So Wild a Dream Read online

  “I do not.”

  “Worthy of admiration as you are, Abby, you might tell him the true story of your life. Reality is such an antidote, telling it an act of friendship”

  “Oh my, oh my.”

  “Tell it, Abby.” This was the captain. “I want to hear too.”

  “Are you really prepared for this?” She reclasped her hennaed hair and plunged on.

  “Natchez, Mississippi. Oh, do I remember Natchez. Part French, part Spanish, all mongrel—Natchez, first capital of Mississippi Territory. My flying fanny.

  “My mother came up from Biloxi to live with her brother, Father Sean McKenna. Don’t know what happened to my father. I never knew him, and Mother never talked about where he went. I don’t know my father’s name. She even went back to her maiden name, and gave it to me too.

  “Mother kept house and Father McKenna raised me strict. Naturally, I went wild against both of them. Natchez had a neighborhood there under the hill where you could go wilder than probably any place on this continent. When I got to be sweet sixteen, I’d plenty been kissed. What was I doing to do? Clear choice, looked to me. Die of righteousness and respectability or live the way people did under the hill. I grabbed the wildest guy I knew and ran off to New Orleans with him.”

  She looked at Sam mischievously. He was tongue-tied.

  “Benny’s last name was whatever was convenient that day. I’m not sure I ever did find out the real one. He came from New Orleans and smelled of big city and daring ways and good times. He had big-money ideas. Of course, all those came to nothing. But his love for me, that came to something. He put something in my oven, gave me a big belly.”

  Grumble pantomimed the belly. Sam didn’t think he was funny.

  “In the end that also came to nothing—not my design, I assure you. You never get beyond some things the Church teaches you. I had a miscarriage.” Her eyes closed and she lost herself in her own past, or her own interior, for a moment. “Sometimes I think losing that baby was the worst thing ever happened to me, and I’ve never been the same since.” She waited and then popped her eyes open. “Sometimes I just think, that’s life.

  “I lost Benny. Uncle Sean always said God gives us blessings. Behind his back I called them goodies. Benny leaving me, that was a goody. That man was so scared of the very small thing in my belly. He took all our money, all our everything. Maybe he took my baby with him too. After he left, I didn’t care about anything, neither the baby or myself. When I lost the baby, I damn near lost myself. Laid alone in our room, weak, bleeding, pathetic. The landlady found me like that when she came to evict me for not paying. She saved my life.

  “Actually, turned out Benny was just the first of a line of gentlemen to say a come-hither hello now and a relieved good-bye later.”

  Sam snuck a good look at Stuart—how did he take her talking casually about her many lovers? His face was neutral.

  “Back to that bad time. Where next for a girl like me? Penniless, destitute, and still weak from losing blood. So what do I do? Fall for another man, or at least throw in with him. Turned out that one wasn’t interested in me or even my body—he’d just noticed how other men looked at my body.”

  She eye-leveled Sam until she was sure he understood.

  “I kept some of the money he made off me and real quick ran off on him, just like Benny did on me.

  “Ran to another one—how much choice did I have? Donnell was different. He was fun. He was savvy, he had big ideas, and he knew how to make them come true. He made good money dealing every kind of card game, and before long he got one of his big ideas—turning me into a gambler too. After I started dealing, he showed me the tricks, all the ways to cheat with a smile, all the ways to pluck the feathers off a pigeon. Something about it just feathered into my brain and made a perfect fit—I have a memory for cards and a knack for games. I think a little risk is, you know, good sport. And I have a way with gamblers, who are after all men.”

  She made silly eyes at all three of them.

  “Soon we started romancing an idea—owning our own place, a dance hall, drinking parlor, and gambling palace in one. We saved every penny we could and went up the Ohio on a steamboat, looking for likely towns. Louisville was the first city we came to, though I always did wish we’d checked out St. Louis.

  “Anyhow, Louisville it was. We had money, but we didn’t have any connections. And actually, we didn’t have enough money. So Donnell dealt in a place where he’d meet the main men of the town, at least those who drank and gambled. Wasn’t long before he jawed the owner into letting me deal too. A new idea, it was in Louisville in those days, a female gambler—went down hard with the owner. Soon he began to see … A good-looking woman with some class and sass, a lady dealing cards and entertaining the customers, enticing but not available. It went over quite well, and that owner was never one bit sorry.

  “Before long Donnell had our new partner all picked out. Beau Planxty was a gay blade if ever there was one, about forty, and good-looking till the devil may never care. Also, he had a piece of this and a piece of that business all over the state of Kentucky.”

  She sighed and looked coyly at Sam. He was all ears.

  “He looked like trouble to me. Beau liked me way too well. But Donnell was scheming every angle. He pointed me at Beau like a shot arrow, and I penetrated right to that man’s heart. Well, what little heart he had. Right quick, with Donnell’s encouragement, he set to seducing me. Beau spent many an hour at my faro bank, and I spent many an hour at his home, upstairs. For a while I had to remind him to keep his hands polite in public. But Donnell didn’t care—the way he saw it, we gained by both transactions, public and private. He was never that keen on what we did in the bed anyway.”

  Sam just couldn’t get used to a lady talking like that.

  “Pretty soon Beau bought a good building for our business and let us run the show, half shares to each. He gave us the money to make the place look classy, the way I wanted it, and to make me look very, very classy. That clothing I bought—every woman wants to wear the latest fashions from Paris, and the money I spent turned a profit. So I thought I had it made—mistress to a rich man, wife (well, common-law) to one getting rich, and half owner of one of the few kinds of business that always make money, rain or shine. We were set to conquer the world.

  “Shortly after we opened the palace, we spent our capital on Donnell’s next big idea. It was pure genius. That was the trick with the cards. I told Grumble, and neither of you need to know.” She raised her eyebrows at Sam and Stuart. “To rig up this scheme, he had to make a trip to Baltimore, so off he went, and he came back with our pigeon bait, which was to make our fortune, in a manner of speaking.

  “While he was gone, I ran the palace just fine by myself, even discovered I had a head for business. Got a good man to manage the bar, order the food and drink, hire and fire the staff. Had gamblers who didn’t cheat the house out of its cut, or not too much. Learned to do the books myself, and well. And got a reputation as the faro queen of Louisville. The secret to making men lose their money at gambling is to give them a good time while they’re doing it. The way I see it, women are much better at doing that than men. Some witty conversation, a bit of flirting, and a show of cleavage will take a dealer a long, long way.

  “By the time Donnell got back, I had the business in good shape. The customers were happy, and Beau was happy with his profits every week. He was extra happy with getting into my, well, every nook and cranny every night while Donnell was gone. Myself, I liked the whole kit and caboodle.

  “Donnell’s ambition kept getting bigger. I hadn’t moved forward with his plans to build rooms upstairs, where our dance hall girls could take a man for a few minutes’ pleasure. He got that going, then turned the running of the girls over to me. I wasn’t thrilled but didn’t really mind.”

  What hasn’t this woman done? Sam wondered.

  “That winter he got our house built. It was perfect, right behind the palace but faci
ng another street, a house with some style to it, handsomely appointed—I have an eye for fine clothes and fine furnishings, as well as a taste for good-looking men.”

  Why did she have to say everything right out?

  “His next plan threw me for a loop at first. When the mayor came in for a drink, Donnell pointed me at him. About the third time he came in, Donnell whispered to me, “Entertain him at home.” We all knew what those were soft words for. I did it, of course. Almost any adventure tickles my fancy. I also did the same before long for the banker, and the man who owned the theater and two hotels. Soon I was doing it for gentlemen of means who traveled through Louisville. I even did the dance with an occasional boat captain, if he caught my fancy.” She winked at Captain Stuart.

  “I wasn’t a whore, though, because the pleasuring came without charge. I did, unknown to Donnell, accept gifts of money and jewelry, some of them quite generous.

  “Through all this my common-law husband never got dissatisfied with me. It was me got dissatisfied with him. He should have cared what his wife was up to.

  “That’s when I started stealing from us. I did it to get even with Donnell, pure and simple. At first. After a while I pictured bigger things.”

  Sam looked sideways at Grumble. He was smiling, thoroughly satisfied.

  “Donnell took the receipts every night and put them in the safe, with notes that showed what the bar took in, what the girls earned, and what we got off the tables. Every week I entered it all in the ledger, put a lot of the money in our bedroom safe, and deposited the rest in the bank. However, when it comes to depositing money, whether in a safe or a bank, there’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip. I had a hidey hole Donnell knew nothing about.

  “I was twenty-two when we started the business in Louisville, Donnell was thirty-one. Within four years he and I were well-to-do, and I was nearly as well off on my own. Instead of half to Beau and half to us, it was ten percent off Beau’s, plus ten percent off ours, for me. A tidy twenty percent.

  “Then I began to figure. How many years until I had enough money to pull the plug, go somewhere else, and do the same business in another town, without the encumbrance of a Donnell? And no more Beaus, unless I wanted? How many years?

  “I never worried about Donnell finding out—I worried about Beau. So for those years, believe me, I entertained him at our house and his house, wherever and whenever he wanted, and set my cap to keep him very happy. Still, he was damned smart, and I was far from the only woman available to him. It would never do if he found out what he was really paying for each romp around the bed.”

  Worse and worse, thought Sam with a sinking heart.

  “In the end he did find out. And took great exception. Which is why I am here, sooner than I planned, running to St. Louis. My guess is Donnell has run to New Orleans, or is at the bottom of the Mississippi River feeding catfish.”

  “Who has the special cards?” asked Grumble.

  Abby smiled spicily at him. “The question ought to be, Who has the plates to print more? Well, Mr. Grumble, I hope to heaven you know me well enough by now to figure that one out.”

  She smiled perkily at them all. “Any questions?”

  “One,” said Grumble. “You’ve trusted us, and know we won’t rob you. How are you carrying the money?”

  She nodded. “Well, as you almost saw for yourselves, a lot of gold coins are sewn into my corset.” She corrected herself. “My two corsets.” She hesitated. “The rest, actually the large majority, is in bank drafts and letters of credit, which are sewn into my underskirts.”

  “I want to know where you got the knife you stabbed Elijah with,” said Sam.

  She sparkled at that idea. She bent forward so they could see, put her hand back to the top hook of her dress in back, drew a knife from a sewn-in sheath, and handed it to Sam. It was tiny, the length of an emery board.

  She took it and slid it back into the sheath.

  “And that is as far as you may inquire into a lady’s private matters.”

  The three talked all day. When Sam took watch for Frenchy, all three sat at the bow. They shared ideas. They made plans, and sealed them with solemn agreement.

  Suddenly Abby said to Grumble, “I know about you.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her.

  “We have something in common. You were educated by Catholics.”

  “I was raised in Baltimore, the home of the first bishop in the United States. Bishop Carroll, among other good deeds, arranged for the education of orphans. How did you know?”

  “Uncle Sean taught me to speak properly, and was hell on bad grammar. Your speech is still very correct, and formal.”

  “Thank you, milady.”

  “We have both overcome our backgrounds.”

  Grumble almost laughed but recomposed his face to somberness. “I fear I would be a great disappointment to the bishop, later archbishop, had he not gone on to his reward.”

  Late in the day Sly Stuart came back with food for supper, and everyone gathered on the lazy board. Sam noticed that the captain was keeping a pistol handy.

  “I found three men,” he said.

  “Experienced?” asked Frenchy.

  “Not a bit,” said Stuart. He chuckled. “Sam, you are now my most experienced deckhand.”

  Sam couldn’t meet the captain’s eyes.

  “Tell him,” said Abby.

  “I’m getting off at Cape Girardeau,” Sam said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Abby explained it. They’d talked all day, the friends. They wanted to stick together. After the tussle with Elijah, Micajah, and Ned, they felt like partners.

  “We’re taking the first steamboat upriver together,” Abby said. “St. Louis is where I’ve always wanted to go.”

  “It’s as good a town as any other for me,” said Grumble.

  Sam didn’t need to say anything.

  “Steamboats are expensive.”

  “I have plenty of money,” Abby answered. “These men saved my life.”

  Stuart looked back and forth between their faces. Sam couldn’t tell what he saw. “Men,” said the captain, “would you leave the lady and me alone a moment?”

  They joined Frenchy on the bow. The sun was down, and dark could bring trouble.

  From there everyone could see the captain gesticulating. Even in the way he held back they could see his urgency. And in her composure they could see that Abby declined.

  “Now,” said Frenchy, “this turns out hard.”

  Sam felt sad. Maybe it wasn’t right. But for him New Orleans was the old world, St. Louis the new. As new as he himself was.

  In a few minutes Abby came forward. Stuart went immediately to his lean-to, lit a lantern, and started reading.

  “He actually asked me to marry him,” she said. “I didn’t think he would.”

  They looked downstream. The last of the day’s light lay melancholy on the water.

  “It’s too bad,” she went on. “He’s a good man.” These words seemed meant for herself. She shook her head. “The size of that loneliness. I could never fill it. No woman can.”

  When the captain’s lantern went out, Abby made her way to the captain’s small hutch.

  Sam was glad.

  Chapter Nine

  “Let’s walk,” said Abby.

  “Don’t you want to get settled?” They were standing in the lobby of Plantation House, a hotel that looked very grand to Sam. Abby’s bags had just been sent upstairs.

  “I’m too excited,” she said. “Come on.”

  St. Louis was every kind of new sight and sound. Even the street names were French. “Look,” cried Sam, pointing. “What does it mean?”

  Grumble read aloud from the signs painted on the corner of the building, “‘Rue de l’Eglise’ and ‘Rue Quicapou.’”

  “Church Street and … Kickapoo Street?” said Abby.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Charming,” replied Abby wryly.

  “Do you
speak French?”

  “You can’t grow up in Natchez and live in New Orleans without picking up some.”

  “Especially words of love,” teased Grumble.

  She slapped his fanny.

  They walked to the top of the bluff that overlooked the river. Twenty feet below stretched a huge expanse of flat rock butting against the bluff on one side and disappearing into the river on the other. Steamboats and keelboats galore crowded in, and all sorts of Negroes speaking French while loading and unloading. A uniformed black had taken them to Plantation House in the hotel carriage, his only English apparently the words “Plantation House.” Abby had determined from Captain Koch, the steamboat captain, that it was St. Louis’s finest. He would be glad to show Miss Price something of the town, he allowed, pulling at his gray muttonchop whiskers.

  She couldn’t impose on him that way, she said coyly.

  Now she said to her friends, “I want to see everything.”

  Everything was impressive, for a remote frontier outpost. On the levee sat Market House, an imposing brick affair with a wooden gabled roof, farmers brought their wagons and carts to one wall and sold whatever they had. The grand houses of French families fronted Rue Royale, most of them stores on the first floor and residences above—the houses of Auguste Chouteau, the founder and patriarch of the city; of Pierre Chouteau, Auguste’s nephew; of Sylvestre Labbadie and Charles Gratiot. “All great traders in furs,” set Abby, who had pumped the steamboat captain very well. “Furs are what will make St. Louis rich.”

  Sam was tantalized by the compound owned by William Clark—office, dram shop, blacksmith and gunsmith shops, factory house, stables, and council house. Anything of the great Western explorer’s would grip Sam, but Abby said the council house held a museum of Indian artifacts from the expedition to the Pacific Coast.

  “I’d kill to see that,” said Sam.

  He was also fascinated by San Carlos, the fort with tower and barracks.

  Along the riverfront were taverns where poor men ate, drank, rutted, gambled, and slept. The section with more pretensions sat another street back from the river.