River Queen Page 12

  “What?” he said incredulously.

  “Just drive, Caesar. Blue Moon.”

  It was only about a hundred feet down. On Silver Street it was a typically busy day, with riverboat men swaggering, ill-dressed women staggering along, calling out to the men, dirty street urchins running, and mules hauling freight, their drivers whipping them and cursing. Steamships were lined up at the shores with barely enough room between them to reverse out and pull away.

  “We’re here,” Caesar called down mournfully. “Miss Ashby, you can’t go in there. Please tell me you ain’t going to.”

  “I am going to,” she said evenly, climbing out of the buggy without his assistance. “You just sit right there, Caesar, and if anyone tries to touch the horse or this buggy you give them a smart crack with that whip.” Under her breath she added, “Wish I had a whip to crack.”

  The Blue Moon Saloon was a shabby two-story wooden structure with an overhanging tin roof. Two windows in the front had so many years’ grime, and so much river mud, that she could see nothing at all behind them. The sound of a tinny piano blared, and men’s coarse loud voices, mostly profane. She hesitated for a moment at the door, which was sagging wide open. Behind her Caesar called, “Miss Ashby, wait! You just gotta let me come with you.”

  Wordlessly she pointed to a dusty, faded sign beside the door. In crude letters it read: No Negroes. Caesar could read, and he said nothing else.

  Gathering her courage, she went inside and looked around, blinking in the semidarkness. A crude wooden bar along one side took up the entire wall. There were several tables scattered throughout the place. It was not large, and there were only half a dozen men there and one blowsy-looking woman with wild black hair. They all fell silent instantly when she entered. Then one of the men, with only a few black teeth and a limp slouch hat pushed far back on his head said, “Well, looky looky here. A fine lady visiting. Pretty one, too.”

  “Shut up, you. Can I help you, miss?”

  Julienne looked up to see that a man wearing a semi-clean apron had come wiping his hands on it. He was a big man with steely gray eyes and a huge mustache.

  “Please, sir. I’m looking for Mr. Dallas Bronte.”

  Surprise leaped to the man’s eyes, and he said, “Well, he’s here.”

  “Could I see him, please?”

  “Reckon that’ll be up to him. You go up those stairs there and he’ll be in the second room on the left. Just knock on the door.” He saw her hesitation and said in a more kindly tone, “I am Otto, and I run this place, miss. It’s rough enough and really no place for you, but no harm will come to you. Just call out if you have trouble. I’ll be right there.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Leaving the man, Julienne was aware that she was being watched. She crossed the floor, and the rickety stairs creaked under her weight. They were caked with mud and dirt, and when she reached the second story she saw that the hallway had a carpet runner that had once been blue but was now a leprous gray.

  She heard a woman’s laughter coming from somewhere, and to her dismay when she went to the second door on the left she heard the woman’s loud laugh again. Straightening her shoulders, she knocked on it loudly. A murmur of voices sounded inside and then the door opened, and Julienne found herself facing a skinny young woman wearing a skimpy, low-cut dress. The woman looked her up and down incredulously, then muttered, “What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Dallas Bronte.”

  The woman stared at her then turned and pulled the door open wider. “Dallas, this woman wants you.”

  Through the half-cracked door, she saw Dallas Bronte wearing a pair of brown trousers and an undershirt, sitting at a rickety table that held an ashtray with a half-smoked cigar and a worn pack of cards. He had a glass in his hand, and when he looked at her his eyes widened. “Well, well, well. Look at this. Welcome to the Blue Moon, Miss Ashby.”

  “You know this woman?” the young woman asked.

  “Yes, I know her. Surprised to see her is all.” Julienne did not know what to do. She simply stood there and finally Dallas got to his feet and came to the door. “What could I do for you?”

  “Please, Mr. Bronte. Could I talk to you—alone?”

  He shrugged. “Guess so, got nothing else to do. Lulie, go take a break will you? I’ll see you tonight.”

  “You’d better.” The woman almost shoved her way past Julienne, her back straight, and she shot one withering glance at her.

  “Don’t mind Lulie. She’s a friend of mine. You just kinda have to get to know her to appreciate her.” He still stood in front of her, puzzled.

  “I apologize for coming without letting you know,” Julienne said with some discomfort.

  “Yeah, you should have sent your calling card, and I would have let the butler know to expect you,” he said sarcastically.

  Julienne started to retort angrily, but then she looked down for a moment. When she looked back up, he was still watching her warily. “Could we please start over again? I need to talk to you, Mr. Bronte, and it’s very important. Maybe we could take a walk?”

  After a slight hesitation he said, “All right. Give me a minute.” He half-closed the door, then reappeared almost instantly with a pullover tan shirt and a somewhat threadbare and shapeless brown coat. Settling a wide-brimmed brown felt hat on his head, he pulled the door closed and motioned for Julienne to go on down the hallway and the stairs. He followed her closely, and no one said anything as they left the Blue Moon.

  When they got outside, Dallas immediately looked up and said, “Good day, Caesar. How are you?”

  “Very well, sir, considering.”

  “And your pretty wife?”

  “She’s pretty as ever.”

  “Pretty as a rose and can cook like a dream. You hang on to that one, Caesar.”

  “I tries my best, sir, I sure do.”

  “I’m going to take Miss Ashby for a walk, Caesar. You just wait here, will you? If anyone bothers you, tell them they’ll answer to Dallas Bronte. You hear that?”

  “Yes, sir, I hears you, Mr. Bronte,” Caesar said with ill-disguised relief.

  They turned and Dallas offered Julienne his arm. The crazy-quilt planks of the boardwalk were so unsteady, she took it, though with some misgivings. He looked down at her, and the sight of his face brought so many memories flooding back to her—some good, some painful, some horrible—that she couldn’t gather her wits enough to speak.

  But Dallas seemed not to notice her confusion. He said in his distinctive low voice, “I’m so sorry about your father, Miss Ashby. He seemed like a very good man, a good husband, and a good father.”

  Bewildered, she asked, “How do you know so much about my family? And about Caesar and Libby?”

  He grimaced. “I did spend one night and the next day at your house after we brought you home. It didn’t take long to see that you have a great family.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I was ill at the time, so I hadn’t really realized . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Yes, you were sick, Miss Ashby. So sick your family was scared you might not make it. And then your father passed away. I know you must be in some terrible trouble.” He left it unsaid: that Julienne would never have come to him for any reason unless she was desperate.

  “I am,” she sighed. “We are. My family. And I—I thought that maybe you might consider helping us. Captain Silas Plank recommended you for a—a project, you might call it.”

  Dallas nodded. “Captain Plank, he’s a good man, a fine captain. I had the pleasure of working with him twice. Wish it could have been more.” A shadow of regret darkened his face, then he turned to Julienne. “So what is this project? How can I help the Ashby family?”

  “It seems that the Ashby family owns a riverboat,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “It’s been o
ut of service for three years, but we thought, and Captain Plank also thinks, that it may be possible for it to be renovated and put to work again.”

  “Really?” Dallas said with surprise. “Where is she? What’s her name?”

  “The River Queen. And she’s here. If I understood that little toad down at the harbormaster’s office, she must be right down at the end of the shoreline, around that bend.” Julienne pointed. They were making their slow way along the boardwalk fronting the saloons and gambling houses and brothels. It ended abruptly about fifty feet ahead, and some ancient steps led right down to the shore of the river. It curved around into a point, and Julienne thought the River Queen must be past that point.

  “I’ve seen her,” Dallas said with quiet wonder. “I never boarded her, but I’ve seen her before, and wondered about her.”

  Excited, Julienne said, “You have? How very odd! Would it be possible for us to go see her now?”

  He frowned down at her skirt. “The bottom of your skirt would get filthy, and even though the shore has dried out some, you’re bound to have to wade through some stinking mud.”

  “Not the first time,” she said in a low voice. His head whipped around to search her face, but she looked straight ahead and went on, “But that’s the only way, isn’t it? It’s too narrow, the buggy couldn’t get down there. Please, Dal—I mean, Mr. Bronte? You just have no idea how important this is to me.”

  “Okay,” he relented. “It’s not far.”

  They went down the shaky stairs carefully and stepped onto the shores of the Mississippi River. At this point the shore was about ten feet wide. Dallas was right, it didn’t have standing water, but Julienne’s heeled boots sunk about three inches into the ground with each step. Wordlessly she worked her way, keeping up fairly well with his long stride.

  They rounded the point, and sure enough, the River Queen was moored right there. Julienne stopped in her tracks to look her over, and Dallas stood by her side, his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed, as he too searched the boat.

  She had three decks, the main deck, the Texas deck, and the hurricane deck. She was midsized, with her stacks reaching about forty-eight feet high. Her paint had long ago peeled and faded. Once she had been a gleaming white with red trim, black stacks, and a bright red paddle wheel. The Texas deck and the hurricane deck had the remnants of a fence of white picket railings and gingerbread trim on the top, but many of the slats were missing and the white paint had faded to a leprous gray. Many of the stateroom windows were broken. Atop the hurricane deck the pilothouse was a plain square, but the roof was high-topped with curlicued corners and had once been painted red.

  After Julienne had searched her for awhile, she thought that the River Queen looked shabby, neglected, and somehow sad. But she wasn’t the frightful wreck that Julienne’s mind had taunted her with. Curiously she looked up at Dallas.

  Aware of her scrutiny, he said, “She doesn’t look too bad, actually. She’s not listing at all. That’s kind of surprising, considering that she’s been laid up for three years.”

  “My father had some work done on her during the last three winters,” Julienne said. “He brought in some of the people from the plantation, and there was something about drydocking her to work on her hull.”

  Dallas nodded. “Smart of him. Must have sanded her and varnished her and replaced any wood that might have been starting to rot.” He looked down at her. “But I can’t tell anything until I see the firebox and the engine.”

  “The firebox? What’s that?”

  “It’s just the boiler room; we have names for stuff just so people will think we’re real smart. Wait here.” He took off his coat and threw it on the ground.

  Before Julienne could say a word, and to her amazement, he started wading out into the water to the boat, fully dressed. It was chest-high before he reached the tip of the main deck. Easily he pulled himself on board, then went to a stanchion and began loosening a rope.

  “What are you doing?” Julienne called. “Decided to take a swim?”

  “Only because I had to,” he answered. After the slack in the rope had been loosened, he started to slowly unwind the rope, wrapping it around his back and leaning back for leverage. Bit by bit he let the rope slip, and one of the long planks standing upright on the main deck—the landing stage—started lowering. “Stand back,” he warned her with gritted teeth.

  Cautiously Julienne took a few steps back, and when the stage was about three feet above the shore, Dallas let it fall. It splashed mud everywhere, including on Julienne’s skirt. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s kinda heavy.”

  “Never mind.” Picking up his jacket, she made her way across the landing stage onto the boat. It seemed steady enough. Handing his coat to him, he shrugged it back on. “Thank you. I wasn’t looking forward to wading out here,” she said.

  “That’s not going to happen,” he said, then turned to go to the double doors that led into the main deck. There was a generous cargo bay, with four small windows on each side. “Have to fix those,” he murmured. Quickly he went to the far doors into the boiler room and threw them open. Julienne followed him and looked around. He was already peering closely at things, running his hands over pipes and drums and rubbing the dirt off some gauges. He paid special attention to two of the boilers. They were the only things that Julienne knew. They were big metal drums, with furnaces underneath and pipes coming out of them. Dallas muttered to himself, disappearing around behind the boilers and pipes.

  Julienne supposed he had gone on to the farther engine room, but she really didn’t want to follow him. Everything in the room was filthy, with black oil, with crusted dirt, with black ash.

  “I’m going upstairs,” she called.

  He said something unintelligible.

  Going to the side door, she went through it to the outside stairwell that led up to the Texas deck. The door there led into a big empty room, which Julienne knew must be a combination ballroom and dining room, such as had been on the Columbia Lady. Of course, there was no comparison. It was about a third of the size of that grand room. No double doors led out onto an exterior promenade. The windows, except for one, were broken. She smelled the sour, musty odor of mold and mildew, and looked down. The floor was black. She turned her shoe and dragged the edge across it for about an inch. Underneath she could see a yellowish wood, but the mildew was at least an inch thick.

  Sighing, she went through the door at the back of the room on the left-hand side, into a galley that was not large and roomy, but was practical. An icebox, two cook stoves, and floor-to-ceiling shelving surrounded a long high worktable. Here, too, everything was the same dirty color of green-gray, even the walls.

  A small side door led out toward the center of the boat, and Julienne went through it. It led into the hallway in the middle of the staterooms. Going to the first one and holding her breath, she went inside. Looking around, she was immediately depressed.

  It was slightly larger than the one on the Missouri Dream. But it was absolutely filthy, and there was not a stick of furniture in it. The window was broken, and, peeping outside, she saw that the shutters were gone. The walls, floor, and especially the ceiling was solid black with mold.

  She checked a couple of the others, and saw that they were in the same condition. Dully she counted; the River Queen had twenty-four staterooms, twelve on each side. At the end of the hallway, where the stairs led up to the hurricane deck, she paused. It seemed that the last two stateroom doors were much farther away from the stateroom doors before them. Curiously she opened the one on the left and saw with surprise that it was much larger than the other staterooms, though it was in the same squalid condition. Checking across the hall, she saw that the last stateroom was of the same generous size. For some reason this cheered her up a little.

  Finally she went up on the hurricane deck and went to the pilothouse. The eno
rmous wheel was there, long idle. Always there was a small bench in the back of the room, and Julienne sat down there, staring at the buttons, the levers, the bell pulls hanging from the ceiling. Staring out the wide window, she saw the river. On this difficult day it seemed kind, lazily flowing along, the late afternoon crimson sun glinting orange sparkles on the brown water. It was the first day she had seen the river since the wreck, and somewhat to her surprise it didn’t frighten her, or even make her sad. In a way watching it seemed to bring her some peace.

  After what seemed a long time, Dallas came into the wheelhouse. Immediately he went to the wheel and laid his hands on it. Looking around, he said, “Amazing. All the bells and whistles on this little boat.”

  Turning to Julienne, he answered the questions in her eyes. “It can be done. She’s a well-built boat, tight and snug. Two of the boilers will have to be replaced, and some of the machinery, but the engine itself is sound. But it’s going to take some money. How much do you have?” he asked bluntly.

  Thoughtfully she answered, “We have some, but there are some decisions that we have to make about how exactly we can spend it. Right now my Aunt Leah and I are pretty much making all those kinds of decisions.” She looked up at him earnestly. “Ordinarily I couldn’t imagine letting a stranger know about our personal business. But as I told you, Mr. Bronte, this is a different time, and my family is in a completely different situation than we were a month ago. So I’m asking you, would you please come meet with my family? Talk to them, explain to them about the River Queen? And then, Aunt Leah and I will try to work out an agreement between us. But until you’ve spoken to my family, I’d prefer not to discuss details yet.”

  Harshly he said, “I have to tell you, Miss Ashby, that I have a reputation on this river, and it’s not a good one. People say I’m a drunk, and that I’m the worst kind of pilot there is because I’m irresponsible. Maybe even criminally irresponsible. Your family needs to know that.”

  “They do,” Julienne said quietly. “As do I. Will you come speak to them, please?”