by L. J. Martin
"That's kind of you, young lady."
The boat's purser is almost at a run as he comes to her side; fat, officious, and a little breathless, manages. "You must be Miss Allenthorpe?"
"Yes, Madam Angel Allenthorpe."
"Can't begin to tell you how privileged we are to have you aboard. Follow me to your stateroom," and he spins on a heel and starts away, then turns back to us. "Well, get her bags, you two louts."
I have to smile and snap at Ian, out of the lady's earshot, "Yeah, Lord Ian, get the damn bags, you lout."
"What's a lout?" he asks, not knowing to be offended or not.
"Well, sir, I believe it's a low life...or maybe a bumpkin...and that sure as hell fits a fellow who still has not thanked his pard for the long johns."
"Since you bought Pearl a ticket, I thank you for the long johns."
"And odds are," I say as I pick up the end of a heavy trunk, "you'll be thanking me again most every winter day up river."
Pearl is right behind Madam Allenthorpe and Ian and I take up the trail, him at the front and me dragging up the back, hauling the first of the steamer trunks.
I have heard of Madam Angel Allenthorpe, a celebrated singer and actress. I'm surprised she's not accompanied by an entourage of hangers-on and a full orchestra. But it seems she's alone.
After we get her settled I take a moment to admire her stateroom, actually a pair of rooms, one of which is a smaller necessary room with a toilet scupper through the hull and nearby ladle in a scuttlebutt of water to wash it clean, a dressing table, a cupboard for the stowing of clothes, and a full length reflecting glass. The bed is a four poster and wide enough for four should they sleep on their sides. I'm sure the fluffy covering is filled with goose down. It's just a mite different than our quarters, I think, with a smile.
There are sixty staterooms on the main deck, but I'm sure no more than one other the size of this one. She is scheduled for one hundred twenty passengers plus a crew of twenty. There is a main dining room that seats sixty, a smoking room for men only to one end, forward with a fine view of the river ahead, and a much smaller sitting room for women only aft of the main. The kitchen is on the lower deck and serves the dining room with both a stairway and a dumb waiter.
Miss Allenthorpe has changed into a full length purple silk robe with yellow rope trim tied tight around what I presume is a corseted narrow waist and Pearl is seated nearby, hard at work, while we load the lady's belongings. While we're admiring her lodging, she reaches into a reticule and offers each of us a coin. "Thank you, gentlemen."
Both of us refuse.
"Then I will buy you a glass of champagne after we're underway."
"Not necessary," I say.
"Yes, it is necessary," she says, so I merely nod.
She turns to Pearl. "Are you voyaging with us?"
"Yes, ma'am," Pearl says with a quick glance, still sewing away.
"You're doing a fine job. I bought that dress in Rome, and I believe you've saved it. Are you employed on the Eagle?"
"No, ma'am. I be a passenger," she smiles, flashing white teeth, "going west to find my fortune, don't ya know."
"And you have a stateroom?"
Pearl laughs, as do Ian and I.
"No, ma'am. I be down in de belly of de boat with these two louts." She seems to find that amusing.
Miss Allenthorpe eyes us up and down, then turns back to Pearl. "They seem gentlemen to me." We give her a smile and she turns back to Pearl. "I need a lady's maid to help with my ablutions and such. I hope you're not offended by the idea. If you'd consider the job we can make you a pallet in the dressing room. I'll remunerate you at the rate of one dollar per day."
Pearl looks a little suspicious. "Ma'am. What be remunerate?"
"I'll pay you."
Pearl's eyes are now shining. "Sure 'nuf. I gots to get my satchel."
"And I'll teach you the king's English."
"Yes, ma'am," she says, and I can see she's wondering what that means as well, but the dollar a day has her head spinning.
The lady turns to us. "Thank you, gentlemen. If you don't mind, I'd like my privacy."
And we follow Pearl out and down the ladder to the lower deck, and damned if I'm not jealous.
As Pearl is gathering up her things, I suggest, "So, Pearly...or should I now say, Miss Pearl, I guess you're shed of Ian and me?"
She's silent for a long moment, then, her arms full of her belongings, offers, "Mister Braden, as God is my witness, I will pay you the hundred dollars you done spent on my fare."
"I don't expect that, Pearl. Consider it remuneration," and I laugh, "for caring for my folks. I'm glad for you."
"You ain't seen the end of me, Braden McTavish."
I have yet to correct either she or Ian with my temporary name, Nolan Byrne. So I take the opportunity. "Y'all call me Nolan for a while. It's the name I took in case those Arrow Rock boys check the passenger list."
She nods, and Ian shrugs, then adds, "I kind of like your new name, lout."
"Don't get used to it," I say, only half amused.
With that, Pearl moves away and I can't help but think she's not only moving up the ladder to a high floor, but up to a higher station in life. I smile at the thought. But I'm also a little maudlin, seeing her disappear.
As I'm contemplating getting what I wanted, to be shed of a woman on this difficult trip, four fellows appear near the boilers. I wander over to where they seem to be preparing to depart.
"Y'all mind if I watch?" I ask, and a burly fellow with dirty blond pork chop sideburns and a shiny bald pate, shoulders like an ox, and a raspy voice that's used to shouting over steam engine noise. His shirt is missing the top two buttons, and tufts of blond chest hair protrude.
"You bunked down here?" he asks, looking me up and down.
"Yep. Me and my pardner over there."
"We're short a hand. Peabody done got drunk and throwed in the Brunswick jail. I can pay you a dollar and a half for a twelve hour day, if 'n you prove your worth."
"How about my pardner?"
"Only need one. You want the work or not?"
"How about this. I work one day, my pardner the next. We can save us a half dollar a day fare if we graze the stock when we tie up nights."
He thinks about that a moment as he looks over to where Ian is scratching the ears of one of my mules. "That's fine by me, if you're both willing to pitch in when we're taking on wood, every three days or so."
"I already paid for two meals a day for the two of us."
"We eat down here, but if you paid you can eat topside with the fines. We take a half hour for dinner and a half hour for supper."
"Fines?" I ask.
"Yeah, them fine highfalutin' city folks who had the silver to pay their way."
I laugh. "Well, sir, I never thought myself highfalutin' but I paid for the chow. If we breakfast above can we lunch with the crew then supper above?"
"We can work that out," he says, with a low guffaw. "We eat right good down here. One of the perks of working the boats."
"When do we start?" I ask.
"I'll train you today and you can start in the morning. No pay while you're training, other than lunch."
"Done," I say, extending my hand. "I'm Brad...I mean, I'm Nolan Byrne. That ugly fellow over there is Ian Hollihan."
"Dag Eriksen," he says, and pumps my hand like he's trying to bring up a gallon of water. And it's a hand with a quarter inch of callous and rougher than a dry corn cob.
He wastes no time and yells at Ian. "Hey, Hollihan, get your lazy Irish ass over here if you want to prove your worth."
Ian eyes him with some doubt as he hasn't been privy to the discussion, but then comes over and accepts Eriksen's extended hand. "What's up?" he asks.
"We're working for this straw boss—"
"Engineer," Eriksen corrects.
"For Engineer Dag Eriksen. You and me trading off every other day—"
"Nights," Eriksen corrects. "Least for a wh
ile. Y'all's the low man on the totem pole."
I shrug, then add, "We're training today for lunch, but one of us works on the morrow."
"Tonight," Eriksen corrects again. "And you'll help load a barge full of wood today before we drop lines."
Ian shrugs. "The hell you say. And we're making a little coin for this hot work?"
"Yeah, I'm making two dollars a day and you're making a dollar. That's cause I'm the best looking."
"Humph," Ian says. "So it's a dollar and a half a day each, even though you're a sogger."
"Twelve hours, and you'll earn it," Eriksen says, and guffaws again.
"Mr. Eriksen," I say, "you do the trainin', we'll do the learning."
Then he points from one to the other of the rest of the crew. The first is a red headed stump with a mottled face. "That's Willard...we call him Wheezy." The second has a scar across one white eye and no front teeth, "that there is Alabama." The last is scarecrow thin with long stringy gray hair to his shoulders, "and the skinny fellow is Eustace, goes by Slim down here."
They all give me a nod and disdainful look. I guess Peabody was a friend and they hate seeing him replaced.
The men return to work and Eriksen waves us to follow as he speaks, “We’re a mountain boat, shallow draft and fast, and it’s a good thing as it’s three thousand miles of backbreakin’ curves and dangerous snags and sandbars from St. Louie to Fort Benton, and we’ll climb to five thousand feet above sea level by the time we tie up there.”
“So,” I ask, “curves and sandbars?” I shrug. “Is that the worst we’ll face?”
Eriksen guffaws and slaps his thighs. “Well, if ’n you don’t consider the snags and logs damn near as long as the boat, tornadoes, winds wantin’ to upend us, hail big as hen eggs, fire from the heaven that would split us down the middle should we be hit, ten times our number of Osage, Pawnee, Arikara, Sioux, Assiniboine and the damned murderous Blackfeet and Crow who’ll gut you, scalp you, and tan your hide to use for a possibles bag…or maybe ass wipe.” With that he guffaws again, then waves us along. “Oh, yeah,” he adds, “and that don’t take into consideration the dugouts, flatboats, Mackinaws, keelboats, and other side wheelers wantin’ to run us over or shoot us down if we get close enough to run them over, and willin’ to pot shot any man foolish enough to show himself, we get near. And, of course, these two damn boilers could go anytime, y’all don’t pay close attention. That would cook the meat right off ’n your bones and make us all fish food.”
Ian sidles up beside me and says in a low voice. “Damn if he ain’t an encouraging soul.”
“Let’s hope,” I respond, “that Dag Eriksen is a man prone to exaggeration.”
Chapter 9
Eriksen shows us the equipment, the two long boilers with fireboxes below. The openings of the fireboxes face the bow, to catch the wind and make the fire burn hot. The boilers are lined up side by side.
He points to a gauge on each boiler. "You see that go over one fifty, you start heaving buckets of water into the fire bins. Over one fifty is an invitation to join all your bloody Irish relatives in hell."
We both nod, and don't break a smile.
I notice the boilers have an opening at each end and am surprised as it seems a place to leak steam.
"Don't those hatches into the boilers leak?" I ask.
"Yeah, but necessary. There's a good gasket there, but it'll fail over time."
"What's the hatch's for."
"You'll see," he says, and gives me a crooked smile.
At the rear is the steam driven piston encased in a much smaller iron tube, connected via a fly wheel to a walking beam, a metal covered log that's a drive line which swivels off a crank turned by the piston, which in turns spins an axle connected to gear boxes near the wheels on either side of the boat. Gears allow the huge paddle wheels to be sped up or slowed independently, and either one to be reversed so the big boat can nearly turn inside its own length.
He finishes walking us thru the equipment, then gives us a nod. "Y'all can wander the boat for an hour or so...till you see the wood barge draw alongside. Then come a'running."
"Yes, sir," we both say, and head for the ladder. Then I turn back to him. "How long before we take up lines?"
"Soon as the wood's loaded."
Good, I think, as I follow Ian up the ladder to the cabin deck. The faster we get on the water, the sooner we'll be leaving any Arrow Rock posse far behind. I feel lucky so far.
Sixty passengers have boarded either in St. Louie, points in between, or here in Brunswick, and most of them are strolling the deck. We make a full circle, admiring the fine carpentry work, the huge wheels, and the chimneys, which rise sixty feet high, just behind the wheelhouse which tops the ship and is almost an all glass house so the captain can see all obstructions, every direction.
Under the wheel house forward is the main dining room, with a men's smoking room forward of that and a much smaller ladies sitting room aft, then the cabins are back to back to the aft observation deck.
I duck into the main dining room where a dozen people are gathered around a small pianoforte, and where Madam Angel Allenthorpe is plunking a tune while the others look on in rapture.
She glances up, and smiles. "Mister....what was it, Mister Byrne. Are you gentlemen ready for that glass of Champagne?"
I glance at Ian, who's smiling like his uncle has just left him a saloon in his will. He nods, and I return Miss Allenthorpe's smile. "Yes, ma'am, I suppose we could do with a glass."
Having never tasted Champagne, I'm guessing, but my pa spoke highly of it as he'd had a glass in New Orleans.
We move over to the group and give each of them a nod.
"Have you met Captain Johanson?" she asks, and a tall whiskered man steps forward from the group and extends his hand. His is a wrap around beard without mustache, nicely trimmed and gray as a bilge rat. Piercing blue eyes seem to bulge a little as he looks us up and down in turn. She continues, “I picked this boat because of Captain Isaac Johanson, whose long experience on the Mississippi, and one thousand five hundred dollars per month salary, as reported in Leslie’s Weekly, was very impressive."
I glance at her as her look of adoration at the captain is a little surprising and I’m wondering if it’s for his reputed skill, or his earnings. The man is being paid a small fortune, so her admiration is somewhat understandable.
"You gentlemen are traveling with us?" Johanson asks with a low rumble of a voice as Ian and I shake his hand in turn.
"Actually, Captain, we're in your employ as of this morning. Working for Mr. Eriksen on the boiler deck."
"We don't drink while on duty," he says, and his stoic look turns a little sour. It's all I can do not to smile as river men are renowned for emptying a bottle a shift.
"It would be the night shift we'll be working?"
"Both of you? We only lost one man, last I heard."
"We're alternating nights," I say, again giving him a tight smile.
"Unusual," he says, looking a little confounded.
"We've paid our fare, sir, and probably should be requesting a refund—"
“Not likely,” he says, his smile condescending. “Besides, did you bring your own grub?”
“No, sir.”
“Engine deck passengers provide their own chow. So if you paid including meals, you're in for a penny in for a pound.”
So I continue, “We got stock on board and can save the feed cost, should one of us graze them when you're tied up for the night. We’re pay as we go for hay and grain."
"Humph," he says with obvious agitation. "Who negotiated that affair?"
"Your agent here in Brunswick, sir." I'm starting to get a little irritated with the man. But I bite my tongue. Just coming from the Army, I'm fairly used to supercilious sons a bitches being in command. So I add, "We'll be no trouble and we both know how to work."
"You any good with metal. Blacksmith and such?"
"I’m no tinsmith, but I’ve pounded my share
of plowshares, hoes, wagon fittings, and such. I was raised on a farm aside the Big Mo, sir, with forge and bellows. I've been pounding hot iron all my life. And I have cause to work careful around your boat. I saw the Pittsburg blow just below our place, the safe flew two hundred yards up on the bank, and we treated a half dozen at our house for their burns and buried a half dozen more at the end of one of our fields."
He looks a little irritated again, as if I’ve put a damper on the group's enjoyment. He clears his throat before giving me another glare. "The Pittsburg. That was a half dozen years ago. You were still in swaddling—."
“Hardly, sir. I was well into a score of years.”
“All your life pounding iron…or hoeing cotton? All a young life, I'd say, but many farm boys know iron. I was one myself," he says, but he seems to like what he hears and goes on, "You might earn your keep at that."
Ian steps forward for the first time, his hands clasped behind his back. "We never took on nothin' we didn't finish, Captain. You'll be a'beggin' for us to stay on, come Fort Benton."
He laughs low. "That's yet to be seen." Then he turns serious and gives Ian a scowl. "And I don't beg."
"Yes, sir. I didn’t mean—" Ian clamps his jaw and gives him a nod, then turns to Miss Allenthorpe. “Now can we beg a glass of that fancy wine?"
"Just one," the Captain says, then he turns to her. "Thank you for the song, ma'am. You sing fine as a whippoorwill."
"Thank you, Captain," she replies. "With a little more variety, I hope. Will I see you at supper time?"
"River permitting, you'll be welcome at my table, me there or not. It's roast duck, fried chicken, and oysters tonight, with all the trimmings.” He glances out the tall window. “I see our wood is coming alongside so I must attend to duty. We can get in a few hours on the river before we lose the light."
He starts out, and I have to beg off. "Ma'am, we have to report below. Another time?"
She laughs, which lights up the room. "Surely," she says, as we head out.
"Another song, Madam?" one of the men asks, and I'm sorry we have to leave.
"One more, then I have to retire to my suite," she says, stressing the suite, and I hear the pianoforte tinkle as we make our exit, then the strains of Amazing Grace.
