Amelia and the Captain

by Lori Copeland

  She searched the pantry for something to create that would be so irresistible, even Morgan would be impressed. Apple pie would be the first choice, since he seemed to be partial to apples, but there were no apples. She settled for a cake.

  Morgan no doubt thought that she was so young and foolish that she wouldn’t know how to do the simplest things. Well, she’d show him. She’d bake a cake that he’d never forget.

  Tying on an apron, she begin to rummage in the pantry and took out flour, sugar, a pinch of salt, three large dollops of lard, and so on. The convent sisters preferred natural fare, and sweets were rarely kept in the kitchen. On special occasions, Sister Lucille made popcorn balls during the months they gathered honey from the two hives they kept far from the convent.

  Sister Camille’s cooking advice floated through her head. “I never measure—I dump. Eventually you get the hang of it.”

  Tying an apron around her waist, Amelia set to work. Selecting a large wooden bowl, she dumped ample amounts of flour and sugar from two of the largest jars. She wanted a large cake, enough to feed the crew, so she dumped in another cup of flour and sugar for good measure.

  Dipping into the lard bucket, she doled out a hefty chunk and then added salt and baking soda.

  Selecting five eggs, she cracked them one by one into the bowl. Peering at the concoction, she decided that the batter didn’t look right, so she added three more. Now it looked like there were more eggs than flour and sugar, so she added another cup of sugar. Then there was more sugar than eggs and lard, so she added another hefty cup of flour.

  She glanced up when she felt a slight jarring motion, as though the crew was making a repair to the vessel.

  Turning back, she studied the cake mixture and then snapped her fingers. Searching through the pantry, she located a jar of applesauce and seasoned the batter with a generous splash.

  Reaching for a wooden spoon, she tried to stir the gooey mixture, but it just knotted up into greasy, odd-colored hunks.

  She stepped to the water bucket for liquid. By now, the mixture was nearly overflowing the bowl.

  Blending the concoction until it was frothy, she realized she was going to have a huge cake on her hands. But that was good. There were a lot of people on hand to enjoy it.

  She dropped to her hands and knees and rummaged through the pantry for a pan big enough to hold the concoction. She settled on a roaster, the only thing large enough to hold the batter.

  Her eyes measured her creation. Something didn’t look right. The batter looked nothing like she’d seen at the mission. She sighed. Cooking was not going to be her long suit. Should she dump the mess and start over? Her practical side overrode common sense. The fixings were all edible, ordinary ingredients. The cake might be overly large, but it would surely be edible.

  Greasing the roaster with another hunk of lard, she liberally sprinkled more flour into the bottom and shook it around until the pan was lightly coated.

  Pouring the batter carefully into the pan, she then picked it up and moved gingerly to the stove. Setting the cake down on the stovetop, she opened the oven door and studied the small area. It didn’t look wide enough to hold the roaster.

  Removing the baking hens, she set the meat out to cool. After a few unsuccessful tries, she managed to wedge the roaster into the oven and close the door. She had no idea how long it would take to bake this size of a cake, but she supposed instinct would tell her when it was done. Undoubtedly, it would take a good deal of baking time.

  After returning to the sink, she washed her hands, dried them, and then hurried in search of Pilar. The boat would be leaving any moment. When she stepped outside, the crew were taking on wood, talking among themselves as they worked. In the distance, a man’s voice lifted in anger.

  Voices ballooned into a shouting match between two dockworkers. From what Amelia could gather, the two men were arguing over a woman.

  A shot rang out. Amelia’s hands flew up to cover her ears as she looked toward the landing. A man lay on his back, a crimson stain spreading across the front of his shirt.

  Horrified, she froze in place, unable to believe what she witnessed. Ripping her apron off, she flew to the side of the boat, eager to see the action.

  Morgan walked by the galley and noticed black smoke rolling from a pan of potatoes on the stove that had boiled dry. Entering the galley, he grabbed for the hot pads, dragged the pot off the stove, and flung it into the sink.

  When the smoke cleared, his eyes focused on the oven where a strong smell caught his attention. Stepping closer, he opened the oven door. His eyes quizzically searched the roasting pan. Leaning closer, he sniffed, trying to identify the aroma. When he failed, he lifted one end of the pan, surprised at its weight. Obviously it was something Izzy or Mahalia was attempting to bake, but he couldn’t identify the object.

  Whatever it was, the thing stunk.

  There was nothing like a shooting to liven things. Amelia stood on one foot and then the other, trying to see above the crowd.

  The injured man on the ground was rolling around, carrying on something awful as a man bent over him.

  Amelia spotted Henry and ran to join him. “What happened?”

  “Female troubles,” Henry told her with a toothy grin.

  “They’re fighting over a woman?” Amelia stood on her toes, straining to see the conflict. She’d never seen anyone fight over a woman before.

  “Yep, they sure are.” Henry gave her another overhanging grin. “Fightin’ over one of them showboat gals.”

  “A showboat?” Amelia’s eyes pivoted to scan the landing. “There’s a showboat here? I’ve never seen a showboat,” she said softly. “Ever.” Of course Abigail knew all about them. She said women danced and sang wearing skimpy dresses while men gambled and drank strong whiskey into the wee hours of morning.

  “Right there, big as you please.” Henry pointed to the landing where the magnificent, gaily lit spectacle was moored.

  “A showboat,” Amelia murmured in awe. “An honest-to-goodness showboat.” The boat was a sight to behold. Grabbing Henry’s hand, she pulled him down the gangplank and toward the big, glossy white paddle wheeler. Gilded lettering glinted in the afternoon sun. Intricate molding outlined the doorways. It was the most splendid sight she’d ever seen!

  “Now hold on, girl. We’ve got to get back to the Mississippi Lady before she leaves without us,” Henry warned. He glanced over his shoulder.

  “She can’t leave without us.” Amelia pointed to the boats congregated around the landing. The shooting had caused so much attention, the ruckus momentarily paralyzed river traffic.

  “Captain’s not gonna like this,” Henry said. His short legs pumped to keep up.

  “I only want to see the boat up close.” Amelia pulled him along firmly. “Have you heard they have painted women and really immoral men on these things?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Henry panted. “I’ve heard that.”

  “Hurry, Henry. Hurry!”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m hurrying.” His bandy legs pumped faster.

  The only force strong enough to repel Amelia at that moment was the solid wall she suddenly slammed into.

  Bouncing a foot backward, her foot caught in the hem of her dress, and she toppled over, feeling momentarily dazed as her head reeled and she saw stars. The wall she’d run into spoke in a booming voice that sent her blood to pumping. “Who did you shoot?”

  Peering groggily up at the voice, Amelia’s shoulders relaxed when she saw Morgan. “What?”

  “Why are you off the boat!”

  “Because it isn’t going anywhere for a while!” Climbing back to her feet, she confronted the captain crossly. “What are you doing off the boat?”

  His eyes swung to her wheezing accomplice. “Henry, what is going on here?”

  “Well, sir, first I said…and then she said…and of course then I warned her—”

  “Henry didn’t do anything.” Amelia brushed dirt off of her hands and knees. “
We were just going to see the showboat.”

  “You were told to stay aboard the Mississippi Lady.”

  “I was staying aboard until I heard gunshots! Everyone else went to look, so I did too.”

  “Haven’t you been told explicitly not to leave the boat?” Their eyes locked in mute combat.

  After a staring contest, Amelia broke eye contact first when she glanced away and shrugged. “I didn’t intend to be gone long.”

  Henry finally caught his breath. “If you two don’t mind, I’ll just be going on back to the boat.” He turned and left before Amelia could object.

  “What’s this about a shooting?” Morgan turned and fell quickly into step behind Henry.

  “Where have you been? There was one right over there.” Amelia pointed to the crowd that was still gathered around the fallen man. “Two men were fighting over a woman, and one shot the other.”

  Morgan paused, removed his hat and knocked the dust from it, and settled it back on his head wearily. “I’ve been cleaning the lower part of the paddle wheel. I didn’t hear the ruckus until the noise grew so loud I came to investigate.”

  “Morgan.” She stooped, winded. “Couldn’t we just see the showboat? The Mississippi Lady can’t possibly move for at least a half hour.”

  He frowned. “It’s a gambling boat.”

  “I won’t go aboard. I’ll take one peek.” Grabbing his hand, she pulled him in the opposite direction. She had never seen a showboat up close, and she might never have the chance to see one again. Oh, the stories she’d have to tell Abigail and Anne-Marie! A real, honest-to-goodness, sin-ridden, immoral showboat, and she had stood in front of it.

  “It’s splendid.” She stood at the bank admiring the floating palace. The boat gleamed with a fresh coat of paint, and with its brightly colored flags snapping in the breeze, the vessel had an air of celebration about it. “Isn’t it splendid?” she breathed. “Have you ever been aboard one?”

  “Yes, once or twice.”

  Amelia knew no lady should be seen stepping aboard a showboat, but oh, how she’d love to slip inside those grand rooms for a glimpse of that other life.

  Morgan shook his head, but a smile escaped. “It’s not so grand.”

  “Men are lucky.” Sighing, Amelia sat down on the ground, her eyes never straying from the showboat. “I’ve never done anything exciting like that. What’s it like to be aboard one?”

  “What’s it like? Well, for days, prior to their arrival, colorful posters are pinned to trees, fences, barns, and outbuildings. People shout, ‘Showboat a-comin’ up and down the river when the spectacle pulls into port. A loud calliope plays a jaunty melody as the floating theater arrives in small river towns, usually early morning.

  “The larger showboats often have a brass band that will make a big production of parading through the center of a community, attracting a crowd. Actors, crew, everybody aboard traipses about, enticing audiences to the evening performance.

  “That night the path to the showboat is marked by the fiery splendor of oil flares mounted on poles.

  “Once aboard, the audience is entertained by an orchestra until the curtain rises. From early spring until late autumn, the local residents are charmed by plays, vaudeville, and circus acts.”

  Clasping her hands together tightly, she gazed at him, her cheeks warm with excitement. “Did you see a show?”

  He chuckled. “My first visit, the actors put on a play about a sickly looking heroine who wandered from town to town, looking for a cure for her illness. The villain tried to deceive her by keeping her away from the cure. In the end the hero arrived in the nick of time to save her.”

  Amelia grinned. “Exactly how did he save her?”

  “With a magical remedy for her illness. When he gave her a spoonful of potion, she was immediately healed. The villain was foiled, and the heroine returned to full, glowing health. Then the curtain closed, and the captain stepped out carrying a bottle of the magic elixir. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he proclaimed”—Morgan spread his arms with a grand flourish—“‘the miraculous medicine that has cured our lovely heroine can do the same for you!’”

  “And people purchased bottle after bottle?” Her eyes glowed with excitement, trying to imagine it all.

  “Fifty cents. Three for a dollar!” he mocked.

  “Was the potion really magical?”

  “No,” he scoffed. “Many were taken in by the captain’s promises for robust health, but alas, the magic elixir was nothing more than river water with color added after the mud had been drained off.”

  “Oh, but it still must have been wondrously exciting,” she said. “To see all those people and hear the music. Did you ever see a real play?”

  “Yes, a few.”

  “What? What did you see?”

  “I saw Bertha the Sewing Machine Girl.”

  “Oh! That must have been fun. Bertha the Sewing Machine Girl. What wonderful adventures you’ve had!”

  “Actually, it was a melodrama that had all the women in the audience sobbing before it was over.”

  “You’ve only seen one?”

  “No, there was Ten Knights in a Bar Room, and East Lynne.”

  “Oh, the life you’ve led. I envy you so much,” she whispered. Her eyes returned to the colorful showboat. “Does it cost much to see one of these plays?”

  “I think the usual charge is fifty cents.”

  “Fifty cents. That’s a lot.”

  “Not so much.” His eyes gentled when he gazed at her. “Maybe somebody will take you to see a play someday.”

  “I don’t think so. I understand that no lady should be seen going aboard a showboat.”

  “Well,” he said softly, “perhaps if the lady is in the company of a reputable gentleman, it wouldn’t be improper.”

  Amelia longed for the day when a woman could do the same things a man could. It hardly seemed right that the males got to have all the fun.

  “We need to go,” Morgan urged gently. “Jean Louis will be leaving shortly.”

  Sighing, Amelia lifted her hand, and he helped her to her feet. They fell into step, heading for the paddle wheeler.

  “It’s sad that there’s so much good in the world that can’t be enjoyed because of the evil,” she said.

  “For instance?”

  “Well, if it weren’t for Austin Brown, the evil, then we could stay for a while, and you could take me to one of the showboat performances. That would be good. Maybe, somehow, we could all go. Even Elizabeth,” she added, feeling generous.

  Morgan chuckled. “You would be willing to include ‘ol’ rotten’ Elizabeth?”

  Amelia refused to look at him now. “Only because I know you would want her along.”

  “I’m not sure I would take you, even if I could. Over the years, the respectability of a showboat has diminished, and many arrivals have been met by groups of armed citizens inviting the theater to keep moving.”

  “Still,” she murmured, “it’s sad that there are people like Dov Lanigan and Austin Brown in this world.”

  They walked in silence a stretch before Morgan spoke again. “How is Austin Brown any different from you and your sisters?” His observation was made without malice, but it had no less impact.

  “What?”

  “How is what Austin Brown and his men do any different from what you and your sisters do?”

  “I admit that my sisters and I were misguided youth. Austin Brown is pure evil,” she said. “My sisters and I meant no harm. We never hurt anyone. Everybody we took from could afford the loss.”

  “You were stealing.”

  “No, it wasn’t really stealing,” she argued. “And everything we took was for the mission.”

  “Sin has no assigned color,” Morgan theorized.

  His words stung, but they were true. Sin was black, little or large.

  “Do you think I’m evil?”

  His features sobered. “Amelia, a person is judged by his integrity. The word means th
at a man—or a woman—doesn’t cheat or steal or lie to gain what he or she wants.”

  “Then how does she get what she wants if she doesn’t have the funds to pay for it?”

  His look was direct and candid. “She comes by it honestly, or she does without.”

  Neither spoke for a moment while Amelia tried to absorb the full meaning of his words.

  “How do you know so much about integrity?” she finally asked.

  “Laura, the woman who raised me, taught me about it.”

  “Laura must be very wise.” The sisters had taught her many things, and undoubtedly they tried to teach her integrity, but somehow it must not have stuck.

  “She’s a good woman.”

  “Were the two of you close?”

  “Very close. Laura took in washing and ironing to make ends meet.” He smiled. “She used to tell me that we were so poor, the church mice looked prosperous.”

  “Your mother never returned for you?”

  “No.” His features closed. “In a way, you remind me of Laura.”

  Amelia paused, turning to look at him. “I look like her?” That must mean that he thought she was good too. Her heart nearly burst with happiness.

  “No, you look nothing like Laura,” he admitted. “But she is a strong woman.”

  “Strong?” Amelia wasn’t sure she wanted him to think of her as a manly brute.

  Up ahead they spotted a gypsy selling wares from her cart.

  “A lovely flower for your lady?” The gypsy extended a single daisy for Morgan’s inspection.

  Pausing, Morgan examined the flower. “Very pretty.”

  “Only a pittance, sir,” the gypsy tempted. Her faded brown eyes rested on Amelia. “Small price for one so comely.”

  “You’re right, it is a small price.” Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a coin. “Would you have any tobacco?”

  “Aah.” The old woman’s smile wreathed her whole face. “That I do. How much would you like?”

  “Two sacks will do, thank you.”

  She handed him the two small pouches, and he paid her.

  Amelia watched the exchange with a sinking heart. The tobacco, she felt sure, was a gift for Elizabeth.