The River Rose (14 page)

Clint noted the seven-foot-diameter wheel, countersunk into the floor three feet so the top of the wheel was four feet high. On the right-hand side was a long tube with a trumpeted end, the speaking tube to communicate with the engine room. On both sides of the door at the back of the wheelhouse were low benches, padded with sturdy canvas bolsters.

He saw the strings running up the sides and across the ceiling, and the different pulls for each bell and whistle. Curiously he stared at a yellow piece of paper glued to the ceiling. It read:
Ira Kenneth Hardin, Certified Pilot. 1852 Licensed as per the Steamboat Act of May 30, 1852. Certified by Albert K. Edmonds, Inspector, Federal Maritime Service.
Clint wanted to ask Jeanne about it, but she was in such a deep reverie that he didn't like to intrude.

Finally she turned to him and said quietly, "Would you like to go see the boiler room and the engine room now?"

"Yes, ma'am." They made their way back down to the main deck. Ezra was in deep conversation with Vince, as he had apparently now recognized that Vince was not a strange black man. Roberty sat on the floor, smiling, scratching Leo's stomach. The dog lolled on his back with his tongue stuck out of one side of his mouth and one long hind leg rhythmically beating. He was, as Deshler had said, a spotted dog, his undercoat a dirty grayish-white with ugly liver-colored irregular markings.

"Ezra was telling me that a bunch of toughs tried to board two nights ago," Vince told Clint. "That's why he had the landing stages pulled up, a couple of deckhands from the
Sultana
helped him the next morning."

"How did you keep them from boarding that night?" Clint asked.

"Shotgun," Ezra said succinctly. "Double barrel."

"You shot them?" Jeanne exclaimed.

"No, ma'am, no call to up and shoot a man when he's done turned tail and running off," Ezra explained.

"Smart men," Clint said. "Mr. Givens, would you come with me now and take a look at the boiler room and engine room?"

"Be glad to, and you call me Ezra," he said. "Don't hardly know how to answer to 'Mr.' Now, I'm an old fireman, and I been on the
Rose
for going on seven year now, since she was built. I know the firebox like I know my own hand. But I can't tell you one sensible thing about that engine, Mr. Hardin."

"That's okay, and call me Clint," he said, stooping to look all around the two barrel-shaped boilers, pulling open the firebox, grabbing the pipes coming out of the boilers. "I know this," he muttered, and went back behind to the engine room. Jeanne followed him.

Still talking to himself, Clint climbed over some pipes to peer out to the paddle wheel housing, threw himself down on the floor to look under the machinery and fingered several valve connections and fittings. "This is easy!" he said, hopping to his feet, beaming.

"What do you mean?" Jeannie demanded.

"This engine. Nothing to it. Boilers make steam, steam pushes the piston, which moves the drive shaft, which moves the Pitman Arm yoke, which moves the Pitman Arm, which moves the paddle wheel crank, and then hey! Paddle wheel turns and off you go. Simple."

"That didn't sound so simple to me," Jeanne said suspiciously. "Are you saying that after looking at this—this stuff for five minutes, you could engineer a paddle wheeler?"

"I don't know about the boilers. Seems to me like that's kind of a matter of experience, to know how to fire them up, keep them just right for the boat."

"I've heard that's true. But what makes you think you know about this engine? There are many experienced pilots and captains who don't know the first thing about a steamboat's engine."

Clint said evenly, "Ma'am, I am a master machinist, and I've made these same valves, these pipes, these rods, these fittings, even these nuts and bolts, a hundred times. When you make the parts, you have to know what they do, and I know how a steam engine works."

"Oh," Jeanne said. "I beg your pardon. I didn't know."

"So now you do. And you see what this means, don't you?" he asked, his dark eyes alight.

Jeanne raised her hands. "Wait. I know what you're thinking. But I need time, I've got to think, this is just overwhelming."

"I know," he said quietly. He came to stand before her and looked down to search her face. "But I would like to tell you something. I don't know you, Mrs. Bettencourt, but I do know some things about you. You're very smart, and you're determined. You're honest, and hardworking, and you want something better for yourself and your daughter. And I personally think that you can do anything you set your mind to. Including piloting a riverboat."

C
HAPTER
S
IX

"Is something wrong, Mama?" Marvel asked.

"No, no, little girl," Jeanne replied. "I'm just thinking. How are Mrs. Topp and Avaymaria this evening?"

"Mrs. Topp is going to be Avaymaria's maid, and she was wondering when Avaymaria's mantle and muffler might be finished," Marvel hinted.

Jeanne had told Marvel that she would make the doll a gray mantle just like Marvel's, and knit her a red muffler from the yarn left over from Jeanne's new wool scarf. She and Marvel had sat down on their mattress after supper, Marvel playing with her dolls and Jeanne sewing the doll clothes. But Jeanne couldn't concentrate on her sewing, or anything else for that matter. Her mind wildly darted from one thought to another idea to another question, as she thought about the
Helena Rose
and Clint Hardin. She had been staring distractedly into space, her hands loose on top of the sewing in her lap.

"Please let Mrs. Topp know that Avaymaria's mantle will be finished tomorrow night, and on Wednesday night I may be able to finish her scarf," Jeanne said.

Marvel seemed satisfied and went back to the doll's tea, which consisted of a butterscotch drop each and sips from Marvel's cup of cocoa and whispered conversations between the dolls. Jeanne resumed staring into space.

She hadn't told Marvel anything about inheriting the
Helena Rose
, because Jeanne simply didn't know what to say. Until she made a decision herself, it was impractical to tell Marvel everything. Jeanne was having a hard time trying to absorb everything herself, and she was baffled about what to do with her inheritance.

Two hundred and fifty dollars, in cash, she brooded. That little cottage up on Sycamore is only three hundred.

Her landlord, Mr. Garrison, owned several shacks in The Pinch. He was a hard man, for if a tenant didn't have their rent he gave them exactly one week to come up with the whole amount or he called in the deputies to evict. In the four years that Jeanne had been his tenant she had never once been late with the rent, and consequently he was kinder to her. Two months ago he had told her about the cottage and offered to let her rent it or buy it. She could do neither, for the rent was three times what she was paying now and at the time her savings amounted to eighteen dollars and fifty cents. But she had gone to look at the cottage longingly, for it wasn't a shotgun type, it was a clapboard house with a kitchen, a parlor, a bedroom, and even a small attic loft. The white paint was dismal, but it was solidly built, for it didn't sag as so many houses in the Pinch did, and the roof didn't leak.

Jeanne picked up her needle, but after two stitches she was again lost in thought.
Now that I've seen the Rose, I know we could sell her. I have no idea how much she would bring, but surely five hundred, six hundred?

These same thoughts had been circling in her mind like a whirlwind. Ruefully, she realized that each time she thought about selling the
Helena Rose
, one part of her brain suddenly started objecting strenuously. All this day she had been thinking about her childhood on the river, her parents, about those far-off heady, happy days before Max Bettencourt had sauntered into her life. She'd had a good life on the river. She knew that Marvel could, too.

But how could that be? How could she make that happen for Marvel, and for herself?

Could she, Jeanne Langer Bettencourt, really be a steamboat pilot?

Dear Lord, what am I thinking? What should I do? What can I do?
Jeanne prayed and prayed, but it seemed that she couldn't hear the Lord speaking to her.
Probably because I'm talking so much and so loudly He can't get a word in edgewise,
she thought ruefully.

It was two-thirty in the morning before she finally fell into an uneasy sleep full of dreams of the river.

JEANNE WAS STILL IN a turmoil when she awoke, and the persistent brain-whirl continued as she worked. She barely thought about George Masters, even though he was still in the hotel. Again he was not in his room when she cleaned it. As before, she only had a few rooms, for the Gayoso was still mostly empty, and by noon she was off work.

She went outside and stopped, gasping from the cold. The day was gray and sullen-looking, though it wasn't cold enough to snow. A turbid wind blew, with wild sharp crosswinds that made her cape and skirts flap around her ankles. Jeanne threw back her hood to wrap her muffler around her nose and mouth, adjusted her hood far up to shelter her face, and pulled her arms inside her cape and clutched it close. Her head down, she started walking.

She was still behind the hotel, walking along past the tradesmen and delivery carts lined up at the service entrances, when she heard, "Mrs. Bettencourt?"

She looked up and George Masters stood there, bowing. "Hello, Mr. Masters. Whatever are you doing here?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Why?" Jeanne asked blankly.

"Because I felt that somehow on Christmas Eve I didn't let you know how much I would like to see you and spend time with you. So I determined that I would try again."

"But here? Now?" Jeanne asked, shivering a little.

"I know, I apologize, but I couldn't think of any other way. I didn't want to, uh, accost you in my room. So I bribed a porter to come to the restaurant and tell me when you were leaving. Shameful, isn't it?" He managed a smile.

"Yes—no—I don't know," she said. "Mr. Masters, I'm afraid you've found me at a rather difficult time right now. And I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"Is something wrong? With you, or your daughter?" he asked instantly.

"No, no. In fact, I've had some really good news," Jeanne assured him. "It's just that I have some very important decisions to make in the next few days, so I'm distracted, and to tell the truth I can hardly banter with you right now."

"Then don't banter," he said with a hint of frustration. "I'm a very good listener, so you can talk to me. Won't you please come out with me tonight? Or right now, if you would prefer, we could go have a light luncheon at the Cotton Coffeehouse. But I'd much rather have a leisurely dinner at the Courtier. I promise I won't keep you out late."

Jeanne frowned. "I don't—right now, I'm—it's very confusing, you see—"

"No, I don't see. It's not confusing at all to me," he said forcefully. "My carriage will be waiting at Main and Overton, at six o'clock, Mrs. Bettencourt. I hope you will be there. Now, may I take you home, if that's where you're going?"

"No, I have an appointment down at the docks," Jeanne said, "and no, I'll walk. And I'm not at all sure about meeting you tonight, Mr. Masters."

"Six o'clock, Main and Overton," he repeated firmly. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Bettencourt."

With a yank on the brim of his hat, he turned and went around the corner to the front of the hotel. Jeanne continued walking, and found that she was amused. She wouldn't go, of course. But then again, why not? Seeing him and having that brief conversation had been the only time in two days that she wasn't worried to distraction about the
Helena Rose.
Of course he would look like a fool, tooling around with her in a fine carriage, but what was that to her? He was a grown man, that was his lookout. She decided she would ask for the most expensive item on the Courtier Restaurant's menu.

With that she went back to gnawing on her problems as she fought her way down to the docks. She was surprised when she looked up and was standing in front of the boat. In spite of the cruel wind, she had been so deep in thought the entire walk that she had barely seen or noticed anything. There was no one in sight on either deck, so she called out "
Helena Rose
! Coming aboard!" She started down the gangplank, and the door to the boiler room opened and Roberty came out.