Free Love's Fortune by Laura Frantz Page B

glare had bleached the old building white, but James felt more at home in the place the Ballantyne legacy had begun than the ornate Water Street offices across the way. Silas had turned over his old domain to James the week before, key and all, humble as it was. Jutting out over the levee on an aged sliver of dock, the place was easily overlooked, dwarfed by piles of freight and an army of men working under the Ballantynes’ renowned Irish hull builder, Anthony Dunlevy.
    James couldn’t help but contrast the hum of activity to the eves he sat alone with a lantern, charting the crossings and laying out the courses by compass, the levee cat winding round his boots, the night wind sighing through the drafty boards. During daylight hours, little peace was to be had at the height of the shipping season. The door’s rusty hinges requiredconstant oiling as it swung to and fro, drawing complaints, but James wouldn’t replace it. He liked the look of that door. Solid. Stalwart. Steadfast. Unlike his shifting circumstances.
    Leaning back in a chair in need of repair, he looked upward to a battered shelf. There Silas had driven a hand-forged nail, a reminder that the Almighty, crucified but risen, was always near at hand. It had been the guiding force of Silas’s long life. Never had James needed the reminder so much as now.
    Looking out the window, he took in the Rowena lying at landing with a score of other vessels, but it was the Belle of Pittsburgh being bedecked like a bride that held him. Men scoured her decks with mops and wash buckets, while inside the grand salon artists were at work painting panels of each stateroom door with scenic vistas in oils. All at Bennett’s urging. As it was now Thursday, the honeymoon sailing was only two days away.
    The frivolity jarred sourly with James’s task and Silas’s warning words to him that morning. There was much at stake. So much that James’s skin grew clammy from a sudden chill, though his shirt was sweat-damp in places.
    The door groaned open. James failed to hear his cub pilot’s approach, though there was no ignoring the bearish shadow filling the doorway.
    “S-Sackett, s-sir?” George Ealer’s stutter was more pronounced in his alarm. “There’s b-been a t-telegram from d-downriver.” He approached the desk, looking dazed. “B-Bennett’s mad as a b-bull.”
    Standing, James reached out a hand and clamped Ealer’s slumped shoulder as if to give him anchor. “Slow down and tell it to me straight.”
    Ealer swallowed hard. “It happened s-six o’clock thism-morning north of S-Ship Island, about thirty m-miles below M-Memphis—”
    “The City of Pittsburgh ?” The latest and swiftest addition to the Ballantyne line? The nod of Ealer’s head was enough. James felt a sinking to his boots.
    “The s-striker and s-second engineer had the watch in the engine r-room. The s-second m-mate had the watch on d-deck . . .”
    All inferior crew and cargo save one. Trevor Bixby had been at the wheel. Ealer shuddered and tried to finish. James wanted to shake the labored words out of him.
    “Four b-boilers exploded.”
    Lord, no.
    “They’ve t-taken B-Bixby to the nearest m-maritime hospital.”
    James blinked back the stinging wetness clouding his vision. “Any other survivors?”
    Ealer gave a shake of his shaggy head. “B-Bennett’s on his way here. I w-wanted to w-warn you.”
    “Go to the Monongahela House and tell Captain Dean I’ll meet him there for supper instead of the noon meal.” James glanced out the window, feeling he’d not eat for a week, and faced another unappetizing prospect.
    Bennett was crossing the street, flanked by several minions and attorneys. Leaving out the back door, Ealer made his escape.
    When Bennett stepped into the old office without his entourage, the air turned oppressively still. “I suppose you’ve heard the news.”
    “Yes, just,” James said.
    The tick of the wall clock swelled in the silence. Bennett turned toward a