Indeed, Leroy was so responsive to her entreaty, they had nearly caught up with Field’s bobbing seal’s head by the time they reached the steamers. “What happened over there, anyway?” Leroy wanted to know.
“Soquel Haight is what!” Calliope snapped. She was so frightened, frazzled, and angry she did not care who heard her malign the river tycoon. “He doesn’t like that we’re starting our own People’s Line so he sent some midget to sabotage our boat!” The Cleopatra was rumored to be joining The Combination as well, but at the moment Calliope didn’t give a flying fuck. “That evildoing shit sack Soquel Haight—he wanted to get us to stop racing and wound up blowing up our floating palace instead!”
“I’ll tell Captain Cousins to be leery of Haight,” Leroy agreed.
“Spread the word to everyone! Soquel Haight is a shady businessman not to be trusted.”
Calliope was the first to be hoisted up the Cleopatra’s ladder, racing immediately to the other bow where she stripped down to her camisole and leaped heedlessly back into the water.
She only needed to swim the thirty-foot gap between boats, and she hoisted herself to the El Dorado’s main deck by gripping the red-painted paddle box that wasn’t damaged. Firemen pumped river water into the engine room and the burning hold where animals still screamed, and sprayed a chemical from wheeled extinguishers directly into the flames. Calliope slipped in the slimy water, banging her shoulder painfully against the structure of the galley. Her galley that was so splintered into smithereens she could see pots blown so forcefully into bulkheads they were embedded in the wood planking, exploded watermelon rinds dripping from the ceiling, and—where was Maurice?
“Maurice! Maurice!” Calliope’s loudest bellow couldn’t be heard over the firemen shouting instructions, and she had to get above to the pilothouse to find Rushy. “Have you seen Rushy? Captain Wakeman?” All she got for her efforts were blank, sooty faces. No one had seen Rushy.
But a couple of firemen did yell at her to “get off the boat, missy!”
There was no way to use the interior stairs to the next deck—they were on fire. Calliope grabbed the sleeves of several firemen in succession, screaming, “The captain is still up in the pilothouse!” She was able to drag the last two firemen to the bow just as Maurice passed them by, clutching a white bundle of fabric.
“Miss Calliope!” Maurice shouted, pointing to where the forward part of the hurricane deck careened over like a waterfall, its railing splayed out like so many rotten teeth. Calliope shaded her eyes against the falling rain to see Field up there waving like all possessed, Cincinnatus next to him. And Rushy’s head was just visible as he clung to the shattered rail, blood dripping down his neck. “Captain Rushy needs to jump into this!”
Maurice displayed a linen tablecloth, and the firemen looked at each other skeptically. One of them went to round up more men while Calliope gripped the edge of the cloth and looked up.
“Is he all right?”
“Just his sprained arm,” Field shouted back down. “He took a mighty whopping ride when the pilothouse shot off the roof.”
The fireman returned with about five others, and they all gripped the edges of the linen.
“Jump, Rushy! Jump!” the firemen exhorted.
It was more of a roll that Rushy had to take then, and he nearly snagged on the crooked teeth of the railing. But he hugged his sprained arm close to his torso and rolled, his weight buoyed by the tightness of the tablecloth, and he only bounced his butt a couple of times against the deck.
Calliope carefully flung herself atop him, sprinkling his oily, bloody face with kisses. “Rushy, Rushy,” she purred over and over. The firemen raced off to spray more water and chemicals on the fire as Field shimmied down the broken rail like a monkey and fell into a pile of limbs next to them.
Rushy propped himself up on his good arm and smiled weakly. “That was some ride,” he agreed. “You need to go help the firemen.”
Field kissed Rushy dead on the mouth, sweetly and gently, licking the oil and blood from his full, sensuous lips. Maybe it took Rushy’s mind off the fact that his boat was rapidly disintegrating into a pile of blackened embers. Rushy kissed him back, sucking on Field’s mouth, uncaring that Cincinnatus stood over them with hands on hips.
When Calliope placed a hand on Rushy’s thigh to lean in and join the kiss, he inhaled a hiss and recoiled back.
“Oh, damn,” said Calliope. “Something’s wrong with his leg.”
They stood Rushy up, Calliope allowing the much taller Cincinnatus to sling one of the pilot’s arms over his shoulder, and headed gingerly toward the Cleopatra’s bow.
“The boiler shot clear into the middle of the river,” said Rushy.
“I think they’ll get the fire out,” said Calliope. “Right, Maurice?”
“Right, ma’am!”
They stepped around a plush red seat that lay smoking, covered by a pile of loose planking. A section of one of Calliope’s sideboards barred their way, contents spilled out and smoldering. When she reached out to touch one of her favorite centerpieces of artificial roses, she noticed her forearm was bleeding slickly from the knife that had blasted into it, as though she were a fresh piece of pork loin.
“Captain Cousins!” Calliope raised an arm to get the Cleopatra captain’s attention. He saluted, and she bellowed through the smoke, “Send the skiff over! Captain Wakeman is here. Injured.”
The remaining crew members of the El Dorado looked at each other expressionlessly. Their eyes held various combinations of rage, pain, and sheer bewilderment at the enormity of what had just happened.
“You don’t mind me,” Rushy told Field. “Take care of the boat. Oversee all these clowns, or the hull will fill with water.”
Field straightened out Rushy’s soiled lapel as though he were attending a ball. “I’ll oversee you.”
“When did you last see the shrimpy Celestial responsible for this mess?” Rushy asked.
Field replied, “When I tossed him over the rail. Haven’t seen hide or hair of Stan Sitwell either, since he apparently allowed the riceman to ruin the boiler.”
Rushy tried to josh. “Evidently he didn’t cotton to being told not to molest you anymore.”
Calliope added, “It’s really Soquel Haight who’s responsible. The peewee only did what he was paid to do.” She thought about the hand she’d seen floating and more than one other unidentifiable body part. “Go up the hill, Rushy.”
“Calliope, you go with Rushy back to Sacramento,” Field said. “Find the doctor. I’ll join you once I’ve sorted out this rathole.”
“Don’t lose the El Dorado,” Rushy said, his eyes reflecting the last of the flames flickering from the destroyed galley. “I’ll take care of Soquel Haight. I’m going to ruin that jackleg, Field. I’ll use him up so small that God Almighty himself can’t see his ghost.”
The last thing Field did was take Calliope’s hand in his and kiss it, seemingly to ensure her ring hadn’t flown off in the blast. His eyes sparkled with determination, and love welled inside of her at his bravery and capability.
Epilogue
March 1854
“And once again we have these stalwart captains of the river to thank!” cried Mark Hopkins, holding his champagne glass on high. The two hundred passengers—dazed, anxious, some hysterical or in various stages of wallpapered bliss—crowding the El Dorado saloon all raised their own glasses in response. “Captain Wakeman and my boy Captain Trueworthy here have demonstrated to the people of Sacramento what it really means to pledge your bravery and commitment to saving citizens’ lives.”
Hopkins yanked Field by the arm and forced him to stand. Field felt ridiculous but had no choice. This wasn’t the first time Hopkins had referred to him as “my boy.” Field had come a long way since the days when he would hide from Hopkins for fear of being accused of stealing his steam engine.
A red-faced Hopkins even set down his glass in order to clap furiously, crying, “Here’s to you! Hoora
h!”
The sea of passengers, most of them disheveled after slogging through the floodwaters that had risen over the Sacramento wharf, hoorahed and drank some more. Field tried to sit down, but Hopkins urged him to a speech. Tobias Fosburgh also elbowed Field and murmured in his ear, “Take your day in the sun. With Hopkins on our side, we can’t go wrong!”
Field started out feebly. “It is no big demonstration of bravery to take ruined and luckless citizens on my steamer. It is only through the generosity of those citizens that I even have a steamer after the explosion in November nearly put my boat out of commission permanently.”
Everyone nodded and looked about at the new velvet seats, fanciful cuspidors, and bright new murals.
Field raised his voice, waxing enthusiastic about his love of Californians. “My boat would not be here today to spirit you to safety were it not for your patronage during those difficult times. Now, hundreds have lost all they possess except their energy to earn more. Many of you could have chosen to patronize only boats belonging to the California Steam Navigation Company. But most of you remained loyal. You did not wish to fatten the purses of The Combination, the empire-building industrialists who only seek to enrich their own coffers at the expense of the ordinary fellow. You recognized that the blowhards of The Combination have been responsible for causing more steamer explosions on the river—for being heedless of how many deaths of Celestials, Kanakas, miners, and the common laborer were caused by overcrowding or overwork!”
“OK!” Tobias spat in Field’s ear. “Enough with the riceman stuff. Talk about your beautiful new wife. People love a romance.”
That was a good idea. Field gazed lovingly down at his bride. They had just been married in Sacramento before the river breached its banks, rising twelve feet in twenty-four hours and surging through the streets. Field raised his now-empty glass to Calliope, soaked to the skin in her exquisite ivory wedding dress, grimy and blood-smeared, as were most of the other passengers. Her beautifully molded features had never looked lovelier, her refulgent face never happier.
“My dearly beloved wife is not cooking for us today, since it is her wedding day. Her cordon bleu assistants from Kwangtung are in the galley preparing top-flight chop to warm your stomachs. Mrs. Calliope Trueworthy and our brave pilot Rushy Wakeman will be here to assist you with anything you may need, as they have been for the citizens of Sacramento in good times and bad.
“This is the land of enterprise, of energy, of hope—not the land of tearful, mewling, yellow louses. Our slogan is ‘Go ahead with the rush!’ We will rebuild and raise the levees to the regal heights befitting the kingly denizens of the greatest town in California!”
Tobias elbowed him again. “OK, take a break, chief. Order more champagne.”
That was another good idea. Field hoorahed some more as a few bedraggled Sacramento inhabitants fell out of their chairs. He told Chiao Kuo to fetch more champagne and bugjuice for the miners, took a seat, and turned to his wife.
My wife. Field never thought he’d be saying those words again. Or that it would fill him with such encompassing joy, especially in the face of recent disasters. Events didn’t seem to affect him as profoundly anymore with Calliope by his side. “My puss. If you want to change out of those sodden garments and primp up, go ahead to our stateroom.”
“Yes,” Rushy agreed. He was dashing today in his new frock coat that made him resemble an Alabama gambler, even if it was also torn and smeared with various ointments. “You might catch your death of chills.”
“So might you,” Calliope pointed out.
Field said, “You’ve got that cunning honeymoon ensemble. Change into that.”
Calliope put her palms on her bosom. “But I want to wear this dress! This is the last time in my life I ever intend on wearing a wedding dress, and I want to get my satisfaction out of it.”
“You’d look just as exquisite ragged out in your honeymoon getup. Here, allow me to help you.”
Field rose and took Calliope’s hand but saw that Rushy looked a bit dejected. Field had worried about this, although Rushy protested that it wasn’t so. Rushy proclaimed that he was perfectly content with their arrangement—that Field should be the one to sign the marriage license and that they would continue their mutually gratifying understanding. Now Rushy just looked forlorn. Nobody would notice if Field took Rushy by the hand and led him down the saloon gallery. People were jammed into this room like moldy, musty sardines, and no one was paying attention to the other patrons who were groping each other’s vitals. They had discontinued their public exhibitions aboard “The Coitus Boat,” but their private displays went on as ever.
Field asked, “Does Cincinnatus know where to cut across Gonzalez’s wheat field?”
Cincinnatus had been selected to be the sole pilot today, one of the most difficult days of the El Dorado’s career, with floodwaters bringing down trees and the visibility of underwater snags almost nil in the murky swirling water. But Cincinnatus knew his soundings, echoes, and signs, and he was proud to be given this task. Now the river waters were so high one could steam directly across fields and islands, using tall trees or chimneys of farmhouses as guides, cutting down travel time. Field had not heard of any steamers being wrecked on anyone’s roof, so far.
“He’s fine, he’s fine,” said Rushy, practically shoving Field into the stateroom and locking the door behind him.
Turning her back to the men, Calliope began unpinning her veil. Field stayed her by placing a hand on her bare shoulder above the sloping sleeves of her elaborate dress. Turning her to face the full-length mirror, Field propped his chin on her sun-browned shoulder. “Look at how stunning you are. Isn’t she stunning, Rushy?”
Rushy’s apparition appeared in the mirror, grinning foolishly despite his own disarrayed state. “I want to make love to the bride, but it’s your turn first, buddy.”
A surge of warm color raced up Calliope’s bared bosom at this suggestion. It had been agreed awhile back that Calliope would remain a “virgin” until her wedding day. It was a silly, old-fashioned notion and they had done everything under the sun aside from fuck her six ways from Sunday. But Calliope liked the idea, and Field readily agreed with her. It would make it that much better when it happened.
“Yes.” Calliope smiled. “But you have to let me…arrange myself first.”
She reached out to the washstand and picked up a little object that resembled a sponge. Placing it in a dish, she uncorked a bottle of whiskey or some other amber-colored liquid and dribbled it on the sponge. With glimmering eyes she handed it to Field as though it were an oyster’s pearl.
He had seen hookers use contraception in this manner, and they had agreed to wait for awhile before having a child. “Do you want me to…”
“Insert it? Yes.” To display her intentions, Calliope leaned with both palms against the washstand, waggling her ass at Field.
Field crunched Calliope’s lush satin skirts in his hand, tucking a handful into the sash at her waist. Above the feminine little pearl-handled derringer she had cinched inside her garter, she wore no drawers at all. She spread apart her heeled slippers on the carpet and lifted her ass higher, and Field needed no more encouragement. He slid the pocket pistol from her garter, placing it on a shelf, and pressed the dripping sponge against her mushy labia lips. Manipulating her from the rear, Field admired the view—her flaring hips widening out to an ass shaped like an upside-down heart, her blonde muff fringed with damp tendrils. He rubbed the sponge against her swollen pink clitoris, and she gasped like a steam valve.
Behind him, Rushy slowly eased his fancy frock coat from his shoulder. Rushy nuzzled his neck with his hot mouth as he slid the material off past his wrists. “You thrust that juicy, long prick up her beautiful cunt,” he advised.
Field’s cock was already stiff as a hammer, and he nudged the booze-soaked sponge inside Calliope’s slick pussy. He brought his other hand round her pubic bone to diddle her clitoris as she inhaled sharply. Watch
ing her in the mirror was incredibly arousing—her bosom heaving, how she brought up a knee to prop herself wide open against the washstand, just her lacquered fingertips supporting her against the marble.
He stuffed the sponge up as far as seemed practical, having never inserted one himself before. It was odd to be tickling her womb as though he were a doctor but also strangely stimulating, toying with his bride wearing such an opulent, luxurious gown. Reluctantly his dripping fingers slid out of the slimy passageway. “I don’t need no assistance in that, partner.” Whenever Rushy nibbled at his neck, gooseflesh spread down his chest, stiffening his nipples, making his cock twitch. “Why don’t you get on your knees and give her a good tongue-lashing. That’ll be her wedding gift.”
“I’m no damned good at that, remember?” Rushy murmured and swiftly slid a palm down Field’s abdomen to grip a handful of his bulging penis. Rushy’s other hand deftly unbuttoned his shirt collar while he nipped at Field’s earlobe. “Why would I,” Rushy breathed and plied an enormous, fat lick to the length of his neck, “when you’ve got the most talented, biggest mouth on the river.”
Field chuckled then, as much from ticklishness as from humor, allowing Rushy to delve his hot hand into his broadfall and withdraw his drooling cock. His pants dropped below his knees as Rushy nestled his packed, bulging crotch against the cleft of his ass.
But Calliope was impatient. “Boys, please!” She wagged her ass like a saucy dancer, gyrating her swollen clitoris against Field’s fingers. “I’m not just standing here for my health. Well, maybe I am, but…Please!”
It required great concentration to maintain his deft fingering of her jutting appendage while positioning the head of his cock between her labia. She offered herself to him so vulnerably, her ass in the air all wide open like that. Field knew he wanted to feel her come around his prick. His first wife Victoria had adored it when he’d diddled her like this and had claimed to experience crisis, but it was difficult to know for certain, when women didn’t spew jism like men.
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