“The sheriff’s telegram demands that I return you to Omaha,” Hatcher announced calmly. “Says you murdered a woman.”
“Impossible,” Nick shot back. Damn, he hadn’t expected Desdemona’s body to be found so soon. “Besides, I paid you for passage to Kansas City. You can let me deal with the law there.”
“The Cherokee Belle is following us at full speed. She’ll probably catch us when we tie up for the night.”
Nick bit back a curse. “So keep going. Mississippi boats do that all the time.”
Hatcher shook his head, his small pig’s eyes surveying Nick coldly. “Too dangerous, even with a full moon. The Mississippi doesn’t change course every few months, like the Missouri. Its pilots can memorize it and drive the boat safely, day or night. No, we’ll have to tie up.”
Nick ground his teeth. Money was always the answer. “How much to keep going?” he demanded.
Hatcher smiled, and Nick realized that he’d walked into a trap. Damn. “Fifty thousand dollars.”
“You could buy a new boat for that,” Nick protested, feeling the ground fall out from under his feet.
Hatcher shrugged. “Maybe. I could also hand you over to the law.”
“I’ll give you a check,” Nick said sullenly.
Hatcher shook his head. “Heard you played a big poker game and lost. No, it’s gold or nothing.”
What could he offer? The New York tenements? No, they wouldn’t appeal to a Missouri man. Paul’s house? Even half finished, it was worth more than fifty thousand, but it was also the last vestige of Paul’s dreams. Damn, damn, damn. “I have a house on the Hudson, next to the Roosevelt estate. I’ll give you the deed for that.”
Hatcher’s eyes gleamed. “On the river?”
“Yes.”
“Done. The Spartan will run day and night, until we reach Kansas City.” Hatcher smirked.
Hal paused on the hurricane deck to finish his ham sandwich and assess the Cherokee Belle’s current situation. The late afternoon sky was black with clouds, building to deadly thunderstorm heights as they flew before the north wind. Not a bird was in sight, hinting at their need to take shelter from the coming storm.
Far to the west, lightning cracked as sheets of rain fell, whose waters would soon feed the Missouri River. The river was running strong, in a torrent of ash brown water, at perhaps six, or even seven knots. Fast, damn fast. There’d be some new channels, probably even a chute or two, sliced open tonight. Bellecourt and McKenzie must have their hands full, holding the Belle to a steady course against this current.
Cicero whined and leaned against Hal’s leg. Hal rubbed his ears with a quiet, “Easy now, boy. Don’t much like storms, do you?”
Cicero whined his agreement and moved even closer.
Overhead, gray smoke, well mixed with sparks and cinders, poured from the tall chimneys. It wasn’t black smoke, so Norton must not yet have the boilers fired as hot as possible. Still, Hal was glad he’d long ago insulated the Belle’s chimneys from contact with her fragile woodwork.
Every steamboat was easy to burn; such was the nature of their business. They were built of lightweight soft woods, so they’d travel quickly in shallow waters. The resulting structure was soaked with oil and turpentine from paint, then dried by years of sun and wind. Add a combustible cargo and wood, or coal, stored near the bow—well, it was a wonder more steamers didn’t burn, no matter how strongly the government and insurers regulated and inspected them. A riverboat could burn to the waterline in less than five minutes.
As he’d done so many times during the war, Hal double-checked his boat’s precautions. The tin roof on the pilothouse, texas, and hurricane deck provided the Belle with the latest in protection. All the buckets and barrels placed around her roofs and decks were full of water, ready to fight fires.
Hatcher had sanded the Spartan’s roofs instead of buying a metal roof, considering tin as a drag on his boat’s speed. It was the typical strategy and tended to work well, unless the sand blew or washed away.
Hal dusted the sandwich’s crumbs off as he gave the river another long look. Viola and William Donovan came up beside him silently, unabashedly holding hands.
“Ready?”
“Of course,” the big Irishman returned calmly.
They entered the pilothouse quietly to find a sweating Bellecourt and McKenzie straining at the wheel. Both pairs of hands gripped the spokes desperately, muscles standing out on their necks and shoulders beneath their shirts. Their coats were tossed over the rocking chair and a mug of coffee sat cold on the small table.
The glass windows on three sides had been closed and the big opening in front, never glassed, had been partially covered by boards in the typical foul weather practice, leaving a narrow strip for the pilots to see through.
“Evening, gentlemen. Ready to be relieved?” Hal asked.
“Mais non, mon brave, we could continue in this fashion for days,” Bellecourt joked. His white hair was plastered to his face and neck. He and McKenzie grunted as they urged the Belle to round a hairpin corner.
The boat had settled into the new, straight course before Hal spoke again.
“Alas, I must insist that you permit us to share the delight,” Hal said gently and laid a hand on the wheel next to Bellecourt’s. William did the same beside McKenzie.
The river’s raging power surged up through Hal’s hands, along his arms, and into his shoulders. He balanced it against the Belle’s strength as his legs braced to support him. Hell and damnation, the current was even stronger than he’d expected.
Bellecourt loosened his grip. Hal tightened his then relaxed slightly as the wheel steadied under his command.
A similar shift took place beside him as William took over from McKenzie. The big teamster was a bit clumsy, but he quickly adapted to following Hal’s lead, working well enough not to be replaced by Sampson. Since they’d be traveling by night on a flooded river, Hal wanted every possible hand on the main deck, ready to clear debris or make emergency repairs.
The Cherokee Belle didn’t waver once.
Bellecourt and McKenzie stepped away, then sank into the rocking chairs, as if their legs would hold them no longer.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Norton here,” sang a familiar voice through the speaking tube.
“Glad to hear your voice, Black Jack,” Hal responded warmly.
Roland Jones slipped into the pilothouse with a carafe of coffee, redolent of whiskey, and sandwiches. The two pilots accepted the coffee gratefully, while Viola requested tea from where she sat on the tall stool.
“We’ve made up perhaps thirty minutes, mes amis, according to the latest telegram,” Bellecourt announced. “Hatcher refused to stop, naturellement.”
Hal whistled in amazement. “Congratulations, Bellecourt. You’ve managed to add to your fame as a lightning pilot.”
William added his own praise, making for a brief flurry of delighted conversation before they had to pay attention to the next turn.
Hal’s back strained as they fought to keep the Belle in the center of the channel. The Missouri wanted to cut through the inner corner, using its roaring water and everything they carried. But the Belle was too wide to sail so close to the shore.
Lightning cracked less than two miles away, striking a tall elm tree. The rain was closer now, rushing in with the inevitability of the seventh card in one of Rosalind’s poker games.
“Missouri’s running high, maybe two feet higher than when we came up,” Bellecourt commented. “It may finally open that new chute by Spring Creek.”
“Which would cut off twenty or thirty river miles, and make up an hour or more on the Spartan.” Hal’s mind raced as he assessed the possibilities.
“If a pilot is daring and lucky enough to travel a narrow and unknown channel in the dark of the night,” Bellecourt warned, “and pass through an oak forest at the end.”
“True,” Hal agreed and set the Belle up for another turn as lightning slashed the skies again. More than one riverboat had met her end while traveling a chute for the first time, even in broad daylight. He hoped Rosalind would sleep through the night so that she wouldn’t be disturbed by the dangerous voyage.
There was a long silence before Bellecourt spoke again. “We’ll be back in six hours, mon ami, unless you mean to tie up before then.”
“I plan to stop before the Devil’s Rake. The flood’s probably shifted it so daylight would be best for traversing it.”
McKenzie sighed in relief, but quickly covered his reaction by noisily slurping at his coffee.
Hal’s mouth twitched. He might be a close fit pilot, capable of taking his boat successfully through the narrowest channels. But even he balked at sailing through the Devil’s Rake by night.
“Eh, bien,” Bellecourt said comfortably. “We will see you at the change of watch in six hours. Bonne chance, mes amis.” He left with McKenzie, both of them running down the stairs like boys as they dashed for shelter.
Lightning snapped from cloud to cloud, then a thunderbolt hit a tree a boat’s length behind the Belle. With a loud crack, it slowly toppled over until it barely clung to the muddy bluff.
After a quick glance to see which tree had been hit, Hal ignored the fallen giant in favor of studying the river ahead. With less than an hour before sunset, there wasn’t a great deal of light except for that coming from the lightning.
Sampson’s voice rose from the main deck, and O’Brien rang the bell. An instant later, deckhands and cabin crew swarmed over the Cherokee Belle, locking the shutters over every window and placing canvas covers over every pipe and vent. With a great show of ceremony, O’Brien tamped out his pipe, marking the start of night running for the Belle. Now the pilots’ vision would see only the river and the land beyond, and not be blinded by any small brightness from the boat.
Another bolt of lightning shot across the clouds, to be quickly answered by a second and a third that made the skies sizzle and crack. It bid fair to be one of the most spectacular electrical storms Hal had ever seen.
He continued to steer the Belle, eyes alert for every change in the river—the standing wave that could signal a drowned snag, the ruffled waters that indicated a shoal, the slightly higher water that meant the inside curve of a change in the channel. William echoed his every move, matching him so well now that they seemed like a single hand on the wheel.
“Do you generally tie up during thunderstorms?” William asked. His tone evinced only the mildest curiosity.
“No,” Hal and Viola said in unison. They chuckled, and she went on. “Very few riverboats are struck by lightning. The wind is a greater danger since it can blow a boat over.”
“That’s more true on the Ohio or Mississippi, where there are longer stretches of straight water.” Hal added. “We’ll stop quickly if we must but it’s not likely.”
Hal and William brought the Belle safely through another turn, their route now well lit by almost continuous flashes of light and the sizzle of ozone.
Thinking it best to ask the questions now, while they were alone—and still alive, Hal covered the speaking tube to the engine room before he spoke. “Viola, do you know if Nicholas Lennox was Mother’s paramour?”
She hesitated. A lightning bolt split a tree a few hundred yards away.
“Viola.” Hal’s voice was very gentle. “Let me know the truth now, while we’re still alive. I dislike going into battle ignorant of what charges my enemy might hurl at me.”
“He was her paramour ten years ago,” she said reluctantly.
“Was there anything else between them than physical intimacy?”
She was silent.
“Viola, I’m not an utter fool. Mother lectured me many times about my duty to go south and fight for the Confederacy. I suspect she took action herself, as well as spouting exhortations. Spying, maybe, or sending arms south.” Sweat trickled down his back between his shoulder blades.
“Yes.” His sister’s voice was barely audible. “How did you know?”
Hell and tarnation. He’d hoped to be proven wrong. Pain stabbed his heart. If his father learned that he had a treasonous wife, it would have torn his guts out.
A few heavy drops of rain beat on the pilothouse roof. Hal’s voice was uncomfortably harsh when he spoke. “There was a great deal of gossip during the war about her unladylike interest in the Cincinnati dockyards and the army headquarters. And her flirtations with prominent men.”
“All true. I believe Nicholas Lennox helped her with some of her treason, especially sending guns to the rebels.” Viola leaned her forehead against her husband’s back, and he murmured something soothing in Irish.
Hal put the rest of the tale together. “Ross must have found out and blackmailed you into marriage. Damn, I wish I’d thrown his rascally body into the Ohio so you wouldn’t have had to suffer.”
“But if I hadn’t married—and buried—Ross, I wouldn’t have met William,” Viola pointed out, speaking louder to be heard over the rain drumming on the tin roof.
William said something very smug in Irish, and Viola chuckled.
Just then, lightning sparked again, flashing an eerie green fire across the sky. Rosalind burst in through the door and slammed it shut. “Good evening,” she managed. Her simple walking dress was plastered to her skin, revealing every detail of her French corset and feminine curves.
“Hello, my love,” Hal answered. He should have known that his little gambler would never miss a risky journey like this. Best to keep her mind occupied, now that she’d arrived. He opened the speaking tube again, so Norton could hear every word.
“Rosalind, do you remember that trio of dead oak trees atop the bluff, near Spring Creek?”
“An isolated stand of trees and the bluff eaten away to the south?”
“Precisely. Now keep your eyes peeled and sing out when you see them. You can see more through the side windows than we can between these planks. We should be coming up on those trees very soon.”
“Yes, Hal.” She took up station at the window closest to where Spring Creek would appear. She spoke again, a few minutes later.
“There it is, Hal, ten points off the starboard bow, maybe a mile ahead.”
Hal looked where she indicated, squinting against the water blowing in between the planks. A flash of lightning abruptly lit the shores and the stand of trees. Rosalind was correct, although they’d arrived sooner than he’d expected, thanks to the raging waters.
“Norton?”
“Aye, skipper?”
He shouted to be heard over the rain, now drumming as loudly as any regimental band. “Fire up the engines and rig for collision. We’re taking that new chute by Spring Creek.”
God willing, they wouldn’t strike anything so hard that the boilers would come off their mounts.
“Aye aye, skipper. I’ll pass the word to Mr. Sampson.”
“Thanks. Ladies, when I tell you, brace yourselves. This will be a bumpy ride.”
He prayed they’d be safe, and not thrown about if the Belle hit a snag, or ripped her bottom out, or lost her pilothouse to a low-hanging tree branch. But he had to take this route, if he was to catch up with Lennox.
All too soon, the three ancient trees loomed up next to the Belle’s bow. The channel should turn to the left here, as the Missouri had run less than a week ago. But now the water didn’t bow upwards, marking a curve like a sleigh skidding on ice. Instead, it continued to rush straight ahead.
The Missouri River was cutting a new chute, straightening out a massive oxbow bend and cutting at least twenty river miles off the journey to Kansas City. But had it ripped out the oaks at the foot of the bend yet? Or would those ancient trees smash the Cherokee Belle into kindling?
Hal didn’t hesitate, but rang down for full speed ahead. “Ramming speed, Norton!” he roared. “Brace yourself, ladies!”
Then he steered his beloved Belle into uncharted waters, lit only by lightning. She leapt forward, as the engines roared and cinders shot through the skies overhead. Sheets of water blew into the pilothouse, through the gap in the boards, and half blinded him. Cicero barked encouragement.
A line of willows appeared directly in front, marking the edge of what had been an island. But there was an opening between them, where the Missouri foamed and frothed like a Titan intent on destroying the land.
Crack! A willow swayed and fell into the torrent and disappeared downriver. Hal set his course straight for where the tree had vanished. The Belle bucked when she reached the former riverbank, where the land was still closer to the surface than elsewhere. But the engines surged, as strongly as when his old gunboat had charged the rebel rams at Memphis, and threw the Belle up and over the obstacle.
Now they were in the chute. The current here was faster than in the main channel, since the Missouri’s path was narrower. The river pushed the boat ahead as if eager to see her safe in the old channel. Lightning blazed overhead, providing occasional glimpses of the route ahead.
The Cherokee Belle bounced hard and often, feeling every bump in the new channel but surviving somehow. Willows bent before her and under her, then sprang up again in her wake.
A tree limb loomed up, reaching over the hurricane deck towards the pilothouse. Suddenly the current twisted and snatched the Belle into a turn.
Her stern swung fast and wide. A loud crash sounded and Rosalind squeaked. The superstructure trembled. Then the gallant boat steadied and raced on, silently telling Hal that all her key elements were intact, especially the chimneys and stabilizing hog chains.
“What the hell was that?” shouted Donovan.
“We just shortened the texas by breaking off the laundry room’s roof,” Hal shouted back. “The rest of the Belle’s fine.” And he hoped there’d be a hot bath waiting when he finished this shift, given the way he was sweating to hold the Belle in the new channel.
Long minutes later after more thunderbolts blasted the sky, Rosalind sang out, her voice steady. “Oak trees ahead, Hal. It’s the grove marking the old riverbed.”
God willing, the Missouri had already cut the chute enough to take out enough of those oaks. Otherwise, the Belle would be either smashed into kindling when she roared against them, or stranded in a backwater for days.
Lightning flashed, showing Hal a narrow passage just ahead. The Missouri had cut a few oaks neatly away. Others leaned against the raging waters. Would the opening be wide enough for the Belle?
“Ready again, Black Jack?”
“Aye, skipper!”
“Then pour it on and may the devil take the hindmost!”
“Give it to her, boys!” roared Norton.
The Belle slammed into the gap, intent on forcing her way between two giants. One mighty oak cracked and broke, falling away from its assailant. The other held, stopping the boat.
Hal and William fought to concentrate all of the Belle’s strength on one spot. The great engines strained under his feet. The paddlewheel’s beat increased until she seemed to be pounding the water into granting assistance. The frustrated water surged under her hull, frothing around the oaks as if intent on carrying them away. Cicero barked and howled, as if begging for help.
Slowly, slowly, moaning like a reluctant god, the stubborn oak fell away. Freed, the Belle leaped through, although squeaks and groans told of obstructions pushed aside. She tore into the old channel with a last bounce and flip of her stern.
Hal cursed vehemently and spun the wheel, desperate to turn his boat before she embedded herself in the opposite bank. William added his strength, and together they coaxed the crack packet into obedience. The Cherokee Belle abruptly settled into the proper channel and raced on, as smugly as a maiden going to church.
Another lightning bolt lit the skies. Against the brilliant pale green light, a shower of sparks showed where the Spartan sailed. She’d clearly been warned, as Hal had expected, and was racing hard and fast. But she was only a few miles ahead now, thanks to the chute.
Rosalind voiced what was likely in everyone’s mind. “Do you think we can catch her before the Devil’s Rake, Hal?”
“I know we’ll catch her. But before the Devil’s Rake?” Hal shrugged.
“Then we’ll pray,” Viola said fiercely. “Lennox must answer for his crimes.”
And the rain beat down, as if echoing her plea.
The storm lasted for nearly an hour, as Hal and William fell into a rhythm of steering the Cherokee Belle down the wild river. Hal steered closer into the corners than he normally would have, with scraped paint and battered wood as witnesses. Sampson’s men efficiently cleared the debris and made any repairs necessary. Norton’s engines settled into a steady rhythm, driving the Belle faster than she’d ever run before.
A barge, escorted by a small tug, hovered outside the old mountain man’s woodyard. The roustabouts quickly threw her a line, reeled her in, and offloaded her precious cargo, then shoved her off again—without the Belle once slowing down.
Grinning, Hal blew the Belle’s whistle in thanks. Wooding up while underway was far more common on the Mississippi than the Missouri, so the old mountain man must have made special arrangements to be of assistance.
Ezra and Abraham appeared with food and drinks, which Hal and William snatched as they could. All the while, the roustabouts sang stirring plantation melodies about chariots and riding to heaven.
And slowly, with every fiber straining and wreathed in clouds of black smoke and cinders, the Cherokee Belle gained on the Spartan.
Finally, the rain stopped and the clouds blew past. The Missouri lay before them, every ripple evident in the full moon’s silvery light. The water was deeper here than it had been a few days ago, and it was rising fast, as the nearby rivers and streams brought rainwater to the Big Muddy.
Two of Sampson’s deckhands removed the planks from the forward window, so Hal could see clearly. Clumps of people occasionally appeared on the bluffs, cheering as the Belle sailed by.
Debris bobbed and spun in the foaming waters. Everything from branches to entire trees came to menace the Belle, only to be dodged or pushed off by Sampson’s men’s poles.
They sighted an embarras ahead, its tightly woven rampart of dead trees apparently sneering at their hopes of safe passage. Only men with saws could force passage for a boat through those impenetrable walls. Thankfully, the raging flood had pushed the ten-foot-high thicket against a bluff, and the Belle passed by unharmed.
A cold wind raced out of the northwest, carrying the memory of mountain snows and winter frosts. Viola shivered and disappeared. She and Abraham returned with coats and fresh coffee for all.
A puff of cinders from the Spartan landed on the Belle’s bow. Sampson shouted immediately, and roustabouts sprang forward with buckets. An instant later, it was gone.
Hal bared his teeth in a predator’s smile. The Spartan was now within a mile.
Norton somehow coaxed more speed from the Belle’s engines. Hal found a tighter course through a series of deep bends, ignoring the scrapes as trees tore at the boat’s cabin.
And suddenly, the Cherokee Belle burst out of a turn and found the Spartan less than three lengths ahead of her.
“Ahoy there, Spartan!” Sampson shouted through a speaking trumpet. “You have a murderer aboard. Heave to and we’ll take him back to Omaha.”
“Never!” answered Hatcher. “There are no killers on my boat. I won’t stop until I reach Kansas City!”
“Just as I expected,” Hal muttered. Steering carefully through the narrow channel, he brought the Belle into line behind the Spartan as Bellecourt and McKenzie slipped silently into the pilothouse. Almost six hours had passed since they’d gone off duty.
Seen from this close, it was obvious that the Spartan had encountered as many or more trees than the Belle. Her paint was badly chipped and one of her stacks was awry.
Men ran frantically back and forth in her engine room, causing Hal to raise a speculative eyebrow. Could Hatcher’s parsimonious ways have finally created havoc for the Spartan’s engines or boilers? Or perhaps she hadn’t cleared mud from her boilers, causing her lines to clog. Or perhaps an engine or boiler was thinking of blowing a rivet. Or…
Truly, there were too many possibilities to consider, and none of them mattered, as long as the Spartan was still running fast and free down the Missouri.
Hal carved every fraction he could from the Belle’s course, using every trick he’d learned in a lifetime on the unruly river. She crept closer and closer until she was within two lengths of her opponent.
She was also approaching the Devil’s Rake. If Hatcher was foolhardy enough to enter that maze of snags and embarrases at night, he could gain a sizable lead on a more cautious Cherokee Belle. It would be like threading a two-hundred-foot long needle through the thorn hedge around Sleeping Beauty’s castle, instead of a single man on horseback. Hal gritted his teeth.
“Triangle bluff coming up, Hal,” Rosalind warned. Her voice was calm, too calm. That bluff marked the start of the two sharp bends that led to the Devil’s Rake. A small bonfire burned atop it, and a handful of spectators cast flickering shadows.
The Spartan cut the first turn very close. The Belle followed her exactly, ignoring the resulting nudge against the riverbank.
The second bend loomed barely three boat-lengths later. The Spartan started her turn late, still intent on the fastest possible route. But Hatcher had misjudged the current and the riverbed. The Spartan’s stern bounced off the bluff, sending her spinning across the river.
“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.