Richard Lindsay glanced up the levee at his only son, Henry—or Hal, as the boy preferred to call himself. He looked healthy, thank God, but his stance shouted that he expected trouble. Quite understandable; in the last eighteen years, they’d only met once without arguing, when the two fleets had joined at Vicksburg in ’62.
Richard had stood tall on the Anacostia’s quarterdeck that day, proud to command the beautiful frigate. He’d known his father and grandfather’s ghosts were with him, as they’d stood beside him during the nighttime inferno called the Battle of New Orleans. His father had labored long and hard to prepare him for this responsibility, including whipping him like a slovenly landsmen whenever his homework wasn’t perfect.
Richard automatically flexed his shoulders at the painful memory. He’d hated those whippings with the cat, the way the rope wrapped around him so that the bits of embedded metal could tear his flesh. More than once, he’d bled through his shirt afterward. But he’d eventually learned his mathematics and he’d become a naval officer, back before he resigned from the Navy to make Desdemona happy.
Command of one’s self, learned in blood and sweat if necessary, was required before one could lead men. How could any free spirit command a warship? He’d tried to teach his son as he’d been taught, and as his father and his father’s father before that. He’d been soft with Hal and used a cane, instead of a cat, so there’d be fewer—albeit harsher—blows. But his efforts hadn’t had the desired effect. Hal had grown wilder and wilder, more and more sentimental—the epitome of an unreliable officer. Then he’d disappeared.
Richard had worried a great deal when Hal ran away, until the first letter came for Viola. But he’d been terrified when Hal had enlisted in the Union Navy. As the younger brother, son, and grandson of naval officers, he had not believed that his wild son could successfully serve aboard a warship. But other men, uneducated and untrained but brilliant, had done well in the war. So perhaps Hal might one day competently command a stinkpot, one of the small wooden gunboats.
Then the West Gulf Blockading Squadron, victors of New Orleans, had met the Western Gunboat Flotilla, conquerors of Memphis, at Vicksburg. Richard had stood on his frigate and cheered, along with his seagoing tars, as the ironclad gunboats swept past.
And he’d cried unashamedly when he saw the St. Paul, fresh paint covering far too many battle scars, and his tall, blond son standing at attention with a skipper’s blazing pride. Hal had seemed far too young to command a City-class gunboat, but he’d earned it when his stinkpot beat the rebels away from Grant’s flank at Shiloh.
Dear God in heaven, how they’d hugged that evening. It had been a great day but it hadn’t lasted. The old stubbornness and anger had flared up again and again between them, especially whenever he tried to persuade Hal to be cautious when taking the St. Paul into local swamps after guerrillas. But Hal had gone his own way, becoming extremely successful at all the fights a traditional navy never took on. He and his son had been ice-cold enemies again, by the time the Gulf Squadron returned to the ocean.
Since then, Richard had wondered if Hal’s success with the St. Paul was a wartime fluke. Perhaps the time’s martial spirit had swept away Hal’s insouciance and turned him into a great officer, for a single moment, as it had made Grant into a great general, but left him an unreliable civilian.
He wished yet again he had someone to speak to about this. But he couldn’t talk to Desdemona. She’d always insisted that Hal must follow in the family footsteps, and she had encouraged Richard more than once to cane their son, saying it was the same method her father had used on his sons, horses, and slaves.
And this voyage was the first time in ten years that he and Desdemona would share a bedroom. They hadn’t had carnal relations since ’61, when they’d fought over her demand that he go south into the Confederate Navy. She’d spent the war at their Cincinnati home, regularly reminding him of how close she was to the front lines. Since then, they treated each other like strangers, only coming together to see their daughter Juliet and her family, or attend social events. He’d considered sending her back to her family in Kentucky, after one of their more vicious fights, but that would be admitting failure.
Her desire to visit Montana on this voyage, rather than Saratoga or Newport, had shocked him. She’d prattled about needing to talk to Hal, but her facile words had rung false to him. The only other explanation was that she wanted to visit a lover…
A growl vibrated in the back of his throat. Oh, he’d wondered if his passionate wife had found a diversion elsewhere, when she’d locked him out of their bedroom. But she’d never shown any signs of having one; in fact, she’d always behaved perfectly in public. If he ever had any proof of infidelity, he’d divorce her. And then try to explain to his daughter and grandchildren why he’d treated their Grandmother Lindsay in such a fashion.
What about Viola and Hal? Viola was now married to a very successful man—who was unfortunately an Irish Papist. If Hal had become steadier, the Cherokee Belle would shine in his reflection and be a crack packet.
Richard didn’t know whether he wanted Hal to have done well, or not. Naval discipline had been his family’s backbone for far too many generations to be cast aside easily. But he still had nightmares of his sobbing son, with crimson stripes across his back, cowering away from the cane. Perhaps this voyage would at least take away those dreams.
Richard bit his lip in uncharacteristic hesitation. Then he drew himself up to his full height and marched up the levee, determined to discover the truth about his wife and his son.
The Old Man strode up the levee toward Hal, looking just as proud and erect as he had at Vicksburg. The intervening years had been kind to him, taking nothing from his height, which matched his son’s. He still had the erect muscular build and direct eagle’s eyes that had made him one of the most respected captains on the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. The greatest differences between him now and the man who’d so ferociously punished Hal eighteen years ago were white hair and the deep brackets around his tightly compressed mouth.
“Good day to you, son,” the Old Man said calmly. He extended his hand, a greeting marred only by the slightest of twitches in his jaw.
Cicero barked lightly and began to sniff the Old Man’s leg in a very friendly fashion. This earned him a tentative pat from the elder Lindsay, which Cicero leaned into blissfully.
Hal blinked at the terrier’s preferences. What the devil was the dog thinking of? After snarling at Hal’s mother and barking at every roustabout who passed, he was now willing to be friends with this hot-tempered, brutal old man? Shaking his head, Hal stepped forward, prepared to be polite.
“Good day, sir.” He greeted his father and shook hands briefly. “I understand you and Mother plan to voyage with us. May I ask how far?”
“Sioux City, or perhaps Fort Benton.” The Old Man took his wife’s elbow, braced as if for a fight.
Weeks, perhaps months, onboard? Hal’s eyes narrowed. “A significant voyage,” he observed. “I presume you’ve booked a stateroom for that long?”
“Of course.”
“In that case, let me expound on a few matters.” He crossed his hands on his blackthorn walking stick, in a false semblance of ease. The Old Man inclined his head, watching Hal closely, his expression unreadable. Mother stirred, setting her train’s ruffles into a swirl of lace.
“My sister Viola and her husband, William Donovan, are also traveling on the Belle. I expect all passengers to treat them, and any other passenger, with the utmost courtesy.”
“Viola? Here?” Mother exploded into speech. “I will not have her around. Put her off immediately!”
“Impossible, Mother. She and her husband are my guests and they will be treated as such on my boat.”
Cicero barked once, as if for emphasis.
“Richard, are you going to permit your son to dictate my behavior?” Mother spluttered, turning to her husband.
“Careful, my dear. He owns the Cherokee
Belle and can order anything he pleases, unless it harms the boat or passengers’ safety. Now let him finish.” The Old Man’s tone was very cool, his eyes guarded as he watched Hal, not his wife. He might have been discussing admiralty law, not mediating an argument between his wife and son.
She muttered something under her breath. Hal continued after a moment, slightly surprised that his father had spoken for Hal’s position, even though tradition and the law justified it.
“Should they be discomfited—in any way—then the offending passenger shall be put ashore at the earliest opportunity. Whether that occurs at a large city or a sandbank is immaterial.”
“A sandbank?” Mother gasped. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I certainly would. Do not cross me, Mother.”
“How dare you speak to me like that! Did you hear what he said, Richard?”
“Silence, Desdemona.” The Old Man’s hand clamped down on his wife’s as he studied Hal. She fell into indignant murmurs.
Hal spared little attention for her as he faced his father, ready for a fight. Cicero brushed against his leg as he, too, assumed a fighting stance. He was as ready as Homer had ever been to go into battle alongside Hal.
A muscle ticked in the Old Man’s jaw before he replied. “I am unaware of any daughter named Viola, or of any son by marriage named Donovan. I will, of course, give any strangers I should meet the full courtesy due them, starting with silence insofar as possible.”
“Very well.” Silence first, then cold courtesy. Not comfortable but better than Hal had hoped for. “You’d best board the Belle as quickly as possible. She’ll sail within the hour. I’ll join you in a moment, after I give Ezra a few instructions.”
Such as fetching Rosalind’s luggage from Gillis House. She’d find it useful, especially if she had to depart suddenly, a step ahead of recognition.
Hal’s heart twisted at the thought.
Thankfully, Mother and the Old Man didn’t question him further. They started slowly down the levee, the Old Man assisting his wife on the uneven wooden steps as she held up her train, all the while complaining bitterly about the mud.
Hal caught up with them just as they crossed the wharf boat, Cicero frisking at his heels. The Old Man paused to study the Cherokee Belle, while Mother shook her skirts out and checked for mud stains. She also seemed to cast some quick glances upriver, where the Spartan had just disappeared from sight.
Hal waited, wary of what his father might say.
“Cincinnati Marine Ways built?”
“Hull and main deck, yes. Elias Ealer built the cabin decks.”
Cicero sat down and briskly scratched his ear.
The Old Man grunted. “Good firms. Four boilers?”
“Six Dumont boilers, with five flues each. Niles engines, with twenty two-inch cylinders and seven-foot stroke.”
“Plenty of power,” his father observed neutrally.
“She holds the speed record from Sioux City to Fort Benton, and she’s within an hour of the record from Kansas City to Omaha. She can beat any boat on the Missouri or Mississippi.”
The Old Man lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t challenge Hal’s boasts.
“Five-foot draft so she can—”
“Go where the ground’s a little damp,” his father finished the old wartime saying. “Just as that gunboat of yours could.”
“Exactly. But the Belle’s faster and more comfortable.”
“Hardly difficult to be more inviting.”
Hal chuckled reluctantly, surprised to find himself in agreement with the Old Man on anything. But those armored gunboats, where the sun never shone belowdecks, were worlds away from his tall, gleaming Cherokee Belle.
“Ted Sampson is the Belle’s captain; you may remember him as the St. Paul’s chaplain and one of her lieutenants. Antoine Bellecourt’s her chief pilot, when I’m not on the watch list. Jake McKenzie is the assistant pilot on this voyage.”
“You’re not piloting?”
“I prefer to spend time with my sister and her husband.”
The Old Man harrumphed and turned to his wife. “We’d best be going onboard, my dear.”
“Finally.” She turned her back on the Spartan’s wake and carefully picked her way across the stage and onto the Belle.
Hal escorted them up the stairs to the main deck and then up to the boiler deck, automatically checking that everything was shipshape. Cicero strutted at his heels, behaving more like a king entering his kingdom than a stray lucky enough to have a place to sleep.
Hal had taken the unusual step of having the Cherokee Belle repainted, in honor of Viola’s visit. Given most riverboats’ short lifespan of three or four years on the dangerous western rivers, few owners bothered with extra coats of paint. But the Belle deserved to look her best for family. Pure white throughout, of course, with jet-black trim and touches of gold. He’d even had the original artist touch up the stateroom doors’ decorations.
“Black Jack Norton still your chief engineer?”
“Yes, sir, he’s still with me. Best engineer on the Missouri.” Hal cast a quick glance around for Rosalind. He was less worried about Viola. Nothing shy of a tornado could get past her Irishman.
“Good man. I remember him from your Navy days.”
Hal relaxed as he spied Rosalind, calmly chatting with Viola by the stern. Other passengers were scattered along the boat’s port side, chattering like magpies as they watched the preparations to depart.
“Which stateroom do you have, sir?” Hal asked, as he held open the forward door to the grand saloon.
“Arkansas.”
“A single wide,” Mother sniffed as she sailed past the men, her nose high and her train almost swishing with disgust.
“The Belle is a very popular packet,” Hal remarked. Even in these days of declining passenger trade.
Mother stopped abruptly, past the office, and barely three paces into the grand saloon. “Oh, my goodness gracious, she is magnificent.”
She spun slowly as she took in the sight. Even the Old Man was wide-eyed as he inspected his surroundings. Hal barely stopped himself from grinning at their reaction.
The grand saloon extended over two hundred feet and was wide enough for a single row of dining tables, with mirrors at each end. The gleaming white bulkheads rose high on either side to the ceiling, where a series of Gothic arches spanned the grand saloon’s narrow width. Stained-glass transoms ringed the ceiling, casting an ever-changing dance of light over the carved and gilded arches and the scene below. Crystal chandeliers stood ready to provide illumination after nightfall.
A massive, gilded bar covered the forward wall, in a symphony of carved rosewood, ebony, and mahogany, plus mirrors and expensive alcohol. The office faced forward on the port side, where O’Neill and his mud clerk conducted the boat’s monetary business. At the opposite end, in a hymn to domestic virtues, lay the ladies’ cabin, with its elegant Steinway grand piano. He’d ordered it freshly tuned so that it would be ready for Viola, a superb pianist.
Stateroom doors marched down both sides, each one ornamented by a landscape representative of its namesake. Fine Brussels carpets flowed over the grand saloon’s entire span, with a distinct change in color marking the start of the ladies’ cabin. The furniture was equally lavish, with elegant marble-topped rosewood tables and matching chairs running down the grand saloon’s center. Velvet settees and white wicker rockers invited passengers to take their leisure on either side.
“A most impressive first-class packet,” the Old Man judged.
“Thank you, sir.” Hal inclined his head, careful not to show too much elation at his father’s surprising praise. He’d never done anything, except join the Navy, which the Old Man had approved of. “Staterooms are in order of the state’s admission to the Union,” he remarked. “Delaware, port side forward, and Pennsylvania, starboard side forward. Then New Jersey facing Georgia…”
“And so on, until Wisconsin faces California at the stern,” the Old Man fi
nished. Both of them ignored Texas, since its namesake was a block of cabins on the hurricane deck, not a single stateroom.
“Exactly.” Viola and Donovan had the California stateroom, considered the safest, since it was furthest from any possible boiler explosion. “Bathrooms are full aft—just before the paddlewheel—with hot and cold running water. The water is filtered.”
Mother blinked at the unusual luxury, but quickly recovered. “As should be expected on a Lindsay packet,” she sniffed.
Hal forbore to mention that none of the Cincinnati-Louisville Packet Line boats filtered their water.
Obadiah stepped out of the Arkansas stateroom with a bow, his ebony face smiling as much as ever, and Rebecca bobbed a curtsy. He’d been a gift to the Old Man from Mother’s parents when they married and had followed him ever since, even through naval service during the War. “Welcome, sir, ma’am. Just setting your things out.”
The stateroom’s eight-foot-wide space was a tart reminder of his parents’ tardiness in booking passage. Two single berths rose up one side, with a neat washbasin in a corner. The stateroom’s biggest advantage was its setting in the safer and more respectable ladies’ cabin. Only women and married men were allowed back here, maintaining it as an area of strict gentility.
Hal’s own double-wide stateroom was in the gentlemen’s cabin, making it impossible to offer an exchange to his parents.
Mother heaved a heartfelt sigh and stepped inside, where Rebecca immediately began fussing over her. She’d been Mother’s maid at Fair Oaks, Mother’s family’s plantation near Louisville, before being given as a wedding present. As long as Hal could remember, she’d been Mother’s confidante. Today, her impassive face gave away nothing of her thoughts—or Mother’s plans.
“Should a suitable double-wide stateroom become available during the voyage, I’ll have you transferred immediately, of course,” Hal remarked, backing away from the stateroom.
“I should hope so,” his mother said as Rebecca began to rub her fingers. “Otherwise, what would people think of how the owner’s parents were treated on his boat?”
The River Devil Page 11
