterated icily, holding onto his temper by a thread. “Your meals will continue as usual, and there will be no extra charge for the additional days aboard; or the meals, either.”
Eleanor stood up haughtily to her not very significant height and looked down her nose at Captain Donegal, who leaned back in his chair the moment she moved away from his desk. “Your superiors will be hearing from my employer,” she pronounced frostily, determined to have the last word. She spun around, and stomped out of the sweat and oil reeking cabin in an angry whirl of pink-striped silk. The tiny hat perched precariously on her curls bounced in time to her every step.
Only after she was sitting dejectedly on her bed, back in her cabin, did she realize she had forgotten to ask Captain Donegal where she could find a telegraph office. Now she would have to go back up to that odious Captain. How humiliating! On top of that, she had gotten a spot on her new dress from touching that vile desk in his office. Oh, and she did love the pink-striped silk.
Gritting her teeth, she readjusted her hat. It was one of those ridiculous confections she couldn’t resist when it came to accessorizing the new pink silk dress she’d had made at MiMi’s, the best dress shop Chicago had to offer . Eleanor loved nice clothes. She thought about why that was so, as she leaned towards the tiny mirror hanging on the wall in her closet-sized cabin. She blamed it on her many disguises. Most of them were horribly repellent at their worst. At their least, her disguises were the reverse of anything she would wear in real life. It made her crave beautiful clothes whenever she did have the chance to wear them.
Hat adjusted, she slipped her reticule over her gloved hand, and swept from the room, her little pink dove ready for flight. She fortunately ran into the steward who not only kindly helped her across the gangplank, but flagged down a carriage for her, and made sure she was seated comfortably before he took his departure. Eleanor had made another conquest, it seemed. Before she knew it, the carriage deposited her in front of the telegraph office, and promised to return for her in half an hour. Which he did. Eleanor was standing there patiently waiting for its return--now that she had done all she could do presently for her employer’s interest--when the carriage arrived.
She had sent three identical telegrams. The first she had sent to the Pinkerton headquarters. One, of course, she sent to Alfred Barnaby, esquire, in case he wished to pay for her expidited trip on another vessel. The third, she wired to Fort Randall, so they would not be expecting her for two more weeks.
All she could do now, was return to The Halifax. The carriage let her out close to the gangplank, where the steward came rushing up to her and offered his arm to her with a formal little bow. Rupert Merriman was his name, Eleanor found out as he not only eased her crossing the gangplank, but escorted her on to the dining room as well. Mr. Merriman kept up a pleasant stream of chatter the entire distance. Eleanor encouraged him to continue with the merest nod or smile, as appropriate. Inside, however, she wanted nothing more to get to her cabin where she could light up one of her tiny cigars in private. She sighed. From Mr. Merriman’s demeanor, it proposed to be a long evening.
***
Alfred Barnaby got Agent Rosenthal’s telegram later that evening just before he headed in to the dining room to enjoy a leisurely dinner with his wife, Elizabeth.
“Delayed in New Orleans due to circumstances beyond my control. Stop. Will await The Halifax to be repaired, unless there are further orders. Stop. Agent Rosenthal. Stop.”
Alfred chuckled and sent the following reply: “No hurry. Stop. Better to wait there than here. Stop. No further orders. Stop. Let me know when you reach Fort Randall. Stop. Alfred Barnaby, esquire. Stop.”
Now, Silas was going to be really pissed. The Pinkerton’s were charging him by the day for this job. Agent Rosenthal would be able to buy her a really pretty new dress after this. Alfred smiled. He couldn’t wait to tell him. He only hoped the reprieve caused by Agent Rosenthal's delay would benefit Rose McGregor in the long run.