The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  “Of course. I’d like to see how that orchard looks, now that it’s become a rake where the river sliced through the land.”

  “Orchard, sir?” Rosalind questioned softly.

  “Yup. Just before the war, Bickford planted an apple orchard on a bluff overlooking the Missouri,” Hal explained.

  “Some folks said he was too close to the edge; others said it didn’t matter because the river could take anything it wanted.”

  “And the Missouri grabbed it.”

  Hal nodded, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the ever-present pot. Cicero had considered the pilothouse’s familiar space, then departed it for the hurricane deck’s open expanses. He was now racing around the texas on the hurricane deck, enjoying the morning’s freedom and uttering occasional barks of pure joy. Homer had chased leaves with equal delight long ago.

  “The spring rise carved it away, about a week ago. Now the entire orchard’s at the bottom of the river.”

  “Still standing upright with the branches pointing up, out of the water,” Rosalind finished the description.

  “Depends on how high the water is. If we’re lucky, the branches and leaves are obvious. If not, we’ll have to dodge them somehow and keep a solid hull on the Belle.”

  “Heureusement, it’s a smaller hazard than the Devil’s Rake we passed a few days ago,” Bellecourt commented. “That place brings hell so close that a Protestant will go to confession.”

  Hal and Rosalind chuckled at his description, just before a woman’s voice interrupted.

  “Good morning, Hal. May we join you?”

  “Of course. There’s a rocking chair in the back, if you’d like to sit down.” Hal smiled at his sister and William, as Cicero happily barked again. Today was a far better morning than the last one he and Viola had shared with his dog….

  Fourteen-year-old Hal walked home, cradling Homer’s body in his arms. Tears streaked the dirt and blood on his face. The Carter boys had snatched Homer, probably by an appeal to his appetite, and then they’d tortured him.

  Hal had attacked as soon as he heard Homer’s barks, but it had been too late. He’d outfought the two older boys, but their black eyes and broken noses, even their retreating backs as they’d run away, were little consolation, when compared to Homer’s death.

  Dear God in heaven, who’d have thought so much blood could come from one little body. And the broken limbs had flopped so much when he picked Homer up that he’d made his coat into a burial shroud, just to provide more dignity for the gallant dog.

  Oh, Homer, Homer, what will I do without you? You and Viola have been my only confidants.

  Piano music floated out the window and down the long line of mansions in the fashionable Cincinnati district. It reached Hal’s ears, lightening his burden a little.

  Good, Viola was home. She’d understand how much Homer had meant, even if Father always called him “a sentimental attachment unworthy of a future naval officer.” And she wouldn’t scold, as Mother would, for disgracing the family by appearing in public in his shirtsleeves.

  He gulped for breath and wiped his eyes one last time. Then he started up the stairs to the big town house.

  The front door flew open, and his father glared at him.

  Oh, no. Heaven only knew what punishment his father would deal out.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  The music stopped.

  Damn, the Old Man was swearing. This was going to be bad.

  Hal straightened his shoulders, still sore from the last beating, and stepped inside.

  His father slammed the door. “You weakling, have you been crying in public? About a dog?”

  Hal glared back. He clutched Homer’s body closer.

  The Old Man shouted again, within inches of Hal’s face. “What woman would want to bear your sons, if she knew you were a sniveling brat?”

  Twelve-year-old Viola ran into the foyer. Hal instinctively yelled a warning, knowing all too well the penalty for surprising their father.

  Without looking around, the Old Man flung out his hand to stop the newcomer.

  Viola skidded to a stop less than an inch from her father’s fist. Her blue eyes were enormous with shock and fear.

  “Viola,” Hal whispered, his body cold with terror for the first time that day. The Old Man had never lifted a hand to his daughter before.

  Mother glided into the room, came to a stop by her favorite Ming vase, and folded her hands. She must have been receiving calls from other matrons, since she was wearing her best. “Has your son been sniveling in front of the neighbors, Captain Lindsay? Intolerable.”

  The Old Man glanced around. “Take your daughter away, Mrs. Lindsay. This is men’s business.”

  Mother nodded without hesitation. But then, she’d never argued with her husband about how to discipline their children—nor comforted her offspring afterwards. “Come along, Viola.”

  The girl hesitated, searching her brother’s face. “What about Hal?”

  “Your father will deal with him,” Mother snapped. “Come along.”

  “Hal—”

  “I’ll be all right.” And he would be, as long as she was happy. He wouldn’t make a sound, no matter what the Old Man did. She’d be frightened if she heard him scream. He couldn’t think about the Old Man almost striking her, Hal’s dear companion on so many explorations through the woods or along the river.

  Viola searched Hal’s eyes. He kept his face calm, hoping to persuade her that nothing painful would happen. She’d never seen the Old Man punish him, so she might believe it.

  She finally yielded. “Let me take Homer.”

  The Old Man harrumphed but, for once, said nothing about sentimental weakness.

  Hal passed over the little corpse.

  “Oh, Homer…” Viola started to cry.

  “Come along now.” Mother gripped Viola’s elbow and steered her out of the room.

  “It is beyond my comprehension,” the Old Man said quietly and savagely, “how you can be such a milksop. You’d lose your entire crew by weeping over a scratch on the ship’s mascot.”

  Hal’s mouth tightened at the insult, but he knew better than to respond. Words only increased his father’s anger, magnifying Hal’s danger. The Old Man was deadly with a cane or a rope, as befitted a man who’d learned from the Navy’s stern disciplinarians. He preferred to use a cane—the more silent and more deadly of the two—on his son, citing his desire not to disturb the ladies in his house.

  The Old Man’s mouth twisted as the silence stretched between them. “Upstairs to your room, mister.”

  Hal went as ordered, his father barely a step behind him. The room was painfully neat, good enough to withstand inspection, but making Hal’s personal disarray more apparent.

  “Attention!” the Old Man barked.

  Hal struck the naval pose and waited, breathing hard and fast. His terror was fading, now that Viola was safe, but his anger at yet another argument with his father was building.

  The Old Man sneered. “Trying to pretend you’re a sailor? You wouldn’t pass inspection by a blind chaplain in those muddy rags. Anything to say for yourself, mister?”

  “What good would it do? You’ve already tried and condemned me,” Hal retorted, his control snapping at last. “You don’t care that I want to be a riverboat pilot, not a naval officer. You want me to be exactly like you—a clean-shaven bully like all the other Lindsay men.”

  “Why, you insolent wretch!” The Old Man slapped him across the face and Hal punched him in the jaw.

  The Old Man staggered slightly, staring at Hal. Then he came after the younger man with all of his superior strength and speed—and far better fighting skills. Hal realized that his father had done more than stand watch while serving in the Navy; he must have engaged in numerous dockside brawls before he’d married Mother and moved to Cincinnati.

  Two minutes later, Hal was stretched facedown across his bed, his hands and feet tied to the rails with the ropes k
ept for practicing knots. He struggled anyway, cursing the Old Man with every expletive he’d learned while exploring Cincinnati’s back alleys.

  The Old Man shoved a leather strap into Hal’s mouth and buckled it behind his head. He unbuckled Hal’s pants and yanked them down to the knees, then pulled Hal’s jacket and shirt up, exposing Hal’s shoulders.

  Terror, instilled in him by past canings, touched Hal again and he fought it back with rage. He was not ashamed of fighting for Homer or crying for him, his confidant, who’d heard all of Hal’s anger and fears, but loved him anyway.

  The Old Man stepped back, his face scarlet with anger, and reached for the cane kept in Hal’s room for exactly these occasions. “By God, I’ll teach you not to strike your betters, mister. And you will learn enough discipline to lead your men and raise your sons, no matter how long it takes to beat it into you.”

  He lifted the cane, and Hal caught a glimpse of himself in the small mirror above his chest. He looked exactly like his father—skin flushed red and eyes blazing.

  The Old Man brought the cane down hard and fast, striking Hal across the buttocks. The familiar two-edged jolt of a caning blossomed—the thud of the cane’s weight then the fiery burn.

  Hal waited for his father to deliberately pause and let the anguish build, as had always happened before. Instead, the second stroke came quickly, its thud blending into the previous stroke and increasing the pain.

  In a single blinding flash, he realized that the Old Man hadn’t announced the number of strokes to be given, as on every prior beating. Instead, the Old Man was beating him like a madman, the strokes coming faster and faster as he cursed Hal’s stubbornness and inadequacies as a son.

  Hal closed his eyes and promised the Almighty that if he survived this caning, he would never have children. Half choking on the leather gag, he fought the waves of agony for as long as possible, until he finally fainted.

  He woke up later to find his hands and legs free, although his clothing was still disarranged. He started to turn over, then screamed into the coverlet, as agony burst across his back like wildfire. Overwhelmed by more pain than he’d ever felt before, he yielded to merciful unconsciousness.

  “How could he do this to his own son?”

  A girl was crying. Viola.

  Hal tried to answer, but his voice came out as a croak. He tried to move, but a small hand lightly touched his arm, careful not to cause any more pain.

  “Be still, Hal. You shouldn’t move when your back is like this.” Her voice was thick with tears. “Just let me clean you up.”

  She began to gently wash his back. Hal buried his face in the pillow to muffle his shrieks. Agony ripped through him when the washcloth brushed one blood clot and he passed out again.

  It seemed a very long time before he drifted back to reality. Viola was now washing the backs of his knees, which thankfully hadn’t been harmed.

  “You shouldn’t see me like this,” Hal protested feebly.

  “There’s no one else to take care of you. Father—” She stopped. Tears choked her voice when she went on. “Before Mother and Juliet left for Louisville with him, Father told us that Obadiah would look after you. But Obadiah is at the farm until tomorrow night, and I couldn’t let you wait that long. So I stole the key and came in…And I’m glad I did.”

  “Thank you.” Hal hissed slightly at another lance of pain.

  “Oh, Hal, what are we going to do? Should I fetch the doctor?”

  “Wouldn’t do any good. He’d just call me a weakling, say it’s a father’s right to teach his son a lesson, and refuse to treat me without Father’s permission. That’s what he said before, after the Old Man beat me for not knowing those Latin conjugations.”

  “Father has no right to hurt you like this!” Viola insisted. “I’ve learned a few things from Rebecca and listening to the slaves on Grandfather’s plantation, but I can’t heal anything like this.”

  “I won’t die, Viola. Not from this.”

  She hesitated. “Well, if you have a fever before Obadiah returns, I’ll fetch the doctor.”

  Hal grunted something. Mercifully, she took it as assent.

  “He’s beaten you before, hasn’t he?”

  Hal was silent, unwilling to tell her the truth. His back would tell a tale, if she looked.

  “Damn him!”

  “Viola!”

  “It’s not a curse; it’s a wish,” she said stubbornly, her hands as light as angels’ wings as she worked. “He may be a great shipowner but he’s not handy at raising you. You need to leave.”

  “What happens to you if I go? Juliet will be gone as soon as she finds a rich husband. Then there’ll be no one to protect you.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I know how to stay out of trouble.”

  Hal gritted his teeth against a particularly nasty stab of pain.

  “Do you have any money?” Viola asked, as calmly as if they were discussing buying candy.

  “No, he’s confiscated my allowance for the past six months.”

  “I can give you fifty dollars, which Grandmother Lindsay sent me for sheet music. That should see you to Independence and give you a grubstake. The Missouri River is so far away that he won’t look for you there.”

  “I won’t take your money!”

  “Hal, I can’t just stand by and watch the next time you two become angry. He’ll kill you—or you’ll kill him.”

  Hal couldn’t bring himself to agree with her forecast. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Don’t be silly. Just stay safe and write me when you can.”

  “I’ll always do my best for you, sis.”

  She dropped a kiss on the top of his head.

  But he’d failed Viola in ’65 and she’d married Ross. The knowledge of his failure ate Hal’s soul worse than his father’s cane had ever cut his back.

  “Hal, my dear boy,” the woman’s voice purred from behind him.

  Hal stopped in midstride, then turned slowly, schooling his face into the usual polite mask he wore around his mother. “Good evening, Mother. What can I do for you?”

  She looked around the grand saloon, which was full of passengers taking seats for the evening musicale and waiters bustling to fill last-minute orders. At the piano, Viola played a medley of popular songs. William leaned down to say something, and she laughed up at him, her face so full of joy and contentment that Hal’s heart skipped a beat. Not for him, the comfort of a happy marriage—and the attendant risk of children.

  “Shall we step outside where we can speak privately?” Mother’s Kentucky drawl was very thick, boding ill for their discussion.

  “Certainly.” He glanced at William, a silent promise to return later. William nodded calmly.

  But Viola’s head came up, and she saw him and Mother. Her expression changed from the carefree joy of a moment earlier to a cold wariness, like a pilot studying a whirlpool. Her mouth tightened as she studied Mother, and she missed a beat.

  Her husband touched her shoulder, capturing her attention. She glanced up at him, and a silent message passed between them, too veiled for Hal to decode. A moment later, she had resumed her pleasant mask as a musician.

  The air outside was crisp and clean, washed fresh by the afternoon’s rainstorm. Hal leaned against the rail and watched his mother pace, waiting for her to start talking. It never helped to suggest things to her; she’d simply take everything offered and then ask for more. So he, like all of her children, had learned early to let her start any conversation.

  “Hal, my dearest boy, I am deeply concerned about Miss Schuyler.”

  Inwardly, every nerve came to full alert, but nothing showed on his face. “Rest easy, Mother. I’m sure the Pinkertons are doing their best to find her.”

  “But it would be better if you found her, my dear. Then you could marry her immediately and become a railroad baron, thanks to her inheritance.”

  Hal stopped this train of thought ruthlessly. “Isn’t there a fiancé or suitor in New Y
ork with a prior claim?”

  Mother dismissed the man with an airy wave. “Nothing binding.”

  “I’d heard someone else, besides her guardian, was pushing the Pinkertons to find her. Nicholas Lennox, perhaps, who’s called himself her fiancé?”

  She went white. Hal’s eyes narrowed, and he frowned, studying her. What the devil had caused that reaction?

  “Nicholas Lennox,” she said stiffly, “is a junior partner at her father’s bankers. Of course, he is concerned.” She went on, recovering her earlier fluency. “But he is not formally betrothed to her and you could be.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  She put her hand on his arm and gazed at him earnestly. He raised an eyebrow and waited.

  “My dearest boy, think of yourself. The riverboat business is dying on the Missouri. In five years, there will be nothing left but barges, which is hardly a fit setting for your skills. Oh, there may still be riverboats on the Mississippi but they have cotton, which the railroads don’t handle as well. There’s no cotton on the Missouri and the railroads will soon take everything.”

  Hal inwardly winced at her logic, which he couldn’t refute.

  “In order to survive, my son, you must enter another realm of affairs. Miss Schuyler has a vast inheritance of railroad stocks and shares in related businesses. As her husband, you would be a great railroad baron, who even Commodore Vanderbilt or Jay Fisk would respect. So you must find her and marry her, as quickly as can be, for your own good.”

  Unable to counter her demand that he find another source of income, Hal fell back on stubbornness. “No. I will not marry Miss Schuyler nor anyone else, as I have said many times before.”

  “I understand your anger at your father, dear Hal.”

  Dear? Why was this so important that she’d use an endearment when talking to him alone? His hackles raised.

  “Sons always quarrel with their paterfamilias,” she continued, her voice honey-rich with spurious concern. “But you must do this for yourself, not for him.”