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    Lady Captain: A Novel
    Lady Captain: A Novel
    Lady Captain: A Novel
    Ebook255 pages4 hours

    Lady Captain: A Novel

    By Jo Ann Ferguson

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    About this ebook

    In Nashville, Eden Roberts has kept her steamboat, her crew, and her sister out of the Civil War as much as possible, but the war comes looking for her in the form of Fletcher Campbell, a Yankee sergeant. They get off on the wrong foot right from the beginning when he cannot believe a woman is the captain of the boat and she tries to refuse to let him requisition her boat . . . to take prostitutes out of Nashville to keep them away from the Union troops. Forced to work together, they learn blind devotion offers no reward except destruction. It gives no haven from war and allows for no peace. Even in hearts that are loyal to Union blue, there must be room for shades of gray.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateApr 14, 2015
    ISBN9781504009003
    Lady Captain: A Novel
    Author

    Jo Ann Ferguson

    Jo Ann Ferguson is a lifelong storyteller and the author of numerous romantic novels. She also writes as Jo Ann Brown and Mary Jo Kim. A former US Army officer, she has served as the president of the national board of the Romance Writers of America and taught creative writing at Brown University. She currently lives in Nevada with her family, which includes one very spoiled cat.

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      Book preview

      Lady Captain - Jo Ann Ferguson

      One

      This place stinks worse than a dump!

      At the grumble, two men sitting on crates by the wharf glowered at Fletcher Campbell as he slid through the thick mud along the riverbank. Not only was he insulting their river, but he wore the dark blue uniform of the hated Yankees.

      Fletcher ignored their angry stares. He peered across the sun-seared ripples on the Cumberland River. Taking off his cap, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Sweat slashed along his navy wool coat, which was all wrong for this weather, but necessary for this meeting.

      He hated Nashville. Under different circumstances and in more temperate times, he might have enjoyed visiting the city. The July heat was unrelenting on his Northern blood. As he stood on the muddy bank, he wished he could take a dip in the cool waters of the pond behind the barns on his family’s farm not more than a day’s ride north of Bennington, Vermont. He needed a few hours of the quiet surrounded by the mountains.

      There was nothing quiet about Nashville. The streets were filled with refugees and freed slaves. Birdsong had vanished beneath the shouts of the teamsters and the enticements of the prostitutes along Smoky Row at the edge of the army camp. Under Union occupation, the once gracious city had become a garbage dump.

      Although he knew the futility of asking for help, Fletcher inched down the steep bank. One man was fishing, but the other two waited for him to move away. Fletcher did not bother to smile. He would save his hypocrisy for when it would gain him something.

      "I’m looking for the captain of a stern-wheeler called The Boll Weevil, he said. Can you tell me where I can find Captain Roberts?"

      He was surprised when the man with the fishing pole mumbled, "Just go along the shore ’bout a quarter mile. The captain stays close to the Weevil when she’s wharfed. Thieves, you know." The man’s tone made it clear that all of Nashville’s thieves were Yankees, and all Yankees were thieves.

      Fletcher took a deep breath and struggled not to snarl back an insult of his own. What does he look like?

      When he received no answer, he swore. It would be useless asking again, for they had turned their backs on him. He would not beg for their assistance.

      As mud clung like burrs to his wool trousers, he picked his way along the hillside. Lieutenant Atkins probably would pull another inspection today. Then he would jump all over Fletcher for filthy boots. It would be the perfect finale to a frustrating day.

      When his pompous lieutenant had sent for Fletcher, the orders had seemed simple. Find out if the stern-wheeler The Boll Weevil, captained by Eaton Roberts, was in Nashville. Tell the captain to be prepared to do some work for the Union Army.

      Four hours later, Fletcher was no closer to completing his orders. The Boll Weevil was reputed to be moored somewhere among the piers jutting into the Cumberland. He had heard plenty of stories about Captain Roberts in the saloons on the river’s edge, but legends about the skillful skipper did not help. He still had to find Captain Roberts. Once he did, he would deliver his message and get back to quarters in time to have a cold beer.

      It was so damn hot! It was just like Atkins to send him on this idiotic quest in the middle of the day. Fletcher had little use for shoulder straps, as the enlisted men called their officers when they were out of earshot.

      Fletcher took off his cap and wiped his forehead again as he scanned the rows of ships. Not one of them had the name The Boll Weevil painted on it. He was beginning to wonder if the boat even existed.

      In front of him, a small hut hung precariously on the riverbank. It was as ramshackle as half of the city, and the rest of the city looked worse. At least the hut had wooden walls and a roof instead of canvas stolen from some loading dock. On the river below, the remnants of a boat floated. The upper deck was a skeleton with only a dozen planks remaining.

      He had come a quarter mile. Could this hut be Roberts’s? There were no windows, only a door. A steamship captain should be able to afford a better place, but trying to figure out why a Johnny Reb did anything was a waste of time.

      Scrambling down the hill, he knocked on the door. It quivered. With a curse, he leapt back as a rat scurried over his feet. He kicked at its shadow.

      If this was Roberts’s place, the man was not home. Fletcher considered leaving a message, but he had no idea if the riverman could read. Atkins had insisted Fletcher was to deliver the message today. That left him little choice but to continue his search.

      He heard rats squeaking again and, as he came around the hut, he kicked another rock. His foot slipped in the slick mud, and his arms flailed. With a shout, he fell and slid down the steep hill. Stopping inches from the water, he sat and spit out dirt. Mud stuck to him, oozing through his coat and trousers. Atkins really would have his head now!

      Laughter struck him like a fist. He jumped to his feet. No Johnny Reb was going to laugh at him! Fletcher would teach him a lesson or two.

      He froze as he realized the laugh came from a woman sitting on a crate by a low retaining wall. Even for a shoreside harlot, she was dressed roughly. She must be a whore, because no respectable woman would be here alone along the river, where she would be a target for bored soldiers.

      Her faded blue broadcloth skirt was patched with gray gingham that matched her curve-hugging chemisette. The full sleeves that ended at her elbows had been stitched from used material. Little of her face was visible beneath a floppy bonnet, but a few tawny curls drifted over her shoulders. When he noted that her slender hands were tanned, he guessed she did not wear a hat often.

      He did not care if she was as browned as he was. Prostitutes knew many secrets. He hoped her help would not be too expensive. Money was as hard to come by as calico.

      When he tipped his cap, she plucked a long piece of grass and chewed on it as she smiled. Her feet in simple, black shoes tapped on a wooden crate. That sound warned him she was not going to be cooperative.

      Fletcher shook mud off his hands. I’m looking for someone.

      Uh-huh, was her only answer.

      Captain Eaton Roberts, he stated.

      Uh-huh, the woman replied with the same disinterest.

      Do you know a Captain Roberts?

      Uh-huh.

      His lips twisted in frustration. He had never met such a tight-lipped Johnny Reb. Most of them chattered too much, griping about the occupation government, complaining about the Confederate leaders, grousing about the weather if nothing else had irritated them that day.

      He ignored the temptation to stamp away. Can you tell me where I can find Captain Roberts?

      Uh-huh.

      He slapped his cap on a nearby piling. What in hell is wrong with you? Can’t you say anything else?

      The woman’s eyes, which were as gray as the river, glittered with amusement. Uh-huh.

      A slow smile twisted his lips. He knew what this ragged woman’s game was. She was just more subtle than most of the folks in Nashville. If humiliation was what she wanted, he would be glad to give it to her.

      Anything to get the answers he needed!

      Leaning forward, he put his hands on two pilings. His face was only inches from hers. When the soft aroma of jasmine drifted from her, his eyes widened. He never would have guessed this morsel of river flotsam might be so sweetly scented.

      She spat a curse and slapped at his arm. Standing, she pointed at him with the piece of grass. Look, Yankee, I was enjoying the sunshine, but something disgusting is blocking my view. Why don’t you just mosey out of here before I do something I might find more pleasing than you would?

      "You, do something? He laughed and eyed her up and down. She was half a head shorter than he was. What’s a little thing like you going to do to me?"

      If you think I’m going to tell you, you’re dumber than you look. She popped the long stem back into the corner of her mouth and smiled. And that’s mighty dumb.

      Just tell me what I want to know, and I won’t bother you any longer.

      She started to retort, but another female voice called. Stiffening, she turned and waved toward the river. When he looked over her head, he saw a woman standing on the deck of what he had guessed was wreckage.

      I’m right sorry to cut this short, Yankee, the woman beside him said in her drawl, which made her sarcasm sharper. I’ve got other things to do.

      Just answer a question for me.

      I reckon I can answer one. She held up a single finger. That’s one only, so make it good.

      Do you know Captain Eaton Roberts?

      No.

      Fletcher was not about to let her have the last word. He stepped in front of her as she walked toward the battered boat at the end of the pier. When he saw the worn lettering over the paddlewheel, he swore. The Boll Weevil. Was this Atkins’s idea of a joke? When the woman tried to slip past him, he blocked her way again.

      Move aside, she ordered.

      "Why didn’t you tell me that was The Boll Weevil?"

      She smiled. You never asked.

      I want to talk to Eaton Roberts!

      Sorry, there’s no such person. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted, Are you hard of hearing, Yankee? There’s no one named Eaton Roberts.

      Fletcher stared in disbelief. She had wasted too much of his time, although, he had to admit, as he admired the intriguing curves beneath her tattered clothes, he might have enjoyed squandering a few hours doing something other than talking. Shoving that thought aside, he demanded, What do you mean? Captain Eaton Roberts is the captain of that piece of junk.

      For the first time, mirth vanished from her eyes. She threw the grass into the river and glared at him so viciously, he was surprised the fire burning in her gray eyes did not scorch him. She jabbed her finger into the metal buttons on his chest.

      "The Boll Weevil’s no piece of junk, Yankee. She’s a steamboat with years of good service. Of course, I wouldn’t expect that a blue belly could see past his fat nose."

      How come you know so much about that boat?

      She pushed back the tendrils of golden hair slipping from beneath her bonnet. Because I’m the captain, Yankee.

      You?

      "Can’t you understand English? Thunderation, Yankee, you must be deaf and stupid!"

      His eyes narrowed. You can’t be Eaton Roberts.

      I’m not.

      I was told—

      "—to look for Captain Roberts. Captain Eden Roberts. She doffed an imaginary cap and bowed deeply. In person."

      Could the competent captain he had heard about be this slip of a woman? For a second, he considered accusing her of being in collusion with Atkins, but he swallowed his words. That dastardly sissy did not have enough imagination to devise such a prank.

      Why didn’t you say so in the first place? he asked.

      Her shrug was as insolent as her smile. I didn’t have anything better to do than watch you make an ass of yourself. She laughed and plucked at his muddy sleeve. I reckon I haven’t seen such a fine show in years.

      If you’re truly Captain Roberts—

      Which I am.

      —then I have a message for you, he continued. Lieutenant Atkins of the United States Army has ordered that you keep your sorry excuse for a boat in Nashville and to make it available for use by the army.

      Her smile vanished. Why does the United States Army want my stern-wheeler?

      Is that what that thing was?

      Eden fisted her hands in the folds of her skirt. Not for the first time did she wish she had had the good fortune to be born a man. Then she would have tossed this cocky blue belly into the shallows.

      "I asked you a question, Sergeant," she stated.

      His brown eyes twinkled. "What I’ve told you, Captain, is the only information I have. Additional orders will be forthcoming. New policy is being formulated, and you are going to play a part in whatever they decide. He moved toward her, and she took a step back, hating herself for giving even an inch to this Yankee. If you’re half the captain I’ve heard you are, you’ll know that sneaking away will get you and that scow into a great deal of trouble."

      I don’t sneak anywhere, Sergeant—

      Campbell. Fletcher Campbell.

      She smirked. I don’t take orders from sergeants, Sergeant Campbell.

      When he smiled, she wondered if she had pushed him too far. His eyes drilled her, and she stepped back again, this time not involuntarily. The icy fire in his eyes warned her he could be dangerous.

      Tipping his kepi cap, he said coldly, I’ve delivered my message as ordered. I trust you’ll have a good day, Miss Roberts.

      Captain Roberts.

      That remains to be seen.

      Eden watched as he climbed the hill. Her hope that he would fall in the mud again faded when he reached the top. Blasted blue belly! Why didn’t they all go home?

      Mumbling a curse, she stormed along the rickety pier. She skipped across the board that served as a gangplank and walked toward the stern, so she could watch Sergeant Campbell disappear into the bright sunshine.

      I saw you talking to that man. Who is he?

      Hearing her sister’s voice, she smiled. Excitement lit Jubal’s lovely face. When Pa had spoken of his beautiful daughters, he always had a special smile for Jubal. With her thick, red-gold hair and stillwater-blue eyes, she was as delicate as a porcelain doll.

      If he’s like other Yankees, he’s trouble, Jubal, Eden replied.

      He looked nice.

      Eden sighed as she patted her sister’s shoulder. Sometimes she wished she could have her sister’s unending naïveté.

      Burt wants you, Jubal said as she leaned on the railing to watch Sergeant Campbell stride away. Something about the engine.

      Thunderation! She knew what her engineer was going to say. Their last trip had been interrupted by more than just shoals and snags. Several times, they had had to struggle to restart the boiler. The Boll Weevil needed work, but without money, nothing could be done.

      Leaving her sister to stare at the water, Eden stamped across the lowest deck. The boat rocked gently, but after living all her life on the river, she did not notice.

      Just yesterday, they had finished unloading the supplies they’d brought from upriver. She had avoided paying calls on the captains of the other steamboats wharfed nearby because she did not want to listen to their gibes about her boat having made its last voyage. She touched the wall where paint was hanging in long strips.

      There had been four ships with the name The Boll Weevil before this one. A stern-wheeler usually lasted no more than five years. This Weevil had been under steam for more than seven, but that spoke as much of luck and the restrictions of the war as of Eden’s skill as a captain. If she retired this boat, her life on the Cumberland would be over.

      While sitting on the shore, she was trying to think of a way to make the steamboat last for just a few more trips. Then that despicable Yankee had intruded. She mumbled a collection of curses she had learned from an old voodoo woman in New Orleans. None of the spells had ever worked. Somehow she had to find a way to make her luck change for the better—and convince the Union Army to leave her and her boat alone.

      Through the boiler room’s open door burst the obscenities Burt never bothered to restrain around her. He might have toned them down a bit if he had suspected Jubal was with her. The Boll Weevil’s two crewmen were always as polite as gentleman callers to Jubal, but they considered Eden their captain.

      More than that loathsome Yankee had! With a great deal of effort, Eden pushed Sergeant Campbell out of her mind. He was out of his mind if he thought she was going to heed hogwash about the United States Army being interested in her boat. She rubbed her oddly cold hands together. The blue belly had not been drunk. She had smelled no whiskey on him, just fresh river mud. Her smile returned. Yankees were haughty, and she had been pleased to see one dunked in the mud.

      Eden stepped into the cluttered engine room. Usually it was hotter than a summer day in Hades, but not today. With a gasp of dismay, she stared at the pieces of the boiler lying in a perplexing pattern on the deck.

      Don’t look good, does it? Burt, whose shoulders were no wider than hers, looked up from two pieces he was trying to fit together.

      Can it be fixed?

      He rubbed his nearly bald head and grimaced, wrinkling his nose, which had been flattened during too many fights in riverside taverns. I don’t know, Cap’n. She’s got to be replaced. She don’t hold pressure like she used to.

      They always referred to the boiler as if it were alive. In a way, it was. The bulky box powered the stern paddlewheel, giving the Weevil life.

      She has to hold together for a few more trips, Eden said. There’s not enough cash to pay for new parts, even if we could find them.

      He wiped his hands on an oily cloth. Ash covered everything and stank in the fresh air. Look here, Cap’n.

      Eden squatted as his stubby finger outlined the stress marks in the iron plates. When his hand came away covered with rust, she sighed.

      Got to be replaced, Cap’n.

      "We may not have time. The Boll Weevil may be headed out again."

      His thin face lengthened with his scowl. Cap’n, you promised me and Alvin some shore leave.

      "I know, but the Union Army is interested in the Weevil all of the sudden."

      I ain’t working for no blue bellies.

      I don’t want to work for them either. She straightened and continued to stare at the boiler. Pushing it beyond its limits would be foolhardy and fatal. Swimming volcanoes was the name given

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