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Life Beyond the Mississippi (Eleven, River, G)
This was written for the "River" drabble challenge over at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
who_contest
Title: Life Beyond the Mississippi
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eve11
Word Count: 547
Characters: Eleven, River
Rating: G, All ages
AO3 link
Teaspoon link
Or below:
**
Why should a man aspire to politics and power when he could pilot a riverboat? Perched above slaves and senators alike in the lush lighted decks beneath his feet, the paddles churning relentless wake at his direction, sluicing through the currentless mirror of the Mississippi, surrounded by the slowly scrolling grandeur of coastal ports and summer magnolias, why even a cub on his first lone watch in the pilot house may come to believe he has a hold on the entire world. And surely the paycheck does nothing to disabuse him of the notion. But the riverboat's lessons in humility are abundant and strange.
It was summer, middle watch, and we were picking across the treacherous shallows ringing the delta. I had called for leads and kept an ear attuned above the din spilling out onto the promenade--a party grown from Memphis to Natchez, determined to keep pace with the waxing moon.
"Quarter li-ine, half li-ine..." the leadsman sung from starboard bow, relayed to the hurricane deck. "Ma-ark Twain!"
"Are you?" came a voice at my back. The door slammed shut, cutting off the song, and I whirled around to find myself besieged by the British heiress who'd embarked with her young gentleman friend at Greenville. She smiled primly and produced a contraption from her petticoats that I mistook for a derringer, until she uncapped it and painted her lips. "I've always wondered what other talents come with a witty tongue."
I would be hard pressed to invent a lie so outrageous, and harder still to invent a retort, though I've had many nights since to mull it over. In truth, I stared agape until she sashayed toward me and winked. "I've heard a kiss from the pilot is good luck."
I did what hardly any robust young lad in my situation would do, and ducked away from her puckered lips. "Madam, in my experience, luck manufactured so deals good and bad in unequal measure!"
She pouted, chasing me further from the wheel. "Clever clogs, you are him, aren't you? More's the pity."
"Your husband--"
A penetrating cry of "Riverrrr!" filtered down from above. She looked up and raised an eyebrow.
"Is currently fighting a mangled Auton clone of Colonel Bixby who's taken to scaling your smokestack for some anti-fresh air."
"No time like the present!" came the voice again, and I succumbed to my curiosity and looked up, only long enough to see two figures silhouetted in the moonlight. Then a hand turned my cheek--who knew she could move so stealthily in all that frock!--and I received the kiss after all. She shouldered into the wheel, driving us hard to starboard.
"Sorry, Mr. Twain. We really can't let him reach New Orleans, you see."
"My name is Sam," I managed, before my legs gave out. The last thing I heard that night was an ear-splitting scream--the whistle belching steam and fury from below.
**
We'd run aground by morning. Colonel Bixby was missing, as was the couple from Greenville. I took the demerits of course. What I saw on the stack in that second, I cannot remit to fog or shadows or drink. Only to one of Nature's great lessons in humility, and count myself lucky to have survived it.
who_contestTitle: Life Beyond the Mississippi
Author:
eve11Word Count: 547
Characters: Eleven, River
Rating: G, All ages
AO3 link
Teaspoon link
Or below:
**
Why should a man aspire to politics and power when he could pilot a riverboat? Perched above slaves and senators alike in the lush lighted decks beneath his feet, the paddles churning relentless wake at his direction, sluicing through the currentless mirror of the Mississippi, surrounded by the slowly scrolling grandeur of coastal ports and summer magnolias, why even a cub on his first lone watch in the pilot house may come to believe he has a hold on the entire world. And surely the paycheck does nothing to disabuse him of the notion. But the riverboat's lessons in humility are abundant and strange.
It was summer, middle watch, and we were picking across the treacherous shallows ringing the delta. I had called for leads and kept an ear attuned above the din spilling out onto the promenade--a party grown from Memphis to Natchez, determined to keep pace with the waxing moon.
"Quarter li-ine, half li-ine..." the leadsman sung from starboard bow, relayed to the hurricane deck. "Ma-ark Twain!"
"Are you?" came a voice at my back. The door slammed shut, cutting off the song, and I whirled around to find myself besieged by the British heiress who'd embarked with her young gentleman friend at Greenville. She smiled primly and produced a contraption from her petticoats that I mistook for a derringer, until she uncapped it and painted her lips. "I've always wondered what other talents come with a witty tongue."
I would be hard pressed to invent a lie so outrageous, and harder still to invent a retort, though I've had many nights since to mull it over. In truth, I stared agape until she sashayed toward me and winked. "I've heard a kiss from the pilot is good luck."
I did what hardly any robust young lad in my situation would do, and ducked away from her puckered lips. "Madam, in my experience, luck manufactured so deals good and bad in unequal measure!"
She pouted, chasing me further from the wheel. "Clever clogs, you are him, aren't you? More's the pity."
"Your husband--"
A penetrating cry of "Riverrrr!" filtered down from above. She looked up and raised an eyebrow.
"Is currently fighting a mangled Auton clone of Colonel Bixby who's taken to scaling your smokestack for some anti-fresh air."
"No time like the present!" came the voice again, and I succumbed to my curiosity and looked up, only long enough to see two figures silhouetted in the moonlight. Then a hand turned my cheek--who knew she could move so stealthily in all that frock!--and I received the kiss after all. She shouldered into the wheel, driving us hard to starboard.
"Sorry, Mr. Twain. We really can't let him reach New Orleans, you see."
"My name is Sam," I managed, before my legs gave out. The last thing I heard that night was an ear-splitting scream--the whistle belching steam and fury from below.
**
We'd run aground by morning. Colonel Bixby was missing, as was the couple from Greenville. I took the demerits of course. What I saw on the stack in that second, I cannot remit to fog or shadows or drink. Only to one of Nature's great lessons in humility, and count myself lucky to have survived it.
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