The River Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  "Perfectly understandable. In fact, I would advise you both to see the boat first of all, and then consider all of your options. We can meet again to formalize everything, and by then I'm sure you'll have any questions or concerns firm in your minds."

  Clint said eagerly, "That sounds right to me," and Jeanne nodded agreement.

  Deshler said cautiously, "Now I must tell you that Mr. Hardin specified one stipulation to his inheritors. He had a dog, and apparently Mr. Hardin was very attached to him. He told me that anyone who inherits his boat has to take care of his dog."

  Clint looked relieved. "Is that all? Sure, I like dogs."

  Jeanne asked, "A dog? What is the dog's name?"

  "Hmm? Oh," Deshler said with some confusion, shuffled some papers on his desk, and then pointed. "Here. The dog's name is Leo. He was with Mr. Hardin when I met him, and he's a big, sort of spotty dog," he added informatively. "So I'm assuming that you both agree to Mr. Hardin's stipulation? Good. Now, I will need a couple of days to formalize the title documents and file them appropriately. We can do all the paperwork on your next visit."

  "Good, thanks, Mr. Deshler," Clint said gratefully. "So, Mrs. Bettencourt? May I have the honor of escorting you to see our new steamboat?"

  "Our new . . . ? Oh, yes," Jeanne said, still feeling slightly dazed. "I mean, of course I want to go see the Helena Rose." She stood up abruptly, and so of course Clint and Mr. Deshler jumped up out of their seats. "Thank you, Mr. Deshler, for everything. I'll see you . . . when should I see you again?"

  "Perhaps both of you might come back at the same time on Thursday," he said.

  "Ten o'clock, Thursday," Jeanne said, as if talking to herself.

  She turned and rushed out the door, and Deshler and Clint exchanged quick helpless glances and then practically ran after her. Deshler hurriedly told Clint, "The Rose is at the north end of the waterfront. Mr. Hardin specified that one of his crewmen, a Mr. Ezra Givens, stay on the boat. He'll be able to tell you much more than I've been able to, I'm sure."

  "Thanks," Clint said, trailing Jeanne out the front door. She was walking fast, wrapping her muffler around her head and pulling up her hood. He caught up to her and she glanced up at him with a distracted look.

  "Hi there. Remember me? Your partner?" He offered her his arm.

  She came to a dead stop. "I—this is all too much right now, Mr. Hardin. You'll have to excuse me."

  "What does that mean? You're going to the docks, I'm going to the docks. We're going to the same place on the docks. Doesn't it seem like maybe we should go together?"

  "No. I mean—yes. I suppose so. But I—I don't know you, you're a complete stranger to me, and I'm not comfortable walking arm-in-arm with a man I don't know," she said darkly.

  "But you do know me, ma'am," he said lightly. "I'm your partner. I'm the Singing Man."

  "That's silly!"

  "You said it, not me. Anyway, what can we do? You want me to follow behind you like a lackey or something?"

  "Would you?" Jeanne snapped, her dark eyes hard and brilliant.

  He stared down at her for a brief moment, then grinned slowly, for his mouth was still swollen and sore. "Well, yeah. If that's what you want, ma'am."

  Jeanne started to fling out a reply, then dropped her head and pressed her fingers to her temples. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hardin. It's just that all of this has been such a shock."

  "It's okay, I understand. So does this mean that you'll take my arm, and we'll walk, not run, to the docks, and talk like grown-ups?"

  Jeanne's hackles rose again, but she took his arm and said, "Yes, I suppose we must."

  They proceeded along for several steps, and Jeanne didn't say a word, so Clint asked politely, "So I assume you're widowed, Mrs. Bettencourt."

  "Yes."

  "And the pretty little girl, at the Regale. You both had holly and ivy crowns, and I thought you—never mind about that. So she's your daughter?"

  "Yes."

  "And what is her name?"

  "Marvel."

  "And how old is Marvel?"

  "Six."

  "And I'm curious, ma'am, since you don't seem old enough to have a daughter that age. Would you mind telling me how old you are?"

  "Yes, I would mind."

  Clint sighed, then stopped and turned toward her, placing his hand over hers. "Ma'am, please. I know it's kind of hard to take all of this in, but right now I think it's important for us to get to know each other. After all, in the position we're in, we're going to have to work together, to make some important decisions, together. Isn't that right?"

  "I know," Jeanne sighed. "It's just that it's such a bizarre, such an uncomfortable situation, to be forced into a personal relationship like this," Jeanne said.

  "Then think of it as strictly a business relationship. That's what it really is, anyway."

  Slowly she nodded. "Yes . . . yes. I can do that."

  They resumed walking, and Jeanne went on, "My daughter's name is Marvel, and she just turned six years old. I am twenty-five, and widowed, and my parents are both dead. And your family, Mr. Hardin?"

  "My mother's dead, and I don't know about my father. I never knew him," he said coldly. "No brothers or sisters, but I guess you knew that, considering we're the last two of the Memphis Hardins," he added in his normal lazy drawl.

  "Actually I suppose my daughter is one," Jeanne said. "She would be . . . one-eighth Hardin."

  He shot her a quick cautious glance, and Jeanne's eyes widened. "You think—no. No, no. I didn't mean that. I would never try to—to get more, to get a portion for Marvel."

  Clint shrugged with apparent carelessness, but his gaze was intent. "Why not? From what Mr. Deshler said, the percentage of Hardin blood doesn't make any difference. It could be argued that she has as much right to the Rose as I do. Or as you do, for that matter."

  Jeanne shook her head. "No. She already has my share, for everything I have belongs to her. Therefore, she has received the very same thing that I have, and your portion should not be infringed upon at all."

  "Wow, you'd make a great lawyer," he said admiringly. "And I'm not just saying that because what you said is all the better for me."

  Jeanne made a quick impatient movement with her hand. "It would just be dishonorable and greedy to try to do you out of your share. Not to mention ill-bred."

  "That is one thing that you are not, ma'am," Clint said gravely. "So. You're a widow and you're well-bred, we've established that. What else are you?"

  "Hmm? Oh. I'm a chambermaid, at the Gayoso."

  "You are? But you don't look like a chambermaid!"

  "So I hear," Jeanne said dryly, "but so far no one has told me exactly what a chambermaid is supposed to look like, and why, in particular, I don't look that way. No, never mind all that, please, I don't want to discuss the average chambermaid's countenance. Let's talk about the Helena Rose. Do you know anything about steamboats, Mr. Hardin?"

  "Not a blessed thing," he said cheerfully. "Do you?"

  "Actually, I do. You see, I was brought up on a steamboat. My parents and I lived on my father's steamboat, the Pearl. He owned it, and he was the pilot and captain. In fact, I learned a lot about piloting a steamboat myself," she said matter-of-factly. "Not on the Mississippi, but on the Arkansas River. Do you know it?"

  "Do I know it," he repeated slowly. "Do I know . . . the Arkansas River? And you grew up on a steamboat? And you've even piloted a steamboat?"

  "Yes, Mr. Hardin. That's what I said. We are speaking English here, are we not?" she said tartly.

  But he only grinned, a wide unconstrained expression, forgetting the pain of his mouth. "Do you know what I call that, Mrs. Bettencourt?"

  "I don't know what you would call it," she said, "but I call it a miracle of God."

  He rapid-fired questions to her all the way down to the docks. She answered some and didn't know others, but she was surprised at his quickness, at the sharp and incisive nature of his questioning. They reached Jefferson Avenue, which
was past the high bluffs and was the first of four avenues that led down the gentle slope to the river. Traffic in town, and on the river, was light, since many people still celebrated the days between Christmas and New Year's day as holidays. Still, there were eleven steamers along the riverfront, their gangways down and roustabouts loading and unloading cargo and a few passengers coming and going. Clint clasped Jeanne's arm a little tighter as they went past the carts and drays and shouting roustabouts. "Mr. Deshler said she's moored up at the north end," he said, and Jeanne nodded.

  On the other side of the wharf sat a group of several men, chewing tobacco and spitting and talking. Every one of them was black from head to toe, their red eyes staring out fiendishly. Clint and Jeanne were passing them when one of them yelled, "Clint! Hey, Clint! Hold up!"

  They stopped and looked, and when the man got close to them Clint said, "Vinnie! You look awful!"

  He grinned, and his teeth shone very white against his ebony face. "Just finished loading up a big ol' girl with coal. What are you doing here?"

  He stared curiously at Jeanne, but she was paying him no mind at all. She was looking down the wharf, her eyes narrowed. Clint began, "Vince, may I introduce—"

  At that moment Jeanne yanked her arm away from Clint and stalked down the pier.

  "Where's she going?" Vince asked blankly.

  "I dunno," Clint said. "She does that."

  They watched as Jeanne went two steamers down, where a big, high-sided wood cart was being unloaded onto a shabby steamer pulled alongside. "That's Old Man Mock's wood dray," Vince told Clint. "He'll pinch a penny 'til it screams. He tried, once, to scamp some roustabouts out of paying them what he owed them, said they took too long and time was money and it wasn't coming out of his pocket. 'Course, word got around so none of us will load for him now. He hires the wood monkeys, and he picks the ones that are really hungry and pays 'em two cents. Think she knows him?"

  "Doesn't look like it," Clint observed. Jeanne had walked up to a short, fat man in a filthy yellow waistcoat who was rapping the three wood boys on the back with a stout stick as they staggered by with two and sometimes three logs. Jeanne's hands were on her hips, and her face was a picture of outrage. Even as they watched, the fat man raised the stick and waved it threateningly. Clint said, "Uh-oh," and he ran toward them, followed by Vince, whose day had just improved mightily.

  Before they reached the two, Jeanne reached up with the quickness of a snake and snatched the stick out of the man's hand. "How would you like it if I beat you with this stick?" she said wrathfully.

  Old Man Mock's face turned a livid purple. "Jest who do you think you are, little girl! You give me my stick back!"

  Jeanne contemptuously threw it over his head into the river. Mock took a step towards her, his hand upraised, his expression vicious.

  "You don't want to do that," Clint said, suddenly appearing and grabbing Mock's upraised arm.

  "OW! Leggo of me, you beat-up sorry—OW!" he howled.

  "You don't want to say that either," Clint said calmly, his grip tightening on Mock's fat arm.

  "Awright! Awright! Leggo!" Clint released him and he stumbled backwards a step, rubbing his forearm. "You got a grip like a gator! And she—" he pointed a filthy forefinger accusingly at Jeanne and shook it—"she took my stick! And throwed it in the river!"

  "Yeah, I noticed," Clint said, and turned to Jeanne who looked as if she'd like to pick up Mock and throw him in the river. Behind him, Vince watched with a wide delighted grin stuck on his face. The three wood boys had stopped loading to watch, and a couple of other roustabouts had come close to observe. "Mrs. Bettencourt, I think—yeah, there she goes," he finished under his breath.

  Jeanne walked over to one of the wood boys and said, "Roberty, why would you let that awful man beat you like that?"

  He stared up at her helplessly and wordlessly. She sighed and put her arm around his shoulders. "Just drop that wood right now. You're coming with me."

  Slowly he let the two heavy logs drop and she kept her arm around his shoulders and walked back up to the pier. She looked over at Clint, Vince, and Old Man Mock, who were all watching her with a kind of dread fascination. "Well? Are you coming, Mr. Hardin?" She and Roberty turned and began walking.

  Clint and Vince looked at each other and then followed them. Old Man Mock shouted after them, "All you crazy people jist stay away from me!"

  Over his shoulder Vince yelled, "Better watch yourself, Old Man! She might come back, you know!" Mock looked alarmed.

  They caught up to Jeanne and Roberty and stayed a few steps behind them. "Hey, Clint? Think you might let me know what you've got yourself into here?" Vince asked.

  "It's a long story," Clint said, frowning. "It's been a long morning. Long and short of it, I'm half owner of a riverboat, and she owns the other half. We're going to see her now."

  "Which boat?" Vince asked eagerly.

  "Name of Helena Rose. You know it?"

  "Sure! That's Bull Hardin's boat. She's been docked down there since he died. Uh—you said you own it now?"

  "Half of it."

  "And that lady up there owns the other half?"

  "Yep."

  Vince digested this. "Okay. Uh—who's the boy? The wood monkey?"

  "Don't have any idea. You can go ask her if you want."

  "No, thanks," Vince said vehemently. After a moment he said thoughtfully, "So, you own Bull Hardin's Rose now. It never occurred to me that you were kin, even with the same last name."

  "I never met him, never heard of him. I guess he's a real distant cousin."

  "Is she a Hardin too?"

  "No, her name is Bettencourt."

  "Oh. What's her first name?"

  "I forgot," Clint rasped. "And trying to get her to talk is like trying to pull a stripped bolt."

  "You're joshing," Vince said disbelievingly. "You mean there's a live woman on this earth that you can't charm into telling all of her secrets?"

  "She's not exactly my kind of woman," Clint muttered. "Anyway, tell me about this boat. What do you know about her?"

  Vince pointed. "See for yourself. There she is."

  She floated light, with only the gentlest of movements on the long lazy river swells. Painted white, her smokestacks and paddle wheel were a bright true red. The main cargo deck was open at the front, with the boiler room and engine room enclosed behind. The Texas deck was completely enclosed, with a railed walkway around, with windows all along the sides and front. On top perched the pilothouse, white with red trim. Painted on both sides and on the back above the paddle wheel in crimson fine script: Helena Rose.

  Jeanne and Roberty stood still, studying her, and Clint walked up to stand beside Jeanne. "So what do we think?" When she answered him, he was surprised at the warmth and pleasure in her voice.

  "She's trim and neat. The paint needs touching up a little, but the windows are all intact and they're even clean. She looks very well cared for, from the outside at least."

  On the cargo deck a dog lolled up into their view and regarded them curiously. "Hello, Leo," Jeanne called. He began to wag, as it were; his whole rear end moved and his skinny tail went around in a lopsided figure eight. His long red tongue flopped out, and it looked like he was grinning. "Silly dog," she said, smiling.

  "So do we wade out there?" Clint asked. The boat was about twelve feet away from the shore.

  Vince appeared beside him. "Maybe, maybe not. Hey, Ezra! Ahoy the Rose! Ezra!"

  A man came out of the deep shadows behind Leo. He was in his late forties, with stooped but broad shoulders and long thick arms. He wore a black stocking cap pulled down over his ears. Lifting one hand, he shaded his eyes and looked them over. "Who is all you people?" he asked in an aggrieved tone.

  Vince stepped forward. "It's me, Vinnie, Ezra. These are the new owners of the boat. Except the boy. I don't know who he is."

  "And I don't know any black fellers named Vinnie," Ezra retorted.

  "I'm not a black feller," Vi
nce argued. "I'm just—oh, forget it, Ezra! This gentleman and this lady are the new owners of the Rose. Lower a gangway so we don't have to swim."

  "Can't you see I'm the only man on this here boat? You think me and Leo can lower away?"

  "Why did you—" Vince bawled, then turned to Clint. "Why did he pull off and raise the gangplank anyway?"

  "How should I know? So what do we do?"

  "I'll wade out there, it's probably not but a foot or so deep anyway," Vince said, plopping down on the muddy riverside to pull off his shoes.

  Clint threw himself down beside him. "Somehow I figured as soon as I heard I owned a boat I'd end up getting wet."

  "Oh, dear," Jeanne said. "I don't suppose I could help?"

  "No!" Clint and Vince said in unison.

  Within a few minutes they had waded out and together had manhandled the huge capstan to lower one of the landing stages. Ezra and Leo watched with interest. Jeanne lightly came up the walkway, followed by Roberty with a bemused expression on his face.

  Ezra watched Clint and Vince as they wrung out the bottoms of their trousers and replaced their socks and brogans. "Bet thass cold," he opined.

  "It's freezing," Vince grumbled. "And I hadn't gotten wet in two days. At least my feet are still white."

  Clint rose and stuck out his hand to Ezra. "Mr. Givens, my name is Clint Hardin. Mr. Deshler, the attorney, told us you'd be here, and I want to thank you for watching out for the Rose. This is Mrs. Bettencourt. She and I are co-owners of the boat now."

  He nodded slowly. "Mr. Deshler, he did tell me that a man and a lady were the new owners. Pleased to meet you, sir, ma'am."

  "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Givens," Jeanne said. "Mr. Hardin, I'm going to go look at the cabins and the pilothouse first. Roberty, wait here with Mr. Givens, and this is Leo." She gave the dog a cursory pat on his broad head and went toward the outside stairs that led to the Texas deck.

  Though he hadn't been invited, Clint doggedly followed her up the stairs to the Texas deck. The door was in the middle of the deck, and they went into a narrow hallway. Just on their right was the galley, with a sliding door that was standing open. Jeanne went into the small room and exclaimed with delight, "A range! A real, honest-to-goodness range! And, oh my goodness, is that an icebox? And pots, and pans, and utensils!" She opened a couple of the high narrow cabinets. "Seasonings, spices, condiments!"