Читать книгу The Bucket Flower - Donald R. Wilson - Страница 9

“Watch out for these dandies, dear,” Aunt Sarah had said at the beginning of the first week in St. Augustine. “They are a caution, as smooth as glass, and their motives are just as transparent.” But most gentlemen at the hotel showed more refinement than some students from Harvard she had encountered. She had waltzed in the casino ballroom for the fourth night in a row and even danced the daring two-step. Because there were more gentlemen than ladies, she had been asked to dance almost every dance by a variety of gentlemen, most of whom had gray hair. To her dismay, Aunt Sarah was present every minute at first, but managed to remain in the background. As time went on and she was always in mixed company, her aunt mingled more with the mothers of the other young ladies.

The hotel’s activities were entertaining but pointless, and the desire to start her botanical exploration made her restless until she met Mr. Davis. One evening she decided to wear a whale-boned light-blue brocade with raised silver designs, and matching gloves and dancing slippers. The second gentlemen who asked her to dance, a Mr. Davis from Philadelphia, introduced her to his group of friends about her age. Before the evening was over, she was invited to join them at the indoor swimming pool the next morning.

She soon discovered that the other two ladies and three gentlemen had become acquainted within the last few days. Millie Dalton was in St. Augustine with her mother from Pittsburgh, and Henrietta Thompson and her parents were from New York. Henrietta, she soon discovered, was a complainer, but otherwise pleasant enough. Mr. Davis was the most gentlemanly, and also charming and funny. Mr. Everett was also from Boston and the person with whom she had the most in common. Mr. Bolton, from Baltimore, was the most reserved. Now there were six in their early twenties who enjoyed each other’s company and began to attend social activities together day after day. Before long she was addressing the other ladies by their Christian names, but used surnames when addressing the gentlemen.

On that first morning together, the six new friends had bathed in the indoor pool, but every day thereafter they agreed they preferred the ocean. She was self-conscious in her bathing attire at first, but Millie and Henrietta had similar black bathing wear that extended from their necks to their ankles and included a cap and bathing slippers. The gentlemen were appropriately covered as well, but looked foolish in their close-fitting bathing suits that made them all limbs in a spidery sort of way. The ladies’ clothing prevented all movement in the water except for walking slowly. Nevertheless, they managed to play keep away and dodgeball, games which often degenerated into happy splashing battles.

Along with the others she fell into a routine of tennis and bathing most mornings and a different activity every afternoon. At first the tennis was played by the gentlemen while the ladies cheered them on. But as each morning wore on, the ladies were encouraged to take part. Never having played the game before, she felt awkward and foolish at first. Then she discovered she was no more inept at returning the ball than the other ladies; they all had the disadvantage of playing in their long dresses. Beth lost track of time. One week blended into the next, and she found herself regretting that the season was coming to a close.

April’s clear days were like Massachusetts in September. She was delighted on one such day when Mr. Everett, the most aggressive of the “St. Augustine Six,” as they called themselves, chartered a schooner complete with food, drink, and a crew. They sailed down the coast into a stiff breeze that made it difficult for the ladies to keep on their broad-brimmed hats. Millie Dalton became queasy as soon as they hit open water, and Henrietta Thompson shrieked every time the schooner heeled.

The schooner was tame after the small sloops she had sailed in from the time she was a little girl. Beyond his business, Papa’s only known interests were the Tavern Club and his sloop. Her earliest memory of sailing was with Mama and Papa on Narragansett Bay. Then after moving from Providence, there were many Sunday afternoons on Boston Harbor. Most of these experiences were both exhilarating and demeaning. Papa at the tiller was a daring sailor, and he ordered Mama about as if she were a galley slave. But today’s sail was exhausting from the salt spray, the wind, and the sun, and by late afternoon she was happy to return to the hotel in time for dinner with Aunt Sarah.

The next afternoon she cheered on the quiet Mr. Bolton as he rode in a horsemanship competition, a weekly event at the hotel. “Oh, there’s Mr. Flagler,” she said to the others. “That lovely lady with him must be his daughter.”

“That’s Mary Lily Keenan,” said Millie Dalton in an awed voice. “Mother said that she’s Mr. Flagler’s mistress.” She looked at the young woman on Flagler’s arm with greater interest and noticed that the others were staring, too.

On another afternoon they watched the hotel staff play baseball. Friday evenings they attended the amusing cake walk. The Negro bellhops and waiters strutted down an aisle formed by the other dancers, bowing and bending in mock imitation of the white Southern aristocracy of the past. Mr. Everett was selected among other distinguished hotel patrons to judge the dancers and award prizes. Later Mr. Davis, trying to imitate the buck dance with his head back, briskly strutting, made the others laugh. But they laughed even harder when he failed miserably at the double shuffle.

The young gentlemen smoked cigarettes during the day, reserving cigars for after dinner. Mr. Bolton, she noted, often borrowed Turkish Orientals from Mr. Davis, or Three Kings from Mr. Everett, claiming to be “just out” of his domestic brand of Cameos.

She thought less often of the rift with her parents and Mr. Cushing’s engagement offer. Aunt Sarah asked if she had responded to Mr. Cushing, reminding her that the letter required an answer. If his letter deserved a response, there was no rush. A well-thought-out reply, even though negative, might be considered more final than offhanded remarks. But she admitted to herself that she was merely putting off an unpleasant task.

In spare moments she had made notes and sketched the unusual palms, flowers, and beautiful shrubbery around the hotel, aware that these plants were already well known. What was needed was a trip to the hinterlands as Mr. Flagler had suggested.

After making inquiries, a hotel clerk told her of a friend who had fished on the Oklawaha River and gave her directions. She had been awaiting the proper moment to mention the jaunt to her friends. Now she suggested a train ride to Palatka where they could charter a boat and explore the river. She related how Mr. Flagler had suggested the excursion and mentioned the wildlife, strange flowers, and trees they would see. Explaining that the trip might take at least two days with an overnight at a hotel along the river added to their enthusiasm. Everyone was excited by her idea except for Mr. Bolton. He agreed to participate, but seemed to be only marginally interested.

When she revealed their plans to Aunt Sarah at dinner, her aunt insisted on going along, and no amount of cajoling, explaining, or pleading changed her mind. “You’re looking for trouble,” responded her aunt. After dressing in a sweeping pale green satin-striped gown and matching ensemble, she joined her group in the ballroom and explained her dilemma with embarrassment.

The exuberant Mr. Everett said, “That’s an excellent idea. Perhaps other family members might like to go on the outing.” The others had little concern, and in the end Millie Dalton’s mother agreed to accompany Aunt Sarah, and her predicament was settled.

“I think it should be a camping trip,” she told her aunt at bedtime. “That’s a better way to get a look at the plant life.”

“Land sakes! I’m not looking forward to this excursion. I dislike alligators, I have little interest in the greenery, and I abhor mosquitoes. We will stay in a hotel or not go at all.” The statement was the strongest she had ever heard Aunt Sarah make. She knew that the success of their excursion depended upon her giving in to her aunt on this matter.

On the morning of their trip the “St. Augustine Six,” accompanied by Aunt Sarah and Mrs. Dalton, boarded an open-ended wooden railway car. She was embarrassed by the rustic train which was plain and uncomfortable compared with the plush hotel car she had taken from Jersey City with Aunt Sarah. The four-wheel car had slat seats with cast iron arms. There was no separate smoking car, and spittoons were everywhere. The others didn’t seem to mind until black smoke from the locomotive blew through the open windows. This distressed the ladies because of their elaborate hats and dresses.

By ten o’clock they were in Palatka. The men negotiated the rental of a small steam-driven riverboat, which Mr. Bolton claimed to know how to run. The owner, however, insisted on sending along a colored “engineer” to operate the steam boiler. Again she was embarrassed, this time by the boat, which was a dowdy affair with a low, flat roof extending from one end to the other with a small, rusty smokestack protruding from its middle.

After stowing their overnight valises and basket lunches prepared by the hotel, they set off down the river. She sat on a bench with Millie and Henrietta. Mrs. Dalton and Aunt Sarah were behind them. Beyond the little steam engine were the men. Mr. Everett steered the boat while Mr. Bolton helped the Negro feed the fire with wood supplied at Palatka.

Almost immediately they spotted alligators along the banks. She felt nervous about these reptiles which, unlike the ones at the alligator farm, were free to swim out to the boat if they chose. Millie and Mrs. Dalton had not seen alligators before and were excited.

“I wish those birds would go away,” whined Henrietta. A myriad of flapping wings fluttered all around the boat like huge snowflakes. The mangroves on the right-hand shore were almost white with birds.

Having studied Elliot Coues’ Key to North American Birds in preparation for her trip, she was able to identify the long-legged egrets and the ibises with their curved beaks. They remarked about the hundreds of fish just below the surface. Mr. Davis thought they were catfish.

“I wish I’d brought my fishing pole,” he said.

With only a slight breeze to provide relief from the hot sun, she was grateful for the shade of the boat’s roof. The river was like an elongated lake with dense vegetation encroaching on both sides of the water’s edge. She had brought her notebook with her and was disappointed in not being able to examine any flora closely even though they were near the vegetation on the right. No signs of human habitation cluttered the riverbanks, and they saw just one fishing boat. The alligators were too numerous to count.

When they decided to stop for lunch, Mr. Everett pulled in close enough to the shore for Mr. Davis to tie up to an overhanging branch. Before the ladies were able to spread out the lunch, the passengers were attacked by swarms of mosquitoes. They had not been a bother while out in the stream with a breeze caused by their forward motion. Henrietta screamed as the others swatted until Mr. Davis was able to untie the boat and Mr. Everett could steer away from the shore. Everyone agreed eating was more pleasant once they were under way and the mosquitoes had disappeared.

“How far is it to the first town?” asked Mr. Everett over the chug-chugging of the engine.

Everyone looked at Beth since she had planned the trip.

“We must come to a fork in the river before we come to Pomona,” she said, hoping the hotel clerk had given her accurate information.

“How much farther after that?” Mr. Everett persisted.

“It can’t be far. Didn’t you ask the man who rented us the boat?”

“I thought you had gotten directions at the hotel.”

“Maybe we should turn back,” said Mrs. Dalton.

“There’s a fork up ahead,” said Mr. Davis, pointing over Mr. Everett’s shoulder. “The town can’t be much beyond that.”

After the fork were more forks as the river meandered like a maze among a cluster of grassy islands. All the waterways between the islands looked the same to her. She wasn’t certain whether the St. Johns River had divided into two or more streams, but she directed Mr. Everett to keep to the right as she had been told at the hotel. “We must be on the Oklawaha River now.” The birds were more plentiful than ever.

The river narrowed, and no other boats were to be seen. After a time they passed a shanty on the left shore.

“Perhaps we should stop and inquire,” said Mr. Davis.

“We’ll stop at the next shack we see,” said Mr. Everett.

Her anxiety increased as the little steamer chugged on until mid afternoon without their seeing other evidence of humans. “Maybe that shanty was Pomona,” suggested Aunt Sarah. Someone snickered. The others remained quiet.

All at once a loud thump at the bow sent a shudder through the little boat. Henrietta shrieked and several others responded with an assortment of gasps. Mr. Davis stood up and looked over the side. “We hit an alligator,” he exclaimed, watching the stunned reptile float past, “and bloodied the old bugger!” The boat seemed no worse for the encounter and chugged on.

After another hour Mrs. Dalton said, “We should turn around and go back. We don’t want to get caught out here after dark.”

“It will be dark before we can get back,” said Mr. Davis. “Our only choice is to go on until we come to a town. We don’t have enough fuel to get back.” A glance at the woodpile confirmed for her that their fuel was more than half gone. The boatman should have sold them more wood. The Negro seemed unconcerned even though the stream was now hardly twice the width of the boat.

“We could go ashore and scavenge for wood,” suggested Mr. Davis.

“How could we get through that thicket?” Beth asked. The branches over the water created an impenetrable tangle as if it had been woven.

“There’s no town out here,” said Mr. Everett. “I’m turning the boat around and heading back to that shanty we passed—if no one has a better suggestion.”

“What if there’s a town around the next bend?” asked Mr. Davis.

She went to the Negro. “Is there a town around the bend?” she asked.

“Ah dunno,” he replied with a shrug.

“Sakes alive! Turn around now, please,” said Mrs. Dalton with murmurs of agreement from the others. No one objected as Mr. Everett maneuvered the boat around in the narrow space. “If we’re lucky, we’ll have enough wood to get back to that shack.”

“We passed that shanty almost three hours ago,” said Millie. “We’ll be lucky to get there before dark.”

“What if the shanty’s empty?” asked Henrietta Thompson in a whining voice.

“Then we can stay there for the night,” said Mr. Everett in a cheerful voice. “We have the river current to help us in this direction. We’ll be fine.” Beth appreciated his attempt at cheering them up, but she had not noticed any current to speak of.

“It’s a good thing we brought more than enough food for lunch,” said Aunt Sarah. “There’s a little left over for supper.”

“Maybe we ought to save it for breakfast,” said Mr. Bolton dourly, his first remark in hours. Beth knew that two sandwiches, several oranges, and a little lemonade remained.

They traveled downstream for several hours with Mr. Everett still at the wheel. Mr. Bolton threw the last stick of wood into the firebox. The sun was low in the western sky, and their conversation, which had been lively until mid-afternoon, dwindled down to almost nothing. She watched the right-hand shore, but nothing was there except buttonwood with occasional tall palms standing behind them.

“We must have passed it by now,” said Henrietta in a whiny voice that was getting on Beth’s nerves.

The sun was behind the trees on the western shore. They had less than an hour of daylight. “There it is!” shouted Mr. Davis from the bow. Just then the little steam engine sputtered into silence. Two poles were found aboard which Mr. Davis and Mr. Bolton used to move them toward the shanty.

A barking dog greeted them at a small, rickety pier.

As they drew near, a man carrying a rifle came down to the river’s edge. Behind him stood a woman and three children. “This hyar’s private prop’ty.” He was wearing a battered straw hat and ragged overalls. His feet were bare, and his bearded face appeared to be none too friendly.

“Sir, can you tell us where Pomona is?” she called. The boat had stopped about ten feet from the pier.

“Hit’s over thar on t’other river,” the man said, pointing behind them. “You cain’t get thar from hyar.”

“Sir,” said Mrs. Dalton. “Can your wife put us up for the night?”

“We haint got nary room for ussens.” The shanty was smaller than the boat, and she wondered how all five of them could lie horizontally at one time.

“Sir,” called Mr. Davis, “can you sell us some firewood?” Two woodpiles were stacked beside the shanty.

“I was a-fixin’ to trade that buttonwood to the charcoal folks.”

“I mean your stove wood over there. The other logs are too long. I’ll give you five dollars for the whole pile.”

The man’s eyes bulged, but he said, “You’ll hafta tote it yerselves.” For the first time he pointed his rifle away from the boat.

“Done,” said Mr. Everett as he poled the boat to the dock.

“Sir, might we talk to your wife while they load the wood?” asked Aunt Sarah.

The man hesitated for a moment and then said, “I reckon.” Once Mr. Davis and Mr. Bolton had secured the boat to the narrow dock, the gentlemen helped the ladies ashore. Beth felt stiff after sitting for hours, and walking around would have felt better if she hadn’t had to relieve herself so urgently.

Aunt Sarah went directly to the woman, who was wearing a ragged homespun dress faded to a dull gray. Her aunt said a few words to the woman and then dashed around the back of the shanty. She understood. They had been without the use of a toilet since Palatka, and her aunt had spotted the outhouse behind the shack.

While they waited, there was little to do but stand around and slap at the mosquitoes. The three children, dressed in rags, hung shyly behind their mother. Even among the poorest immigrants in Boston she had not seen such poverty. Both the man and his wife stared at their dresses. All at once she felt out of place here in this small clearing beside the river. Without a word the woman went to the river’s edge and came back with a bucket of water and a dipper. The water was the color of weak tea. Only Mr. Bolton drank.

Once everyone had a turn at the outhouse, Mrs. Dalton asked the woman, “Do you have any food you’re willing to sell us?”

The woman looked at her husband. “The missus can fix you some collards ’n’ cooter, or atter the sun comes up I can fotch you a sloosh of catfish.”

“What are ‘collards and cooter’?” asked Mrs. Dalton cautiously.

“Greens ’n’ turtle meat.” The man still held his rifle in one hand.

The group looked at one another. No one seemed to be that hungry.

“We thank you kindly for the wood,” said Mr. Everett handing the man a five-dollar bill. “As soon as the boiler heats up we’ll be on our way.” Mr. Bolton was already on his hands and knees working at the firebox while the Negro was turning valves.

By the time they got under way, darkness had enveloped them. The stars did little to reveal the difference between the blackness of the water and the growth on either side. They crept along with Mr. Everett in the bow as lookout. The mosquitoes had followed them onto the boat and didn’t give up until the moon rose and they made better headway. She noticed that Mr. Everett was careful to stay in the middle of the river.

After dividing the remaining sandwiches into small pieces, everyone was quiet. A few people appeared to be attempting sleep in an upright position. The sole noise was the mesmerizing chug of the steam engine.

Beth was unable to sleep. She had talked everyone into this pointless trip. With embarrassment she reflected upon how badly the day had gone. Her attempt at learning more about the flora was a disaster as well. The few plants she had been able to sketch were buttonwood, alligator flag, and grasses and lilies in the river. Her vision of Florida’s interior had changed. She had expected to see towns along the river and hotels and restaurants. The interior was wild and unpeopled. To be alone and defenseless frightened her. Forging ahead to the Everglades alone was less attractive now.

The other choice was to return to Boston with Aunt Sarah, and that option provided terrors of its own. Admitting defeat to Papa was unthinkable. Papa always won, and he was always right. She remembered Papa forever berating Mama for initiating her own plans or ideas; every action, every idea, had to be his. He was the supreme master of the house and never let anyone forget it. That was why he hadn’t allowed them to have a butler. Mama’s role was relegated to planning the afternoon tea and negotiating with the seamstress. Papa even gave orders to the servants, and in a way, Mama had even less discretion than Mrs. Faraday. Beth could never understand the double standard Mama allowed for Papa—he committed countless selfish acts and yet she respected and loved him. Was it fear? Mama tried to make Papa the center of her life and be his helper and servant. Yet he always blamed her for whatever went wrong.

Going back to Boston meant having to contend with Mr. Cushing. Living with him would be worse than Mama’s problems with Papa. Mama and Papa expected her to marry him, live in the city, and be Mr. Cushing’s slave—a slave, at least, to the endless customs to be observed. At best, life would be a long string of boring teas, dinner parties, and calling cards. That last night at the dinner party she had broken almost every rule in the book, and hopefully now Mr. Cushing had given up on her anyway. The other option was to live as Aunt Sarah did, as a spinster and alone. With all its unknown dangers yet to be encountered, Florida still presented a better choice.

They had returned to Palatka close to midnight and remained at the Putnam House until the morning train carried them back to St. Augustine. Almost everyone had been kind to her for suggesting the trip up the Oklawaha. The gentlemen were enthusiastic about the adventure, except for Mr. Bolton, who said nothing as usual. The ladies were less pleased, but considered the experience “interesting,” save for Henrietta’s saying that the trip had been dreadful. That comment was less disappointing than the fact that the day had given her little opportunity to study the plant life in detail. Aunt Sarah was unusually quiet and pale.

When they arrived back at the Ponce de Leon, a telegram awaited her from Edward Cushing. He would arrive in St. Augustine in seven days.