River Queen Read online

  “Yes, and this is one of them,” Julienne said, spreading out her rich velvet skirt. “Isn’t it beautiful? Don’t you like it?”

  “I like it very much, and you look beautiful in it, as usual,” Charles said with clear affection. “But that’s just my point. Why are you visiting every merchant in town when you just got in a lot of new clothes, all of which I know you will look lovely in?”

  Julienne laughed, a light, girlish giggle that made even her rather stern father smile. “Silly Papa, I’m not visiting every merchant in town! I just want to do my final fittings for my evening ensemble for the party tomorrow night. And if everything’s ready, I want to go ahead and pick them up instead of having them delivered.”

  Charles’s mouth drew into a tight line. “Julienne, I thought we had settled this. This party tomorrow night is not really the sort of thing that you should be attending. It’s more of a business engagement, for men. I was under the impression that you understood that.”

  “I do understand that, but the invitation was for ‘Charles Ashby and Family’ and besides, Archie is going to come with us and be my escort. He’s so staid and proper, anyone with the least hint of impropriety about them would probably freeze solid in his presence.”

  “So you manipulated Leggett into letting you drag him along for appearance’s sake,” Charles said. “I give up. Just please, Julienne, try to remember that money is tight. Maybe you don’t need any more clothes for awhile.”

  “Of course, Papa,” Julienne said happily. “Just this dress. And, of course, the gloves and matching shoes. Oh, and I simply must have new black leather boots, and I had ordered three new winter bonnets, so they’re already done and paid for.”

  “Not really,” Charles muttered.

  Ignoring his dour looks, Julienne said, “Here’s Mrs. Fenner’s, and Tyla and I can walk on down the street to the other shops. Then we’ll just come all the way down to the bank and meet you, all right, Papa?”

  “All right, Julienne,” he said. “Just please don’t dawdle, I hope my business with Mr. Gates won’t take too long.”

  PLANTER’S BANK WAS AN imposing two-story edifice of red brick and black shutters on the precisely spaced double-six windows. In previous years, when Charles Ashby had been in the flush of prosperity, he had thought that the bank looked dignified and respectable. In the last couple of years, however, as his fortunes had steadily declined, he began to think that it seemed forbidding. As he went through the enormous double front doors, of six-inch-thick walnut blackened with age, he felt almost as if he was entering a prison.

  Regardless of his true financial status, and his private musings, Charles Ashby was still regarded as one of Natchez’s elite, one of the aristocratic cotton planter class, and the president’s clerk looked up and recognized him immediately. A small, stooped man with tiny spectacles and thinning hair stood up from his desk, hurried through the swinging wooden gate, and came to greet him. “Mr. Ashby, how good it is to see you again. Are you here to see Mr. Gates?”

  “Yes, I am. Is he available?”

  “Of course, sir, please just step this way and I’ll let him know that you’re here.”

  Charles followed him past the waiting area, and perhaps for the first time, he really looked at the people sitting there. They were dressed poorly, in rough plain clothing, and most of them looked worried. Three women were there, their faces pale and drawn, obviously widows, wearing black clothing and bonnets. One of them looked as if she had been weeping, clutching a worn reticule with gnarled work-ridden hands. A sudden vision of his wife Roseann sitting there, weeping and aged, rose in his mind and filled Charles’s mind with black dread. When he went into the president’s office, his face was grim.

  Preston Gates was a small man, no more than five-six. He dressed as the president of a successful bank should, as his father and his grandfather had, with plain black coats, either a gray or black waistcoat, shiny brass buttons, a gold watch and chain, and iron-creased black trousers. He had black hair, a full beard closely trimmed, and sharp black eyes. Coming around his big oak desk, he extended his hand and said, “Good day, Charles, it’s good to see you. Please, come sit down.”

  Instead of indicating one of the straight chairs in front of his desk, Gates led Charles to one corner of his office, where two comfortable armchairs were drawn up underneath the great windows that looked out over the neat and manicured public square. Between the chairs was a tea table with an Astral lamp with a hand-cut bellflower glass shade, a beautiful wooden box, and a marble ashtray. As they settled into the chairs, he asked, “Cigar? Brand-new investment of mine, imports from Hispaniola. I think you’ll find they’re much superior to American tobacco.”

  “No, thanks,” Charles said, and shifted uneasily in his chair as Gates lit his cigar.

  Gates puffed and puffed and rank smoke filled the air. Squinting through it, he asked, “How’s the family, Charles?”

  “They’re fine, thank you, Preston. But this isn’t a social call, it’s business, I’m afraid.”

  Gates nodded as if he knew this. “So what can I do for you?”

  “As soon as this last cold spell is over, we’re ready to start tilling and fertilizing the plantation. Hopefully we’ll be able to plant the first few weeks of March.”

  “Of course. This snowstorm was a freak of weather. Very unusual for the last of February. But it shouldn’t delay planting more than a week or two.”

  “I hope and pray not,” Charles said with grim emphasis. “But the problem is, Preston, that I’ve gone over and over the finances for both the plantation and my investments, and the returns on neither of them are enough for me to finance the planting this spring.”

  With deliberation Gates removed the cigar from his mouth, held it between his thumb and two fingers, and stared at it. “I’m not at all surprised, Charles. You know very well that I have tried, in the friendliest manner possible, to stress that you have made some disastrous decisions over the last few years. In fact, what started this decline in your situation is when you freed all of your slaves. With paid labor there is simply no way for you to realize a good profit on your cotton. Your expenses are too high. No other plantation owner has paid field labor.”

  “I know that,” Charles said quietly. “You’ve been telling me that ever since I freed them four years ago. And you know my answer to that. When the Lord Jesus saved my soul, and I learned about the love of God, I realized that it was very wrong to enslave other human beings. I can’t do it, I won’t do it. And I believed—believe—that the Lord will bless me for it.”

  “As a matter of fact, that may be true in the case of your plantation, Charles,” Gates agreed. “Your yield is always amazingly high, with little loss to pestilence, and that’s very unusual. Though your profit margin is smaller compared to plantations with slave labor, Ashby Plantation is still a wealth-producing enterprise.”

  “But it’s not enough,” Charles said worriedly. “Not even with the return on my investments.”

  “Again, I tried to warn you last winter not to use the principal for household expenses. Your investment account is down to less than a thousand dollars, Charles. No amount of interest on that small sum is going to cover your expenses. And that’s the real rub, isn’t it? You and your family are accustomed to a very expensive lifestyle. At this point there is nothing you can do except cut down your costs.”

  Charles rose and went to stand in front of the wide window. He stared, unseeing, down at the spiky sculptures of the old oak, elm, and maple trees surrounding the square. His wide, normally squared shoulders were stooped. “When we had this same conversation last year, I was determined to do just that. To cut down on our expenses, our extravagances. But somehow . . .” His voice trailed off faintly.

  A regretful expression flitted across Preston Gate’s face, but it was quickly replaced by his neutral professional dem
eanor. Charles Ashby was a third generation patron of Planter’s Bank, and the Gates and Ashby families had been friends for all those years. But business was business. “I understand, Charles. However, this year you have no choice.”

  “I know. But Preston, the accounts that I have outstanding right now are becoming pressing and I’m completely out of ready cash.”

  Evenly Gates said, “I’m aware of that.”

  Charles turned to look at him, his eyes narrowed. “Are you? Then I assume that you’ve paid more than just a passing attention to my affairs. So you know very well the predicament I’m in.”

  Gates nodded. “It’s my job, Charles.”

  Wearily, as if he were much older than his fifty-four years, Charles shuffled back to his chair and slumped into it. “Then you know that I’ve come to ask for a loan.”

  “Yes, I know, and I know that it will have to be a sizable one, to get you up-to-date on your existing obligations and to finance spring planting. And, of course, enough to tide you over until harvest, hopefully at a smaller monthly outlay than your past expenses. I estimate that you’ll need at least twenty thousand dollars.”

  “That’s what I had in mind,” Charles said numbly.

  Gates stubbed out his cigar, then moved to seat himself behind his desk. It was a clear transition from a friendly conversation to a purely business discussion. He took a folder from the top of a stack on his desk, opened it, perused it for a few moments, then looked up.

  “Charles, the Board of Directors will not approve a personal loan for you without some assurance. They will, however, offer you a twenty thousand dollar mortgage on Ashby Plantation, only because of the reasons we were just discussing: it is a highly profitable working plantation.

  “The term of the mortgage will be for ten years. We will allow you a monthly draw; we can’t offer you the entire amount of the mortgage outright. However, your repayments will not start until October, when you should start realizing the profits on your harvest. But for this consideration we will demand a higher rate of interest. Ten percent.”

  Charles jumped out of his chair and paced back and forth, his head down. Absently he rubbed his left hand with his right. “Mortgage the plantation? But the Ashbys have owned that land outright for four generations, we’ve never had to borrow against it!”

  Gates merely watched him expressionlessly.

  After pacing nervously for a few minutes, he came again to the window and seemed to wilt, his shoulders bowing again, his head drooping. “All right, Preston. I’ll take the mortgage on those terms.”

  Gates’s voice gave away the first signs of emotion. “If there’s anything at all I can do, Preston, any way that I can help you, please let me know.”

  Charles turned and came to stand in front of his desk, and Gates rose. “Thank you, Preston, but you’ve been very helpful already, I realize.” He straightened up and stuck out his hand, and Gates shook it heartily.

  “The papers will be ready tomorrow, Charles. And the money, of course,” Gates said. “Just drop by to see me any time.”

  Charles nodded and went to the door. “You’re a good friend, Preston. I thank the Lord for you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Julienne stood on a footstool in her bedroom. Sitting on the floor, her mother squinted as she sewed one of the bottom ruffles of Julienne’s ball gown. “Now, Julienne, how in the world did this get torn again? Tyla said something about Carley.”

  “That little monkey was prancing around, pretending to dance with me, and she stepped on the ruffle and it tore,” Julienne answered.

  Seated in the corner, rubbing one of Julienne’s gloves vigorously with sparkling mineral water, Tyla muttered, “And she got black licorice all over your gloves. That child is as wild as a wood squirrel.”

  “Oh, it’s just a spot. I know you can get it out, Tyla,” Julienne said carelessly.

  “Julienne, you did not buy her black licorice again,” Roseann said with distress. “You know how I hate that candy. It makes her teeth and fingers all black.”

  “It’s the only kind she likes, Mother. Besides, you didn’t see her with black teeth, did you?”

  “No, but just because she hides from me and Leah after she eats it doesn’t make it any better,” Roseann said. “I just don’t know what to do with her, she doesn’t pay attention to a word I say.” With an impatient gesture she pushed back a lock of red-gold hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. Now forty-nine years old, she retained a youthful beauty, with her fine complexion and abundant red-gold hair. She was a small-framed woman, very feminine and fragile-looking.

  “Are you all right, Mother?” Julienne asked. “If you’re tired please let Tyla finish.”

  “No, no, I’m just finishing now.” She put in two tiny lock stitches, then fluffed out the ruffle. “There. Not a stitch shows,” she said proudly. Roseann was an excellent seamstress and enjoyed all kinds of needlework. With an effort she tried to get up, but Tyla hurried to help her rise.

  Stepping down from the stool, Julienne made a little turn and mock curtsey to her mother. “Thank you so much, Mother. Isn’t this dress just absolutely delicious? It’s the newest fashion from France.”

  Roseann looked a little doubtful. “It is a wonderful fabric, dearest. That particular bright blue becomes you. But I’m a little confused about the bodice.”

  “Your shimmy is showing,” Tyla said sturdily. “I’m not so sure French ladies are as proper as they should be.”

  The dress was a smoky blue satin, with such a high gloss that it shimmered brightly in the light. The skirt was wide, of course, with eight tightly gathered flounces, the bottom one (the one that Carley had stepped on) was eight inches long and swept the floor gracefully. Off-the-shoulder, with a low neckline, the bodice was long and pointed, with four cutouts of graduated lengths down past the waist, bordered by satin ruching. Underneath Julienne wore a creamy white satin plain blouse.

  “This is called a chemisette, Tyla, and it’s made to fit underneath the bodice of the dress,” Julienne said. “It’s supposed to show.”

  “It’s a shimmy,” Tyla repeated with emphasis, “and shimmy’s aren’t supposed to show.”

  “Oh, dear,” Roseann said softly.

  Julienne hugged her. “Don’t listen to Tyla, Mother, believe me, I know what ladies of quality are wearing these days. Now why don’t you go on downstairs and wait for me in the parlor. As soon as I’m all done, I’ll come down and you can see that I’m perfectly respectable.”

  “I would like some tea,” Roseann said. “Please don’t make Mr. Leggett wait, Julienne, he’s always so very prompt.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said impatiently. Roseann left and Julienne seated herself at her dressing table. “Make my hair perfect, Tyla. I want to be the most beautiful lady at the party tonight.”

  “You will probably be the most beautiful lady at the party,” Tyla said sternly as she brushed Julienne’s hair, “because you may be the only lady at the party. Miss Julienne, I know you’ve got your head set on going, but please, please, just think, for once. This isn’t a social gathering with friends that your family has known for years. This is some kind of rabble-rousing bash with a bunch of river men. Your father said that all kinds of men that have to do with the steamers are going to be there, even roustabouts. A party at Natchez-Under-the-Hill! You shouldn’t ever go there after dark for any reason, much less to a party!”

  And there Tyla had defined the nature of the other, darker half of the city of Natchez.

  While the genteel city of Natchez had been built on the high bluffs overlooking the river, the port itself that provided the riches for that city was the shantytown of Natchez-Under-the-Hill, strung down along the muddy shores of the Mississippi. It was the most notorious port on the river. All along the docks, where hundreds of steamships came a
nd went every single day, were saloons, gambling dens, brothels, filthy shacks with rusty tin roofs that served as flophouses for drunks and whores, and meager stores with armed guards. Every night there were fights that ranged from drunken scuffles to murderous knifings and shootings. The regular Natchez police would not dare go there. It was policed, after a fashion, by a brutal gang called the Big Bosses, a group of the roughest, most dangerous men. They ran a protection racket, charging the saloon owners and pimps and merchants to keep them from being robbed, to break up fights, and, when necessary, to haul off the bodies and make them disappear.

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Tyla,” Julienne said disdainfully. “Ladies go to Natchez-Under-the-Hill all the time, since it’s the only way to board a steamer. You know we’ve gone down there to take three trips to New Orleans, and nothing at all happened. And it’s not as if I’m going to a saloon. We’ve known the Moak family for years, and they always have fine parties, with all the highly-regarded families.”

  “But this is not a Moak family party,” Tyla argued. “Mr. Moak is wanting to sell that riverboat, and so he’s invited all the men from the river to come tour it. I’ll bet Mrs. Moak, or Felicia and Susanna, aren’t going to be there.”

  “Father is going to be there, so it will be perfectly proper for me to go.”

  Stubbornly Tyla shook her head. “It’s not proper. Not with all the riffraff that’s going to be there. Roughnecks and bad women, I’d imagine. And there you’ll be, right in the middle of them. It’s no place for a Christian lady.”

  “But I am a Christian lady and you know it, Tyla. I go to church, I pray. Besides, you’re always fussing at me about being a snob. You should be glad that I’m going to a social function with people that are beneath me.”