Dreadnought (20 page)

She approached the dock and stood anxiously, not knowing what to do next. Broad-shouldered colored men in plaid cotton shirts hefted crates to and fro, two men to a crate, and a pallid white man with a stack of papers was bickering with another man who held another stack of papers.

From behind her, a voice asked, “Hey there, ma’am. Can I help you with something?” in a Texas accent that could’ve stopped a clock.

The speaker wore a hodgepodge outfit that was one part Rebel grays, one part western ranch wear, and one part whatever he’d felt like putting on that morning. His mustache and sideburns were blond once, but had faded on to gray in such a fashion that they grew the consistency and color of a corn tassel.

“Er . . . yes. I think. Thank you, sir,” she said. “I’m Mercy Lynch, and I’d like to buy passage aboard this boat.”

“This ship in particular? That’s right specific of you.”

“I was referred to the
Providence
by Mrs. Henderson, who I met on a dirigible from Richmond. She told me the captain was her brother-in-law, and he might treat me kindly if I could pay my way. And I can. Pay my way, I mean.”

“Adora? On a dirigible? You can’t be serious.”

“Her first name’s Adora?” Mercy responded.

“It fits her about as well as a glove on dog’s ass, don’t it?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say
that
—”

His face bloomed into a smile that stretched the full length of the mustache. “That’s all right. You’re not family, but I am, and I don’t just say it, I
declare
it.”

She guessed the obvious. “So that must make you the captain? Captain . . . I’m sorry, she only called you Benham, and I won’t presume.”

“Captain Benham Seaver Greeley, at your service, Nurse. You
are
a nurse, ain’t you? I’ve seen that cross before. Salvation Army, isn’t it? Or no.” He shook his head. “Something else. But I’ll be damned if I can recall just what.”

“I’m a nurse, yes. With the . . .” She brandished the ornamented side of her satchel. “With the Red Cross. The organization’s very popular in Europe. Miss Clara Barton is trying to establish a solid presence here in the Americas, too.” She did not add that she was not strictly a member of this agency, in case it would’ve mattered.

“But that’s a
little
like the Salvation Army, right?” he asked, still trying to get a handle on precisely where the situation stood.

“I guess. I mean, I’ll treat anybody who needs treatin’, and I try not to look at the uniforms. But,” she added quickly, “I’ve been patching up our boys for the last few years. The Rebel boys, I mean. And a few Texians, too.”

He nodded, as if this made sense, or at least it didn’t confuse him any. “And now you’re moving on, to patch up some other boys? I don’t know if Adora told you or not, but our run’s between St. Louis and New Orleans.” He said
New Orleans
in two syllables:
Norleans
. “Our afternoon run will put us in Missouri by the end of next week, so if you’re looking to head down to the delta, you may want to wait for the return trip at the end of the month.”

“No, no. I’m headed north. And west.”

“West? Out into the Republic proper?”

“No sir,” she said, and she gave him the same story she’d given half a dozen times already, about her widowhood, and her ailing father in the Pacific Northwest. “So, you see, I need to reach St. Louis, and from there I’ll find myself a transcontinental line out to Tacoma.”

He let out a low whistle that rattled the edge of his facial hair. “That’s a monster of a trip you’re taking, Mrs. Lynch. Another two or three thousand miles from here, depending on the way you go and the trains you catch.”

“And the steamers I talk my way on board,” she added with a note of hope. “Captain, I assure you, I know what I’m doing. And even if I didn’t, I’d still have to find a way. Will you carry me as far as St. Louis at your usual rate? I’ve some savings, set aside for just such an occasion. Though I don’t know if you take . . . you must take Confederate money, don’t you?”

“ ’Federate money, Yankee money, Republic money—all that and anything else worth a stitch. Got paid in wampum once, and one time I took a horse. Another time, somebody paid me in a crate of books I never did read. So I sure do take your Rebel coin, and I’ll be happy to have you aboard. The trip upriver will run us about ten days, if all goes according to plan. We can chug along right about thirty-five knots if nothing stops us, and the trip’s about three hundred miles.”

“Thirty-five knots?” Mercy repeated, attempting to sound impressed, though she had no idea if that was fast, slow, or standing still. “That’s . . . quite a clip,” she finished.

“Ain’t it though? We could run circles in the water round any one of them Anchor Line boats, I tell you what. You want me to let you know why that is?”

“I’d be tickled to hear it.”

“This-here boat’s not
strictly
a steamer. She’s a two-fuel runner, with fully a ton of diesel on board to give her that added boost.”

“That sounds like . . . a lot.”

“It
is
a lot! And it’s a good thing, too. Otherwise, you’d be stuck on this river with me and my motley crew for two weeks or longer. So let me just get your paperwork in line and get you squared away on board, how does that sound?”

“It sounds just about perfect,” she said, relieved to have found a spot so easily after all the tangle and turmoil of the trip’s first leg.

“Then come along with me. I’m between activities at the
moment, so I’d be happy to show you around.” He held out his bent elbow, and she put a hand on it, not for the sake of assistance but for the sake of the show he was clearly delighted to make. He reinforced her suspicion by adding, “We don’t get too many ladies going up or down the water. Mostly we get men, moving from one lost fortune to the next one, or running away from the war or running off to it. Sometimes we get merchants and managers, keeping an eye on their stock, and once in a while we get a few Injuns and even Mexies and whatnot. Don’t you worry about it, though. Nobody’ll give you any grief; you’ve got my promise on that. Anyone treats you less than purely gallant, and you tell me about it. I’ll toss ’em overboard sooner than they could squeak.”

“Thank you, Captain. And I’m glad for the offer, but I hope I won’t have to take you up on it. Generally speakin’, I done some of my best work surrounded by men—in the Robertson, I mean,” she blushed and added quickly, lest he get the wrong impression. “I’ve learned the hard way how to handle them myself.”

“Robertson. That rings a bell.”

“The big hospital up in Richmond.”

“That’s right, that’s right. They do good work there, don’t they? That’s the place where they send all the fellows who got real torn up. And there’s a lady what runs it, ain’t that right?”

Mercy nodded. “Captain Sally. She runs that place good as any man, and probably better than some.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said, leading her down the gangplank and waving a dismissive arm at the bickering men with papers, who had stopped to call his name in unison. “Not now, boys! Can’t you see I’ve got a lady on my arm? Rare as it happens, I won’t have you spoilin’ it for me!”

At the end of the gangplank, they took a small step onto the gently swaying deck of the
Providence,
which bobbed very faintly as the river’s waves lapped against its underside and the current tugged against the moorings. The decks were clean but made of
hand-planed boards with a grain that scraped against Mercy’s boots. She let the captain lead her around the lower deck in a full circuit of the craft, then inside to the first deck, where the galley and its workers managed all the meals, the alcohol was stored and served, and a set of tables was reserved in a lounge for the men who wanted a game of cards.

The captain led her to a narrow wood-slat stairway that went up to the top deck. There, the rooms lined either side of a hall that was scarcely wide enough to accommodate the two of them side by side. “Up here are the cabins. We’ve only got the nine, including my room up near the pilothouse. When we take to the river, we’ll be traveling not-quite-full. But if you feel the need for feminine company, I’m afraid all I’ve got is the nigger girl who helps the cook. She’s a sweet thing, though, and if you need something, you can ask her about it—I’ll let her know you’re here.”

“Which room’ll be mine?”

He drew her toward the end of the row, on the left. “How about this one?” He opened the door and held it open for her. “You won’t have anybody next door to you, and across the hall is an old oilman headed up to count his money in Missouri, since he’s already counted everything he made in Texas. I keep telling him he could afford a better ride, but he don’t care. He says he’d rather ride fast in a shitty cabin than take all month on a
la-dee-dah
paddler covered up in frosting like a rich lady’s cake.”

“Can’t say as I blame him,” she said.

“Me either, all things being equal. But he’s getting on up there, maybe close to eighty. If he gives you any guff, you can probably take him.” The corners of his mouth shot up even higher as he said the last bit, lending a comic angle to every facial tuft. “Anyhow, I realize it’s a tiny space and none too pretty, but we keep all the rooms straight as possible, and have plenty of fresh water on board for the basins.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. This is just as big as where I lived at the hospital, almost.”

He handed her a key from a ring he carried on his belt, dangling just below his waistcoat. “Here’s your security, ma’am, and I’ll be pleased to show you the rest of it—what little there rightly is to see. You can set your things down, if you like. Pinch the door up, shut it behind you, and no one’ll bother it.”

“But my money and my papers—I still have to pay your clerk.”

“Don’t worry about
him
. He’ll be on board, too, and you can sort that out any time. If you don’t square up before St. Louis”—which he pronounced
Saint Looey
—“then we’ll just keep you here and let you work it off in the galley. Come on. I’ll show you the top deck, the pilot’s house, the whistles, and anything else I can think of that’ll slow that old bore Whipple from cornering me over the cargo weights.”

Together they chatted as they walked around the
Providence,
killing time until the last of the cargo was loaded and the final passengers had presented themselves for boarding. By then, Mercy had been treated to the ins and outs of the craft, had met most of the crew—including Millie, who worked in the kitchen—and felt as if she might spend the next ten days quite comfortably and securely in the quiet of her own little room. So when the gangplank was pulled and all the moorings were loosed, she felt practically optimistic about the way her trip was now proceeding. As the
Providence
heaved slowly into the current and began to churn against it, she sat on one of the benches that lined the bottom deck to watch Memphis up on its bluff, sliding away behind her.

Though Mercy had been warned of the possibility of motion sickness, she did not become ill and was thankful for it. The food was fairly good, the weather remained quite fair—sunny and cool, with the ever-present breeze off the river—and the voyage promised to be pleasant and problem free.

However, by the second day, Mercy was bored beyond belief. It wasn’t quite like being bored on a train. Despite the fact that she could get up, and wander through several decks, and lie down or stretch her legs at her leisure, something about being in the middle of that immense, muddy strip of water made her feel trapped in a way that a simple railcar did not. Certainly, it would be easier to dive overboard and swim to safety should trouble present itself than to fling herself from a moving train; and to be sure, the grub down in the galley was better than anything she’d ever packed for herself; and it was a demonstrable fact that this boat was making swifter progress than virtually any of the others it passed going upriver. But even when the paddles were churning and the diesel was pumping so fast and hard that the whole craft shuddered, she couldn’t shake the sensation that they were moving more slowly than they ought to be.

The captain told her it was a trick of the water, and how swiftly it worked against them. She forced herself to be patient.

If the sun was out, she’d sit on the benches on the deck and
watch the water, the distant shore, and the other vessels that moved along beside them, coming and going in each direction, up and down the river. Bigger, heavier cargo fleets swam along at a snail’s crawl, paddling and sometimes towing barges packed with cotton bales, shipping crates, and timber. Lighter, prettier steamers from the Anchor Line piped up and down, playing their organs alongside the whistles to announce themselves and entertain their passengers. Every now and again, a warship would skulk past, the only kind of craft that could outpace the
Providence
as she surged forward into the current. On their decks Mercy saw grim-faced sailors—and sometimes happy ones—waving cloths or flags at the Texian vessel, waiting for the captain to pull the chain and sound his whistle back at them, as he invariably did.