The River Rose (13 page)

"Actually, I do. You see, I was brought up on a steamboat. My parents and I lived on my father's steamboat, the
Pearl.
He owned it, and he was the pilot and captain. In fact, I learned a lot about piloting a steamboat myself," she said matter-of-factly. "Not on the Mississippi, but on the Arkansas River. Do you know it?"

"Do I know it," he repeated slowly. "Do I know . . . the Arkansas River? And you grew up on a steamboat? And you've even piloted a steamboat?"

"Yes, Mr. Hardin. That's what I said. We are speaking English here, are we not?" she said tartly.

But he only grinned, a wide unconstrained expression, forgetting the pain of his mouth. "Do you know what I call that, Mrs. Bettencourt?"

"I don't know what you would call it," she said, "but I call it a miracle of God."

He rapid-fired questions to her all the way down to the docks. She answered some and didn't know others, but she was surprised at his quickness, at the sharp and incisive nature of his questioning. They reached Jefferson Avenue, which was past the high bluffs and was the first of four avenues that led down the gentle slope to the river. Traffic in town, and on the river, was light, since many people still celebrated the days between Christmas and New Year's day as holidays. Still, there were eleven steamers along the riverfront, their gangways down and roustabouts loading and unloading cargo and a few passengers coming and going. Clint clasped Jeanne's arm a little tighter as they went past the carts and drays and shouting roustabouts. "Mr. Deshler said she's moored up at the north end," he said, and Jeanne nodded.

On the other side of the wharf sat a group of several men, chewing tobacco and spitting and talking. Every one of them was black from head to toe, their red eyes staring out fiendishly. Clint and Jeanne were passing them when one of them yelled, "Clint! Hey, Clint! Hold up!"

They stopped and looked, and when the man got close to them Clint said, "Vinnie! You look awful!"

He grinned, and his teeth shone very white against his ebony face. "Just finished loading up a big ol' girl with coal. What are you doing here?"

He stared curiously at Jeanne, but she was paying him no mind at all. She was looking down the wharf, her eyes narrowed. Clint began, "Vince, may I introduce—"

At that moment Jeanne yanked her arm away from Clint and stalked down the pier.

"Where's she going?" Vince asked blankly.

"I dunno," Clint said. "She does that."

They watched as Jeanne went two steamers down, where a big, high-sided wood cart was being unloaded onto a shabby steamer pulled alongside. "That's Old Man Mock's wood dray," Vince told Clint. "He'll pinch a penny 'til it screams. He tried, once, to scamp some roustabouts out of paying them what he owed them, said they took too long and time was money and it wasn't coming out of his pocket. 'Course, word got around so none of us will load for him now. He hires the wood monkeys, and he picks the ones that are really hungry and pays 'em two cents. Think she knows him?"

"Doesn't look like it," Clint observed. Jeanne had walked up to a short, fat man in a filthy yellow waistcoat who was rapping the three wood boys on the back with a stout stick as they staggered by with two and sometimes three logs. Jeanne's hands were on her hips, and her face was a picture of outrage. Even as they watched, the fat man raised the stick and waved it threateningly. Clint said, "Uh-oh," and he ran toward them, followed by Vince, whose day had just improved mightily.

Before they reached the two, Jeanne reached up with the quickness of a snake and snatched the stick out of the man's hand. "How would you like it if I beat
you
with this stick?" she said wrathfully.

Old Man Mock's face turned a livid purple. "Jest who do you think you are, little girl! You give me my stick back!"

Jeanne contemptuously threw it over his head into the river. Mock took a step towards her, his hand upraised, his expression vicious.

"You don't want to do that," Clint said, suddenly appearing and grabbing Mock's upraised arm.

"OW! Leggo of me, you beat-up sorry—OW!" he howled.

"You don't want to say that either," Clint said calmly, his grip tightening on Mock's fat arm.

"Awright! Awright! Leggo!" Clint released him and he stumbled backwards a step, rubbing his forearm. "You got a grip like a gator! And she—" he pointed a filthy forefinger accusingly at Jeanne and shook it—"she took my stick! And throwed it in the river!"

"Yeah, I noticed," Clint said, and turned to Jeanne who looked as if she'd like to pick up Mock and throw him in the river. Behind him, Vince watched with a wide delighted grin stuck on his face. The three wood boys had stopped loading to watch, and a couple of other roustabouts had come close to observe. "Mrs. Bettencourt, I think—yeah, there she goes," he finished under his breath.

Jeanne walked over to one of the wood boys and said, "Roberty, why would you let that awful man beat you like that?"

He stared up at her helplessly and wordlessly. She sighed and put her arm around his shoulders. "Just drop that wood right now. You're coming with me."

Slowly he let the two heavy logs drop and she kept her arm around his shoulders and walked back up to the pier. She looked over at Clint, Vince, and Old Man Mock, who were all watching her with a kind of dread fascination. "Well? Are you coming, Mr. Hardin?" She and Roberty turned and began walking.

Clint and Vince looked at each other and then followed them. Old Man Mock shouted after them, "All you crazy people jist stay away from me!"

Over his shoulder Vince yelled, "Better watch yourself, Old Man! She might come back, you know!" Mock looked alarmed.

They caught up to Jeanne and Roberty and stayed a few steps behind them. "Hey, Clint? Think you might let me know what you've got yourself into here?" Vince asked.

"It's a long story," Clint said, frowning. "It's been a long morning. Long and short of it, I'm half owner of a riverboat, and she owns the other half. We're going to see her now."

"Which boat?" Vince asked eagerly.

"Name of
Helena Rose.
You know it?"

"Sure! That's Bull Hardin's boat. She's been docked down there since he died. Uh—you said you own it now?"

"Half of it."

"And that lady up there owns the other half?"

"Yep."

Vince digested this. "Okay. Uh—who's the boy? The wood monkey?"

"Don't have any idea. You can go ask her if you want."

"No, thanks," Vince said vehemently. After a moment he said thoughtfully, "So, you own Bull Hardin's
Rose
now. It never occurred to me that you were kin, even with the same last name."

"I never met him, never heard of him. I guess he's a real distant cousin."

"Is she a Hardin too?"

"No, her name is Bettencourt."

"Oh. What's her first name?"

"I forgot," Clint rasped. "And trying to get her to talk is like trying to pull a stripped bolt."

"You're joshing," Vince said disbelievingly. "You mean there's a live woman on this earth that you can't charm into telling all of her secrets?"

"She's not exactly my kind of woman," Clint muttered. "Anyway, tell me about this boat. What do you know about her?"

Vince pointed. "See for yourself. There she is."

She floated light, with only the gentlest of movements on the long lazy river swells. Painted white, her smokestacks and paddle wheel were a bright true red. The main cargo deck was open at the front, with the boiler room and engine room enclosed behind. The Texas deck was completely enclosed, with a railed walkway around, with windows all along the sides and front. On top perched the pilothouse, white with red trim. Painted on both sides and on the back above the paddle wheel in crimson fine script:
Helena Rose.

Jeanne and Roberty stood still, studying her, and Clint walked up to stand beside Jeanne. "So what do we think?" When she answered him, he was surprised at the warmth and pleasure in her voice.

"She's trim and neat. The paint needs touching up a little, but the windows are all intact and they're even clean. She looks very well cared for, from the outside at least."

On the cargo deck a dog lolled up into their view and regarded them curiously. "Hello, Leo," Jeanne called. He began to wag, as it were; his whole rear end moved and his skinny tail went around in a lopsided figure eight. His long red tongue flopped out, and it looked like he was grinning. "Silly dog," she said, smiling.

"So do we wade out there?" Clint asked. The boat was about twelve feet away from the shore.

Vince appeared beside him. "Maybe, maybe not. Hey, Ezra! Ahoy the
Rose
! Ezra!"

A man came out of the deep shadows behind Leo. He was in his late forties, with stooped but broad shoulders and long thick arms. He wore a black stocking cap pulled down over his ears. Lifting one hand, he shaded his eyes and looked them over. "Who is all you people?" he asked in an aggrieved tone.

Vince stepped forward. "It's me, Vinnie, Ezra. These are the new owners of the boat. Except the boy. I don't know who he is."

"And I don't know any black fellers named Vinnie," Ezra retorted.

"I'm not a black feller," Vince argued. "I'm just—oh, forget it, Ezra! This gentleman and this lady are the new owners of the
Rose
. Lower a gangway so we don't have to swim."

"Can't you see I'm the only man on this here boat? You think me and Leo can lower away?"

"Why did you—" Vince bawled, then turned to Clint. "Why did he pull off and raise the gangplank anyway?"

"How should I know? So what do we do?"

"I'll wade out there, it's probably not but a foot or so deep anyway," Vince said, plopping down on the muddy riverside to pull off his shoes.

Clint threw himself down beside him. "Somehow I figured as soon as I heard I owned a boat I'd end up getting wet."

"Oh, dear," Jeanne said. "I don't suppose I could help?"

"No!" Clint and Vince said in unison.

Within a few minutes they had waded out and together had manhandled the huge capstan to lower one of the landing stages. Ezra and Leo watched with interest. Jeanne lightly came up the walkway, followed by Roberty with a bemused expression on his face.

Ezra watched Clint and Vince as they wrung out the bottoms of their trousers and replaced their socks and brogans. "Bet thass cold," he opined.

"It's freezing," Vince grumbled. "And I hadn't gotten wet in two days. At least my feet are still white."

Clint rose and stuck out his hand to Ezra. "Mr. Givens, my name is Clint Hardin. Mr. Deshler, the attorney, told us you'd be here, and I want to thank you for watching out for the
Rose.
This is Mrs. Bettencourt. She and I are co-owners of the boat now."

He nodded slowly. "Mr. Deshler, he did tell me that a man and a lady were the new owners. Pleased to meet you, sir, ma'am."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Givens," Jeanne said. "Mr. Hardin, I'm going to go look at the cabins and the pilothouse first. Roberty, wait here with Mr. Givens, and this is Leo." She gave the dog a cursory pat on his broad head and went toward the outside stairs that led to the Texas deck.

Though he hadn't been invited, Clint doggedly followed her up the stairs to the Texas deck. The door was in the middle of the deck, and they went into a narrow hallway. Just on their right was the galley, with a sliding door that was standing open. Jeanne went into the small room and exclaimed with delight, "A range! A real, honest-to-goodness range! And, oh my goodness, is that an icebox? And pots, and pans, and utensils!" She opened a couple of the high narrow cabinets. "Seasonings, spices, condiments!"

Clint thought the galley was very small and cramped, but he had to admit it was laid out efficiently. On each wall was mounted an eighteen-inch-wide polished oak board that served as a working counterspace. Above the counters were cabinets, tall and narrow, except where the cast-iron stove's pipe went out the wall, and where the single window was. There were six stools neatly stored under the counters, along with some barrels and sacks.

Across the hall another sliding door opened into a plain room with two sets of bunks on either side of the window. One weatherbeaten old chest sat at the foot of one of the bunks, which were all neatly made. "Crew quarters," Jeanne said. She went all the way down the hall, where there were two doors just at the end, and opened the door on the left-hand side. "This would be the captain's cabin, I expect."

It was a long room, with six four-paned windows along the side and two on the back wall. Underneath the windows on the back was a plain desk with nothing on it. About midway down the room two armchairs were pushed against the wall, and a round cherry tea table stood upended between them. At the far end of the room stood a full-sized bed, the bedstead of plain oak with a high headboard and footboard. The mattress was covered with a single sheet. Along the wall next to the hallway stood an enormous armoire, dark and glossy, with curlicue trim and shiny brass knobs and handles.

"Not bad," Clint said, looking around. "It's a lot better than my room."

Jeanne gave him an odd look. "I suppose we should see if that's another cabin across the hall."

They went to it, and it was a cabin, a mirror image of the other, but this one was completely unfurnished. "Wonder what the deal is with this?" Clint murmured.

Jeanne planted herself in front of him and blurted out, "So I suppose you're thinking of living here, on the
Rose
."

"The thought's occurred to me, sure, just like it has to you. But it seems to me that that's kind of long odds. I mean, isn't it the usual thing for a steamboat to have people like, oh, I don't know, a pilot and a captain living in these quarters?"

"Yes, of course. It's just that I hadn't thought about you—living here." She spoke almost as if she were talking to herself.

He waited to see if she would say more, but she remained silent, so he said, "How about we go take a look at the pilothouse? I've never seen one."

Silently she led him to the stairs at the end of the hallway that led up to the hurricane deck. They went into the pilothouse and instantly Jeanne went to the wheel, put her hands on the pins, and stared out the wide front window with a faraway look in her eyes.