The River of Souls (36 page)

“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.