The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  “Missouri’s running high, maybe two feet higher than when we came up,” Bellecourt commented. “It may finally open that new chute by Spring Creek.”

  “Which would cut off twenty or thirty river miles, and make up an hour or more on the Spartan.” Hal’s mind raced as he assessed the possibilities.

  “If a pilot is daring and lucky enough to travel a narrow and unknown channel in the dark of the night,” Bellecourt warned, “and pass through an oak forest at the end.”

  “True,” Hal agreed and set the Belle up for another turn as lightning slashed the skies again. More than one riverboat had met her end while traveling a chute for the first time, even in broad daylight. He hoped Rosalind would sleep through the night so that she wouldn’t be disturbed by the dangerous voyage.

  There was a long silence before Bellecourt spoke again. “We’ll be back in six hours, mon ami, unless you mean to tie up before then.”

  “I plan to stop before the Devil’s Rake. The flood’s probably shifted it so daylight would be best for traversing it.”

  McKenzie sighed in relief, but quickly covered his reaction by noisily slurping at his coffee.

  Hal’s mouth twitched. He might be a close fit pilot, capable of taking his boat successfully through the narrowest channels. But even he balked at sailing through the Devil’s Rake by night.

  “Eh, bien,” Bellecourt said comfortably. “We will see you at the change of watch in six hours. Bonne chance, mes amis.” He left with McKenzie, both of them running down the stairs like boys as they dashed for shelter.

  Lightning snapped from cloud to cloud, then a thunderbolt hit a tree a boat’s length behind the Belle. With a loud crack, it slowly toppled over until it barely clung to the muddy bluff.

  After a quick glance to see which tree had been hit, Hal ignored the fallen giant in favor of studying the river ahead. With less than an hour before sunset, there wasn’t a great deal of light except for that coming from the lightning.

  Sampson’s voice rose from the main deck, and O’Brien rang the bell. An instant later, deckhands and cabin crew swarmed over the Cherokee Belle, locking the shutters over every window and placing canvas covers over every pipe and vent. With a great show of ceremony, O’Brien tamped out his pipe, marking the start of night running for the Belle. Now the pilots’ vision would see only the river and the land beyond, and not be blinded by any small brightness from the boat.

  Another bolt of lightning shot across the clouds, to be quickly answered by a second and a third that made the skies sizzle and crack. It bid fair to be one of the most spectacular electrical storms Hal had ever seen.

  He continued to steer the Belle, eyes alert for every change in the river—the standing wave that could signal a drowned snag, the ruffled waters that indicated a shoal, the slightly higher water that meant the inside curve of a change in the channel. William echoed his every move, matching him so well now that they seemed like a single hand on the wheel.

  “Do you generally tie up during thunderstorms?” William asked. His tone evinced only the mildest curiosity.

  “No,” Hal and Viola said in unison. They chuckled, and she went on. “Very few riverboats are struck by lightning. The wind is a greater danger since it can blow a boat over.”

  “That’s more true on the Ohio or Mississippi, where there are longer stretches of straight water.” Hal added. “We’ll stop quickly if we must but it’s not likely.”

  Hal and William brought the Belle safely through another turn, their route now well lit by almost continuous flashes of light and the sizzle of ozone.

  Thinking it best to ask the questions now, while they were alone—and still alive, Hal covered the speaking tube to the engine room before he spoke. “Viola, do you know if Nicholas Lennox was Mother’s paramour?”

  She hesitated. A lightning bolt split a tree a few hundred yards away.

  “Viola.” Hal’s voice was very gentle. “Let me know the truth now, while we’re still alive. I dislike going into battle ignorant of what charges my enemy might hurl at me.”

  “He was her paramour ten years ago,” she said reluctantly.

  “Was there anything else between them than physical intimacy?”

  She was silent.

  “Viola, I’m not an utter fool. Mother lectured me many times about my duty to go south and fight for the Confederacy. I suspect she took action herself, as well as spouting exhortations. Spying, maybe, or sending arms south.” Sweat trickled down his back between his shoulder blades.

  “Yes.” His sister’s voice was barely audible. “How did you know?”

  Hell and tarnation. He’d hoped to be proven wrong. Pain stabbed his heart. If his father learned that he had a treasonous wife, it would have torn his guts out.

  A few heavy drops of rain beat on the pilothouse roof. Hal’s voice was uncomfortably harsh when he spoke. “There was a great deal of gossip during the war about her unladylike interest in the Cincinnati dockyards and the army headquarters. And her flirtations with prominent men.”

  “All true. I believe Nicholas Lennox helped her with some of her treason, especially sending guns to the rebels.” Viola leaned her forehead against her husband’s back, and he murmured something soothing in Irish.

  Hal put the rest of the tale together. “Ross must have found out and blackmailed you into marriage. Damn, I wish I’d thrown his rascally body into the Ohio so you wouldn’t have had to suffer.”

  “But if I hadn’t married—and buried—Ross, I wouldn’t have met William,” Viola pointed out, speaking louder to be heard over the rain drumming on the tin roof.

  William said something very smug in Irish, and Viola chuckled.

  Just then, lightning sparked again, flashing an eerie green fire across the sky. Rosalind burst in through the door and slammed it shut. “Good evening,” she managed. Her simple walking dress was plastered to her skin, revealing every detail of her French corset and feminine curves.

  “Hello, my love,” Hal answered. He should have known that his little gambler would never miss a risky journey like this. Best to keep her mind occupied, now that she’d arrived. He opened the speaking tube again, so Norton could hear every word.

  “Rosalind, do you remember that trio of dead oak trees atop the bluff, near Spring Creek?”

  “An isolated stand of trees and the bluff eaten away to the south?”

  “Precisely. Now keep your eyes peeled and sing out when you see them. You can see more through the side windows than we can between these planks. We should be coming up on those trees very soon.”

  “Yes, Hal.” She took up station at the window closest to where Spring Creek would appear. She spoke again, a few minutes later.

  “There it is, Hal, ten points off the starboard bow, maybe a mile ahead.”

  Hal looked where she indicated, squinting against the water blowing in between the planks. A flash of lightning abruptly lit the shores and the stand of trees. Rosalind was correct, although they’d arrived sooner than he’d expected, thanks to the raging waters.

  “Norton?”

  “Aye, skipper?”

  He shouted to be heard over the rain, now drumming as loudly as any regimental band. “Fire up the engines and rig for collision. We’re taking that new chute by Spring Creek.”

  God willing, they wouldn’t strike anything so hard that the boilers would come off their mounts.

  “Aye aye, skipper. I’ll pass the word to Mr. Sampson.”

  “Thanks. Ladies, when I tell you, brace yourselves. This will be a bumpy ride.”

  He prayed they’d be safe, and not thrown about if the Belle hit a snag, or ripped her bottom out, or lost her pilothouse to a low-hanging tree branch. But he had to take this route, if he was to catch up with Lennox.

  All too soon, the three ancient trees loomed up next to the Belle’s bow. The channel should turn to the left here, as the Missouri had run less than a week ago. But now the water didn’t bow upwards, marking a curve like a sleigh skidding on i
ce. Instead, it continued to rush straight ahead.

  The Missouri River was cutting a new chute, straightening out a massive oxbow bend and cutting at least twenty river miles off the journey to Kansas City. But had it ripped out the oaks at the foot of the bend yet? Or would those ancient trees smash the Cherokee Belle into kindling?

  Hal didn’t hesitate, but rang down for full speed ahead. “Ramming speed, Norton!” he roared. “Brace yourself, ladies!”

  Then he steered his beloved Belle into uncharted waters, lit only by lightning. She leapt forward, as the engines roared and cinders shot through the skies overhead. Sheets of water blew into the pilothouse, through the gap in the boards, and half blinded him. Cicero barked encouragement.

  A line of willows appeared directly in front, marking the edge of what had been an island. But there was an opening between them, where the Missouri foamed and frothed like a Titan intent on destroying the land.

  Crack! A willow swayed and fell into the torrent and disappeared downriver. Hal set his course straight for where the tree had vanished. The Belle bucked when she reached the former riverbank, where the land was still closer to the surface than elsewhere. But the engines surged, as strongly as when his old gunboat had charged the rebel rams at Memphis, and threw the Belle up and over the obstacle.

  Now they were in the chute. The current here was faster than in the main channel, since the Missouri’s path was narrower. The river pushed the boat ahead as if eager to see her safe in the old channel. Lightning blazed overhead, providing occasional glimpses of the route ahead.

  The Cherokee Belle bounced hard and often, feeling every bump in the new channel but surviving somehow. Willows bent before her and under her, then sprang up again in her wake.

  A tree limb loomed up, reaching over the hurricane deck towards the pilothouse. Suddenly the current twisted and snatched the Belle into a turn.

  Her stern swung fast and wide. A loud crash sounded and Rosalind squeaked. The superstructure trembled. Then the gallant boat steadied and raced on, silently telling Hal that all her key elements were intact, especially the chimneys and stabilizing hog chains.

  “What the hell was that?” shouted Donovan.

  “We just shortened the texas by breaking off the laundry room’s roof,” Hal shouted back. “The rest of the Belle’s fine.” And he hoped there’d be a hot bath waiting when he finished this shift, given the way he was sweating to hold the Belle in the new channel.

  Long minutes later after more thunderbolts blasted the sky, Rosalind sang out, her voice steady. “Oak trees ahead, Hal. It’s the grove marking the old riverbed.”

  God willing, the Missouri had already cut the chute enough to take out enough of those oaks. Otherwise, the Belle would be either smashed into kindling when she roared against them, or stranded in a backwater for days.

  Lightning flashed, showing Hal a narrow passage just ahead. The Missouri had cut a few oaks neatly away. Others leaned against the raging waters. Would the opening be wide enough for the Belle?

  “Ready again, Black Jack?”

  “Aye, skipper!”

  “Then pour it on and may the devil take the hindmost!”

  “Give it to her, boys!” roared Norton.

  The Belle slammed into the gap, intent on forcing her way between two giants. One mighty oak cracked and broke, falling away from its assailant. The other held, stopping the boat.

  Hal and William fought to concentrate all of the Belle’s strength on one spot. The great engines strained under his feet. The paddlewheel’s beat increased until she seemed to be pounding the water into granting assistance. The frustrated water surged under her hull, frothing around the oaks as if intent on carrying them away. Cicero barked and howled, as if begging for help.

  Slowly, slowly, moaning like a reluctant god, the stubborn oak fell away. Freed, the Belle leaped through, although squeaks and groans told of obstructions pushed aside. She tore into the old channel with a last bounce and flip of her stern.

  Hal cursed vehemently and spun the wheel, desperate to turn his boat before she embedded herself in the opposite bank. William added his strength, and together they coaxed the crack packet into obedience. The Cherokee Belle abruptly settled into the proper channel and raced on, as smugly as a maiden going to church.

  Another lightning bolt lit the skies. Against the brilliant pale green light, a shower of sparks showed where the Spartan sailed. She’d clearly been warned, as Hal had expected, and was racing hard and fast. But she was only a few miles ahead now, thanks to the chute.

  Rosalind voiced what was likely in everyone’s mind. “Do you think we can catch her before the Devil’s Rake, Hal?”

  “I know we’ll catch her. But before the Devil’s Rake?” Hal shrugged.

  “Then we’ll pray,” Viola said fiercely. “Lennox must answer for his crimes.”

  And the rain beat down, as if echoing her plea.

  The storm lasted for nearly an hour, as Hal and William fell into a rhythm of steering the Cherokee Belle down the wild river. Hal steered closer into the corners than he normally would have, with scraped paint and battered wood as witnesses. Sampson’s men efficiently cleared the debris and made any repairs necessary. Norton’s engines settled into a steady rhythm, driving the Belle faster than she’d ever run before.

  A barge, escorted by a small tug, hovered outside the old mountain man’s woodyard. The roustabouts quickly threw her a line, reeled her in, and offloaded her precious cargo, then shoved her off again—without the Belle once slowing down.

  Grinning, Hal blew the Belle’s whistle in thanks. Wooding up while underway was far more common on the Mississippi than the Missouri, so the old mountain man must have made special arrangements to be of assistance.

  Ezra and Abraham appeared with food and drinks, which Hal and William snatched as they could. All the while, the roustabouts sang stirring plantation melodies about chariots and riding to heaven.

  And slowly, with every fiber straining and wreathed in clouds of black smoke and cinders, the Cherokee Belle gained on the Spartan.

  Finally, the rain stopped and the clouds blew past. The Missouri lay before them, every ripple evident in the full moon’s silvery light. The water was deeper here than it had been a few days ago, and it was rising fast, as the nearby rivers and streams brought rainwater to the Big Muddy.

  Two of Sampson’s deckhands removed the planks from the forward window, so Hal could see clearly. Clumps of people occasionally appeared on the bluffs, cheering as the Belle sailed by.

  Debris bobbed and spun in the foaming waters. Everything from branches to entire trees came to menace the Belle, only to be dodged or pushed off by Sampson’s men’s poles.

  They sighted an embarras ahead, its tightly woven rampart of dead trees apparently sneering at their hopes of safe passage. Only men with saws could force passage for a boat through those impenetrable walls. Thankfully, the raging flood had pushed the ten-foot-high thicket against a bluff, and the Belle passed by unharmed.

  A cold wind raced out of the northwest, carrying the memory of mountain snows and winter frosts. Viola shivered and disappeared. She and Abraham returned with coats and fresh coffee for all.

  A puff of cinders from the Spartan landed on the Belle’s bow. Sampson shouted immediately, and roustabouts sprang forward with buckets. An instant later, it was gone.

  Hal bared his teeth in a predator’s smile. The Spartan was now within a mile.

  Norton somehow coaxed more speed from the Belle’s engines. Hal found a tighter course through a series of deep bends, ignoring the scrapes as trees tore at the boat’s cabin.

  And suddenly, the Cherokee Belle burst out of a turn and found the Spartan less than three lengths ahead of her.

  “Ahoy there, Spartan!” Sampson shouted through a speaking trumpet. “You have a murderer aboard. Heave to and we’ll take him back to Omaha.”

  “Never!” answered Hatcher. “There are no killers on my boat. I won’t stop until I reach Kans
as City!”

  “Just as I expected,” Hal muttered. Steering carefully through the narrow channel, he brought the Belle into line behind the Spartan as Bellecourt and McKenzie slipped silently into the pilothouse. Almost six hours had passed since they’d gone off duty.

  Seen from this close, it was obvious that the Spartan had encountered as many or more trees than the Belle. Her paint was badly chipped and one of her stacks was awry.

  Men ran frantically back and forth in her engine room, causing Hal to raise a speculative eyebrow. Could Hatcher’s parsimonious ways have finally created havoc for the Spartan’s engines or boilers? Or perhaps she hadn’t cleared mud from her boilers, causing her lines to clog. Or perhaps an engine or boiler was thinking of blowing a rivet. Or…

  Truly, there were too many possibilities to consider, and none of them mattered, as long as the Spartan was still running fast and free down the Missouri.

  Hal carved every fraction he could from the Belle’s course, using every trick he’d learned in a lifetime on the unruly river. She crept closer and closer until she was within two lengths of her opponent.

  She was also approaching the Devil’s Rake. If Hatcher was foolhardy enough to enter that maze of snags and embarrases at night, he could gain a sizable lead on a more cautious Cherokee Belle. It would be like threading a two-hundred-foot long needle through the thorn hedge around Sleeping Beauty’s castle, instead of a single man on horseback. Hal gritted his teeth.

  “Triangle bluff coming up, Hal,” Rosalind warned. Her voice was calm, too calm. That bluff marked the start of the two sharp bends that led to the Devil’s Rake. A small bonfire burned atop it, and a handful of spectators cast flickering shadows.

  The Spartan cut the first turn very close. The Belle followed her exactly, ignoring the resulting nudge against the riverbank.

  The second bend loomed barely three boat-lengths later. The Spartan started her turn late, still intent on the fastest possible route. But Hatcher had misjudged the current and the riverbed. The Spartan’s stern bounced off the bluff, sending her spinning across the river.