by J. T. Edson
What with shortages of freight and passengers, word that a brigadier general, his niece—being a man of the world, Captain Boynes of the Rosebud accepted that the young woman accompanying ‘General’ Amesley might be his niece—and staff wished to make the full trip was something of a windfall. In accordance with the Rosebud’s tradition of hospitality and luxury, Boynes and his clerk stood on the boiler deck at the point where the double stairway from the main deck curved together, and waited to greet their distinguished passenger. There were no boilers on the “boiler” deck, it being given over to the big main cabin which served as lounge, dining room, bar and general gathering place for the first class passengers. Lining the main cabin on its two outer sides were the passengers’ accommodation; known as staterooms due to the early-day practice of naming each room after a State of the Union. Each stateroom had one door opening into the lounge and another gave access to the promenade-deck which surrounded the superstructure.
The Rosebud’s reputation for luxury and good service had been honestly made and even with the War in progress some of the old standards remained. Stewards in clean white clothing darted along the main deck to collect and carry the newly arrived party’s baggage aboard and to the boiler deck. At one side the mate stood glowering at the delay and waiting to set his roustabouts to work at preparing to haul in the gangplank and cast off.
“Who is this General Amesley, Rube?” Boynes asked of his clerk, a man with an almost encyclopedic knowledge of who was who in Arkansas.
“Never heard of him, Cap’n. Them buff facings on his uniform mean he’s in either the Adjutant General, Quartermaster General Commissary or Engineer’s Department. A desk-warmer most likely.”
“Those two with him aren’t desk warmers though,” Boynes stated, nodding to Dusty and Red as they followed Belle and Amesley up the stairs. “That’s the Texas Light Cavalry uniform and arms belts.”
After some discussion at Regimental headquarters it had been decided that Amesley travelled down to the coast in his new rank so as to become accustomed to answering to his temporary title of ‘General’; a minor consideration some folks might have thought, but Belle insisted on it and Ole Devil backed up her superior knowledge of the deadly game they played. They must take no chances, for the Yankee spy organization did not employ fools and a mistake might ruin the entire assignment. Again following Belle’s recommendations, the Regimental tailors had worked all night to remove the cavalry yellow stripes from the legs of Amesley’s trousers and replace them with the double row of buff-colored cloth as became a general officer of one of the non-combatant departments—all generals wore buff facings on their jackets no matter to which branch of the Army they belonged.
Using her knowledge, Belle suggested that Amesley posed as a member of the Adjutant General’s Department. Being concerned with the legal aspects of the Army’s organization, such an officer would be the most likely choice to handle negotiations for the exchange and return of deserters. In addition, the Adjutant General’s Department rarely came into the public’s eye, which would explain why Amesley’s name was not familiar to any Yankee spy. Finally, a member of the non-combatant Adjutant General’s Department on such a mission might be expected to have along a couple of combat soldiers as his escort; which explained away Dusty and Red’s presence.
Stepping forward, Boynes raised a hand to the peak of his hat. “Pleased to have you aboard, General,” he said. “My clerk here will escort you to the Number One stateroom.”
“Thank you, sir,” Amesley replied. “And what of my staff?”
“Your niece is in the next stateroom, the captain and lieutenant beyond her and I’ve put your strikers in a cabin on the Texas deck.”
“My thanks, sir,” boomed Amesley. “Come along, Clarissa, my dear.”
“Will there be any danger from the Yankees, Cap’n?” Belle asked.
Only it was not the calm, competent Belle Boyd who organized the raid on the Dragoons’ camp and helped plan the present assignment; but a fluttery, naive, not too bright young thing just asking for a big, strong man to protect her. The change went far beyond merely donning a stylish travelling dress—purchased in Hope the previous evening—hat, blonde wig and parasol. If Dusty had not known the real Belle, he would have taken her for what she pretended to be. Certainly the Rosebud’s captain did not doubt her character.
“Landsakes no, ma’am,” he answered, glowing with protective manhood. “You’ll be as safe aboard the Rosebud as if you were at home. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get us under way.”
“If you’ll come this way, General Amesley, sir,” the clerk said, bowing and waving a hand towards the double doors of the lounge.
Although the stewards handled most of the baggage, Dusty and Red insisted on carrying their own saddles. Each of them had his range-rig slung over one shoulder and a Henry rifle swung in his other hand. Dusty decided to take along the fifteen-shot Henrys rather than the Spencer carbines so as to have extra fire-power should it become necessary to make a fight.
The other passengers, Army officers going on furlough, civilians travelling about their business, and a few women, studied the new arrivals with varying degrees of interest. Taking in the buff facings and leg stripes, the Army men knew Amesley belonged to a non-combatant department; they also noticed the fine epée de combat which hung in his belt slings instead of the usual general officer’s sword. Nor did the soldiers fail to observe his fighting man’s carriage and decided that his slight limp prevented him from commanding a fighting outfit.
“At ease, gentlemen,” Amesley said, breathing a little easier as he looked around and failed to see anyone who might recognize him as the adjutant of the Texas Light Cavalry.
While Amesley might go unrecognized, the same did not apply to Dusty and Red.
“I tell you that’s Captain Fog,” an infantry major said to the artillery officer at his side as they watched Amesley being escorted to the best stateroom on the boat. “I saw him lead a charge at Mark’s Hill that turned the course of the battle.”
“Him?” scoffed the other. “That small kid—”
“He didn’t look small to me and my company that day,” the major growled.
Other eyes studied Dusty and Red. A couple of young lieutenants from the major’s regiment exchanged glances.
“Texas Light Cavalry,” one said. “Look at those gunbelts. They must think they pickle their nuts in salt-brine.”
“And those damned Yankee rifles that you can load on Sunday and shoot all the week,” the second answered. “I wonder if they’ve any ammunition for them, or if they just tote them to look big.”
“We’ll see before we reach Shreveport,” grinned the first. “Wonder what they’re doing going down the river?”
“On furlough most likely. Who’s the general?”
“Some shiny-butt from back east most likely. Reckon we’ll meet him later.”
“We’ll meet those two horse-soldiers while we’re at it,” staked the second.
Fortunately for their future well-being, the Rosebud started moving before the two shavetails managed to meet Dusty and Red with the object of proving an infantryman’s superiority over the cavalry. Just as fortunate, the infantry officers met their major and learned Dusty’s identity before the small Texan made another appearance in public.
While comfortable, Dusty and Red’s stateroom could not be described as spacious. It contained a couple of narrow, though well-padded bunks, a washstand and a small, curtained-off area just large enough to hang a few clothes in. When the two saddles and the bulky pouches carrying spare clothing and ammunition had been laid on the floor, little space remained for walking about the room. Being hardened veterans, even though so young, neither Dusty nor Red worried unduly about their surroundings. Both had lived considerably rougher than at present during their time in the Army.
“Let’s go see how the others are getting on,” Dusty suggested after the boat churned away from the Fulton docks.
; After visiting Belle and Amesley, and finding both settled in comfortably, Dusty and Red went up one of the flights of stairs leading to the Texas deck. This perched on top of the boiler deck and, in addition to housing second class passengers, the senior members of the boat’s crew, clerk’s office and barber’s shop, offered a larger area than the promenade deck below on which travelers might take exercise. Set on top of the Texas deck was the wheelhouse, its large glass windows offering the pilot and captain an unrestricted view of the river and surrounding country.
Dusty and Red did not go up to the wheelhouse deck, figuring that the pilot and captain would not want visitors underfoot at that time. Instead their attention was drawn to a small bunch of the younger passengers who gathered at the rear of the Texas deck cabins to watch a display of pistol shooting. The shooter, a tall, slim, well-dressed young man in civilian clothing, held a magnificent percussion-fired single-shot dueling pistol in each hand. Taking sight with his right-hand weapon, he fired and severed the neck of an empty bottle standing on the guard rail at the end of the deck.
Moving forward, the Texans saw a pretty, stylishly-attired young woman with the two infantry shavetails.
“Of course, my brother wanted to join the Army,” she was telling the officers, her voice warm, friendly and inviting. “But the Government asked him to continue running the family business. We manufacture firearms, you know. You, being service officers, can imagine how he felt about that.”
“A man has to do his duty where he must, Miss Dimsdale,” the taller shavetail replied, although he might not have taken so lenient and tolerant a view of an able-bodied man who failed to answer the country’s call to arms if the man did not possess such a charming sister.
“Poor Paul,” the girl sighed. “He’s such a fine shot and a wizard with a sword. He would have made a good soldier. As it is—well, you must be our guests at dinner tonight.”
“We’d be right proud to, Miss Dimsdale,” agreed the second officer.
While listening to the by-play between the girl and officers, Dusty and Red paid little attention to it, being more interested in the shooting. As good shots themselves, Dusty and Red could admire another skilled performer, and the slim civilian proved to be all of that. At twenty-five feet the neck of a bottle did not make a large target, even when armed with the ultimate of handgun precision, a dueling pistol.
“He’s some shot,” Red remarked as the second bottle’s neck burst under the impact of a bullet. “Those are straight-shooting guns, too. I reckon you can take him though, Dusty.”
“Well, don’t you go flapping off your mouth about it,” Dusty answered.
At that moment Belle appeared on the deck and walked along to join the two Texans. Although she still looked as when she boarded the Rosebud, Belle sounded her old, competent self.
“I heard the shooting,” she remarked in a low voice, her eyes going to the good looking girl who still stood with the two officers.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Red replied with a grin.
Again Belle threw a glance towards the other girl. “Isn’t there?”
Glancing at Belle Dusty wondered what she had seen to put a burr under her saddle. He knew Belle too well to put the dislike she showed towards the other girl down as mere feminine jealousy and hoped she would enlighten him. Before Belle could do so, Captain Boynes came down from the wheelhouse deck, saw his most important passenger’s ‘niece’ and strolled over to greet her. Instantly Belle reverted to her new character and Dusty did not find an opportunity to ask her about her dislike.
Time dragged by, with the Rosebud continuing to make good speed with the Red River’s current pushing under her and aiding the turning of the big side-wheels. Dusty and Red found little chance to speak with either Belle or Amesley alone all day, but being interested in the novelty of their new surroundings did not let that worry them. Night came and the dinner gong drew passengers to the main lounge. Amesley was joining a party of senior officers at the captain’s table but Belle came to sit with the two Texans. Even with the War on, the Rosebud offered a very good menu, although much of the meat would be from wild animals rather than beef.
“Brother Buck and brother Pete never had it this good,” Red stated.
Thinking back to the antics Red’s brothers brought off on her final night with the Texas Light Cavalry, Belle smiled. “Buck and Pete don’t deserve it this good,” she declared, then turned her head to look across the room as a burst of laughter rose from a table where the two infantry officers sat with the Dimsdales. “Now there’s a couple of young men looking for trouble.”
“A lot of folk entertain soldiers these days,” Dusty answered. “Folks who wouldn’t look at a man in uniform other times get all friendly when the shooting starts.”
“You’re a cynic, Dusty,” Belle smiled. “And I’ve a suspicious mind. I could be doing those two an injustice, but I doubt it. Did you ever hear of a firearms company called Dimsdale?”
“Nope—not that that means anything. There’re a lot of small companies making arms for us on contract to the bigger concerns.”
“Reckon they’re Yankee spies, Belle?” Red asked when Dusty stopped speaking.
A faint smile crept across Belle’s face. “I doubt if they’re anything as dramatic as that. Look at the ‘General’. He appears to be enjoying his new rank.”
Realizing that Belle had said all she meant to on the subject of the Dimsdales, Dusty and Red turned their attention to eating. Almost three years’ service in the Army had given them a fatalistic outlook and they now tended to live for the moment. So, given an opportunity like at the moment, they always ate well; a man never knew when he would be on short rations.
Through the meal Belle watched the Dimsdales’ party and noticed that while the soldiers drank frequently neither their host nor his sister attempted to keep up with their consumption. Once the meal ended, Belle found herself the center of a party of young officers and reverted to the part she played, which prevented her from being able to pass on her theories to the Texans.
Never really happy in a crowd of older men who held lower rank than themselves, Dusty and Red backed out of the group surrounding Belle and went out on to the deck. Deciding to make the most of their opportunity while aboard the Rosebud, Dusty and Red strolled around the promenade deck and then went down the stairs to the bows of the main deck. Up forward, on either side of the bows, an iron cresset held a brightly glowing fire of knotty pine chunks and the flames illuminated some of the river’s surface and left side shore line. In times of peace there would have been far more cargo stacked forward, but the War had an adverse effect on trade. However, a few large packing cases lined the sides and one very large box stood up in the bows, a clear passage running through the rest of the cargo to it.
Behind the cargo came a storage of cut wood ready for use and then lay the furnaces, boilers and engines which drove the paddlewheels and propelled the Rosebud through the water. Colored firemen fed the flames of the furnaces and the engineer, a bulky, grimy-faced white man, supervised everything. At the stem, the Negro roustabouts threw dice, talked, or slept in the knowledge that they had no more work to do until they reached the next town.
Although not a man who encouraged passengers to loaf around his domain the engineer raised no objections in Dusty’s case. Having heard the small Texan’s name, the engineer decided that a young man with such a reputation for fighting Yankees had earned the right to be treated as an equal. Leaving his post for a time knowing he could rely on his crew of firemen, the engineer greeted the Texans. The War was discussed, with much profanity on the engineer’s part. Then a question from Red brought the subject around to riverboat work. Sitting on the rail so he could keep an eye on the working of his engines, the engineer began to talk about the good days before the War when the Rosebud ran the Mississippi. He told of wrecks, explosions of boilers due to over-pressure, races and cargoes which almost set the decks awash with their bulk and weight. For a man who
punctuated almost every sentence with blistering invective, the engineer painted a vivid picture of life on the riverboats. At last, after mentioning river pirates, he turned to the fabulous gambling for which the boats had become notorious. Listening to the latter reminiscences, Dusty began to see the reason for Belle’s suspicions of the Dimsdales.
“Don’t get so much of it now, though,” the engineer concluded. “Folks don’t tote that much money with ’em. Not that we ever had much on the Rosebud. Cap’n Boynes stopped it when he could.”
At that moment Red pointed ahead, along the side of the boat and towards the illuminated shore. “Whooee, Cousin Dusty. Look there!”
Turning, Dusty followed the direction of his cousin’s pointing finger. A low whistle of admiration left the small Texan’s lips at what he saw. Standing at the edge of the water, its head thrown back proudly and its great spread of antlers rising high, as fine a bull elk as Dusty had ever seen stood watching them. Then it gave a quick, explosive snort, whirled and bounded off into the blackness beyond the fife’s glow.
“See a lot of ’em,” remarked the engineer. “Deer, bear, cougar even. The old Rosebud don’t scare ’em until she gets real close. Happen you feel like sport, bring a couple of rifles down here some night.”
“I never took to shooting something just to see it fall,” Dusty replied. “Nor me,” admitted the engineer, “But happen you shoot anything, we can put off one of the boats we’re towing and the roustabouts’ll fetch it aboard. The cook can use the meat.”
