Preacher (17 page)

Lily, who was still wiping the tears from her eyes, smiled through her tears and put her hand on Art's shoulder.

“Honey, I feel that way too, really I do,” she said. “And I'm willin' to do somethin' I ain't never done before. I'll let you lie with me for free. Only, don't make me do it tonight. I don't intend to lie with anyone tonight. I need tonight to cry over poor, dear Pete.”

“That's all right,” Art said. “I understand.”

Art didn't tell Lily that he wasn't going to be there tomorrow night. He was just as glad of it too. He still connected her to Harding and he felt as if it would be wrong for him to be with her. He knew that was dumb. After all, Lily was a whore and others were with her all the time. Harding also knew she was a whore and it hadn't bothered him. But somehow, Art's being with her wouldn't be the same thing.

“Lily, the boy . . .” Bellefontaine began, but Art got his attention, and with a small shake of his head, interrupted the revelation. Bellefontaine nodded his understanding.

Early the next morning, Art reported for work. Once on board, he walked out onto the hurricane deck of the
Delta Maid
and stood against the stern railing, then faced forward to look along the length of the boat. He could see the neat stacks of cargo and the long ricks of firewood.

Dewey told Art that his job would be to keep the boiler stoked with firewood and, when the time came, to join the other members of the crew in replenishing the supply of firewood every time they stopped.

Some distance forward of where Art was standing was the bow of the
Delta Maid.
Already, there was talk of outfitting special boats to go up and down the river, dredging a channel to facilitate faster travel by the steamboats. But that had not yet been done, so for now the bow of those boats already plying the river were shaped like a spoon, thus allowing them to slip easily over shoals and sandbars.

The
Delta Maid
was 160 feet long, with a beam of thirty-two feet. From her lower deck to the top of the wheelhouse, she rose forty feet. It was nearly sixty feet to the running lights at the very top of the twin fluted smokestacks.

The
Delta Maid
could carry 220 tons of freight and thirty-six cabin passengers. The large paddle wheel at the stern was eighteen feet in diameter and twenty-six feet wide. The wheel was rotated by a steam engine at a rate of twenty revolutions per minute.

The wheel was motionless now, and Art turned to look down where the paddle blades met the water. A twig hung up on one of the blades for a moment, then broke loose and floated on by the keel. He had never been on a steamboat before, and he couldn't help but be a little excited over the prospect.

“Cast off the lines, fore and aft!” Captain Timmons shouted from the pilot deck, using his megaphone to amply his orders.

“Aye, Cap'n, fore and aft!” his mate, who was down on the main deck, replied.

Captain Timmons pulled on the chain that blew the boat whistle, and its deep-throated tones could be heard on both sides of the river. Timmons put the engine in reverse, and the steam boomed out of the steam-relief pipe like the firing of a cannon. The wheel began spinning backward, and the boat pulled away from the bank, then turned with the wheel pointing downriver and the bow pointing upstream. The engine lever was slipped to full forward, and the wheel began spinning in the other direction until finally it caught hold, overcame the force of the current, and started moving the boat upstream.

They beat their way against the current, around a wide, sweeping bend, with the engine steam pipe booming as loudly as if the town of New Madrid was under a cannonading.

For the rest of the day the
Delta Maid
beat its way up river, with the engine clattering and the paddle wheel slapping and the boat itself being enveloped in the thick smoke that belched out from the high twin stacks.

Already the boiler furnace required restoking, and Art had gone through several ricks of wood, marveling at how fast their supply of fuel was being consumed. He was told their next fueling stop would be Cape Girardeau. He couldn't help but wonder if the fuel they had on board would last even that long.

* * *

“I tole' you I heered the boat a'comin',” Eby said to the others. “Lookie there, over the top o' them trees. You can see the smoke.”

Eby had eight armed men with him, nine counting himself, divided into three men each in three skiffs. They were waiting just north of a wide, sweeping bend.

“How much you reckon we're going to get offen this here boat?” Poke asked.

“I'd say more than you could get off ten flatboats,” Eby replied.

“Lord, how we goin' to get all that out of here?”

“We'll scuttle the boat ag'in the sandbar,” Eby explained. Kill ever'one on board, then just take our time unloadin' it. After we get ever'thing off it, we'll burn it.”

The steam pipe boomed, and Poke jumped. “What the hell? They got a cannon on that boat?”

Eby laughed. “That ain't no cannon,” he said. “That's just the steam engine. It does that sometimes, makes a noise so loud you'd think it was a cannon.”

“I just got a glimpse of it through the trees,” one of the others said. He pointed. “There, you see it?”

“Yeah,” Eby answered. “I see it. All right, boys, get in your boats and make sure your guns is primed and loaded. We'uns is about to get rich.”

* * *

Art saw them when he was out on the deck, picking up another bundle of wood. Glancing toward the riverbank, he saw three boats waiting behind a fallen tree trunk. At first, he thought it was just curious; then, when he realized that there were three men in each boat, and that they were just sitting there, he got suspicious. His suspicions were confirmed when he recognized one of them as Eby, the man who had run the cave trading post back on the Ohio. He remembered that when the river pirates had attacked Harding's flatboat, one of them had mentioned Eby's name. If Eby was here with eight other men, trying not to be seen, it had to be for some foul purpose.

Putting the bundle of wood down, he went back into the engine room.

“Where's the wood?” Dewey asked.

Without a word, Art picked up his rifle, and began loading it.

“What is it, boy? What's wrong?” Dewey asked.

“I think we're about to have company,” Art answered.

“River pirates?”

“Looks that way to me,” Art said. His rifle loaded, he started on his pistol.

“Mule!” Dewey shouted.

“Yes, sir?” Mule answered. Mule was a free black man who worked on the boat in the same capacity as Art.

“Spread the word around, we're about to get jumped by pirates,” Art said. “Tell everyone to get to their guns.”

“Yes, sir!” Mule replied, springing into action.

Dewey brought the engine to all stop. As soon as he did, the speaker tube whistled. Dewey knew that it would be the captain, wondering why the engine had stopped, so he walked over to the speaker tube and yelled into it.

“Pirates ahead, Captain!” he shouted.

“There they are!” one of the crewman yelled, and Art stepped out onto the deck to see the three boats suddenly dart out. They were paddling fast, using the momentum of the current of the river to bring them to mid-channel.

One of the men in one of the skiffs fired toward the steamboat. Art heard the crash of glass and when he looked up, saw that the pirate was shooting toward the wheelhouse, trying to hit the pilot and thus cause the boat to wreck. Thankfully, he'd missed the man.

Using a bale of cotton not only for cover, but also to provide a resting place for his rifle, Art fired at the pirate who had just shot, and saw him grab his chest, then fall back into the river.

That seemed to open the door, for those two single shots were followed by a rippling volley of fire as men in the skiffs and men on the boat exchanged fire with each other. The sounds of the shots, barely separated from one another, rolled back from the trees on each side of the river, thus doubling the cacophony of the battle.

The battle was brief but brutal. Realizing that they had lost the advantage, the pirates gave up the fight and started paddling hard to get away. At almost the same time, Dewey put the engine into full speed forward. The
Delta Maid
leaped forward. It was a moment before Art realized what they were doing, but once he understood, there was nothing he could do but stand by and watch.

Captain Timmons deliberately ran over one of the boats. Art rushed to the railing and saw pieces of the boat drifting away as the three men who had been in the boat were paddling hard to stay afloat. One of them slipped underwater and, caught by the severe undertow, didn't reappear. The other two swam hard for the opposite shore, chased by bullets fired at them by the angry crewmen of the
Delta Maid.

Bullets popped into the water all around the swimmers, sending up tiny geysers as they did so. One of the two was hit and, like the unlucky man who had caught the full brunt of the collision, he went under and didn't come back up. The third man reached the sandy shore on the other side, pulled himself out of the water, then started toward the tree line.

At that moment, only Art, of all the men on board, had a rifle that was primed and ready. He raised the Hawken to his shoulder, touched his finger to the trigger, then had second thoughts. The man represented no immediate danger now, so why kill him?

Art lowered his rifle, then realized that if he didn't shoot, the others might question him. Raising his rifle, he did shoot, aiming not at the escaping pirate, but at a tree branch just above him. He pulled the trigger, there was a flash and a boom, then the tree limb exploded, just over the fleeing pirate's head.

“Ayii!!” the pirate shouted in fear, his cry of terror clearly heard by everyone on the boat.

“Good job, lad, you put the fear of God into him, that's for sure an' certain!” Dewey said, laughing.

“Too bad you ain't a better shot,” one of the others said. “If you was, we would'a got 'em all.”

At that moment the pirate who had made good his escape looked back toward the boat, and Art was able to see him more clearly. It was Eby.

* * *

When Eby stepped into the parlor of Etta Claire's Visitation Salon in Cape Girardeau, he was met by Etta Claire herself.

“Good evening, sir,” she said. “May I get you a glass of wine while you are making up your mind which of our girls you will be visiting tonight?”

“I ain't visitin' with none of them,” Eby said. “I'm Bruce Eby. I'm here to claim my girl, Jennie.” He showed Etta Claire the papers proving that he owned Jennie.

“Oh, Mr. Eby,” Etta Claire said. “Yes, I knew who you are, even though I've never met you. Jennie is engaged at the moment. If you will be patient for just a little longer, she'll be free, then you can go up to see her.”

“I ain't here to see her. I'm here to take her out of here,” Eby said.

“I've been making the deposit on a regular basis,” Etta Claire said. “There is no difficulty with that, is there?”

“No, I got the money all right,” Eby said.

“Then, I don't understand. If you are getting the money, then why do you want to take Jennie from here? It seems to be working out so well, and I know she is happy here.”

“Happy?” Eby said. He laughed gruffly. “Woman, what the hell do I care whether or not she's happy. She's a slave. My slave. It don't make no difference to me whether she's happy or not. Now, you go upstairs and get her down here like I said. Else I'll get the sheriff on you.”

“There is no need for that, Mr. Eby,” Etta Claire said. “I'll bring her down to you.”

“And if she's got ny clothes or anything that's hers, have her bring them too. We won't be comin' back.”

When Etta Claire went upstairs to fetch Jennie, Eby picked up the bottle from which she had offered to pour a drink earlier. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he spat the cork out, then turned the bottle up to his lips, taking several Adam's-apple-bobbing drinks before pulling it down. Some of the wine dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt, but the shirt was so stained that it was scarcely noticeable. He ran the back of his hand across his lips, belched, then looked over toward the parlor itself, where several of the girls were looking back at him with a mixture of fright and revulsion.

“What the hell are you whores alookin' at?” he asked gruffly.

With a little gasp of fear, the women withdrew to the other side of the room.

“Mister, are you really going to take Jennie from us?” one of the girls asked.

“That's what I'm here for,” Eby said.

“Who the hell thinks he's so important he can pull a man away from a woman before he's even finished?” a loud, angry voice said. The sound of heavy footfalls could be heard clumping down the stairs.

Eby pulled his pistol and cocked it, then held it level with the foot of the stairs.

“Where are you, you son of a bitch?” the voice declared. “Me and you are going to have . . .” At that moment the irate customer appeared at the foot of the stairs. At the same moment, he saw the pistol leveled at him and the anger left his face, to be replaced by fear. He held his hands out in front of him. “Hold it, hold it,” he said.

“You goin' to make any trouble?” Eby asked.

“No, sir. Not a bit of it,” the man said meekly. “Not a bit of it. You want her, you take her. She's all yours.”

“Jennie!” Eby called. “Jennie, get your nigra ass down here now before I start tearin' up this place.”

“Nigra?” the customer said, looking back up the stairs. “You tellin' me that girl is a nigra?”

A moment later Etta Claire and Jennie came down the stairs together. Jennie was clutching a cloth bundle. Tears were streaming down her face.

“Well, now,” Eby said. “What's the cryin' about? You didn't think you'd come here to live, did you?”

Jennie didn't answer him.

“Mr. Eby, she has grown so close to the girls. Can she please tell them good-bye?” Etta Claire asked.

Eby picked up the wine bottle. “Yeah, she can tell 'em good-bye,” he said. “I don't ever want it said that I'm a evil-spirited man.” He drank from the bottle as, one by one, the girls came over to hug Jennie. All were crying, including Etta Claire, when Eby led her through the door.

“Mr. Eby, will I ever be comin' back here?” Jennie asked as they left the house.

“No,” Eby said.

Jennie sobbed aloud.