The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  A drunk staggered past them in the street, reeking of gin and sweat and urine and worse. Rosalind gagged slightly and wished she were home. She’d never quite become accustomed to the smells in the rough districts. And she always prayed heartily that she wouldn’t step in something too foul to be easily scraped off and forgotten.

  A bit of white flashed in an alley, and Rosalind glanced over. A man stood in the shadows next to a small tavern, while a cloaked woman knelt before him. Rosalind could hear him groan as he pulled her blond head closer to his hips. The sight drew little attention from the drunks, only a profane comment about hogging a good spot from one of the loose women.

  Rosalind blushed scarlet and walked on. She doubted she’d ever grow accustomed to seeing people taking their carnal pleasures on a public street.

  Something odd about the couple nagged at her, and Rosalind looked back. The woman’s cloak was edged in fur, shimmering with sealskin’s expensive luster. A wealthy woman? Here?

  The laboring female pulled back from the man, letting his cock slip from her mouth and illuminating her profile. The man growled something, and leaned forward to pull the woman back to him. For a moment, both their faces were fully visible.

  Rosalind immediately recognized them. Her jaw dropped.

  Her father choked, then gripped her arm. “Come along. Quickly now.”

  Rosalind speedily obeyed, glad that neither the man nor the woman seemed remotely aware of their watchers.

  Minutes later and safe in the warm carriage, she stared at her father, still stunned by what she’d seen. “That was Mrs. Richard Lindsay, wasn’t it? With Nicholas Lennox?”

  He nodded grimly. “It was. And it would not be polite to speak of it again.”

  “Of course.”

  She’d tried her best to forget. But Lennox’s marriage proposal had brought it back to mind. It had been easy to decide against his suit, even when she was bruised and bloody from his beating. She would not tolerate an adulterous bastard—a violent, murderous beast—for a husband.

  Hal looked back from the door for his missing cub and spotted her along the promenade. Dammit, he needed her with him.

  “Carstairs,” he snapped, and Cicero barked an echo.

  Rosalind looked up, startled.

  He frowned at her and held the door open. Guilt flashed across her face.

  “Sorry, sir. Just thinking about that new channel outside St. Joseph.”

  Hal raised an eyebrow at that spurious excuse and let the door fall shut behind them, as he followed his father. He was sure she’d concentrate once they sat down at the table. Still, the risk was too great that his parents would recognize her; he needed to keep their attention as much as possible.

  It was too early for many passengers to be down for breakfast. Still, the tables were set with white linen and gleaming china as precisely as in a first-class hotel, while waiters stood by silently, in their crisp black livery and white aprons, almost hovering over the few diners present. All was done as well—or better—than in a dining room on one of the Old Man’s boats.

  Mother rose from a table halfway down the long room. She was dressed to the nines, surprising for a woman who’d taught her children never to disturb her before noon, and beamed at the approaching trio like a pilot seeing straight water ahead.

  “My dear boy,” Desdemona gushed and leaned up to kiss Hal on the cheek. “How good of you to join us for breakfast.”

  “Mother.” He returned the salutation formally. He had no idea why she was up this early, let alone dressed so well. “May I present Frank Carstairs, my cub? Carstairs, this is my mother, Mrs. Richard Lindsay.”

  Rosalind bowed formally. “Ma’am.”

  No surprise, or recognition of Rosalind, showed on Mother’s face. “Mr. Carstairs, such a pleasure to have a handsome young face onboard. You must sit next to me, where you can tell me all the boat’s gossip.”

  Good God, is Mother going to flirt as she usually did with a new male acquaintance? She’d regularly done so with his junior officers during the War.

  “And, Hal, darling, you’ll sit at my right.”

  Darling??? Why was she buttering him up? Hal took the indicated seat with little appetite and no comment, as he silently signaled Roland Jones, his steward. Roland nodded, almost imperceptibly, and moved forward. He’d serve this meal himself, his expertise sure to satisfy Mother’s demanding—and very vocal—standards.

  The Old Man held his wife’s chair, then sat opposite her, flanking Hal—and Rosalind. Hal kept his face impassive: he wouldn’t be able to privately warn Rosalind, or vice versa, should the conversation head into dangerous waters. Cicero slid into his accustomed position beside Hal’s chair. Thankfully, he was a dignified dining companion, who was quieter at the table than Mother was likely to be.

  A basket of brioche was the first food to appear, presented by Roland to Mother with great panache.

  “Remember, Hal?” she cooed, waving the offering toward him. “You swore you’d eat brioche on your boat, just as your great-grandfather did when he escaped from the British prison ship.”

  Mother mentioning a Lindsay as someone to be admired? She’d always held up only her Davies relatives for admiration.

  “The Commodore also enjoyed brioche every morning,” the Old Man added. “As do I, on my boat.”

  Mother and Father working together? Good God Almighty, they only did that when there was money or power at stake.

  Hal nodded, his expression a mask of formality. “Will you join me?”

  “Thank you, dear. And your father, as well.”

  “Of course,” Hal said as smoothly as possible. “Sir?”

  “Thank you.” The Old Man seemed to relax a trifle as the food quickly appeared. Both men ate heartily of their ham and eggs, while Mother picked at her soft-boiled egg.

  “Tell me, Mr. Carstairs, have you been a pilot long? You’re a very well set-up young man and must have been quite an asset to your previous employer.” Mother batted her eyelashes.

  Hal’s mouth tightened.

  “I’m honored that the Cherokee Belle accepted me as a cub pilot, ma’am.” Rosalind calmly buttered her brioche and completely ignored the attempted flirtation. “Would you care for some butter or salt for your egg?”

  Mother’s smile slipped slightly at the rebuff. “Thank you, no. I had such a dreadful night’s sleep that I must confine myself to only the blandest of foods.”

  “How terrible for you, Mrs. Lindsay. What exactly was the difficulty?”

  Rosalind had found one of the two perfect lures for Mother, a topic Hal had heard far too many times before, but one that always galvanized her. Within a minute, she was off and running on a litany of complaints about her berth, the sheets, the inadequate stove, and so on. The only alternative would have been to compliment Mother on a social success.

  “I tell you, sir, the worst of it comes every night when the boat ties up.”

  Mother leaned forward to emphasize her point, and Hal flinched at her proximity to Rosalind. He had to change the subject at the first opportunity.

  “The stillness—the utter lack of any reassuring civilized noise, such as the engines driving the paddlewheel—makes it totally impossible for me to sleep.”

  “I am sorry that you find it so discomfiting, ma’am,” Rosalind said soberly, her face as composed as when she played poker. “You must be a very courageous woman, to brave such privations and dangers, in order to see your son.”

  Mother preened. “It is a situation that must be borne with fortitude,” she intoned. “We must also consider that poor lost orphan, who wanders the western wilderness alone.”

  “What orphan, Mother?” Hal asked.

  “Rosalind Schuyler, of course. You may remember her from your dear sister Juliet’s party last Christmas. Tall and gawky but from an excellent family.”

  “It is our duty to find her and return her to her fiancé, Nicholas Lennox,” the Old Man added.

  Rosalind began to cu
t her ham into very small pieces. Very deliberately and very thoroughly.

  Hal’s mouth tightened. How dare they threaten to return Rosalind to Lennox… He managed to quell his rising anger long enough to demand an explanation. “Why, in heaven’s name, are you so concerned with that runaway?”

  “It is our Christian duty to care for the lost souls of this world,” Mother intoned sanctimoniously. “Miss Schuyler must be found immediately, at all costs.”

  Hal’s eyebrows flew up. Mother had never given a fig about anyone except herself.

  “Think about her fiancé,” the Old Man inserted quietly. “Consider how agonized you would be, if your fiancée was missing.”

  “I don’t have a fiancée,” Hal retorted, more than willing to lead the conversation away from the missing heiress.

  “Or your wife. Or your daughter. The agony of a parent, when their beloved child is missing, rends the heart worse than a sword blow.” Deep lines were graven into his father’s face.

  The old anger flared up in Hal, as hot and fierce as if he’d been caned yesterday, instead of years ago. If the Old Man had been unhappy when Hal disappeared, then he shouldn’t have terrified Viola and nearly killed Hal.

  Mother watched placidly, her eyes traveling between the two combatants, as she always did when her husband and children fought. Rosalind was also quiet, but hers was the patience of the gambler waiting to make a move. She had enough gumption to go up against his father, a combat Hal had never won.

  He couldn’t let her intervene. He had to stop his parents from thinking about the missing heiress while Rosalind was at the table.

  Hal spoke the truth publicly for the first time, the one statement that would command his parents’ full attention. “I am not married, nor will I ever be. And I will never bring children into this world.”

  Mother’s eyes narrowed briefly, then she dabbed at them with her napkin. “But, Hal, how can you deprive me of the joy of grandchildren? Their sweet prattle and pretty ways…” Her voice was far too calculating for the sentimental words she uttered.

  The Old Man’s voice rose over hers as he pounded on the table. “Who will tend you when you are ill? Or comfort you in your old age?”

  “I will never risk subjecting a child to my temper, sir,” Hal enunciated his long-held decision.

  “Nonsense! You were an excellent naval officer and clearly have a well-disciplined temperament. No, you must have children soon.”

  “Or else what? You’ll cane me—again?” Hal’s voice was very soft. He knew exactly where his Colt and Arkansas toothpick were at this moment. He could physically defend himself now against his sire, as he couldn’t years ago.

  The Old Man stared at Hal. Mother dropped her spoon, then hastily looked around for listeners.

  “Cane?” Rosalind whispered.

  Roland Jones coughed. “Captain would like to speak to you, sir.”

  Hal glared at his father, daring him to answer. The Old Man’s eyes narrowed and seemed to look into the distance. He said nothing.

  Satisfied that he’d protected Rosalind and finally stopped his father’s continual demands for grandchildren, Hal tossed down his napkin and stood up. “Please excuse us, Mother. Sir.”

  A minute later, he entered the starboard boiler room, with Rosalind close behind him. The engines’ usual steady beat sounded healthy enough. Sampson was pacing the aisle between the engines, his strong body preventing Hal from seeing what was wrong.

  “What is it?” Hal asked, raising his voice to be heard.

  “You’ll have to see for yourself,” Sampson replied and stepped aside, a drop of blood on his lip from where he’d been gnawing it.

  Sampson, worried enough to show it? Hal nodded and moved forward.

  Norton and Brady, the assistant engineer, were staring at the safety valve. Beyond them, William also watched the safety valve, his expression as sober as when he’d followed Viola’s kidnappers into a collapsing silver mine.

  Hell and damnation, was it broken? Were the boilers about to overheat and explode? Terror ran its icy fingers through Hal, triggered by the one calamity every western riverboat crewman or passenger feared.

  He had witnessed the Sultana’s terrible explosion and had helped recover some of the sixteen hundred dead. Those poor devils, so recently freed from the hellish prison at Andersonville, had deserved far better than to be killed only a few hundred miles from home. He still had nightmares about the charred, emaciated corpses floating in the Mississippi.

  “What is it?” He recognized his level tone of voice as the same one he’d used at Shiloh when he’d taken his stinkpot into action against an overwhelming Rebel army.

  “Brady found the blacksmith’s anvil in the engine room, hanging from a line to the boiler’s safety valve, while he was showing the engines to Mr. Donovan,” Sampson said quietly. “The boilers could have blown up a hundred times before the safety valve would have acted.”

  Sabotage? Rosalind could have been killed. “Do you know who was responsible?”

  Norton handed him a circular cap, such as every poor boy wore, but now grimy beyond almost all recognition. “Brady also found this hanging over the safety valve so we couldn’t see the pressure.”

  “Harrison’s cap,” Rosalind said quietly, from over Hal’s shoulder. The fellow had rigged the Belle to explode the first time she built up a full head of steam—killing everyone onboard.

  Hal marveled at her calm. Internally, he was comparing the relative merits of gutting Harrison or tossing the brute into the nearest boiler and shutting the grate.

  “Yes, he was the only fireman who always wore a cap,” Norton agreed.

  “But he’s gone now—went over the side less than an hour ago and swam to that last island. The devil thumbed his nose at us!” Sampson snarled the uncharacteristic blasphemy.

  “Do you think he did it on a lark?” Brady asked, probably hoping for an innocent explanation. Harrison had served on his watch.

  William shook his head and spoke for the first time. “I found a half-eagle in Harrison’s blankets when we searched his berth.”

  Brady whistled.

  “Who would want to murder everyone on a boat?” Rosalind asked hoarsely.

  “Or just kill one person and not care if anyone else was hurt,” William suggested. His eyes promised Hal a later meeting.

  “We’ll have to keep this from the passengers as much as possible,” Sampson said slowly.

  Hal nodded, his jaw set. He hoped William’s attacker wasn’t reaching out to destroy the Belle, just because William was aboard. But if someone was trying to hurt Viola’s husband, then he’d see them destroyed, no matter what it took.

  “I can ground the Belle by McLerndon’s farm,” Bellecourt offered from behind Rosalind. “We could use the opportunity to check for any other problems, mes amis.”

  Surprise scampered across the others’ faces. Hal and Norton were the first to nod agreement.

  “Good idea,” Hal said.

  “We can shift cargo to the shore,” contributed Sampson.

  Hal nodded. “Which will give us the chance to search it, as well.”

  Everything went as planned. Bellecourt took the wheel, deliberately missed a channel, and ran the Cherokee Belle aground on a sandbank just below a bluff. Roland promptly set the passengers ashore, to study the vista or fish, and ordered the waiters to serve a lavish picnic lunch.

  Bellecourt and Sampson then spent four hours pretending to get the Belle off, while actually hunting through every nook and cranny onboard. The remaining crew members were rightfully horrified and worked like demons to search the boat. Thankfully, they found no other attempts at sabotage.

  By the time the passengers started straggling back, the search was over, and the Belle once again looked and behaved like a first-class packet, not the scene of attempted murder. The Spartan, which had been so close that morning, was now almost out of sight.

  After dinner, the waiters cleared the tables away and prepa
red the grand saloon for a dance. Mother preened and fluttered her fan faster, as she surveyed the available men. The orchestra started tuning up, and Viola walked her fingers over William’s sleeve. He smiled down at her, the contented smirk of a man who knows he will enjoy whatever happens next.

  “Will you dance with me, kind sir?” she asked softly, her eyes glowing with carnal invitation.

  William kissed her hand. “It would be my very great pleasure, dear lady.”

  Damn, they looked ready to cuddle in public. Hal cleared his throat with unnecessary emphasis. “If you’ll excuse me, Viola, I have business to attend to in the pilothouse.”

  “Of course. Sleep well, dear brother.”

  He kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, sweet sister. Brother.” He slapped William on the arm and turned to go.

  “Good night, Hal.” William’s voice changed tone. “Now, sweetheart, would you prefer to dance in the grand saloon or…”

  Hal fled. The Cherokee Belle was tied up, but if he knew Bellecourt, he’d be teaching Rosalind some of his Indian mother’s stories about the stars. Hal needed to congratulate her on how well she had conducted herself during that damn breakfast with his parents.

  As he’d suspected, he found Bellecourt and Rosalind on the hurricane deck, just aft of the jackstaff. The night was dark, except for the colored light streaming from the grand saloon’s skylights. As ever, Rosalind was watching Bellecourt and the stars. She only eyed the river while standing watch as a cub pilot.

  The only sounds were Bellecourt’s elegant tale and the dance music from inside. Sampson had doubled the anchor watch and armed them. After this morning’s alarm, they patrolled the main deck with the same silent, deadly vigilance they’d use a few weeks later in Indian country.

  Bellecourt cast a quick glance at Hal, then continued recounting his story. Hal’s nose quickly found Rosalind’s distinctive scent, soap with a very light trace of lemon. His cock promptly hardened. Hal froze and ordered his unruly tool to behave. It was not impressed by his command.