Showboat Soubrette, Excerpt by Brodie Curtis

FROM STAR SHOWBOAT SINGER
TO PIRATE PREY ON THE WICKED RIVER!

Showboat singer Stella Parrot’s star rises in the Antebellum South with every sold-out performance along the lower Mississippi River. When a river pirate viciously assaults her, new friends Toby Freeman and John Dee Franklin foil the attack. However, the pirate’s family is bent on revenge.

Stella, Toby, and John Dee escape their riverboat with able assistance from young cub pilot Sam Clemens, only to be pursued by the notorious Burton Gang. As the trio runs for their lives, mortal perils await at every turn: a fierce storm, high-stakes gambling confrontations, deadly combat, and a cotton boat up in flames. Stella, a Cherokee Indian, and Toby, a free Black man, and their friend White man John Dee endure relentless racial prejudices and injustices in the gritty underbelly of the Wicked River while fleeing to New Orleans—where the Burtons will be waiting!

Excerpt: The Lady J Lands at Friar’s Point

Friars Point’s riverfront swelled with townsfolk mostly dressed in workmen’s clothing. The calliope was doing its job, drawing them for a break from their labors to welcome the Lady J and to the barkers selling tickets to the show. Scanning the working people, a light-hearted sensation flowed through Stella. She was them. They were her. If she couldn’t sing, she’d be a cook or a cleaner. A perpetually-tired house woman, married to a roustabout or a free Black man. Southern society would never grant her anything more.

The rousing calliope tune took Stella’s thoughts to the evening’s work. Dress in finery cut to display her charms. Take the stage. Sing to stir the emotions of the entertainment-starved lot below. Together with castmates, bring the joys of song and dance to their grimy river town.

At the edge of the crowd, four men sat high in the saddle, not moving. The man on the left had on a red vest and a bowler hat like a clerk or merchant’s. The other three looked a far cry from men of business. Two wore flapjack hats over their long hair, and one’s bushy brown beard hung down his chest. The fourth man was hatless with a massive, nearly bald skull and monstrous shoulders, sitting half a head higher than the others. Stella’s grip on the rail tightened. River thugs in colored shirts, with rifle butts pointing up at their hips. Just the types she always had the good sense to avoid.

The calliope’s tune changed to a heart-pounding circus rhythm. The crowd clapped along, and seeing happy expressions on so many faces made the riders fade away. Mr. Tobin worked the twenty steam-powered whistles with a fury. Stella looked his way, but the Texas Deck stood between them. A silver filagree climbed to the deck’s roof, perfectly in line with the white puffs spreading from Mr. Tobin’s steampipes into the cobalt sky.

Roustabouts lowered the gangplank. It banged loudly when it hit its resting block. Drays lined up to tender wooden barrels and boxes. Filled with coffee, salt, and whale oil, according to a chatty deckhand at yesterday’s Vicksburg landing.

Cargo waited while the Lady J’s brass band in their silly white sailor suits and round hats disembarked. One by one, a trombonist and assorted horn players filed over the gangplank. The top-heavy tuba player wobbled close to the edge, nearly falling into the river. Oh no! A deckhand grabbed his shoulders until he regained his footing. Stella breathed easier. On land, the band members lined up for a Friars Point parade. Their conductor shouted, “March!” and deckhands followed, carrying placards that promoted tonight’s performance.

Stella grinned knowingly at the choreographed chaos that didn’t vary much from landing to landing.

“Quite a gathering,” Mr. Franklin said.

“Oh!” Stella, idly pondering the scene, twitched a little at the sound of his voice. “Yes, indeed.”

He moved closer. “Friars Point is the largest cotton shipping stop south of Memphis. Our landing has generated more enthusiasm here than in Arkansas City or even Greenville.”

Stella hesitated, uncertain whether to reply further to his unsolicited attentions. “Perhaps steamboats of our size and adornment don’t land here often.”

“Well, boats bigger than the Lady J load cotton bales here. You’re right; she is pretty.” He chuckled. “First time I’ve seen gilt acorns atop the derricks. But still just a boat. One stump and this bonny craft is at the bottom of the river like any other.”

“Oh! I hope that won’t happen.”

“I’m sure it won’t, ma’am.”

“Tell me, Mister Franklin. If the Lady J is rather ordinary for this landing, as you suggest, then why have the people turned out?”

“This afternoon, they’re coming to the riverbank to hear the steam organ and see the band parade through their shabby little town’s muddy streets. For a break from loading bales and counting stocks and whatever else they do.” He winked. “But tonight, they’ll come to the auditorium to see you.”

Stella drew back. Had he just winked? And personalizing his views on the audience’s adoration was a bit much. What was the objective of Mr. Franklin’s attention? Being forward? An over-awed admirer of her performances? Some angle to further the business of the Lady J? She didn’t care to find out and was about to make her excuses when a light-skinned Black man, nearly the height of her flatterer, approached. When Mr. Franklin nodded at the Black man, he joined them and handed Mr. Franklin a drink.

Her gaze fixed on the Black man’s straight-backed and wide-shouldered, confident posture. His midsection was trimmer than Mr. Franklin’s. A round bulge at his shoulder meant powerful muscles. How would his manly torso feel to her touch? Stop! I will not think about him in the same way men leer over me!

Mr. Franklin took a sip. “Rum punch with milk and nutmeg. Delicious.”

“Would you like one?” the Black man asked Stella.

“No thank you,” she replied, jarred from her musings.

“Miss Parrot, this is my partner, Toby Freeman.”

The words “free man” and “my partner” registered, and Stella took a closer look at the Black man. His size and shape and even his white linen shirt and waistcoat resembled Mr. Franklin’s, so much so that the two of them standing side by side created what almost seemed a light and shadow mirror image. Toby wasn’t a man forced to serve his master a drink.

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Meet Brodie Curtis

Raised in the Midwest, Brodie Curtis was educated as a lawyer and left the corporate world to embrace life in Colorado with his wife and two sons.

Curtis is the author of THE FOUR BELLS, a novel of The Great War, which is the product of extensive historical research, including long walks through the fields of Flanders, where much of the book’s action is set. His second novel, ANGELS AND BANDITS, takes his protagonists into The Battle of Britain. Curtis is currently working on a novel set on a Mississippi Riverboat prior to the Civil War.

A lover of history, particularly American history and the World Wars, Curtis reviews historical fiction for the Historical Novels Review and more than 100 of his published reviews and short takes on historical novels can be found on his website.