Characters In Part Thirteen
regory House = Gregory V. "Hutch" Hutchinson, age 15
James Wilson = James Wilcox
Michael Tritter = Martin Tressiter
Edward Vogler = Ethan Vogle
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…he was flying. Air rushed past his face…
The boats were courting—sailing alongside each other and gathering speed. With one hand gripping the rail, Hutch leaned over and extended his arm. So did the man from the Belle. They shook hands. The stranger's was smaller than his and warmer.
"May the better boat win!" shouted the man, his voice barely audible over the competing engines, paddlewheel, and sloshing water.
"She always does!" Hutch answered, and let go of the hand. They were pulling ahead.
The crowds at the dock were reduced to a fuzzy line, no more than a bit of fancy stitching on a lady's dress. The brass band's rousing music lingered as a ghostly echo in his ears. Due back in the pilot-house, he stole a few more minutes and checked the salon. Wilcox sat with a small pile of chips—fewer than Hutch had ever seen, but Wilcox showed no concern.
He hiked to the bow, wanting to feel the full brunt of the breeze created by the boat cutting through the water. The wind billowed his jacket and brushed the perspiration from his brow before the moisture had time to collect on his skin. He closed his eyes and inhaled the distinctive odor of mud and vegetation that clung to the riverbanks. The earthy scent was sweeter and less pungent than down in Louisiana—not better, but different. He committed it to memory before climbing to the top deck.
"Mr. Miller, Mr. Tressiter." The pilots acknowledged him with nods. Miller steadied the wheel and Tressiter leaned on the back window, smoking a cigar and studying the river.
As Tressiter had explained on the ride back from the fair, the piloting schedule had changed. Hutch would have more or less time on his own during the race, depending upon what he wanted to do.
The pilots had worked out a strategy for the race that they kept between themselves. All Hutch knew was that there would be no more four hour shifts. The pilots would work as needed, separately or together, depending upon their experience with different sections of the river. Because of the special circumstances, Hutch was permitted to observe any time Tressiter was in the pilot-house, as long as he did not speak unless spoken to. Miller wanted no truck with a cub pilot, and that was the only way he would agree to Hutch's presence.
When Tressiter slipped that news during their carriage ride, Wilcox and Forrest immediately placed bets as to how long Hutch would go without interfering. Hutch was determined the two men would lose their bets; he stayed scrupulously quiet.
"Did any of the gamblers leave the tables to watch the departure, Hutchinson?"
"No more than you would expect, Mr. Tressiter."
"You're saying no one showed?"
"If it were possible, Mr. Tressiter, less than none. Not one man so much as raised half an ass off a seat to fart," Hutch answered with disgust.
"A damn shame there wasn't an audience. The Belle and Andy put on a grand show. They left the dock like a wedding couple on their honeymoon."
Miller interrupted, "Hutchinson, how far back is the Belle?"
Surprised to be asked a question by the other pilot, Hutch turned around and calculated twice before he answered, "A quarter mile. She appears mighty dejected."
"It's an act." Miller spoke gruffly. "Mr. Sebastian is not taking the bait, the wily coot." Tobacco juice arced from his mouth into a spittoon. "He's not going to open the engines to full until tomorrow, and then she'll tromp all over us like a woman scorned."
Hutch was tempted to risk the bet and ask Miller what made him so sure about the Belle, when Vogle marched into the room and inquired on his own.
"Why aren't you taking advantage of your lead and widening it?" he demanded.
"Because that's not the plan," Miller answered tersely.
"Explain to me how sailing a hairsbreadth above a snail's pace will help us win?"
"You said winning was more important than speed. Let us do what we do best, and leave us alone. It will be dark soon in a nasty stretch of water. We know it, and Sebastian knows it. We're going to take our time so the Andy arrives in St. Louis in one piece."
"I paid the two of you premiums to win this race. I better get my money's worth," Vogle grumbled.
"You will," Tressiter assured him.
First thing the following morning, Hutch went to the window and searched for signs of the competition. The Andy still moved at a brisk clip, but he already knew that by the raised pitch of the engines. The Belle was hidden from view on his side of the boat. He dressed quickly and went to the other side, not stopping when he heard his name, but leaning out beyond the guardrail to get a clear view of the river. The Belle still tagged behind at the same distance. Relieved, he turned around and focused on the man who spoke.
"Something more exciting than breakfast, Hutch?" Wilcox stood slouching at the doorway, his hands in his pockets. Other than his pallor, he appeared reasonably healthy.
"There is a race going on, or didn't you notice the crowds when we left the dock?."
"I thought those were all the broken-hearted girls you left behind at the fair." Wilcox smiled then looked somber and shrugged. "We either win or lose."
"You lost last night. I saw your stack of chips. How much?"
"Doesn't matter. Forrest is winning, so I'm sitting out a round. The cards will change."
Wilcox's attitude intrigued him. Hutch sank into a chair. "You trust Forrest to continue on a winning streak with that tell of his? I'm surprised he hasn't worn out the watch cover on his pocket watch. Sounds like the chattering of an old man's false teeth."
"He can afford a new gold watch every year because of it." Wilcox's mouth twitched. "That's not a tell. It's a feint. Forrest uses it to buy time and think. Plus the steady click unhinges the other gamblers. Quite effective. Watch the players next time he does it."
"I will." Hutch filed the information for future reference and circled around to the original subject. "Don't you get angry when you lose?"
"Losing is part of the game." Wilcox sat down next to him. "Don't play if you can't stand defeat."
"If it's important, I'd try even harder to win. You don't like to lose, do you?" Hutch asked.
"I don't like it, but I accept it. I'd be spooked if I kept winning."
"I'd get used to it," Hutch said.
A spark of humor flickered in Wilcox's eyes. "You don't lack hubris."
"Tell me, did Mr. Perfect have even the tiniest drop of arrogance?"
"Not this again." Wilcox rubbed his forehead. "No, he didn't, neither did Matthew, nor your mother. After the Confederacy surrendered, you inherited it all, so live with it, Hutch. You're as God made you."
The mention of his mother reminded him what he had in his pocket. He handed back the cups. "Here."
"Oh." Wilcox took his and hesitated. "Why don't you keep Hutchinson's. His first initial matches your last."
"Well, if you don't want it." Hutch ran his index finger over the inscription. The lines barely caught under his nail. "Why do you bother carrying your brother's?"
"I, uh… " Wilcox looked uncomfortable, he drummed his finger on the tin, then sighed. "Tangible evidence."
"Of your brother and my mother?"
"Yes, to keep their memory alive. I cared deeply about them."
"And my mother loved you both equally?"
Wilcox stopped tapping the lid. "What are you getting at?"
"She was betrothed to Hutchinson when he went off to war. If she adored him why didn't she engrave the word, 'Love,' on his?"
"It's. A. Cup." Wilcox shot out of his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. "Where do you get these ideas? It must be awful to be you." He swiveled and gazed at the water before turning back. "Look, our trip ends tomorrow. I'll be on a train by evening, and you'll be heading back down the Mississippi. Can you drop the questions for a day and join me for a peaceful breakfast?"
Hutch shrugged off a sudden chill. Their last day together. Maybe forever. Wilcox was saying goodbye and silently imploring him to play along. Nothing could be harder, but he would follow Wilcox's lead and keep the conversation light.
"Are you sure you're heading West and not to Canada or New Jersey?"
The tension vanished from Wilcox's face. "I swear. You can come with me to the train station when I buy the ticket."
"Trains are boring compared to boats, I'll go on one condition."
"What's that?" Wilcox asked.
"You find me a girl like Annie but without the father and the flimflam."
"I'm a gambler, not a magician," said Wilcox. "Let's tackle something simple first like breakfast."
They went into the salon, where Hutch performed his own brand of magic on Wilcox's serving of potatoes, and Wilcox pretended not to notice.
Without any set schedule, Hutch hung around the salon, observing the gamblers' reaction to Forrest's clicking watchcase, and calculating the current value of Wilcox's dwindling stack of chips. He strummed his guitar in his cabin, and stared at the Belle from different decks. Between each activity, he marched up to the pilot-house and joined Tressiter whenever he was on duty.
The shadows of the smokestacks lengthened and pointed east by the time the two pilots met again in the pilot-house. Tressiter was at the wheel. They stood a little stiffer, puffed and spat a little faster. Something was afoot.
They stared and nodded at a jutting finger of land where the water was calm.
"Remember what I told you about sandbars, Hutchinson?" Tressiter asked.
"Aye, sir."
"Forget everything I said. You never saw one in your life." Tressiter proceeded to let the boat drift toward the placid water, as he shouted a series of directions into the speaking-tube. When they reached the spot, he turned the wheel hard, and the boat creaked and shook to a stop.
Hutch twisted his head to look out the window. The Belle crept along, but she must have been waiting for just such a moment. Within minutes steam and smoke belched from her pipes. She lunged forward, taking advantage of Andy's apparent mistake.
Hutch felt a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder as heavy footsteps drew nearer. The door crashed open.
"What have you done?" Vogle boomed.
"Boat hit a sandbar, sir. We have the men on it." Tressiter replied.
Hutch looked down. Men stood on both sides of the boat with poles, digging into the mud. They gave a decent performance. Their muscles bulged, but they didn't sweat.
The Belle swept by with a haughty toot of her horn. Hutch could make out Sebastian waving his hat at them.
"Get this boat moving pronto, or so help me I'll…" Vogle made a fist and lowered the timbre of his rising voice. "I'd go on, but the thought of how much pain the three of you'd be in might stop you from doing your jobs." He turned to Hutch. "You're too young to appreciate what castration is, anyway." He slammed the door behind him.
Tressiter and Miller did not speak. They peered out the window until the Belle was out of sight. When she was no longer a speck on the horizon, they trained their attention to the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes ticked slowly by before Tressiter called down to the engine room. The crewmen disappeared from the bottom deck, and the boat returned to life. The Andy straightened and sailed upriver.
After another silent quarter hour and no more appearances by their would-be castrator, Miller shook Tressiter's hand and left
"Why are you playing cat and mouse with the Belle?" Hutch asked.
"To win, of course," Tressiter answered patiently. "We're approaching nightfall and the worst part of the river for the whole trip. Besides being a gentleman and allowing a lady to go first, I'm giving her the honor of being the first to head into fog, strike fallen trees, or ground on real sandbars. Sebastian will have to slow down. Miller and I will hold back the Andy to about a mile or half-a-mile until daybreak. If the Belle is still afloat, we'll surprise her, pour on the steam and shoot into St. Louis like a cannonball."
Hutch reflected upon the scheme. "It's daring and risky. I like it."
Excited to know how the pilots' plan was succeeding, Hutch gave up on getting a full night's sleep. He napped in his pants and an open shirt, buttoning it when he could not hold back his curiosity any longer and went on deck. Miller was alone in the pilot-house so he stayed on the promenade, tracking the Belle from there. She was easy to spot on the dark river, her lights made her glow like Venus in the night sky. Her presence grew larger as the Andy shortened the distance between them.
At one point Hutch saw a supply barge loaded with firewood come along Andy's port. The riverboat slowed and crewmen on both boats hustled to unload the fuel onto the deck. When the men had finished, the barge slipped back into the shadows. The Andy's engines whined a notch higher and rapidly made up for the reduced speed.
Come morning Hutch skipped breakfast and headed to the top deck. The Belle was a half-mile away, fore not aft. He burst into the pilot-house as Tressiter and Miller were arguing with Vogle about when to begin their assault.
"What are you waiting for? We're less than fifty miles from St. Louis!" Vogle hollered. For the first time, Hutch thought he heard panic in the Captain's voice.
"Another fifteen miles," Tressiter said, gripping the wheel. "We're running a lot of wood through the boilers to display a large amount of steam and smoke. Sebastian thinks we're moving at top speed. We can take him unawares in another hour and hold the lead right into St. Louis. He won't be able to stoke his boilers fast enough to catch up."
Everyone waited. The walls of the tiny room crowded in on Hutch. He stepped backward until he flattened against the door. The world outside the cabin moved at a deadly crawl.
"Damn it, this waiting is ridiculous. Give Andy full power."
"Not yet." Tressiter held firm.
Hutch played with his hat, spinning the edge of the brim on his finger. He almost dropped it when Tressiter's voice startled him.
"Vincent, give it all you got!" The engine's heartbeat throbbed faster and louder. The whine spiraled higher. The floorboards vibrated with the increase in speed.
They gained on the Belle as each engine reached its peak, the noise below deck becoming shrill. When Andy was almost sniffing at the Belle's heels, the Belle bounded forward. A cauliflower head of steam swirled from her chimneys. Sparks and black clouds heaved from her smokestacks..
"Damnation! They're on to us!" Tressiter barked another order. "Vincent, heat every boiler until they glow red. I want more than they can give."
The boat trembled, but slowly nosed ahead of the Belle. Hutch saw sweat trickling down Vogle's neck. The room was stuffy, and they were all tense, but Vogle was too nervous. He must have everything riding on the bet like Tressiter had said, or…
"How much heat can a boiler withstand before it blows?"
"Don't concern yourself, Hutchinson," Tressiter assured. "Ours are newer than the Belle's. Number eight showed signs of fatigue, but I ordered a brand new replacement when we landed in New Orleans."
Hutch felt a shiver go straight up his toes and through his spine, or was it the Andy rattling? On his first day, he'd seen the crew rocking a boiler into place, but it showed signs of wear, and there was a riveted patch on the top like a tattoo. "Did you pay for a new boiler, Vogle, or cut costs with a makeshift one? You never considered how pilots might strategize for a race, did you?"
Tressiter and Miller's eyes went wide with horror at Hutch's implication. Miller stumbled back and bumped into Hutch, but Tressiter grabbed for the tube. "Full stop! I repeat, full sto—!"
Thunder rumbled from below and the boat jerked.
"What have you done? We're all dead men!" Tressiter yelled and grabbed Vogle by the shoulders.
Vogle fought back, anger distorting his features. "You and your secretive schemes! I'll kill you!"
Hutch stared as the two men throttled each other. A keening whistle from below was quickly followed by another sharp jolt. He squeezed his eyes shut as boards groaned, bent, and cracked from the walls. When he opened them, Tressiter and Vogle had disappeared. The roof was gone and a hole gaped in the floor.
Blasts like cannon fire reverberated around him. Wilcox. He had to warn Wilcox. He reached for the doorknob as another explosion blew open the door. He slammed against the railing and gasped for air when his breath was knocked out of him. Flames and smoke were everywhere. Men were jumping from the decks into the water. He almost laughed at the sight. Now he knew what it took to pry the gamblers from their chairs.
Deadly steam wafted toward him as he glimpsed Wilcox about to run up the the staircase to rescue him. "No! Go away!" There was another boom and a crash. He catapulted into the atmosphere… He was flying. Air rushed past his face. He flew higher than the black and white clouds. Round, charcoal fists punched him, burning claws grabbed and tore at his flesh. He was falling, falling into the jaws of a ravenous monster…
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TBC
Thank you for reading! All comments welcome.
Bibliography:
Twain, Mark, Life on the Mississippi. New York: Dover, 2000