Aware as he was of Ann Marie’s continued attention, Doc’s skin seemed to tingle. His thoughts were tumbling. Desperate for any diversion, he asked, “Steamboats, James?”
“Yes, sir. They’ve always fascinated me. Most of the riverboats are owned by Northerners. No sooner did talk of war break out than north they went. Though how long they can remain tied up in St. Louis, Cairo, or Cincinnati remains to be seen.”
“Plenty of work for them up north, I’d wager.” Reverend Nelson tossed off the last of his lemonade. “Word is that Federal trade is booming up and down the Ohio and upper Mississippi.”
“That’s my opportunity,” James stated with passion. “We’re going to have to develop our own river commerce. Perhaps the right word dropped with Isaac Kirtland? All it would take is investment. We have the wood and skills to build our own boats. Plenty of labor. All we need to import in the beginning is the boilers, casements, and pistons.”
Reverend Nelson laughed and laid a hand on James’s shoulder. “I’ll mention it to Isaac, as no doubt you will, but he’s got enough trouble given the state of the banking industry. Bank notes, Federal dollars, Confederate currency coming in. For the moment everything is chaos.”
Every time Doc glanced Ann Marie’s way, her smile would warm as if in encouragement.
Dr. Morton added, “Things should settle down now that Mr. Lincoln’s had his nose bloodied at Manassas Junction. We’ve established ourselves as a force to be reckoned with.”
Doc took the glass of lemonade that Mrs. Morton handed him. “I hope you are right, Benjamin. My fears, however, are that this is far from over.”
“How is that, Dr. Hancock?” the Reverend asked.
“I suspect we have a long and rocky road to hoe. The pit in the rooster’s craw, as my father used to say, comes first from the abolitionists. Those people are maniacal in their cause. But with the surrender of Fort Sumter and the drubbing the Federals took at Manassas, Mr. Lincoln has not only his war, but a cause now sanctified in Union blood.”
“Then we shall just have to beat them again and again,” Ann Marie cried with spirit. She shared another beguiling glance with Doc, adding, “It doesn’t seem as if there is a Federal army that can stand against us.”
The Reverend finished his lemonade. “I can tell you that my good friend General Polk has every confidence that he can repulse any Federal incursions into Tennessee. He is even now fortifying the river against Federal gunboats.”
Felicia Morton placed a lace-gloved hand on her husband’s arm, saying, “Enough talk of war, gentlemen. Elijia has prepared a marvelous roasted goose. If you will be so kind as to follow me into the dining room?”
To Doc’s delight, Mrs. Morton seated him beside Ann Marie before the fish was served.
She began by asking, “I hear that you are lodging at the Gayoso House during your stay in Memphis. How do you find it?”
“Quite satisfactory. I’ve enjoyed Memphis. And working with your father has been both challenging and delightful.”
His heart was beating too fast, he felt awkward. Bedazzled by her smile and those sparkling green eyes, he savored just being close to her. Again he caught the faint scent of her perfume as he poured her wine.
“I must confess,” she told him conspiratorially, “when I heard you were from the wilds of Arkansas, and that you wanted to go back there, I wasn’t sure what sort of man you’d be.”
Doc chuckled. “Expected me to be picking my teeth with a Bowie knife? Wiping my mouth on my sleeve?”
“Well, your state does have something of a reputation.”
“I was raised in the backwoods, Miss Morton, so I can tell you it is well deserved.”
“And after that you still wish to return to Arkansas?”
“I’ve seen remarkable changes to the upper White River Valley during my lifetime. With our mountains and streams, last I heard, we have thirty-eight mills and no shortage of tanyards. We’re sawing milled lumber, building furniture, and processing, carding, and weaving more cotton into cloth than in the rest of the state. Most of our textiles are exported to Texas and Missouri.”
“Then, how, Doctor, did you end up in Boston? Was your father a Northern man?”
“Actually his family came from eastern Tennessee. The mountains east of Knoxville. As a young man he ended up in St. Louis. Went west with Colonel Ashley. Trapped beaver. It was there that he met an Englishman, Sir William Drummond Stewart. Stewart encouraged him to read and better his position in society. In the early years we had the only bookshelf in either Benton or Washington Counties.”
She arched a teasing eyebrow that he thought irresistible. “And did he insist that you be the perfect gentleman out there in the wilds with your backwoodsmen, Indians, and bookshelf?”
“That, Miss Morton, was suggested during my medical training. The nicer habits of a gentleman? That was a hard-won skill that I’m still struggling to master. Boston society, more than anywhere, decries the actions of the vulgar, but meeting their standards? Learning which fork to use? I fear that challenged me to an extent far beyond the intricacies of anatomy.”
She laughed. “Father says you’re a natural when it comes to medicine. We really appreciate the help you’ve been giving him.”
“It was fortuitous. I suppose he’s told you how we met?”
“Not really.”
He realized that she had a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks.
“A large crate fell upon a workman unloading a wagon on First Street. I happened to be at hand, and while treating him as best I could, was told of your father’s surgery two blocks away. I attended the poor fellow as he was carried to your father’s … and, well, we both worked on him at the same time.”
“That I did hear. Father said it was like you had been working side by side for years.”
“Your father saved the man’s arm while I worked
