Chapter 2: Genevieve

“Genevieve, What the hell mess have you got yourself into?!”

Boatswain Genevieve Arthur knew Captain Pierce Masters, formerly Number One of the Bunte Kuh, was really upset and worried. He only called her ‘Genevieve’ in the heat of passion, sexual or otherwise. She answered carefully, “Just following orders, Sir. Bossie can verify that Dreck, err Captain Dreck, called ‘No quarter,’ so I gave none.” She added, “He gave no additional instructions, so I followed his standing orders to the letter – Sir!”

“Maybe so, Boats, but now we’re faced with investigating your actions as ‘disrespect toward your superior commissioned officer’, ‘failing to obey a lawful order’, ‘striking your superior commissioned officer’, and ‘murder’,” the new Captain told her. “Bossie, can quote the articles for you from the CMJC. You know the Confederacy’s Code of Military Justice, but you need the specifics. Bossie can also bud a separate attorney-client privileged representative to help you with your defense.”

Masters frowned, “When we are back at base, those charges, will result in a court martial for which I am required to investigate and gather evidence. No matter what I determine, my other immediate responsibility is to decide if there is reason that you should be relieved or are able to carry out your duties until then.”

Lying in her bed, a concubine snuggled on either side, Boats could hear Crystal Gayle singing River Road in her head.

Mama said, listen child
You’re too old to run wild
You’re too big to be fishin’ with the boys these days

So I grabbed some clothes and I ran
Stole five dollars from a sugar can
A twelve year old jail breaker runnin’ away

That’s how it all started. Genevieve Arthur was a tomboy. She hated the names Genevieve and Jenny, so she insisted on being called ‘Vivie’ which someone told her meant ‘life’ or ‘live.’ She didn’t much care as long as it wasn’t one of the hated names.

Shortly after her eleventh birthday, the pink nubs on her chest became sensitive and began to grow. It wasn’t so bad at first, because it was a very cold winter. Her new curves were hidden by the necessary heavy shirts, sweaters, and coats; but with the coming of spring, nearly everyone noticed.

Her relationships with boys changed little in the early spring. She ran free, climbed trees, hunted, and fished with the same gang she had since she turned seven. BUT the day they decided to go swimming at the quarry – the usual skinny-dipping – her world shifted. With a growing chest and hair starting to appear between her legs, her friends treated her differently. Instead of the usual diving, swimming, dunking, and horseplay, they wanted to touch. She wouldn’t have minded too much, but some became possessive.

When she returned home in damp clothes and still-wet hair, her single-parent mother took one look and pretty well gave her Crystal’s lines. Vivie wasn’t going to have it, not that kind of restrictions. She loved her mother, but she knew she had to leave.

That night, she stuffed her backpack with a week’s worth of undies, two changes of jeans and shirts, her flute, and a Boy Scout Handbook. She had her hatchet on her belt and her Barlow knife in a pocket. She tied a tarp and blanket on top for a bedroll, filled her canteen with water, and made three ham sandwiches. In a baggie, she stuffed her savings – thirty-four dollars and sixteen cents. Then, she raided the sugar jar for two tens, six ones, and four quarters.

When she was ready, she wrote her mother a note, and her exit actually was down River Road!

When dawn came, she was five miles down the river waiting by the marina’s pier. As the sky pinked, she saw a pair of men heading for a small skiff with a cooler, poles, and bait. “Ya’ll heading down river to fish?” she called. Receiving an affirmative, she continued, “If ya’ll are heading a ways, I need to get south about ten miles to see my grandpa. He’s sick, and Mama wants me to look in on him. If you’re interested, I can show you a really good honey hole near his place. It’s full of largemouth chasin’ pan fish.”

“That’s a bit further than we wuz plannin’, Missy, but I rekin’ we cud always use a new fishin’ hole,” he motioned for her to step in.

“Thanks mister,” Vivie told them. “My name’s Jenny.” Hoping that using the hated name would likely throw off any future search inquiries, or maybe not.

The boat was set free and after some paddling, they reached the far side of the river and began to drift lazily. “Name’s Jim,” the first man told her, “and that’s Bobby. We’ll mostly drift and drag some lines – save the motor t’ come back.”

Bobby opened the cooler, drew out three beers, and handed them around without asking. He fished out a large butter tub and opened it revealing stink bait. “We’ll go for some cats first and save the Oscar for your bass hole,” he told her.

“You wanna wet a line?” Jim asked. “We got plenty of poles. Might keep the warden offuvus if you’re fishin’ too.”

She reached for the business end of a pole, baited the hook, and reached the pole out for one of them to grab. After baiting another hook, she rinsed her hands over the side, put her two lines in the water, and took a pull on her beer.

The early morning passed with little talk except comments on the size of a catch. Lacking a live well, the larger catfish were placed on a stringer at the boat’s bow. Pan fish were released. “Got plenty for a fry already,” Bobby told her. “These keepers are going into a stew.” She nodded her understanding.

When mid midmorning came, Vivie offered, “Momma thought I was going to be walking most of the way and made me three big ham sandwiches. Wanna share?”

The three sat and ate companionably, each man sipping on a third beer. Finally, Bobby told her, “That was mighty fine eatin’.” And Jim nodded.