“All-back full!” Hal shouted and simultaneously rang down to the engine room. Norton’s answer came before the last note sounded.
Boom! The Spartan ricocheted against the opposite shore. Birds burst out of the trees, screeching their alarm.
Metal screeched and cracked with a sound like the souls of the damned descending into hell. Men yelled orders along the Spartan’s main deck.
The Missouri snatched the Spartan off the shore and brought her back into the channel. A loud crash sounded from her main deck. A man shrieked in terror.
The Cherokee Belle’s paddlewheel hesitated, then reversed, throwing up water like a geyser as she fought to stay safe.
A flash of scarlet light showed from the Spartan’s main deck. Smoke curled upwards to the starry skies. Her paddlewheel thrashed.
“Lord have mercy, a boiler’s fallen over,” Viola whispered.
Fire burst out between the Spartan’s stationaries, the struts along the main deck which held up her promenade.
“They’ll lose the boat within minutes,” Rosalind’s voice was choked with tears.
“Aye, fifteen minutes at the most but more likely, five. With luck, Hatcher can reach shore before the tiller ropes burn through,” Hal added to comfort his wife.
The Spartan swept down the Missouri and past the turn. Smoke billowed up beyond the bluff, casting a pall over the full moon.
“All-ahead half,” Hal ordered the engine room. Norton answered, the bells crisp and clear, and the Belle moved on.
An instant later, she rounded the turn.
The Spartan was headed straight for an embarras. “Mon dieu, he’s lost the tiller ropes already,” Bellecourt muttered.
Fire glowed from within her promenade and flickered from her skylights. Screaming men jumped into the rushing waters. The onlookers pointed and shouted from their vantage point. A few climbed down the bluff, ready to pick up survivors.
The smell of burning wood was stronger now, as the Belle came closer. William muttered something in Latin, which Bellecourt echoed. The two men, and Viola, crossed themselves.
Suddenly, flames burst out of the Spartan’s texas and leaped onto the pilothouse. It spread rapidly, consuming the flimsy superstructure.
“Lower the boats and pick up survivors,” Hal shouted down to the main deck. He began to bring the Cherokee Belle to a safe stop.
Just beyond the Spartan, the first snags of the Devil’s Rake clawed the moonlit sky like an invitation to hell. The broom mounted atop her pilothouse caught fire, sending smoke and sparks flying into the heavens, as the Spartan forever relinquished her claim as the fastest packet on the Lower Missouri.
Chapter Twenty
From behind a stack of barrels, Nick kept an eye out for any unwary roustabout roaming the Cherokee Belle’s main deck alone. He’d managed to reach her last night and climb aboard the port side, while everyone else was pulling survivors from the starboard side. Cocky fools.
Now he had to find a roustabout and steal some dry clothing. The Missouri River had stripped his gun and boots away as neatly as any valet. Every gun aboard this ridiculously tidy boat was apparently either locked up in her powder magazine or riding on a man’s belt. This time, he’d do the job himself with his own knives, rather than relying on others’ feeble efforts.
Rosalind stirred resentfully when the draft of cold air caught her, immediately noticing the loss of her big, warm bedmate. “Whazzat?” she mumbled sleepily.
“Go back to sleep, my dear. I have to go on duty.” Hal kissed the top of her head.
Rosalind yawned and threw off the covers. If Hal was going on duty, she would accompany him. “Can’t Bellecourt or McKenzie take the first watch?”
“They handled the wheel, while William and I helped pick up survivors,” Hal reminded her. He took a tray with coffee and shaving supplies from Ezra, then closed the door.
Rosalind stretched and began to dress quickly. “Was Lennox’s body ever recovered?”
“No.” Hal began to shave. “So we’ll continue downstream for another day or so and hunt for him. As well as any survivors we can find. Or corpses.”
Rosalind shuddered. “I hope we find all of them soon.”
The early morning air was crisp and cold but very clear, as Hal, Rosalind, and Cicero climbed to the pilothouse. Below them, the Missouri was still running fast, but a little lower than the night before. The Devil’s Rake’s snags and embarrases were plain to see, their branches reaching out like Satan’s minions eager to drag an unwary soul down to hell. Egrets and a great blue heron stalked along the water, hunting for breakfast. An osprey dived out of the sky and plucked a fat bass out of the Missouri, exactly where the Spartan had sunk.
Rosalind smiled, glad to see the birds’ untamed beauty. The Spartan’s hulk, the only portion remaining after the fire, might never be found, but life went on for others.
Viola had been very sanguine about her father’s recovery. The Cherokee Belle had rescued dozens of survivors who now slept on the main deck and the grand saloon’s floor, almost piteously grateful for their salvation.
Few of the stokers had been saved; they had probably died when the Spartan’s boiler wrenched itself free of its mounts and set her on fire. Hatcher had been found badly burned and unconscious, with a huge gash across his head, probably from a fallen beam. Viola didn’t think he’d live to see another night.
Lennox, on the other hand, had vanished without a trace. A few of the Spartan’s cabin crew spoke of seeing him in the pilothouse, screaming imprecations as the Belle approached. But no one had seen him after the Spartan struck and caught fire.
The pilothouse was neat as a pin, with no sign of last night’s exertions. Beneath Rosalind’s feet, the engines rumbled at quarter-speed, ready to start downriver at a moment’s notice.
“Morning, Norton,” Hal called down to the engineer through the speaking tube, as he calmly chewed a bit of clean straw from the empty livestock stall. He always walked through the hold and main deck before coming on duty, in order to gain a feel for the Belle’s weight distribution. This morning, Rosalind had sensed a watcher there, but nothing untoward had happened. Now she opened the windows for better visibility, as Hal preferred, despite the chilly morning.
“Ready to get underway?” Hal called into the speaking tube.
“Whenever you are, sir,” Norton answered promptly. “We’ve a full head of steam and the engines are turning.”
“Very well then.” Hal grasped the wheel and briskly sounded the whistle to signal departure. A roustabout cast off the last line tying the Belle to shore, then leaped back aboard.
Both hands on the wheel, Hal calmly backed the Belle into the main channel and let the Missouri’s tumultuous waters turn her around. She sailed downstream at half speed, strong enough to remain under control despite the fast current, but still slow enough to stop if a survivor or body was found.
Few sounds other than wanton snoring emerged from the texas’s cabins, now stuffed with exhausted officers and cabin crew sleeping off the night’s exertions. Two roustabouts had just started to hose down the main deck. Breakfast’s first rustlings came from the kitchens but the boat was still remarkably peaceful. No freight was being rearranged while O’Brien shouted and cursed. No querulous passengers shouted, demanding coffee and fried bacon.
Rosalind purred. She would be happy to stand at Hal’s side like this, forever.
Hal changed course slightly so the Belle could dodge a drowned tree. Suddenly a dirk flashed through the open door in the rear and embedded itself in the great wheel, less than an inch from Hal’s thumb. He spun around, his hand still gripping a spoke.
What on earth?
A filthy Lennox, barefoot and dressed in ill-fitting roustabout’s garb, leaped in and attacked Hal with a bowie knife. Cursing harshly, Hal kicked Lennox in the leg and forced his attacker back a step.
The Belle took advantage of his inattention and yawed, slipping sideways toward a large snag. Rosalind jumpe
d for the wheel. Cicero let loose a volley of barking.
“I’ve got her, Hal!” she shouted.
Hal released the wheel, just as Rosalind grabbed it with both hands. The current yanked at the Belle, mocking her attempt to take control.
Hal drew his Arkansas toothpick and crouched, his back against Rosalind. He trusted her with his beloved Cherokee Belle, even in the middle of the Devil’s Rake.
Rosalind took a deep breath and vowed to be worthy.
“Finally ready to die?” Hal snarled at Lennox.
“Are you? You’ll look better dead, just as your slut of a mother did,” Lennox retorted. He seemed to be edging back and forth in front of Hal, probably looking for an opening. The pilothouse had seemed spacious before. Now Rosalind couldn’t imagine how the two men would have room to fight.
“Lindsay, what’s going on up there?” Norton demanded through the speaking tube.
“Black Jack, Lennox is here!” Rosalind shouted. Cicero barked lustily and lunged at Lennox.
“Damn you, Lindsay!” Lennox cursed. “You’ll be dead before noon. And Donovan too.”
Steel clanged and slid against steel in the confined space, but Rosalind couldn’t turn to look. Her every faculty was fixed on the crooked waters before her, its shores lined with life-threatening snags and embarrases.
Shouts came from the main deck, but would help arrive in time? A snag loomed up on the starboard bow. Planting her feet for better leverage, Rosalind strained to turn the Belle against the raging current.
Hal growled, his back against Rosalind. He was ice cold and deadly calm with the need to protect her. He couldn’t fight here, not when the slightest misstep would risk her life. He had to take this fight into the open, even though that would give the advantage to Lennox’s quickness.
He charged straight at Lennox. He slammed his shoulder into the villain’s chest and drove him backward. Fire burned along his ribs, long and deep. Lennox had landed a nasty cut.
They broke through the pilothouse’s back wall, shattering the wood and glass. Both men rolled as they dropped a yard down and onto the texas’s roof. They came to their feet immediately, just as Cicero sailed out of the pilothouse. He leaped between Hal’s legs and bit Lennox’s ankle.
“Damn your mangy mutt!” Lennox shook off Cicero and Hal charged again. His knife nicked the other’s shoulder before Lennox blocked him.
They circled each other on the texas’s narrow roof, their knives glinting with crimson in the dawn’s light. A few feet away, chickens squawked in surprise from within their coop. Beyond that lay the laundresses’ station, once a tidy mimic of a sunporch, but now an assembly of torn walls and broken poles.
The Cherokee Belle was weaving a bit, not surprising with a cub at the wheel. But Rosalind was keeping her to a remarkably steady course. She’d do. Now Hal just had to subdue or kill Lennox, so she could stay alive.
The texas’s roof was tin, lightly covered with frost on this spring morning and edged only with knee-high gingerbread. The ornamental wood wouldn’t have stopped Cicero from falling off, let alone a man. Below that was the hurricane deck, also topped by frosty tin and edged by flimsy gingerbread. It held other obstacles to fancy footwork, such as steps to the different texas cabins, the roof bell, and the taut hog chains.
From far below, Hal could hear Sampson ordering his men to intervene. He would have laughed at Sampson’s startling use of foul language if he hadn’t had other things on his mind.
But Sampson’s roustabouts wouldn’t arrive in time. And Lennox was the most dangerous opponent Hal had ever faced, as he’d learned in New York.
Lennox charged Hal, his bowie knife flashing in a nasty backhanded stab. Hal blocked it instinctively. For a moment, they strained together, their heads less than a foot away.
Lennox’s face was contorted with hatred and determination. “I’m going to gut you,” he snarled, “and your filthy mick brother-in-law. And when I finally get my hands on that bitch, I’ll teach her who’s master.”
Hal snarled and pushed down harder on Lennox’s arm. The force was too much for the other’s balance, and he slipped on the frosty tin, breaking loose of Hal’s hold. The villain stepped back, looking for a chance to break through Hal’s guard.
Hal studied him warily, knife cocked and ready to strike. He’d like to see this cur on the gallows, the one audience he wouldn’t be able to cozen. He had to keep his enemy close and away from the stairs down to the hurricane deck, lest he escape yet again.
He attacked, using his size and a dozen brutal moves learned on hundreds of riverfront docks to herd Lennox. Their knives clashed and rang.
Once, old memory warned Hal, and he ducked. Lennox’s knife cut his cheek, not his throat, just above his old scar. He used his momentum to stamp on Lennox’s bare foot and nicked his arm. Lennox broke free, cursing, then ran for the shelter of the big chicken coop.
Cicero growled and charged after Lennox. Hal ran down the chicken coop’s other side, as chickens squalled their anger. He crouched at the end and listened for his enemy.
A quick glance confirmed that Lennox, snarling at Cicero, now stood in the small open space behind the chicken coop. Less than a yard behind him gaped a ragged hole, where the laundry room’s roof had been. Beyond that, a few barrels of water, scape pipes, and the verge staff marked the edge of the hurricane deck, which sloped gently down to the spinning paddlewheel. They were so close to the stern now, the paddlewheel’s vibrations ran through Hal like another heartbeat.
Below his feet, doors slammed as his friends began to leave their cabins to help him. And the hog chains glinted briefly in a flash of morning sun, on either side of the texas.
Cicero charged at Lennox, barking like a horde of demons.
Lennox instinctively stepped backward. One foot, then the other, dropped into the laundry room. He grabbed for the edge, but the broken wood broke away in his hands. His voice broke on an obscenity as he disappeared.
If he could catch Lennox while the blackguard was disoriented from the fall…
Hal jumped down onto the hurricane deck, using the gingerbread to steady himself. Moving a little stiffly, Lennox emerged from the laundry room. Cicero barked ferociously overhead.
Suddenly Rosalind cursed, and the Belle yawed to port, probably dodging a snag. Then Rosalind overcorrected her and jerked her back to starboard.
Lennox staggered and his knifepoint dropped. Just a little—but enough to provide an opening.
Hal bit down on his knife blade, leaped up, and grabbed the hog chain with both hands. It hummed quietly in his grip, as if the Belle were lending him her strength. He swung himself across the Belle and into Lennox’s chest.
Lennox flew backward and off the deck, shouting a single loud profanity. It rose to an inhuman and chilling note, then fell silent.
The Cherokee Belle’s paddlewheel staggered, and the entire boat vibrated. Gradually it recovered its composure, and the packet sailed serenely on, catching a blaze of sunlight. On a damn straight course, too, worthy of Hal himself and remarkable for Rosalind’s inexperience. Footsteps announced the arrival of the Belle’s officers and crew.
Hal looked over the stern, knife at the ready. A red mist rose through the water and curled to follow the current. But where was Lennox?
Beside him, his friends looked for their common enemy. Cicero barked loudly, as if daring Lennox to show his face. Hal scanned the river downstream, where a big embarras rose like a biblical warning.
It rocked as a wave passed through it, and its points dipped toward the river. When it steadied, two legs appeared, caught on a tangle of sharp branches just above the water and clad in sodden, cheap woolen trousers. A torso hung below the surface, sending off a steady crimson flow.
Lennox, or rather, his body. The Missouri had pronounced judgment on the murderous blackmailer.
Bellecourt crossed himself.
“A good boat will never tolerate the presence of evil,” Sampson remarked and holstered his C
olt.
“Now Rosalind can sleep at night,” Hal said slowly and took a long deep breath. Now he could have a life with her.
Almost a year later, Hal sat in the library of his New York home with his father and William. The big town house had been Rosalind’s family’s Manhattan home and was now Hal and Rosalind’s New York base. It was a remarkably comfortable house, filled with art, and furniture that begged for use rather than posing for a critic’s approval.
The library was an immense room, two stories of leather-bound books and statues of great thinkers. A huge fireplace stood at one end, and a smaller one at the other, both framed by informally arranged leather chairs and century-old mahogany tables. Soft Persian carpets covered the oak parquet floor, gleaming in the light from alabaster lamps.
Across the room, Cicero let out a soft yip and rolled over on his monogrammed bed in front of the fire. His paws beat the air as he chased something exciting in his dreams. Pausing to smile at Cicero’s contentment, Viola and Rosalind talked together eagerly. Probably about Viola’s pregnancy, given their hushed tones.
Rosalind always tried not to let him know how very excited she became when talking about a coming baby, or cooing over a new arrival. Why, she’d even welcomed his scapegrace niece, Portia Townsend, into this house on more than one occasion.
His beautiful, loving wife who was a strong helpmeet in public and as fiery as the Cherokee Belle’s boilers in the bedroom. He was the luckiest man in the world to have her at his side. But she never spoke to him about children, and she always glossed over, with a gambler’s smooth manners, friends’ inquiries as to when they’d start a family.
“How’s business, William?” the Old Man asked.
“Couldn’t be better, especially the army contracts. And thank you for the advice from Pierpont Morgan, about the chances of a business panic later this year. I’ve been consolidating my holdings, as he suggested, to reduce the risk of being caught with worthless stocks and bonds.”
The River Devil Page 34