[H]ouse Characters In Part Nine (Chapter 10)

Gregory House = Gregory V. "Hutch" Hutchinson, age 15

James Wilson = James Wilcox

Eric Foreman = Eli Forrest

Tucker = Turner

Michael Tritter = Martin Tressiter

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"Unless this is a train, you shouldn't be here, Wilcox." Hutch was on his feet and like a sapling in the wind, bent toward Wilcox, almost touching noses. He drew back, coiled his hand into a fist, and swung a punch aimed for Wilcox's mouth, but his knuckles connected with air as Wilcox ducked and grabbed his wrist.

"And you should be in school. We had an agreement, you little—"

A bored voice called out from one of the tables, "Wilcox, we ain't interested in the kid's bad temper or his second-rate pugilistic skills.. Throw him in the river, and get back to your seat."

A sliver of fear chilled Hutch's gut. He never learned how to swim. Was this how arguments were settled on riverboats? He opened his mouth to shout down the player when Wilcox's hand clamped over it. Wilcox's other hand pulled on his ear.

"Not a single word until we get outside," Wilcox said through clenched teeth. Hutch tried to squirm away from the humiliating grip as they marched past the tables. He sensed Wilcox was weakening and he could break free by applying the right amount of leverage. Hutch had the advantage of size, and up close he could tell he was heavier. Wilcox's suit hung loosely off his hips and shoulders. Two men also noticed Wilcox struggling. They pushed back their chairs and offered to help.

Wilcox declined their assistance and shot a warning glare at Hutch that could melt a polar cap. He removed his hands, but it was only to get a steadier hold on Hutch's shoulder and the back of his trousers. "Behave, unless you want those men to take matters into their own hands."

Hutch took the warning as reassurance that there would be no swimming lessons and stopped straining to break free.

Barely slowing as he reached his table, Wilcox spoke to the man who occupied the chair next to his. "Forrest, if I'm not back in fifteen minutes, bring my chips to my cabin."

When they made their way to the door, a man shouted, "Jim, wait up!" and rushed toward them with an awkward gait. He wore a wide smile, but it looked no more genuine than a storefront facade.

"Congratulations on your big win. You scared Stinky shitless."

"He had a right to be. Can this wait, Turner?" The polite weariness in Wilcox's voice instantly caught Hutch's attention. His curiosity overtook his anger. He waited eagerly to hear what this Turner wanted.

"Lady Luck is sitting at your table this evening, not mine. Johnson insists I pay back what I owe him or he refuses to deal me any cards. Could you spare a few dollars?"

"How much?"

"A hundred."

"A hundred?" Wilcox's shaggy eyebrows shot up. "I'm holding two markers from our last trip. Have you considered sitting this session out?"

Turner kneaded the side of his thigh. "What's money compared to what you owe me, Jim? Because of you, I've had to live with this leg since Sharpsburg."

Hutch felt Wilcox's grasp loosen. A terse whisper in his ear instructed him to wait.

With a smirk twisting his lips, Turner's eyes tracked Wilcox's every step back to the poker table. Hutch pieced the unsaid words together and blurted, "You should be thanking Wilcox you're alive, not showering him with guilt."

"I don't know what you're talking about. He's my friend," Turner said, his smile sliding back in place.

Wilcox returned and plunked a stack of chips in Turner's open hand. Turner counted it and said, "Thanks, Jim." He casually saluted, and limped back to his table.

"Why do you let that guy use you like you're his personal banker?" Hutch asked.

"You wouldn't understand." Wilcox answered, and shoved Hutch through the door to the promenade. He did not let go until they were out of earshot from the main salon. Wilcox began coughing and waved Hutch toward a chair as he pulled out his handkerchief and walked to the railing. The engines' hum covered the hacking, but Hutch could see Wilcox's shoulders jerk from the effort. When the attack subsided, Hutch wasted no time gaining the upper hand, and resumed his assault.

"How long have you known Turner? Was it before you cut off his leg?"

"What?" Wilcox spun around.

"Hull said you were a surgeon in the army."

Wilcox's brown eyes went black and hollow as if he were seeing ghosts. A full minute went by before he returned to the land of the living. "What I did on the battlefield isn't relevant; however, how you got here is. We made a deal. I'd come back for you in six months." He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for an answer.

Wilcox would have to wait longer. "You said you'd come for me after your rest cure. Last time I checked a map, the Mississippi River wasn't in the middle of the Rockies. You broke your promise, Wilcox."

"I had unfinished business to attend to before leaving. Happens I'm taking the train from St. Louis. But what about your promise? Three weeks isn't six months!"

Hutch sprung from the chair. "I'd be dead if I stayed one more week!"

Wilcox allowed a rueful smile. "Back at the school, I realized Hull didn't take a shine to you, but he does have a good reputation. I asked around and no one complained about missing or dead children, but he's known to be a strict disciplinarian." Wilcox pointed at Hutch's mouth. "Was that Hull's doing?"

Hutch had forgotten about the bruise and the faded streaks on his back. He leaned defensively against the wall. "Had a run-in with my schoolmates. It was nothing important, but Hull took their side." Recalling the chill of the icehouse, his body involuntarily shivered.

Wilcox's gaze never left him, and he must have spotted Hutch's reaction because his face lost its color. "Something happened. He didn't… did he touch you?"

"No, but he's a bastard, and I'm not going back." Having caught Wilcox's concerned tone, Hutch attempted again to get answers. "And what about you? That ticket you showed me on the River Road wasn't for the train. It was a steamboat ticket. You're a riverboat gambler."

Wilcox swiveled away and looked at the river. "I booked passage for the race months ago, along with some high stake games. What was I supposed to do with you for three weeks? Did it ever occur to you that I might not be proud of my profession?"

Why not? You're good!"

"Don't get any romantic notions about gambling. Whether I sleep in a first-class hotel or a boarding house that smells of fish depends upon the flip of a card." Wilcox stood at the rail for a few more moments before turning around. "And for the last time, answer my questions or I'll get a crewman to toss you overboard. Where'd you get the fare?"

"I told Hull you were in Atlanta. That you were sick and sent for me. I asked him for a loan to get back 'home.'" Hutch tried to act natural as he lied.

Wilcox pinched his nose. When he removed his fingers he asked calmly "You're not going to tell me the truth, are you?"

"No."

"If you told me the truth, how likely would it be that I'd get angry?"

"What's the likelihood of Turner tapping you for another loan?

Wilcox pushed his hat off his forehead and huffed in disgust. "I'd have a better chance getting straight answers from a politician than you. Truce?"

Hutch almost sighed with relief. "Truce." He stiffened when Wilcox clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Do you still eat like a starving mule?"

"I've been told my eating habits resemble those of a circus elephant. Why?"

"Before you can sit at my table, you must promise not to steal my food. The meal service is meager due to the minimal crew so it's first come first served. Dinner should be ready by now. How about we go in?"

Hutch walked with Wilcox back to the main salon. The poker tables were abandoned. All the men had congregated at the opposite end of the cabin. A series of tables draped with spotless linen stretched across its width. It supported enough gleaming silver to close down the Comstock Lode. As they drew near, Hutch marveled that the tables did not sag from the weight of the numerous platters, bowls, and domed dishes heaped to overflowing. "Can I eat everything?"

Wilcox looked pleased as one of the staff handed Hutch a plate. "I'm sure you can, but leave some for the rest of us."

By the time Hutch had coaxed slices of ham and roast beef into logs to cradle shrimp in the center of his plate while serving as barricades for chunks of fruit, various salads, and a mashed potato mountain with a gravy-filled crater off to the side, Wilcox was sitting at a table and Forrest had joined him. Fortunately, Turner was at a different table, ingratiating himself with a gambler wearing a glittering pinkie ring and matching stickpin.

He risked ruining his masterpiece when a fresh platter of fried chicken was brought out from the kitchen and wedged between a tureen of soup and tangle of crab legs. A breast and thigh fit on the twin beams of meat perfectly. Satisfied, he staked out the place setting on Wilcox's left, but was disgruntled when Wilcox, engrossed in a conversation with Forrest, ignored him. He stretched his arm across the table to reach for the breadbasket and deliberately upset Wilcox's goblet, splattering ice water into Wilcox's lap. He practiced looking innocent as Wilcox shot up from his chair, frantically wiping his trousers.

"Thanks for joining us, Greg, and for the splashy entrance." Wilcox said when he returned to his seat, and made quick introductions. "You two met earlier. Eli, this is Greg Hutchinson."

Before Hutch could swallow his roll and say anything, the two had resumed chatting. He listened as they compared riverboats, saloons, hotels, and gamblers, but soon grew bored.

He checked out Wilcox's plate for any food he might have missed at the buffet and was disappointed by the selection. A naked slice of turkey with a stripe of meat cut from it, and a shallow mound of corn. Both had grown cold from benign neglect. Wilcox's fork stayed empty most of the time, hovering over the plate. The sight disturbed Hutch. He plucked a thick slice of bread from the basket, smashed curls of butter into the spongy surface and dropped it on Wilcox's bread plate.

While listening intently to Forrest, Wilcox glanced at the gift, tossed a frown in his direction, and pushed the plate away.

Hutch studied the object of Wilcox's attention, Forrest, the only free man of color among the gamblers. He looked younger than Wilcox by four or five years. The shape of his brown eyes reminded Hutch of an Egyptian pharaoh. His demeanor and personality could have been carved from the walls of a pyramid, solid and unyielding. About to give up on finding anything entertaining about the serious man across the table, Hutch noticed Forrest's accent.

"Steamboats are a thing of the past. The money is out West, Wilcox. Towns littered along the railroad teeming with yokels and cowboys. Get tired of one town, move onto the next," Forrest explained.

Hutch broke into the conversation. "You sound like a Yankee. Where do you come from?"

Wilcox rolled his eyes, apparently annoyed at Hutch's lack of conversational tact.

"Like you deduced. Up North," Forrest said.

"I mean what state?"

Forrest leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips together. " I'm from New York, not that it's any of your business. Anything else you must know?"

Hutch was about to ask if he'd been in the War and killed Southerners when a man in uniform loomed over the table.

"Wilcox, Forrest, mind if I join you?"

"Have a seat, Tressiter." Wilcox made another round of introductions, more formal this time. "Greg, this is Mr. Martin Tressiter, pilot of the Andrew Jackson. Tressiter, have you met my uh, cousin, Gregory—"

"—Hutchinson." Hutch completed the sentence and shook hands. "But call me Hutch." From the corner of his eye he spotted Wilcox do a double take.

Tressiter was an impressive man with or without a uniform. He was tall with white-blond hair and unusually light-colored eyes that were like blue tinted mirrors.

"You're the cocky kid I keep hearing about. Heard tell you made quite an impression on the Captain and the passengers." The icy eyes never blinked. "The Captain doesn't like you. Called you an arrogant shit."

Wilcox tried to explain, "The boy's a little untamed, rough around the edges, but—"

"Don't apologize," Tressiter cut in. "Anyone the Captain dislikes is a friend of mine."

Wilcox sat in stunned silence as Forrest smothered a laugh behind his hand.

"The Captain and I don't get along, but he needs me to steer the ship, and he's willing to pay my price. But there's not a day goes by when we're not at each other's throats arguing about the Andy, especially about the race."

"But there are rules," Forrest said.

"And Vogle believes rules are meant to be broken. I'm sure Captain Joseph will cut a few corners, but Vogle will go to extremes, mark my words."

"What will Vogle do?" asked Hutch.

"What won't he do is the better question." Tressiter motioned for the bread, obviously stalling while he made a decision whether to say anything more. Hutch passed the basket.

"Can I trust the three of you?"

Hutch nodded his head along with Forrest and Wilcox. Everyone leaned forward.

"Vogle and Joseph agreed not to strip down the boats to save weight, but after the meeting Vogle ordered the crew to remove anything that could escape notice. As soon as we reach Natchez the men will scrape the gold off the paddle-boxes. Same with any interior trim." He made a fist and yanked at the air to demonstrate. "He has a buyer for the piano waiting in Vicksburg. The man is power hungry and devious. I know he's hiding more from me, but I don't know what."

"What more does the man want? He owns the Andy." Wilcox puzzled out loud.

Hutch pictured Vogle the first time he saw him. Strutting down the steps of his boat like a visiting monarch. "One boat's not enough. He's wants a fleet."

Tressiter nodded approvingly. "Did I say Vogle disliked you? That's an understatement. He must loathe you. You see right through him."

The conversation shifted to duller topics as gamblers strolled over to pay their respects to the pilot. Hutch stole away to fill his plate with pastries and fruit, but when he returned, Forrest sat alone at the table. "Where'd they go?"

Forrest shrugged his shoulders in answer, and shoved away from the table. "I don't know, but unless they went for a moonlight swim, they're still on the boat. I'm going back to play poker. Want to join me?"

"No." Ten dollars would be gone before he warmed his chair. Hutch pocketed a cookie and orange from his plate and went in search of Wilcox, walking out to the promenade. A man stood at the railing puffing on a pungent smelling cigar. With the sunset sinking into purple clouds, he could make out the orange tip against the darkening sky. He recognized the fellow by his flashy red vest, Stinky.

"Did you see Wilcox?"

"I heard him talking with Tressiter."

"Do you know where they went?

"Let me think." Stinky sucked on his cigar. He pulled a leather case out of his pocket, and offered a cigar to Hutch, handing him a match. Hutch took both and murmured his thanks, slipping them into an empty pocket to smoke later. He envied Stinky and all the riverboat gamblers. Drifting up and down the river, doing whatever they pleased. Wilcox would never convince him otherwise.

Hutch looked out at the peaceful view of the sky and the rippling river while waiting for Stinky's answer. Tonight's moon was missing a slice, but there was ample light illuminating the water and the tree-lined banks. Andy's whistle blew as the boat reached a bend. Another steamboat rolled into sight ahead of them, and hooted acknowledgement.

Stinky stirred to life at the sound. He indicated the stairway behind him with his stogie. "Tressiter invited Wilcox up to the Texas deck."

Hutch tipped his hat and climbed the stairs. Halfway up, he heard Tressiter say his name and Wilcox's unmistakable cough. He continued but stepped carefully in order not to give himself away. At the top he ducked behind a wall and sneaked a peek at what they were doing. They stood companionably close, leaning against the railing, smoking cigars, and drinking whiskey. Tressiter talked while he kept a watchful eye on the steamboat ahead as the Andy steadily overtook it.

"Come on Wilcox, who's the kid?"

"I told you he's my cousin."

"You don't act like cousins. Cousins either get along or avoid each other. Everyone thinks the two of you argue like father and son. Besides, you told me when we were stranded in that Podunk town two years ago that all your relatives died or scattered after the War. Whoever this boy is, you just met him."

"I don't remember saying anything about my family."

"You were drunk. You're more fun when you're drunk."

"Burning steamboats bring out the best in me."

"We had one hell of an evening, breaking and jumping out of windows." Tressiter clasped his arm around Wilcox's upper back and shook him in a genial manner. "And we lived to tell about it, like old war buddies."

Tressiter prodded, "He's your son, isn't he? You're not ashamed to admit the truth because he's lame, are you?"

Hutch controlled his temper and stayed where he was. He saw Wilcox pull away from Tressiter.

"Of course not." Wilcox rubbed the back of his neck and spoke barely above a whisper, "You promise not to say a word?"

"Consider me your father confessor."

Hutch held his breath, cupped his ear, and leaned forward as much as he dared.

"He's my—" The last word vaporized under the twin shotgun blasts of the boat's horn and whistle. Andy was about to pull alongside the other steamboat.

Wilcox covered his mouth. "I shouldn't have told you, but you didn't hear me over the— "

"Don't underestimate the skills of pilots, Wilcox." Tressiter answered with a knowing smile. "I can read lips."

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TBC

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All comments welcome.

Bibliography:

Twain, Mark, Life on the Mississippi. New York: Dover, 2000.