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Authors: Michael Wallace
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washed her face from the metal pitcher with the stopper that hung by its neck from a rope next to the washbasin. Before she climbed into bed, she opened her Oriental box and took out the picture of her mother in the sequined dress. After a few minutes, she put it away and turned down the light for good.
Josephine lay down on the cot, pulled the sheet up to her neck, and stared into the darkness overhead.
She was eight when that picture was taken, and must have known the Colonel for a long time already, but the day of the photograph was one of her earliest, strongest memories of the man. That morning, Crescent Queen had come out of the Ohio River where it met the Mississippi, and Josephine was on the deck with her bare, tanned legs hanging over the edge of the promenade, looking down at the two powerful currents sliding by each other, one gray and sleek, the other the color of muddy coffee. Only gradually did they mix.
A flatboat drifted off stern, and men danced on its deck, one man playing a fiddle and the others kicking their heels and waving knit caps. A keelboat heaved alongside the flatboat, and here several more men from the long, slender craft joined their voices. A third boat, this one another keel, heard the singing and rowed over to join the little flotilla. The men were Cajun and Irish and wild-haired Buckeyes and Hoosiers with beards halfway down their chests.
Josephine recognized the tune as “Bucktooth Burro”and began to sing along.
Oh, my burro has buckteeth an’ he loves hisself a carrot, an’ he eats turnips by the bushel.
For the next twenty minutes, the riverboat, its paddle still as they worked on the boilers, drifted downstream alongside the three smaller boats, and she sang along with the river rats: “Woozy Creek,” “Double Chin Sue,”and “ What Makes Frenchie Love ’Taters.” She knew them all. It was a welcome change from the piano music played in the riverboat saloon where her mother danced and sang. Uninhibited, with nothing but pure joy behind the music.
A skinny, freckled young man with a pointed red cap like something out of a Mardi Gras parade spotted Josephine and waved, and soon all the men were dancing for her, waving their caps and lifting their voices. Josephine sprang to her feet, lifted her skirts to her knees like the dancing girls did in the saloon, and did a little two-step, which made them whoop and holler.
Josephine was sorry when Crescent Queen vibrated as the boilers started up below. Black wood smoke huffed out the tall stacks. Long trails of sooty smoke trailed out behind the boat as the big side-wheel turned, pushing the river behind it. The steamer began to pull away downstream from the smaller craft. The men gave the girl a final wave of their caps, and soon their voices faded.
As the music died away, an argument caught Josephine’s ear.
The first she heard was her mother’s voice, high and irritated. “You are a no-good weasel. A scoundrel and no gentleman. If you think I’m going to fall for this sharp practice—”
“But Claire, if you’ll only listen to me—”
“No!”
“It’s only for a few days. What’s the harm?”
Josephine was intrigued by the man’s voice. It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place why. The voice didn’t belong to the funny little Irishman from the bar whose accent she liked to imitate; he sometimes came up to argue about the dance numbers and singing. And it wasn’t the passenger from Boston who had come around a few days ago to pester her mother. Josephine thought he’d disembarked in Cincinnati at the end of the trip.
The girl made her way around the promenade to the room she shared with her mother. It was above the saloon, and late at night when Josephine was supposed to be sleeping, she would listen to the pounding feet of dancers, the pianos and banjos, and the cries of drunk men.
The argument came through the window, and as the girl pushed open the door, neither of them seemed to spot her.
Her
Josephine lay down on the cot, pulled the sheet up to her neck, and stared into the darkness overhead.
She was eight when that picture was taken, and must have known the Colonel for a long time already, but the day of the photograph was one of her earliest, strongest memories of the man. That morning, Crescent Queen had come out of the Ohio River where it met the Mississippi, and Josephine was on the deck with her bare, tanned legs hanging over the edge of the promenade, looking down at the two powerful currents sliding by each other, one gray and sleek, the other the color of muddy coffee. Only gradually did they mix.
A flatboat drifted off stern, and men danced on its deck, one man playing a fiddle and the others kicking their heels and waving knit caps. A keelboat heaved alongside the flatboat, and here several more men from the long, slender craft joined their voices. A third boat, this one another keel, heard the singing and rowed over to join the little flotilla. The men were Cajun and Irish and wild-haired Buckeyes and Hoosiers with beards halfway down their chests.
Josephine recognized the tune as “Bucktooth Burro”and began to sing along.
Oh, my burro has buckteeth an’ he loves hisself a carrot, an’ he eats turnips by the bushel.
For the next twenty minutes, the riverboat, its paddle still as they worked on the boilers, drifted downstream alongside the three smaller boats, and she sang along with the river rats: “Woozy Creek,” “Double Chin Sue,”and “ What Makes Frenchie Love ’Taters.” She knew them all. It was a welcome change from the piano music played in the riverboat saloon where her mother danced and sang. Uninhibited, with nothing but pure joy behind the music.
A skinny, freckled young man with a pointed red cap like something out of a Mardi Gras parade spotted Josephine and waved, and soon all the men were dancing for her, waving their caps and lifting their voices. Josephine sprang to her feet, lifted her skirts to her knees like the dancing girls did in the saloon, and did a little two-step, which made them whoop and holler.
Josephine was sorry when Crescent Queen vibrated as the boilers started up below. Black wood smoke huffed out the tall stacks. Long trails of sooty smoke trailed out behind the boat as the big side-wheel turned, pushing the river behind it. The steamer began to pull away downstream from the smaller craft. The men gave the girl a final wave of their caps, and soon their voices faded.
As the music died away, an argument caught Josephine’s ear.
The first she heard was her mother’s voice, high and irritated. “You are a no-good weasel. A scoundrel and no gentleman. If you think I’m going to fall for this sharp practice—”
“But Claire, if you’ll only listen to me—”
“No!”
“It’s only for a few days. What’s the harm?”
Josephine was intrigued by the man’s voice. It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place why. The voice didn’t belong to the funny little Irishman from the bar whose accent she liked to imitate; he sometimes came up to argue about the dance numbers and singing. And it wasn’t the passenger from Boston who had come around a few days ago to pester her mother. Josephine thought he’d disembarked in Cincinnati at the end of the trip.
The girl made her way around the promenade to the room she shared with her mother. It was above the saloon, and late at night when Josephine was supposed to be sleeping, she would listen to the pounding feet of dancers, the pianos and banjos, and the cries of drunk men.
The argument came through the window, and as the girl pushed open the door, neither of them seemed to spot her.
Her
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