The River Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  "You don't believe that though, do you Ezra?" Vince asked uncertainly.

  He shrugged. "Choctaw Creek does push boats inter the bog. That's how we got here."

  Clint asked, "But you said you'd never been here before?"

  "No, Cap'n Hardin wasn't named 'Bull' for no reason. He was strong as a team of ox. He could fight that rudder right round when it got flat-up a-whomperjawed by the river. I niver did know of him to lose the boat 'cause of that. I reckon that's what's happent; going downstream, and them currents pushed the rudder right bang-up agin the housing."

  Hesitantly, Clint said, "Jeanne says it's because she wasn't strong enough to turn the wheel."

  "Prob'ly true. They's been other pilots that's been caught up inter Dead Man's Slough, though. Rip-roarin' river men. If that's what she's done got in her head."

  "That's what she's done got in her head," Clint said dryly.

  "But did these other pilots see any dead Indians?" Vince asked, his brow furrowed.

  "Not that I know of," Ezra answered. "But dead men or not, it just ain't a good place to be stuck in."

  "I don't think Jeanne's going to be able to get us out of here," Clint said evenly. "Could we take soundings and go real slow?"

  "Sure 'nough," Ezra replied. "But who's going to drive the Rose?"

  "I guess I am," Clint said. "Captain's orders."

  THE NIGHT SKY WAS washed clean by the rain, and countless stars glittered. A solemn half moon hung low, too close to the horizon to reflect in the river. The Helena Rose was at rest at Widow Eames' Landing, a solid dock made of cypress. Up a long, gentle hill six lantern-lit windows glowed from the Eames house, three windows downstairs and three windows upstairs. Clint thought that it was a lot of lights for one widow, but then he didn't know if she was lucky enough to have family living with her.

  He was sitting up on the hurricane deck in the soundless night, just staring up at the sky. It was unusual for him to be so still for so long. But he felt tranquil, not restless, as he watched the old moon and the stars and smelled the rich fragrance of wet earth and felt the tentative warmth of early spring.

  Jeanne came onto the deck and crossed over to him. "I'm so sorry," she said quietly.

  "Don't be," he said hurriedly. "Here, take my front-row seat. I'll go get me another one." He went into the wheelhouse and came out with another long bolster, the padding from the benches. Jeanne was already seated, her legs crossed beside her, her back against the 'scape pipe. Clint arranged his pillow and sat down. "Hope you don't mind me abusing your bench padding."

  "No, I don't. I never sit on the bench anyway. So. How did you make it?"

  "Okay. I kind of zigged and zagged along, because I couldn't get the hang of the wheel for awhile. I yanked us this way, then I'd shoot us over that way. Ezra said I was driving like a Sattiday night drunk. Begging your pardon, ma'am."

  He couldn't see her face very well, but he sensed her smile. "I didn't feel any zigging or zagging. I think you must have done fine."

  "Thanks, Captain."

  "You're welcome."

  She turned her face upward, and it was lit by starlight and faint moonglow. Her profile was clean, her nose small, her lips youthfully full, her neck long and slender and graceful. "I've seen so many nights here, at this landing. Widow Eames used to have a big eight-sided gazebo painted white right there. She had a large family, you see, and her sons built it. In summer sometimes the Eames and families from all around used to come down here and picnic and swim and dance in the gazebo. That gazebo was probably the most familiar landmark on the Arkansas River."

  "What happened to it?" Clint asked curiously.

  She sighed deeply, a sad sound. "There was a tornado. It destroyed the gazebo and the dock and—and the Pearl, my father's boat. My parents were killed."

  Clint drew a sharp indrawn breath. "I'm so sorry, Jeanne. You weren't on the boat?"

  "No, I was married, and Marvel was five months old. We were living in Memphis. The tornado was on May 7, 1849, and it caused a lot of damage between Little Rock and Arkansas Post, and eighteen people died. Anyway, I didn't even find out about my parents for a week and a day. I came back here. They're buried up there, in a little cemetery about a mile from here. But there was nothing left of the Pearl, nothing at all. It was as if she had simply disappeared."

  "You've passed this place on every trip," Clint said quietly. "It must have been hard for you."

  "The first trip was very hard. But that all happened six years ago, and it's true that time, and the Lord, can heal all sorrows. One day I wanted to stop and visit their graves, but I'm not quite ready for that yet. Now I try to remember the good things, the summer nights with the Pearl all lit up, and a hundred torches on the hill and all around the white gazebo. Two of the Eames boys were very taken with me, and they used to fight to see who was going to ask me to dance first. Of course, we were about eight or nine years old at the time."

  Clint was wondering about her husband, and where he was when Marvel was only five months old and she lost her grandparents. But Jeanne's tone had turned light now, and he didn't want to question her about her marriage. It was miraculous that she'd told him about her parents. So he merely said, "You can't blame a fellow for fighting to see who's going to dance with the most beautiful woman at the ball, even if she is only eight years old."

  "Hmm. And what about you, Clint? What were you doing when you were eight years old? What about your parents?"

  He shrugged. "I never knew my father. By the time I was eight years old, I didn't know my mother any more." He stopped, but Jeanne felt he wanted to continue so she remained silent.

  "She told me that he left her before I was born," he finally went on. "She said that he'd decided that she wasn't good enough for him, and so he knew that I wouldn't be good enough for him. He paid for me to go to Calvary Episcopal School, though. And I think, I'm not sure, that when I was young he was paying for our house. But my mother started drinking, and we lost the house, and moved to a cheap boardinghouse. She just literally wrecked herself, she got so bad."

  "The drinking?" Jeanne asked quietly.

  "It started out with whiskey, but then she got addicted to laudanum. It killed her," he said bluntly. "When I was fourteen. For three years she had been hitting the streets to pay for her little blue bottle. When that was gone, and she didn't have money for more laudanum, she drank rotgut whisky. Finally it was both. She didn't die well," he added bitterly.

  "Oh, Clint, I am so sorry," Jeanne said compassionately. "It's when I hear things like this that I realize how very blessed I've been. I should never complain, or feel sad, or scared."

  "Everybody's got a story," Clint said in a hard voice that was unheard of coming from him. "Mine's better than some, worse than some. Anyway, I got the Helena Rose from a cousin of my father's, so something good came out of it."

  "It's funny you should say that. I have the same kind of mixed feelings about Ira Hardin's boat coming to me. You know that my mother was a Hardin, and she was from St. Louis."

  "Ah, the infamous St. Louis Hardins. Good thing we're the Memphis Hardins or we never would have inherited. What's the story with them, anyway?"

  "I don't have any idea," Jeanne said, sighing. "My mother never spoke of her family when I was a child. When I got older, she sat me down and had a talk with me, but she was—guarded, I suppose you'd say. She told me that her parents had disapproved of my father. When she married him anyway, she said that over time they had grown so far apart that they really weren't like her family any more. My father and I were her family."

  "It sounds like you had a really good family, without the St. Louis Hardins. I'll bet they cut her right off, just like my father cut off me and my mother. I'll bet something like that happened to Bull Hardin, too. To tell the truth, I'm glad we're just fifth cousins twice and a half removed from them."

  "You're a fourth cousin of Ira's, and I'm a fifth once removed," Jeanne reminded him. "And I have to be grateful that I'm a Hardin,
no matter how distant. As you said, that's why we've got the Rose."

  "Okay, so I'm grateful. Speaking of the Rose, how's the pilot doing?"

  Jeanne sighed. "I guess we do have to talk about it."

  Clint propped one knee up and rested his arm on it. "I wish it wasn't that we have to, Jeanne. I wish you just wanted to talk to me about it."

  "I know, and I am trying. It's hard for me, Clint. I'm just not accustomed to asking anyone for help."

  "Yeah, I noticed. But I can help you, Jeanne, I know I can. And I'm not just saying this because you're a woman and you're weak, and I'm a man and I'm tough. It's because I'm your engineer and you're my pilot, and you had a mechanical problem, and it's my responsibility to figure out a way to fix that problem."

  "So you think it was just a mechanical problem?"

  "Well, yeah. I mean, all that stuff about the angels singing and the tuckahaw and what on earth do you think a reaching jerkin is? No, I can't help you with all that. But I can fix it so the rudder's not so close to the housing and not so tight, and that will make the wheel easier to turn. It may happen again anyway—because it happens. It's just the way of the river."

  "The way of the river," Jeanne echoed softly. "Yes, the river can be cruel and heartless and dangerous. But he can be dreamy and slow and sweet, too. Maybe you're right, Clint. Maybe it's not just me."

  "It's not just you, Jeanne. And please, please listen to me. You're not alone in this. Whatever it is, no matter how bad it is, or how little the problem, give me a chance to help you."

  She nodded slowly. "Okay, Clint. I'll give you a chance."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Neither Clint nor Jeanne mentioned their impromptu meeting on the hurricane deck that night to anyone. It had an effect, though; Jeanne and Clint talked more and more about the Helena Rose. Jeanne got into the habit of having breakfast with the crew in the galley, instead of just her and Marvel in their cabin. After the day's run, instead of going immediately to do her logs and paperwork, Jeanne came down to the main cargo deck as they were loading or unloading, and she and Clint talked to the shippers and attended to the mail together. As spring melted into summer, Jeanne came to respect him, and she even found that she enjoyed his company. Before she had always felt vague hostility toward him, mixed with disdain.

  "Yes, I know I've told you that he's sometimes arrogant, and yes, sometimes he infuriates me," Jeanne explained to George Masters. "He and Vince must live in saloons, I think, when they're not on the Rose. And his women! I imagine he has two or three in every port. But still, he's an excellent engineer, and he's proved to be a shrewd businessman. That makes him a good man for a business partner."

  "Mmm," George said noncommittally. They were sitting on a bench in Court Square, feeding peanuts to the squirrels. It was a hot day in July, and Jeanne was wearing a brand-new summer dress of light green muslin with a pink rose print. The sleeves were "pagoda" sleeves, the outer sleeve triangle-shaped with white embroidered eyelet undersleeves. For this one dress, Jeanne had bought a hoop skirt, and the eight-ruffled skirt was wide and made her waist look tiny. Her bonnet was trimmed with a dozen satin roses, and she had a dainty parasol of white Battenburg lace. She looked about eighteen years old.

  The Court Square squirrels were famous in Memphis, for they were the fattest, boldest, most spoiled animals that ever lived. Now one bright-eyed squirrel that had been hogging the peanuts scampered up to Jeanne, climbed up onto the toe of her boot, and sat up, begging. "You little minx!" she said with delight. Slowly she reached down with a peanut. He took it in his clever paws, stuffed it into his cheek, and then ran off. Jeanne laughed. "He's as bad as Leo! That dog has gotten so that he lays his big slobbery head on my lap every time we're eating. I have to wash my skirts every night, it's as bad as trying to keep my aprons clean at the Gayoso."

  "Do you know, I can count on one hand the times I've heard you laugh," George said. "You sound happy. I hope that some of that happiness has to do with me?"

  "Of course it does. After all, we never could have done so well with the Helena Rose without your help."

  "So your happiness is all about the success of the Rose. Your success, and Clint Hardin's success. That's not what I was talking about, Jeanne."

  Jeanne reached into their bag of peanuts and threw some out to the waiting dozen or so squirrels around their feet. "I know," she said quietly. "I understand what you're asking, George. Yes, you make me happy. Can we leave it at that right now?"

  "I'm glad I make you happy," he said slowly, and then turned to search her face. "But I need more, Jeanne. Evaluating this conversation alone, Clint Hardin makes you happy, the squirrel makes you happy, Leo makes you happy, and I make you happy. How am I supposed to feel about that?"

  "I didn't say Clint makes me happy," Jeanne said hastily. "It's just that—oh, forget about him. George, please try to understand my position," she said, dropping her voice so that passers-by strolling in the park couldn't hear her. "Do you realize that you are the only man I've ever kissed besides my husband? Our relationship, our warmth and closeness, are all strange territory to me, something brand-new and a little frightening."

  "You've never been frightened of anything in your life, Jeanne."

  "You are so wrong, and the reason you're wrong is because you don't really know me as well as you think, and I don't really know you either. That's my point. We share a lot of things between us, but there hasn't been enough time for me to be sure of my feelings."

  "It's been seven months, and I am very sure of my feelings, dearest," he said, taking her hand and caressing it in both of his. "Can't you give me some encouragement, can't you at least tell me what you're thinking about us? No matter how many times we kiss, and how close we become, I always know that you're holding back. I can sense that you deliberately put distance between us, and it's hard for me."

  With some difficulty Jeanne said, "George, I meant it when I said that you make me happy. I enjoy our time together immensely. You're interesting, you're interested in me and you show it, you listen to me and you respect me. And I—I find you a very attractive man, and I'm drawn to you in that way. But more than this I can't say right now."

  He lifted her hand, turned it over, and pressed his lips to her palm. "Then it will have to be enough, Jeanne. I can wait."

  THE NIGHTS HAD GROWN sultry. Jeanne slept with not even a light sheet covering her, only her cotton nightgown. She tried to stay very still so as not to wake Marvel, who never seemed to get too hot. But after about an hour, Jeanne felt perspiration beading on her forehead, and she got up. She bathed her face in cool water scented with mint, which she found to be cooling and refreshing, but it also had a tendency to make her feel wide-awake. She went to the window, propped her crossed arms on the sill, and rested her chin on her hands. There was a very slight breeze, and it felt good on her tingling face. Again she thought how grateful she was to Clint for replacing all of the windows on the Rose with six-by-six windows that opened. It had been an extravagant expense for a steamer, but Clint had known a glazier that gave them a good price, and he and Ezra had installed them. Ezra was an experienced carpenter, and Clint had learned quickly, Jeanne thought ruefully. Naturally.

  It was early, so there was still activity on the docks. The music of a waltz drifted on the air, probably from the steamship docked two down from the Rose, a big luxury steamship with twenty staterooms and a ballroom, Vince had told her. He seemed to know everything about every boat on the river. Jeanne hummed along with the waltz. In the capricious breeze, occasionally a man's deep voice would carry to her, or a woman's light laughter.

  Then she heard two voices quite clearly. Clint and Vince were coming back on board the Rose. ". . . trying to tell me you're not staying over with her, Clint? C'mon!"

  "I'm trying not to tell you anything, Vinnie."

  "I know, but you might as well give over, man. Don't you think we all know who that little colored boy is, with his red vest and black trousers, that brings those me
ssages? Her Majesty sure knows how to dress up her slaves, even the errand boys. Little popinjay, carrying around those purple notes that smell like perfume."

  "Hey, Vinnie? Did you notice that I happen to be standing here talking to you for some reason I can't understand and not at her house?"

  "Yeah. How'd that happen?"

  "Shut up, Vinnie."

  Their voices faded as they went into the boiler room. Jeanne had been motionless, outrage growing in her. Now she stood up and banged the window down. It sounded loud, but Marvel didn't stir. Jeanne paced. Staying with Her Majesty! And this woman is sending little love missives down here to my boat? How dare she! And I wonder how they explain those perfumed notes and the popinjay to Marvel? I could kill Clint!

  Jeanne raved on for a while, and managed to make herself tired. She lay back down but found that she couldn't make her mind stop going over and over the conversation. It was a long, restless night.

  When she awoke in the morning she could tell she had slept late, for the light streaming through the windows was already white and hot. Marvel was already gone to breakfast. Jeanne splashed her face again and again and dressed hurriedly. She went down the hallway to the galley, stepped inside and looked around at Ezra, Vince, and Roberty, then glared at Clint. "Where is Marvel?" she demanded.

  "Good morning, Captain," Clint said pleasantly. "Don't worry, she ate a good breakfast. She's out playing with Leo."

  "Thank you," Jeanne said stiffly, and hurried out.

  Vince stared at Clint, his brown eyes wide with alarm. "What'd you do?"