River Queen (16 page)

“Really?” She brightened. “Tell me about him.”

Plank’s mouth tightened. “He was piloting a boat when it hit a brand-new snag, one that no one had come up on yet. Tore the hull in two like it was made of canvas. Now, that happens, you know, and usually there’s no blame put on the pilot, especially a good one. But somehow rumors started flying around, and people talked, and word got out he’d been drunk when he was piloting the boat. The owners fired him, and he’s never been able to get past it. He’s been taking jobs here and there as a fireman, maybe just a roustabout. But I think it might help him—and you—to take on the
River Queen
and get her going again.”

“But is he a drunk?” Julienne demanded.

“I’ll never believe he was drinking when he was piloting,” Plank said with emphasis. “I’ve known the man for years. He’s a river man, he takes a drink, I know. But he’s honest. Dallas Bronte would never take a boat out if he’d been drinking.”

“What! Dallas Bronte!” Julienne repeated with horror.

Captain Plank narrowed his still-sharp blue eyes. “You’ve met him, I take it.”

“Yes, once. Twice. Anyway, he—no, I couldn’t ask him for—for anything. It’s just not possible,” Julienne said in confusion.

“I see,” Captain Plank said, though he didn’t. “Well, then I’m sorry to say that right now nothing else comes to mind, Miss Ashby. I can’t think of another pilot right now that would be in a position to help you.”

For several moments Julienne sat still, confused and upset.
I can’t do this! I won’t!
But then, as it had so often happened since her father died, she came to the hard realization that she could indeed do it, and she would do it, because she had to. She had no choice.

“Perhaps I was too hasty,” she said to Captain Plank, who nodded knowingly. She continued, “Although Mr. Bronte and I have had some unfortunate disagreements, I can see that really I must at least ask him to help us.”

“And he’ll say yes,” Captain Plank said. “Because it’ll help him too.”

WAKING UP LONG BEFORE daylight, Julienne tossed in her bed. She had slept but little, and now as she finally threw the cover back and began to dress, she found herself as disturbed as she could ever remember. She dreaded the thought of going to find Dallas Bronte and asking him for help.

After putting on undergarments, she found herself staring at her dresses and thinking about what would be appropriate. She had no old out-of-fashion dresses for she gave them away as soon they lost favor. Finally she chose a blue and gray striped, polished taffeta skirt with a white silk blouse, lace ascot with a small stickpin, and a tight-fitting gray jacket. As she sat down before the mirror and began brushing her hair, a memory came of the many times that Tyla had done her hair so well. It was a poignant memory, for she had grown genuinely fond of the young woman. She found the tears rising in her eyes and, picking a handkerchief from her dressing table, she wiped them away and finished fixing her hair, parting it down the middle and putting it into a modest bun at the back of her neck. She couldn’t decide between her blue bonnet or her gray, but then she realized that she didn’t have to be meticulous about her dress, not for meeting Dallas Bronte.

CAESAR DROVE THE BROUGHAM down to Natchez-Under-the-Hill. The only decent looking building down there was the harbormaster’s office, a small dusty brick building with muddy windows. “Wait here for me, Caesar, this shouldn’t take but a few moments,” she instructed him.

She went inside to a musty-smelling cluttered room with two desks piled with papers and books. Through the windows she saw hundreds of dust motes floating daintily in the air. A man with his sparse hair parted down the side, a long nose, small close-set eyes, and sleeve garters looked up and then jumped up when he saw Julienne. “Ma’am? Are you lost?”

“No, I’m not lost. I’m looking for a pilot, and a captain friend of mine said he may be registered here.”

“Likely he is,” the man said in a fawning tone. “The pilots always notify us where they are, on what boat, and who is available.”

“I believe this man is available. His name is Dallas Bronte. Has he registered an address with you to be contacted by owners?”

“Well, yes, ma’am,” he said. “So you are an owner? A steamboat owner?”

“I am,” she answered shortly. “I recently inherited a steamer, and if possible I would also like to know where she’s docked. But Mr. Bronte first please, if you could look up his address.”

He gave her a furtive grin. Obviously he had lost some of his awe of her. “I don’t have to look up Bronte’s address. He’s where he always is between jobs. At the Blue Moon.” At her mystified expression he said with a slight leer, “The Blue Moon Saloon and Gentlemen’s Rooms. Right down the street.”

“I see,” she said frostily. “Thank you for that information. Now, my steamer is the
River Queen
. Can you direct me to where she’s docked?”

“The
River Queen
? That wreck? She’s all the way down at the end, you’ll have to walk, I’m afraid. Silver Street ends, but the shore goes on around a little corner, and there she is.”

“Thank you,” she said shortly, and turned to leave.

He called, “Why don’t you let me walk you down there, Miss—Miss—” he hinted.

“I hardly think that’s possible, sir. I haven’t been introduced to you, and so therefore I don’t know you. And I don’t believe that I want to. Good day.”

She hurried out and practically jumped into the buggy. “Drive until you see the Blue Moon Saloon,” she called to Caesar.

“What?” he said incredulously.

“Just drive, Caesar. Blue Moon.”

It was only about a hundred feet down. On Silver Street it was a typically busy day, with riverboat men swaggering, ill-dressed women staggering along, calling out to the men, dirty street urchins running, and mules hauling freight, their drivers whipping them and cursing. Steamships were lined up at the shores with barely enough room between them to reverse out and pull away.

“We’re here,” Caesar called down mournfully. “Miss Ashby, you can’t go in there. Please tell me you ain’t going to.”

“I am going to,” she said evenly, climbing out of the buggy without his assistance. “You just sit right there, Caesar, and if anyone tries to touch the horse or this buggy you give them a smart crack with that whip.” Under her breath she added, “Wish I had a whip to crack.”

The Blue Moon Saloon was a shabby two-story wooden structure with an overhanging tin roof. Two windows in the front had so many years’ grime, and so much river mud, that she could see nothing at all behind them. The sound of a tinny piano blared, and men’s coarse loud voices, mostly profane. She hesitated for a moment at the door, which was sagging wide open. Behind her Caesar called, “Miss Ashby, wait! You just gotta let me come with you.”

Wordlessly she pointed to a dusty, faded sign beside the door. In crude letters it read:
No Negroes.
Caesar could read, and he said nothing else.

Gathering her courage, she went inside and looked around, blinking in the semidarkness. A crude wooden bar along one side took up the entire wall. There were several tables scattered throughout the place. It was not large, and there were only half a dozen men there and one blowsy-looking woman with wild black hair. They all fell silent instantly when she entered. Then one of the men, with only a few black teeth and a limp slouch hat pushed far back on his head said, “Well, looky looky here. A fine lady visiting. Pretty one, too.”

“Shut up, you. Can I help you, miss?”

Julienne looked up to see that a man wearing a semi-clean apron had come wiping his hands on it. He was a big man with steely gray eyes and a huge mustache.

“Please, sir. I’m looking for Mr. Dallas Bronte.”

Surprise leaped to the man’s eyes, and he said, “Well, he’s here.”

“Could I see him, please?”

“Reckon that’ll be up to him. You go up those stairs there and he’ll be in the second room on the left. Just knock on the door.” He saw her hesitation and said in a more kindly tone, “I am Otto, and I run this place, miss. It’s rough enough and really no place for you, but no harm will come to you. Just call out if you have trouble. I’ll be right there.”

“Thank you, sir.” Leaving the man, Julienne was aware that she was being watched. She crossed the floor, and the rickety stairs creaked under her weight. They were caked with mud and dirt, and when she reached the second story she saw that the hallway had a carpet runner that had once been blue but was now a leprous gray.

She heard a woman’s laughter coming from somewhere, and to her dismay when she went to the second door on the left she heard the woman’s loud laugh again. Straightening her shoulders, she knocked on it loudly. A murmur of voices sounded inside and then the door opened, and Julienne found herself facing a skinny young woman wearing a skimpy, low-cut dress. The woman looked her up and down incredulously, then muttered, “What do you want?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Dallas Bronte.”

The woman stared at her then turned and pulled the door open wider. “Dallas, this woman wants you.”

Through the half-cracked door, she saw Dallas Bronte wearing a pair of brown trousers and an undershirt, sitting at a rickety table that held an ashtray with a half-smoked cigar and a worn pack of cards. He had a glass in his hand, and when he looked at her his eyes widened. “Well, well, well. Look at this. Welcome to the Blue Moon, Miss Ashby.”

“You know this woman?” the young woman asked.

“Yes, I know her. Surprised to see her is all.” Julienne did not know what to do. She simply stood there and finally Dallas got to his feet and came to the door. “What could I do for you?”

“Please, Mr. Bronte. Could I talk to you—alone?”

He shrugged. “Guess so, got nothing else to do. Lulie, go take a break will you? I’ll see you tonight.”

“You’d better.” The woman almost shoved her way past Julienne, her back straight, and she shot one withering glance at her.

“Don’t mind Lulie. She’s a friend of mine. You just kinda have to get to know her to appreciate her.” He still stood in front of her, puzzled.

“I apologize for coming without letting you know,” Julienne said with some discomfort.

“Yeah, you should have sent your calling card, and I would have let the butler know to expect you,” he said sarcastically.

Julienne started to retort angrily, but then she looked down for a moment. When she looked back up, he was still watching her warily. “Could we please start over again? I need to talk to you, Mr. Bronte, and it’s very important. Maybe we could take a walk?”

After a slight hesitation he said, “All right. Give me a minute.” He half-closed the door, then reappeared almost instantly with a pullover tan shirt and a somewhat threadbare and shapeless brown coat. Settling a wide-brimmed brown felt hat on his head, he pulled the door closed and motioned for Julienne to go on down the hallway and the stairs. He followed her closely, and no one said anything as they left the Blue Moon.

When they got outside, Dallas immediately looked up and said, “Good day, Caesar. How are you?”

“Very well, sir, considering.”

“And your pretty wife?”

“She’s pretty as ever.”

“Pretty as a rose and can cook like a dream. You hang on to that one, Caesar.”

“I tries my best, sir, I sure do.”

“I’m going to take Miss Ashby for a walk, Caesar. You just wait here, will you? If anyone bothers you, tell them they’ll answer to Dallas Bronte. You hear that?”

“Yes, sir, I hears you, Mr. Bronte,” Caesar said with ill-disguised relief.

They turned and Dallas offered Julienne his arm. The crazy-quilt planks of the boardwalk were so unsteady, she took it, though with some misgivings. He looked down at her, and the sight of his face brought so many memories flooding back to her—some good, some painful, some horrible—that she couldn’t gather her wits enough to speak.

But Dallas seemed not to notice her confusion. He said in his distinctive low voice, “I’m so sorry about your father, Miss Ashby. He seemed like a very good man, a good husband, and a good father.”

Bewildered, she asked, “How do you know so much about my family? And about Caesar and Libby?”