“Well, good luck.”
Peony nickers in greeting, and I drag her from the stables. I ask the first person I bump into: “Which way to the landing?”
“You’re close enough to smell it,” he snaps, and he walks off.
I sniff the air; he’s not wrong. Following the fishy, rotten vegetable scent of slow water, I head toward the riverbank and see it at once. I stare, mouth agape.
A line of flatboats hugs the river’s edge. They seem as rickety as rafts, but they’re eighty to a hundred feet long and covered with low roofs. One is full of cattle; others are stacked with barrels, which men are rolling down the riverbank. In the middle of the river, a small, rocky island serves as anchor for a swing ferry. A thick line of people stretches along the landing as they wait their turns to cross.
“Where can I find Captain Chisholm?” I ask one of the men rolling barrels.
He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his glove and points me to a flatboat that sits high in the water on account of not having cargo.
I stare at the boat, hesitating. If Mama is watching, she’ll probably toss in her grave to see me walk over to a bunch of strange men and ask a favor. But I’m Lee McCauley now, I remind myself. It shouldn’t be a big deal.
I leave Peony tied to a dock post, then I hitch my suspenders the way I’ve seen Jefferson do a hundred times and swagger across to the boat like I’ve every right. “Captain!” I stand at the dock’s edge and holler down under the roof. “Hey, Captain.”
A short fellow with a sunburned nose and carroty hair pokes his face out. “Who’s asking?” he says.
“I am.”
“Who’re you?”
“Who’re you?”
He grins. “Red Jack.”
“Are you going to California, Red Jack?”
He steps into the cold sunshine. His feet are bare, and his belly hangs over the waist of his trousers. His suspenders strain to keep them up.
“Lord, no, we’re just heading over to the Mississippi.”
“But you’re taking folks west, right?”
“Are you a friend of Mr. Joyner’s?”
“Never met him. Just heard you were taking people west, and I’m looking for a ride in that direction.”
Red Jack studies me, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to stir loose some thoughts. “We’re taking Mr. Joyner’s family as far as Missouri. They’ll have to walk the rest of the way on their own.”
“How much for passage to Missouri?”
“Rates are up to the captain, who ain’t here right now.” He looks me up and down, taking in my filthy clothes, my second-or thirdhand hat. “But if you ain’t with the Joyners, you ought to know they’ve hired the whole boat for themselves.”
My shoulders slump. “All right,” I say, gazing down the length of the river at all the other flatboats. It’ll mean talking to an awful lot of people, but surely I can find someone willing to take us aboard.
“Ah, don’t go looking all forlorn,” he says.
Another fellow pokes his head out. He’s so tall he can’t stand up straight inside the cabin. His skin is as wrinkled and brown as tree bark, and his twiglike fingers are long and thin. He sees me and smiles, and it’s such a friendly, craggy grin that I can’t help grinning back.
“Are you the captain?” I ask.
“No, name’s Joe.”
Fiddle Joe. He turns away and starts up a fire in the little cookstove perched on the edge of the boat. His back is still turned when Joe says, “You like chicory coffee?”
A cup of warm anything would taste heavenly at the moment. “Yes, sir.”
“Then come aboard.”
I glance toward Peony to make sure she’ll stay in view, and I step onto the deck, which looked solid enough from shore but is actually in a constant state of sway. As my legs adjust, Joe hands me a tin cup steaming with coffee. It’s hot enough to scald my tongue, but no bitter liquid has ever tasted so sweet.
Red Jack returns carrying three small chairs and a table, which they set up on the open deck. “Well, don’t stand there like a begging dog, sit down for supper,” Red Jack says.
I can’t believe my luck. I pull up a seat, and Joe slaps down three bowls of grits mixed with runny eggs. The other two start eating, but I hesitate to dig in.
“Don’t be shy, boy,” Joe says to me. “Eggs and grits make as fine a supper as they do a breakfast.”
It’s the “boy” that does it. I shovel the mess into my mouth like a starving stray. Joe sure likes his salt, more than Mama ever put on our food, but I don’t mind one bit. “Thank you,” I say around a huge mouthful.
“So, you’re an argonaut, eh?” Red asks. “Heading to California with the rest?”
I swallow and say, “I’ve got a friend—well, practically family—who’s going west, and I said I’d meet up with him in Independence, like we read about in the paper.”
Joe nods knowingly. “Lots of folks meeting up there. But Mr. Joyner is the only one who can decide on passengers.”
I frown. Guess I’ll have to work up the courage to introduce myself to that fine and proper man after all. Might be worth it to spend the money for a shoeshine first. Maybe even a barber to fix my sawed-off hair. If I can work up the courage to go to a barber.
No, doing anything in town puts me and Peony at risk of being discovered.
“But he doesn’t have any say over the crew,” says a voice behind me.
I look over my shoulder. He’s the roughest of the bunch so far, with a square jaw, uneven stubble that makes him look like he shaves with a spoon, and red-rimmed eyes from either exhaustion or drink. Joe slaps another bowl of grits down on the table and gives up his chair for the newcomer.
“I don’t know anything about crewing boats,” I say, eyeing him warily. He looks too much like the brothers who robbed me, with his unkempt hair and ratty shirt. “To be completely honest, this is the first time I ever set foot on one.”
The newcomer swallows his coffee. “If you want to hire a flatboat to carry you over to the Mississippi, I can recommend some to you.”
“I just want to get there, whatever way I can. I’ve been walking overland so far.” But I don’t want to keep on that way, and the sullen tone of my voice gives me away.