The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (15 page)

Late in the afternoon a raw wind drove many people back into the parlor. There was not a great deal of society on the boat, the season being early, but what there was sought to gently advertise itself. Where one sat and with whom became a subtle dance. I watched from my chair and played songs, and because the words were not sung, I could play whatever I liked. I even played a certain song about a mule’s private parts, sweetly, as though it were a waltz.

But all displayed gentility came apart upon the clang of the dinner bell. The women were given their own table in the back parlor, and when I saw the manners displayed by the men, the reaching and grabbing, I understood why.

Beyond providing my dinner, my duties upstairs gave me access to the cabin water closets—far superior to anything below. There I was able to wash in private with a basin of warm water. And as to the fear of being discovered, I felt in less danger on the riverboat than I had in Honesdale. On the
War Eagle,
everyone was out of place, so I wasn’t an object of interest. And I had been living as a man for a year and no longer looked at people for that extra moment to see if they suspected me. I continued to speak from the back of my throat, but I had already found that it’s not the pitch that makes words manly. It’s the certainty, deserved or not.

I stayed late on the cabin deck that first night, and when I went down, the lower deck was dark. I found my bunk and made myself as comfortable as I could. I had barely gotten settled when I heard a low growl. “He touches me again, I’ll slug him one.” It was Owen Carter, speaking, it seemed, to himself.

“Don’t do it,” I said, knowing he was talking about the mate. “That’s what he wants.”

“I don’t care.”

“He can have you whipped,” came a voice from across the aisle.

There was a brief silence. Then Owen’s voice. “He just better be careful.”

* * *

The next day, the small, green leaves changed into buds as we headed north and backward in season. A person had to be well wrapped to stay outside. When the wind picked up or a shower fell, those on the cabin deck retreated to the parlor, which was warmed by stoves at either end.

Around noon the boat put in at Galena. The men were called to wood-up, and once again, the mate began to berate them for no apparent reason, calling them women, among other insults. I kept my eye on Owen from the deck above, though the mate didn’t seem to pay him special attention. But when Owen passed on his third run, the mate stuck out his foot and tripped him. Owen fell against the cabin wall, and the mate laughed for all to see. I had seen the whole thing and it was done with purpose. I had the sudden thought that the mate did this on each voyage, picked some strong young man to humiliate—to show that in his position he could do whatever he liked. The normal chatter on that side of the boat stopped as everyone watched to see what would happen next.

Owen once again righted himself without a protest as though nothing were out of the ordinary. Without looking at anyone he rearranged the wood he was carrying, and I hoped that this meant that he was going to continue on without any trouble. And that’s the way it seemed it would go. But once the wood was secure, instead of moving away, Owen stepped toward the mate and for a long moment looked him in the eye. The mate wasn’t smiling now, appearing uncertain himself as to what was in store. Then, without any change in expression to serve as warning, Owen dropped the wood. The heavy pieces fell, and the mate’s sudden attempt to pull his feet back made the top half of him lurch forward. In this posture he received Owen’s fist, the contact making an awful, cracking noise.

The mate screamed in pain and fell back against the rail and then down onto the deck, blood gushing from his nose. In a matter of moments it was all over the place. The mate managed to raise a bloody hand and point at Owen. “Get him.”

The men nearby remained still as their arms were full and they owed the mate nothing but wood. Then several burly crewmen appeared out of the boiler room. Seeing them, Owen turned and ran to the back of the boat. Next thing, he was up on the rail, leaping across six feet of water onto the wharf where he landed hard and was grabbed by a constable.

“Bring that man on board,” screamed the mate, spluttering blood. “He assaulted an officer!” The constable looked up and said nothing. “Bring him up here, I say!”

“I seen what happened,” the constable said. “This man is in the State of Illinois and will stay in my custody.”

The mate might have made a bigger fuss, but his nose was broke. He was brought up to the officer’s quarters from where you could still hear his cries and cursing. I ran down to the main deck and then inside where I found someone stuffing Owen’s bag. It was Josiah Johnson, who slept across the aisle, a man traveling with his wife and two boys. I rolled Owen’s blanket and followed Josiah out the riverside door. We made our way around the back and then worked forward to where, below, Owen stood beside the constable, no longer in his grasp.

* * *

When I came on deck the third morning, I saw that everything had changed. The river no longer looked like a river. It was miles across and surrounded by turrets and bluffs. I found Mr. Harrelson by the rail.

“What is this?”

“Lake Pepin,” he said. “The Dakotas call it the Lake of Tears.” He stopped there, leaving it to me to ask him
why
they call it the Lake of Tears. Mr. Harrelson gave a sly smile. “They are said to have cried ’cause they didn’t murder the first white men who came upon it.” I laughed. Mr. Harrelson then pointed to the far shore. “That’s Maiden Rock.”

I looked over to a piece of high land with a cliff facing the water. “Is it a famous place?”

“Oh yes. An Indian girl is said to have thrown herself off. She was to be married but loved another.”

I looked again at the precipice and the jagged rocks below it. “And the brave she loved?” I asked. “Did he follow her over the cliff?”

The mud clerk gave a shrug. “I never heard anything about that.”

The boat moved forward that night with no turns or shudders, as we were still on the lake. When done with the violin, I stayed topside and watched the men play poker. The game took place at a round table near a sign that said, “Gambling on the
War Eagle
is strictly forbidden.” I already knew from Mickey Harrelson that the sign was there only so a man couldn’t complain to the captain if he woke in the morning with his land stake gone.

I was familiar with poker from my time at Blandin’s. Nothing at all to the rules—some hands were higher than others, and the high hand won. The real game was in making people think something that wasn’t true. If you had good cards, you wanted others to think that they weren’t that good, and sometimes, at just the right moment, you could win with nothing at all. It was a game where a man’s nerve and a woman’s keen eye might work well together, but I never dared play at Blandin’s—I was too busy being the little brother.

I watched for a time, gaining a sense of how each man played—whether he liked to bluff or just ride his luck. Then a man got up and said he was done for the night. I waited to see if his chair would be taken. When it wasn’t, I took it and said the words I’d been itching to say all those months at Blandin’s. “Deal me in.”

A certain quickening of the pulse comes with sitting at a table and gambling with money—a feeling of danger and sensation. I could see the tightness in faces, feel the heat off bodies. I felt the vibration in the floor and was aware that this room of peeling elegance was floating into the wilderness. I had climbed into man’s sacred cave.

Thirty dollars was what I gave myself to play with, one quarter of what I still had. My first few hands were so bad that I got out of the way in a hurry. Then I got lucky and won two hands. The pots were not large, but suddenly I was working with other people’s money. Only two at the table played with caution. The others were just loudmouths. When they won, they acted like they were born clever, and when they lost, they took pains to show how put upon they were by fate. Some drank too much. The conversation became coarse.

“The first redskin I see,” said a heavy man across the table, “I’m gonna shoot’im right out. Don’t care if it’s no squaw, neither.” There was laughter, as though he had told a funny story.

“Why shoot ’em,” said another man whose eyes were red, “when you can sell ’em whiskey at any price?”

“And get what?” said the heavy man. “Some stinking shells or last year’s jerky?”

That was the prelude to another game of seven stud. By the fourth card up, the heavy man opposite me had two jacks and two fives showing. I had a king, two sevens, and an eight showing. Underneath I had a jack and a nine. I shouldn’t have even been there, but I did have possibilities and my winnings had made me a little reckless.

The man with the two pair bet five dollars, as though he already had what he needed underneath, only four of us still in. The man to my right dropped out with a show of disgust, as though some good friend had let him down. I had already decided to fold, but then I noticed the man to my left scowl. He should have stayed still. If he was leaving, I had a chance. I called, and the man to my left tossed his cards. It was down to me and the heavy man across the table.

The two pair looked real good, sitting there like eggs in a pan. But I didn’t think their owner had anything else. He was the bragging kind, and if he had the full house, he’d be getting ready to crow like a rooster. It wasn’t there. That was good as far as it went, but he still had me beat. I needed a seven, a ten, a jack, or a king. Any one of those would win the hand for me—I was almost sure. I had one of his jacks, and I had seen one of his fives earlier.

When the final card came, I lifted its corner. It was a queen and no help. I held my face steady and looked at the man across the table. He wasn’t eager to meet my eye, and that told me what I needed to know. Still, he had me beat. But the riddle was his to solve, and he must have been feeling a little naked. Everything he had was there for all to see. And why was I still in? I couldn’t be there with just two sevens—the dimmest wit on the boat would know that.

Sensing that he was now the prey, the man tapped his finger to say that he didn’t want to bet. It was for me to do it, and I didn’t want to push too hard—didn’t want him to think that I wanted him gone. And I knew for him it wasn’t only the money. He also feared the moment when whatever I had underneath would appear and make him look the fool. I let out a sigh and then put in five dollars as though sorry it had come to this. The man folded. I nodded like he had done the smart thing and tossed my cards face down.

That night I won near forty dollars. And so taken was I by the drama that had I been a man and could have borne the scrutiny, I would have, then and there, become a riverboat gambler.

* * *

The next morning, the rail became prime property, as many wished to get an early view of St. Paul. From a distance, the town looked a little like Cincinnati, perched as it was on several large terraces above the river. At the boat landing we were greeted by every imaginable proposition—land to buy, maps to goldfields, offers of transport, the company of ladies. Everything that one might imagine as a need was offered in fact or fancy.

Lodging in St. Paul was for the rich. Those with little money lived in camps on the land north of town. I bought some bread and smoked buffalo and joined the parade to that meadow, already busy with those who had arrived before us. The end nearer St. Paul was filled with shanties in which people had stayed the winter. Several served as stores, selling just about anything that might be useful. I bought some rope and canvas to make a tent. Others did the same. We moved through the field until we found some open space.

I pitched my tent near that of Josiah and Agnes Johnson. That night we made a common fire and cooked and shared what food we had. After the meal, I took out my violin to celebrate our arrival. Agnes’s face brightened when she saw me lift the bow, but every song I played ended up sounding sad. Soon, all of us were sitting quiet, thinking about loved ones left behind.

I
CAME OUT of my tent at first light to find people standing close to their fires and speaking quietly, each word taking the form of a small cloud. Agnes Johnson offered me a tin cup with sweetened tea. I thanked her and washed down the heel of bread that I had from the day before.

Those in camp with work in St. Paul began their walk to town. Others, like me, went to a wall at the edge of the meadow where offers of work were posted. From these I learned that common labor was paid a dollar a day. Skilled men earned two. There was also work for women, washing or cleaning—this at fifty cents a day, better pay than in Long Eddy.

A notice posted by the
Daily Minnesotian
caught my eye. The newspaper was looking for an apprentice, and I decided to see about it. A short while later I was walking up the rutted road that was Washington Street. From the river St. Paul had looked a little like Cincinnati, but now I saw that it was quite different, and not in a good way. No one in St. Paul, it seemed, built a building and then cleaned up after themselves. Odd boards, shingles, crates, and broken pipes lay about as though they were supposed to melt away with the snow.

The offices of the
Minnesotian
were in a two-story building at the head of the street. I went in and right away came upon an old coot of a man leaning over a table, magnifying glass in hand. He knew I was there but wouldn’t look up. I cleared my throat. “Walk to the back and speak to Mr. Owen,” he said, never lifting his head.

The door to the back room had a panel of frosted glass with
J. P. Owen
painted on it. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again.

“Hold on to your britches,” came a voice from inside. A minute later the door opened, and I was looking at Mr. J. P. Owen himself. I told him that I was answering his notice, and his whiskered face made no effort to be pleasant. “Ever work at a newspaper before?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, crossing my fingers. “For Francis Penniman of the
Honesdale Democrat
. In Pennsylvania.”