The River Rose Page 4

  Clint turned back to Vince. "Buck Buckner himself, and dressed like a New York dandy. Those other fellows pilots, too?"

  "Yeah, not as famous as Buck, but high water/high rollers like him," Vince said, sipping his beer. "It's funny how different so many of the new pilots are from the old breed, the rip-roaring snortin' old river rats. They're almost respectable. Guess making boatloads of money gives you respectability." Vince was twenty-two, the same age as Clint. He had been a roustabout on the Mississippi River wharf in Memphis since he was twelve. He knew every riverboat, every pilot, every captain, and most of the firemen and deckhands.

  They looked around for awhile, soaking up the genial atmosphere. A continual low babble of conversation sounded, punctuated by laughter and an occasional call out to an acquaintance. It was a big square room, with several long rectangular tables and two dozen round four-seaters. The floor was hardwood, and Mrs. Krause and Gretchen mopped it with vinegar every single morning. The walls were plain oak boards, but they were cleaned every other day and whitewashed once a month. Mütter Krause's was the only saloon in Memphis with numerous windows, and they were always sparkling and bright. The long bar was plainly built, with no ornamentation, but it was cleaned and then polished to a high gloss every morning with lemon oil. Even now Clint caught the tang of lemon on the air.

  The barroom was thick with tobacco smoke and the earthy smell of beer. Clint didn't mind either. In saloons men missed the spittoons far too often, and he found that habit much more offensive. Mrs. Krause frowned darkly upon missing the spittoons, and tobacco- and snuff-chewing men found themselves buying cigarettes or cigars from Gretchen to avoid her wrath. Also, Mrs. Krause served liquor but had no tolerance for stumble-drunks and certainly not mean drunks. Of course a man could stumble around and pick a fight after having too much beer, but somehow in Mütter Krause's a man found he could sip a beer and have a couple of leisurely shots of whiskey and enjoy the night just as much. Clint certainly felt that way.

  Though there were no cheap prostitutes or saloon girls here, there were women. Men brought their wives; there were some old women, probably charwomen; and there were younger women that might be of questionable virtue but they were quiet and well-behaved. Gudrun Krause was no respecter of persons, but she was a respecter of the peace.

  Clint heard a plate scrape the bar behind him, and a fresh waft of the delicious-smelling gulasch assailed his nostrils. But before he could turn around, Gretchen hurried around the bar and threw her arm across his shoulders. "Mütter says this is her best gulasch, for you. And she asks, will you come sing tomorrow night? She says she'll make her very special Rheinischer sauerbraten just for you. Please, please, Clinton?"

  He hooked his arms around her waist, which delighted her. "Tell her I'll try. I've got rehearsal, you know, and tomorrow is the twenty-third, the last rehearsal. It might run kind of late."

  "You'll be running really late," Vince put in, elbowing Clint, "attending Her Ladyship."

  "Who is Her Ladyship?" Gretchen demanded, frowning.

  "Don't pay any attention to him, he doesn't know what he's talking about," Clint assured her. "Happens to him a lot. It's kind of sad, really. I'll try to get here by nine, Gretchen. Maybe just a couple of songs."

  She clapped her hands and kissed him with relish on the cheek again. "I love, love to listen to you sing, Clinton! I'll be at Court Square on Christmas Eve, too, Mütter says I may! I am throwing you lots of kisses!" Then she proceeded to kiss him twice on the cheek and once on the mouth before dancing away.

  "'I am throwing you lots of kisses, Clin-ton,'" Vince mimicked in a falsetto voice. "'Course, I am throwing them a very short way, since my mouth is smack-up on yours!"

  "Shut up," Clint said casually. "She's a really sweet girl. You ready for another beer? I am."

  "Let me go tell Elza," Vince said hastily, jumping to his feet. "I'm getting tired of watching women slobber all over you."

  "Hey, ask Elza to come over here for a minute, I need to ask her something," Clint called after him.

  "Shut up," Vince said without turning around.

  Grinning, Clint turned to his food with a will. He discovered that gulasch was very lean tender cuts of beef and thinly sliced potatoes simmering in a creamy mushroom sauce, and that spätzle was soft egg noodles drowned in butter and seasoned with parsley. Mütter Krause listed the menu on a big slateboard with the prices, but she only wrote the German names. Clint and Vince could only remember Wiener schnitzel because that was their favorite. If they didn't order that they had no idea what they were getting until it arrived. It didn't matter, though, because everything was piping hot and fresh and delicious. Clint loved spicy, piquant German food.

  After a while Vince came back with two pewter tankards of beer, talking to not Elza but Buck Buckner. The riverboat pilot held a cigar and gestured as he talked. They reached Clint, who stuck out his hand. "Hello, Buck. Good to see you. Have a seat, if you don't mind watching me eat."

  Buckner was the pilot of the Lady Vandivere, the largest and possibly the most elegant steamboat on the river. A four-decker, she had thirty luxurious staterooms, a ballroom, a dining room, and four salons. Buckner was thirty now, but he had piloted the Lady Vandivere since she was built seven years ago, when he was at the unheard-of age of twenty-three. Buckner, like many other pilots, had come to understand that if they were going to be rowdy, shouting, cursing, coarse brutes they would never pilot a passenger steamboat that, of course, was designed for the Quality. These young men had set about to gentrify themselves, and they generally did a good job of it. Buck certainly looked like a gentleman, with carefully coiffed dark hair, clear features, dark eyes, and discreetly tailored suits. His air was one of competence and confidence. Only when he was gambling, which was his passion, did his predatory nature come through in the sharpness of his eyes and the hard set of his mouth. He looked like that now.

  "I don't mind watching you eat, Hardin. I'm glad to see it. Going to need your strength, you know," he said, watching Clint's every bite. "How's the workout coming?"

  Clint replied, "I haven't had much time to work out. I've been kinda busy."

  Buckner frowned. "Singing your sweet little heart out, I guess. I don't think Mike the Hammer's going to be beat by you singing him to death."

  "You know, I think Mike the Hammer should be named Mike the Hammer Head," Clint said. "That fellow has the hardest head I ever saw on a man. I know I landed three solid right crosses and he didn't even blink."

  "He was too busy beating you to a pulp to blink," Vince rasped.

  "Yeah, I remember," Clint said mournfully, wiping his mouth carefully and pushing his empty plate away. "It hurt, a lot."

  Impatiently Buckner said, "Hardin, you fast-talked me into sponsoring you for this fight. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know if Mike's going to knock you flat again. I'll know how to place my bets to recover my financing."

  "No, no, don't worry. This time I've got a plan," Clint said grandly. "This time he goes down."

  "Uh-huh," Buckner said darkly. "So what's the plan?"

  "I'm going to keep him from hitting me in the ribs and gut until I can't breathe, and meanwhile I'm going to beat his head until he falls down," Clint said evenly. Though he was unaware of it, his jaw had tightened and his eyes had darkened to charcoal-blue, and he looked dangerous.

  Buckner and Vince stared at him. Buckner said, "That's your plan. That's the whole plan?"

  "That's it," Clint said shortly.

  Now Vince and Buckner looked at each other. Vince said, "Don't look at me. I don't know anything about the plan. I didn't even know we had a plan."

  Buckner considered Clint again. "He's smaller than you, but he's faster. A lot faster. That's how he got to you last time, he darted into your space and pummeled you until you were weak."

  Clint nodded. "He did that, for eleven rounds. But that wasn't the reason he beat me. He beat me because I couldn't knock him out first, because like I said, his jaw is like an anvi
l."

  "And you've figured out a way to keep him from tiring you out, and getting in a quick knockout," Buckner said thoughtfully. "How?"

  A brief look of discomfort shadowed Clint's face, but when he spoke his voice was hard. "Just trust me, Buck. I'm going to beat him. Bet on me."

  "All right, I will," Buckner said quietly, "but if you lose, you're going to owe me a lot of money."

  Clint said nothing more, so Buckner went on, now in a light tone, "Good night, gentlemen. Clint the Flint Fist, get to bed early, you need your beauty sleep. Vinnie, keep him on the straight and narrow until Boxing Day, yeah?" With a few nods to acquaintances, he left.

  Vince resumed his seat next to Clint and said glumly, "I feel so much better now that I know you got the plan. The one where you win and Mike the Hammer loses."

  "Simple, yet elegant. Don't you think?" Clint drawled.

  Vince studied him for a moment, and then a slow grin came over his face. "You're watching the clock. What's up? You have an appointment?" A somber Viennese regulator wall clock of walnut and ebony hung behind the bar, and Clint had been glancing at it off and on for the last hour.

  "Something like that," he answered carelessly. "Hey, by my reckoning I now owe you two beers. You ready?"

  "No thanks and don't change the subject. You've got a lady-in-waiting, don't you?" he punned. "C'mon, it's old Vinnie here. I'm your best friend, you can tell me. Is it Her Ladyship?"

  "Vinnie, Mrs. Maxfield is a widow, living in her parents' home. Don't be a complete imbecile."

  "Okay, okay, so it's not Mrs. Maxfield. Who is it then?"

  "I didn't say it was a lady, I didn't even say it was a person," Clint rasped.

  "So, what, got a train to catch at midnight?" Vince rolled his eyes. "I don't get it, Clint. I never have. Not about your women, I've seen enough of that all these years to see why they fall all over themselves over you. But you never talk about them, you never tell me one blessed thing. We talk about everything else under the sun, from religion to politics to music to when my little brother's eyeteeth came in, but you never tell me about your lady friends."

  Clint sighed. "No, Vinnie, I know. You just don't see it, do you?" He looked directly into his friend's face and said in a low tone, "Gentlemen never tell, Vinnie. If you get one thing, get that. Gentlemen never tell."

  AT MIDNIGHT, AS CLINT went into a narrow dark alley just off Main Street, it started to snow. He paused for a moment to watch with pleasure. Of course there was no streetlight in this little nameless alley, but at the top of the stairwell just above him was a window that glowed a welcoming deep amber. The big powdery snowflakes seemed touched with gold against the lantern light. Humming The Holly and the Ivy, he went up the stairs and knocked on the door. A slender, fair woman with her shoulders bare and her hair flowing down to her waist opened it.

  "Madame Chasseur, I know the hour is late," Clint said in a low voice, "but I find I am suddenly in need of some cosmetics and perfume. Something to take the chill of this snowfall away, perhaps?"

  "Hmm, I see," she said thoughtfully. "As it happens, I not only have perfumes and cosmetics, but just today I received some soothing oil of sandalwood. It would, I think, be very good for a warming massage."

  "Giving one? Or getting one?" Clint asked with very great interest.

  "Both," she said, and pulled him inside.

  The window's lantern-glow lit the snow all night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jeanne lit the last small white candle, the one on the very top of the Christmas tree. Then she and Marvel stood back to look. Jeanne glanced down at her daughter's joyous face, and thought tiredly that it had all been worth it, both the money and the work. Marvel had never looked so happy, or so well.

  Marvel took Jeanne's hand and she automatically noted that her daughter's tiny hand was freezing cold. "Why don't we have a nice hot cup of tea?" Jeanne suggested, hurrying to put the copper water pot on the fire.

  "That would be nice," Marvel said dreamily. She couldn't take her eyes from the tree. "I think this is the most beautiful Christmas tree ever."

  It was a humble little tree, the top of a scrub pine that Roberty had managed to salvage for Jeanne from a woodcutter's haul. The branches were spare but symmetrical, so it was a pretty cone shape. Jeanne had put it into a small bucket of water on their only table, a rough much-scarred oak worktable that had two bricks under one broken leg. For the last four nights she had brought home something to decorate the tree: first popped corn and cranberries to string together to make garlands, then squares of red and white felt to make stars. As promised, Roberty had brought a dozen little pinecones, and Jeanne and Marvel had fun making "snow" from laundry soap and starch and putting dollops on the top of the pine cones and the tree's branches. Finally, on this night of December 23, Jeanne had brought home the candles. With that final touch, the tree did look pretty.

  They settled down on the mattress and bundled up, for it was very cold in their room despite the roaring fire. They had their cups of tea, and each of them had a sugar cookie that Jeanne had splurged and bought them. Afterwards Jeanne got her sewing kit and began darning her winter stockings, for with her work she was continually wearing out the toes and heels. Marvel said, "I can't wait for the Christmas Regale tomorrow. It sounds like it's going to be so much fun. Maybe everyone in town will be there!"

  "I hope not," Jeanne said. "That would be a great crush, and I would probably lose you and have to wait for St. Nicholas to bring you home."

  Marvel grinned. "Would he bring me down the chimney, do you think?"

  "Of course he would. You don't think that St. Nick is just going to come up and knock on the door, do you?"

  "No, he wouldn't do that. But you won't lose me, Mama, I know, even if everyone in Memphis is there." Suddenly, like a startled kitten, she yawned hugely. "I'm not sleepy!" she said quickly.

  "Uh-huh," Jeanne said with disbelief, setting aside her sewing. "I think I'd better read the next part of our Christmas book, and then to sleep with you, little girl. We have a very busy day planned tomorrow."

  Jeanne had put together all of the verses about the birth of Christ, including the angel's visitation to Mary and then to Joseph, Mary's visit to Elizabeth and the Magnificat, the journey to Bethlehem, the story of the shepherds, and the story of the wise men, and had written them all in order in a small book. For a week she read passages every night, to end on Christmas Eve. As she finished the reading, ending with Joseph finding only a stable to shelter them, Marvel was already fast asleep. Jeanne hurried to blow out the candles on the Christmas tree, then bundled up again on the mattress and picked up her sewing. She sewed for a long time, for their clothes were old and worn and needed continual mending and patching. Her back ached, and her eyes watered, because she sewed only by the firelight. Candles and lanterns were luxury items.

  She looked back up at the tree and a small smile played on her lips. Marvel had truly been entranced by the little tree. Jeanne had had so many misgivings about spending money on frivolous things like decorations for a Christmas tree. It was difficult for her, because every penny she made had to go for food, for fabrics for clothing, for shoes, for rent, for wood, for supplies like soap and needles and thread, and often for ointments and medications for Marvel when she got catarrh or a cough or skin irritations.

  Two things, in particular, bothered Jeanne terribly about their poverty. One was that she couldn't afford to buy books or even papers and pen and ink. When Marvel turned five, Jeanne had bought McGuffey's Primer, and within three months Marvel knew it by heart. Then Jeanne had bought the McGuffey's first-year schoolbook. Along with a slate and some chalk, those two books had taken every little bit of her savings, for she desperately tried to put money aside every week, even if was only a penny or two. More than anything Jeanne wanted to buy a little cottage, their very own place. She knew that it would have to be a shack in the Pinch, but even that, if it belonged to them, would make Jeanne immeasurably happy.

 
For the thousandth time, she reflected that in their circumstances that would be the highest goal they could possibly attain; but when? Every time she managed to put even a few dollars aside it seemed that some new expense dogged her, either an emergency such as Marvel's illnesses, or a simple have-to, as when either she or Marvel wore out their shoes. Jeanne's leather half-boots were much-patched right now. She doubted that she would make it through the winter without having to buy a new pair.

  Even as these melancholy thoughts went through her mind, she looked up to rest her eyes for a moment, and saw that it had begun to snow. Quietly she got up and, pulling her shawl closer, went to stand in front of the small four-paned window on the front wall. It faced the back of another shotgun shanty right in front of them, but now the dismal view had become enchanted, for each single puffy flake of snow drifted down on the lightest air and settled into picturesque little drifts at the corners of the panes. Jeanne watched for a long time. Then she bowed her head and whispered, "I know, Lord Jesus, that You're reminding me. There is beauty even here, and there is always hope. Thank You for the snow."

  JEANNE OPENED ONE EYE reluctantly. She could hardly see, because thick curls had fallen out of her nightcap and covered her face. But dimly she made out her daughter, in her nightdress, doing a wild pantomime dance. Marvel's skinny arms were high above her head, her face was exultant, and she was hopping and leaping in circles. Not a single sound did she make.

  Jeanne sat up and pushed away the curtain of curls from her eyes. "Good morning, little girl," she said with a yawn.

  Marvel stopped dancing and ran to the mattress. "Mama! Mama, it snowed, it snowed! It's so pretty, come look!" Again she leaped up and began her dance, talking jerkily. "I tried—to be—quiet—so you could—sleep—"

  "You didn't wake me up," Jeanne assured her. "Thank you, Marvel, you're a good girl." For the first time in four years, Jeanne was off work on both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. She treasured the days she could sleep later than her usual rising time of five o'clock in the morning.