Dance on the Wind (46 page)

“Wish to God I had my medeecins,” she grumbled to herself as she knotted the linen thread, then looked at Titus. “A body can’t rightly do without some medeecins when folks need tending.”

Wincing involuntarily, Bass watched her poke the needle through the right side of the laceration, continuing over to the left side before she pulled the thread through the flaps of flesh. Reuben grunted and his eyes fluttered a few times, but he never stirred.

“Take hol’t of his arms there,” she said to Ovatt. Then turned her head to tell Titus, “An’ you, son—sit on his legs. There, like that. Just in case he decides to wake up and get in a fittle over this sewing I’ve got to do on him.”

Tugging against the knot as if to assure herself that it would hold, the woman clucked once and drove the needle through the skin a second time. Wrap by wrap she worked herself down the eight long inches of severely torn muscle. Each time Beulah pulled her thread tight, she would dab more of the fiery alcohol on the laceration as it continued to ooze and seep bright-red blood.

“That’s good,” she told them as she neared the last of her labors. “Better that it bleed. Gets all the evil out, seeing how we ain’t got no roots to put in it. My medeecins”—and Beulah bit her lip to stifle a sob—“all that I had in this world went down with that goddamned flatboat.”

Her curse struck Titus as something foreign, never having heard a woman of her age hint at profanity, much less take God’s name in vain. After all that she had said about Kingsbury’s life resting in the Almighty’s hand—he thought it strange indeed that she would pray to God one day and soundly curse Him the very next.

“Don’t look at me so odd, boy,” she commanded. “Close your mouth, or you’re likely to have something crawl right in it with more legs’n a Chickasaw war party.”

Knotting the linen thread, she cut off the excess and returned the bloody-handled knife to Root’s belt scabbard. Then she slowly poured the last of the rye from the cup up and down the wound, washing away some of the dark ooze one last time.

Handing the empty cup to Titus, she said, “Now, wipe that cup out and get me some more likker.”

When Bass turned to the side to use Root’s shirttail to wipe at the crimson coated inside of the cup, Ovatt asked, “You gonna put more of that Monongahela on your sewing job?”

“Hell, no,” she said. “I aim to drink my share, now that he’s done and Kingsbury over there seems like’n he’s turned the last bad bend in the river.”

As she took the cup from him, a frightened Titus asked, “You mean he ain’t … not likely to make it much longer?”

Swallowing long and slow with her eyes closed, the woman finally took the cup away and licked her lips, then swiped a sleeve across her mouth. “Didn’t mean nothing of the kind. Damn, but it’s been a long time since I felt that particular burn down in my gut.”

“Just what the hell you mean, then?” Ovatt demanded.

She looked offended, then peered down at her cup a moment more before answering. “Near as I can tell, fellas—looks like your pilot there is gonna be up and around soon.”

“He’s … he’s gonna pull through?” Bass demanded, feeling the tingle of hope coursing through all the bleakness of what had been his despair these last few days.

“His color’s lot better, the last little while, and he ain’t breathing near like he was. No more choking and gurgling a’tall. I do believe Hames Kingsbury’s gonna make it.”

“Whooeee!” Ovatt cried out, reaching out both arms to embrace the older woman, who sat there stunned by the boatman’s sudden affection.

When Heman took his arms from her, Titus leaned forward and clumsily hugged her, whispering in her ear, “Thankee, ma’am. For all you done … for the both of
’em.” And just before he released her, Bass kissed her lightly on the cheek.

As he pulled away from her, an astonished Beulah brushed her fingertips across her cheek, gazing at the youth wistfully. “T’weren’t nothing I wouldn’t done for nary boatman.”

“We had you with us, likely Ebenezer Zane be alive today,” Titus said.

Taking his hand in hers, she patted it maternally and wagged her head. “Ain’t nothing in this world gonna save a man what got his head caved in with a Chickasaw rock war club.”

“She’s right, Titus,” Ovatt agreed as he pulled his collar up and rose from the bench to move past Root toward the bow. “I see it’s time we got on down to Nawlins. Get on up there and get them hawsers heaved to on that capstan. We got us a boatload of cargo and these two ailing boatmen to get on downriver.”

The thick hemp ropes nearly filled his hands in their own right as he struggled with his knots against the nudge of the current, but they were soon moving south once more, through the last of that myriad of false channels and swamps just below Pointe Coupee, where Lower Louisiana began. Here long ago the French had begun construction of a great levee, that work later taken up by the Spanish in their own attempt to prevent seasonal flooding of the rich agricultural lands of the lower Mississippi Valley.

“You see that,” Ovatt called out, pointing at the levees on the eastern shore, “a riverman knows it ain’t far now till he’s with more and more folks. All this here stretch is called the German Coast.”

In his own crude way Heman had just expressed the riverboatman’s term for the civilization that began to dot the banks once he’d passed the northern end of the levee: behind its protection sat plantations, many small and quaint villages inhabited by the friendliest of French-speaking Louisianans. Here in the flooded fields they grew sugarcane and rice, along with cotton and one huge orange grove after another, many trees still heavy with fruit. A wondrous sight for young Titus to behold. Many of the inhabitants along the German Coast came to the riverbank
to wave at the passing flatboat. Ovatt, Root, and Bass waved back in salute to the friendly riverfolk working their fields and orchards. And at the sight of every likely young maiden, the three all stood tall, boasting of their manhood while lustily crying out their claims of true love to her.

In three more days Kingsbury was able to sit up and take more sustenance than grease soup. They floated past Baton Rouge, the site of an abandoned Spanish fort and a small village still peopled by Acadians. From there south they were never out of sight of one small settlement, cluster of fishing boats, trading post, or fine, palatial plantation after another.

“I’m gonna get myself a drink of some real liquor,” Beulah said one afternoon as she came up and settled on a cask near Titus at the gouger. Root and Ovatt both sat near the stern rudder, singing one of their riverman songs to the tune of “Yankee Doodle.”

Titus asked, “What’s real liquor taste like?”

She regarded him a moment in that afternoon light as a warming breeze crossed the bow. Then, peering off again to the south, the woman answered, “I allays get me a bottle of long-cork claret. Have every trip down. Figure it’s only fitting I should drink a final toast to Jameson. Only right.”

“Drink a toast? Of course—to your dead husband,” Bass replied.

“He damn well better appreciate it,” she said with a ghost of a smile, reaching out to slap Titus on the knee. “First time I made it to Norleans without him!”

As much as Root, Ovatt, and even Kingsbury grumbled about the fact that Beulah hung their laundry up on that rope stretched from the awning to the snubbing post at the bow, those freshly scrubbed clothes snapping smartly in the stiff breeze for everyone else on the lower Mississippi to see, the boatmen didn’t really mind at all the idea of having a clean shirt to pull on before they climbed ashore to celebrate their arrival in New Orleans in fine style.

Once she learned they had no extra clothing, the woman had ordered them all to pull off their dirty shirts, right then and there. When the pilot hesitated, then turned in retreat, the woman balled her fists on her hips and glared at him with motherly sternness.

“Hames! You—more’n the rest—need some soap put to that shirt of your’n.”

With a sheepish look he glanced at the others. “I think it’s fine just the way—”

“Give it here.”

He could see the grins and smirks on the rest of that bawdy crew and likely realized he was never going to win against the woman. Ever so slowly did he drag the shirt’s long tail out of his britches and waist belt, then yanked it over his head. As Kingsbury held it out at arm’s length to
Beulah, Titus looked at how skinny the man was, all ribs and backbone and shoulder blades, the skin stretched over them like a piece of fine white linen draped over the sharp newels at the top of a ladder-back chair.

She snatched the shirt from him with a look of smug self-satisfaction. “Now that greasy cravat of your’n.”

With a look of fright crossing his face, Hames touched the red handkerchief. “Not my neck wrap!”

“Give it to me.”

“Ah, shit, woman,” he grumped, his bare skin beginning to show goose bumps.

“Won’t take me long,” Beulah explained. “Sooner you let me start on it, sooner I can get it done and dry.”

Reluctantly he untied the square knot and handed the cravat to her by one corner. Beulah took it in her hands, spread it out at arm’s length, and inspected it.

“Just as I thought,” she grumbled. “C’mere, Hames.”

Circling behind the pilot, Beulah raised up the hair that brushed Kingsbury’s shoulders. “You see, boys? I’ll bet you’re all the same as this’un here.”

Titus leaned in close enough to see how the skin at the pilot’s neck was nothing more than oozy scab and raw, angry flesh. “What’s all that from? He sick with something?”

Beulah clucked disapprovingly. “Only thing he’s sick of is taking care of hisseff. He’s been givin’ home and hearth to some verminous critters. These’uns here.”

Holding up the red bandanna Kingsbury had long used as a neck wrap, the woman pointed to the long row of big white lice neatly arranged within one of the folds, each one every bit as big as the hog lice he had seen on the family stock back at Rabbit Hash. Looking like a strand of long white beads, the vermin had arranged themselves in a row with their heads all turned toward the raw skin of the pilot’s neck, feasting away.

“When I get done with your clothes, fellas—won’t be a one of these I ain’t drowned. Then we gonna pick over all your blankets too.”

“What ’bout his neck?” Titus asked, pointing to the raw flesh. “Maybeso we ought’n put something on it.”

Beulah wagged her head, saying, “I don’t have nothin’ no more, none of my medeecins—”

“Most like, Ebenezer has him some liniment or oil you can put on it for me,” Kingsbury said, scooting to lean forward over a long chest, where he began to rummage among Zane’s belongings.

After smearing a thick daubing of some less-than-fragrant ointment Ebenezer kept in a cork-topped clay jar, Beulah proceeded to work up a lather from some river water and half a cake of lye-ash soap she found buried in the bottom of Ebenezer’s kitchen box. The day not really warm enough for any of them to stand around sans shirts, all four pulled on coats made of canvas or wool blanketing. Without a tin scrub board, she instead scrubbed their grimy shirts against the white-oak staves that formed the side of a large water bucket. Titus watched her work, reminded of his own mother, recalling for a moment how Amy washed the clothes of all those brothers and sisters.

By the time Beulah got to Titus’s homespun shirt of mixed cloth, the woman held the garment between two fingers at the end of her outstretched arm, her other hand pinching her nose in mock disgust. After she rubbed and scrubbed the best she could, she would pull his shirt from the soapy water and inspect it—both sides, neck, and cuffs—before plunging it back into the pail for more watery abuse. Again she pulled it out for inspection, then returned it to the gray, sudsy water. Over and over she dunked his sole shirt, then raised it from the pail for a look until it eventually passed her scrutiny. Only then did she drape it over a long line of half-inch rope they had tied for her to the awning support, stringing it all the way forward to the bow checking post.

Of varied tow cloth, calicoes, and linsey-woolseys, the four shirts dripped, drop by drop, before they began to dry, flapping in the cold air above Titus’s head. Nearby Heman Ovatt clacked out a rhythm on a pair of pewter spoons he whacked against his palm and elbow, knee and thigh. Back at the rudder, Reuben Root whistled one of his squeeze-box songs as he steered them through the last few miles of shoals, while the closer they drew to New Orleans, the flatboat traffic grew thick as the strop hair on
the back of a hog. Even Hames Kingsbury clanged an iron ladle against the back of a cast-iron skillet while trying his best not to let that big grin of his split his face half-open.