Walk on Earth a Stranger (12 page)

“Understood, sir.”

“This table and chairs get stacked in that nook.”

Seconds pass before I catch on. I jump up. “Yes, sir!”

I try to tuck all three chairs under one arm, but they slip from my grip and clatter to the deck. So I pick up two and run to put them away, then come back for the last.

The crew stands at the bow, smoking their pipes, watching me.

“Please tell me I was never that green,” Joe says.

“Ha,” the captain says. “Don't let Joe fool you, boy. I signed him on to do unskilled labor too.”

“Thirty-four years old before I ever set foot on a flatboat,” Joe says. “If an old dog like me can learn it, you'll do fine.”

My face feels hot under their scrutiny as I stack the last chair. Beneath the roof, the boat is divided into stalls. Some are filled with straw; others are fitted with cots or hammocks. It feels like a barn—a barn on water!—which makes it feel a little like home. I guess it is home for some. I bet the crew spends the whole year on this boat.

These fellows don't know anything about me, and yet they've taken me into their home. I know I'll be working for my keep, but it still feels like an act of angels when I sorely need one. It's a second kindness in almost as many days. Not everyone is like the brothers or Uncle Hiram. I'd do well to remember.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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T
he flatboat is long and low and dark. It takes a bit of tugging to convince Peony to come aboard. She prances in place in response to the boat's gentle sway, but she settles upon seeing her stall. It's dry and has fresh straw and plenty of feed, which seems to be all that matters.

Once she's out of sight and happily eating, it seems as though a weight drops from my shoulders, and I can breathe easy for the first time in days.

A slave boy from the general store brings the supplies down about an hour later. I help him unload the cart and carry everything into the empty stalls. I can't figure what some of the items have to do with gold prospecting—like the two full bottles of laudanum or the Oldridge's Balm of Columbia for hair and whiskers—but it's possible Mr. Joyner knows something that I don't.

The surface of the river is burnished red gold with late-afternoon sunshine when two men roll a huge wagon down to
the dock. I stare agape at it, wondering how in the world we'll get everything aboard. It's full to bursting with flour, grains, barrels of salted pork, and a whole heap of fancy furniture. There's a sideboard table, and four high-back chairs. A bed frame and a feather mattress. A lady's dresser with a gilded mirror. Mr. Joyner said he was moving his whole household, but I didn't figure that meant his whole house.

We unload it all, every single piece, and it's a good thing Mama's shawl is wrapped so tight around my chest because sweat pours down the front of my shirt, making it stick to any available skin.

By the time we finish, it feels like my aching back won't bear another burden, which is when the captain directs us to disassemble the wagon. I don't dare complain or show even a hint of weakness, so I go at it like I'm as fresh as the morning.

After taking the wagon apart, we heft and slide the wagon box onto the boat. Then we fill the box with all the other pieces—the wheels, the tongue, the bonnet. Next, we bring the oxen aboard. There are four teams of two, which seems like a lot for one wagon, but when you're moving a whole household, I guess that's how many you need. The huge beasts don't care for their stalls, and they have a lot to say on the matter, but once they're settled in and we spread some straw, they seem resigned.

“Where's the rest of it?” Captain Chisholm asks once the wagon and oxen are all safely aboard.

“There's more?” I gasp.

“You have a problem, son?”

“'Course not.”

He grins.

Suddenly my plan to go all the way to California with nothing but Peony and a saddlebag seems like the height of tomfoolery.

By evening, more supplies and more animals have arrived, including a pair of fine horses and a hound dog with white patches and drooping ears, who licks my hands and face as if we're long-lost friends. I scratch his ears and rub his scruff, thinking about Nugget. I hope she's a comfort to Jefferson on the road, the same way Peony is a comfort to me.

“Coney, get over here before I whip your hide.”

It's Mr. Joyner, dressed in a fine black suit with a yellow silk cravat. Standing prim beside him is a pretty blonde woman in a blue calico dress and a lace shawl. One hand clutches an embroidered satchel, full to bursting; the other grips the shoulder of a girl in blonde braids who can't be more than six years old. Another child, a tow-headed boy of about four, stands half hidden in her voluminous skirt, though he dares to peek out at me. I wink at him, and he turns away fast, burying his face in his mama's skirt.

Even the two children carry bulging satchels. At the family's feet is a huge luggage trunk, which will probably take all four of us to haul inside and which Coney the dog is now giving a thorough sniffing.

Red Jack shares an amused look with me before grabbing a couple of satchels. “That's a fine rocking chair we just
loaded,” he says by way of conversation.

Mr. Joyner nods solemnly. “I'm having my whole house disassembled and floated downriver on another flatboat,” he explains as we work. “When it reaches New Orleans, it'll be loaded onto a ship and sent down to Panama, where it will be trucked across the isthmus and then loaded onto another ship and transported up the coast to California. We'll have our own familiar home waiting for us—walls and all—when we get to San Francisco. We're only bringing with us those things essential to our overland journey.”

I had no idea packing up a whole house was possible—or that a dressing table could be considered
essential
. “Why didn't you go the same way?” I ask.

He seems startled that I would dare speak to him, but he answers nonetheless. “And expose my wife and children to the harsh climates and rough heathen of Panama? Or the relentless waves of the Pacific? Never. Besides, the trip across the continent will be an adventure, something they'll remember for the rest of their lives. Isn't that right, Andy?” He tousles the boy's near-white hair.

“Yes, Pa,” Andy says, but he gazes wide-eyed at the decking before him. The river is choppy with activity, which makes the boat pitch and sway. He slips a hand into his mother's.

Mrs. Joyner is stiff beside her husband, and I'm put in mind of an egret, the way the woman's senses are attuned to everything around her, the way she stands so pale and frozen, but perhaps ready to launch into graceful flight if startled. She squeezes her son's tiny hand, saying, “It's God's
will for America to cover the continent from sea to sea.” Her voice is soft, and it seems to have a question in it. “We'll be part of something grand, helping spread civilization into the wilderness.”

“That's exactly right, dear,” Mr. Joyner says.

I imagine civilization as a bag of seeds that she'll be scattering along the roadside as we go. Like Johnny Appleseed. The thought makes me smile, but she glares at my grin like I've done something wrong.

“Come along, children,” she says, pointedly turning her back on me.

“Yes, Ma,” they chorus as she herds them aboard. I stare after them, wondering at “Pa” and “Ma.” I've never heard anyone call their parents that before.

“Hello,” someone says in my ear, and I whirl. It's a gray-haired lady in sensible navy wool, with a straw hat and a patched satchel.

“I'm Matilda Dudley,” she says. “The Joyners' cook. But you can call me Aunt Tildy.”

I tip my hat. “Pleased to meet you, ma'am. I'm Lee.”

She chatters at me while I continue to load cargo, explaining all the ways in which she has served the Joyner family over the years, from tending their herb garden to caring for the children.

I don't discourage her from talking, but her friendly prattle sets me on edge because the flatboat, which originally seemed huge, is shrinking rapidly. I don't know how I'll keep my identity a secret aboard this floating homestead, with
all of us crammed in like sheep in a pen. How does anyone attend to their private business on a boat like this? What if I need to launder my shirt?

“That's enough, Aunt Tildy,” Mr. Joyner interrupts finally. “No need to bore these gentlemen with ancient history.”

“Yes, sir!” she says. Then she continues, unabashed, “You know, it'll be a wonderful thing to see the wild frontier. They say it's summer all the time in California.”

If a sweet dumpling took human form, it would look just like Aunt Tildy, right down to the flour-dusting of her gray hair. When she starts to argue with Joe about who's going to do the cooking, I dare to hope I won't be eating runny, oversalted eggs again.

Mr. Joyner gestures to the captain. “Everything's aboard. Why aren't we underway? California's not getting any closer while we tarry.”

“Soon enough, sir,” Chisholm calls out.

He calls the crew over and says to us in a low voice, “We'll just push off and float a few miles until dark. Make our passengers happy.”

It'll make me happy too. Once we're underway, it'll be harder for Uncle Hiram to find me, either by accident or on purpose. Almost everyone in Chattanooga who might remember me—or Peony—is aboard this boat.

“We won't try to pass the rapids today, will we?” Red asks.

“Not on your life,” says the captain. “Or mine.” Then he turns around, and the size of his voice turns from pistol shot to cannon fire: “Get ready to push off!”

Red and Joe untie the ropes tethering us to shore. The animals, crowded inside their swaying barn, start lowing and kicking. Coney launches onto the roof and barks at nothing in particular. Mrs. Joyner brings the children to the open bow of the boat and says something about beginning a great journey.

I glance around, feeling useless. “What should I do?” I ask.

“Grab a pole and push off,” says Joe, lifting his pole high with both hands to show me. Red and the captain already have theirs in hand, and the three men space themselves along the side of the boat.

I see where the poles are stored and grab one. It's heavy and at least twice my height. It thumps and scrapes along the deck as I hop onto the roof, dragging it up behind me. I maneuver it around, whacking Joe in the back of the knees.

“Hey!”

“Sorry!”

He glares at me while I jab the end into the shore and push.

“Your grip is too far back,” Joe warns.

The pole sticks. Our boat slides away, but my pole won't come free. I yank harder. The pole starts to slide through my hands. I'm leaning over the edge, tipped precariously over the water.

“Joe!” I holler.

Joe darts over and grabs the back of my trousers. “Let go.”

“I'll lose the pole!”

“Then go with it,” he says.

I let go, and the pole sticks out of the mud a moment before
slowly drooping down and sinking into the water.

Red Jack snorts. “Off to a good start, boy,” he says, motioning me toward the middle of the roof where I can't make any trouble.

The captain regards me with a cool eye.

“I'm really sorry, sir,” I say.

“I'd take it out of your pay,” he says. “Only I'm not paying you. So go ashore when we tie up for the night and cut a new one.”

“Make sure it's one you can handle,” Red Jack says. I don't hear any meanness in his voice, only practicality.

I have no idea how to cut a long, sturdy pole from the twisting trees that hug the riverbank. “Yes, sir.”

We drift downriver until it's past dark, so he doesn't send me ashore tonight. Aunt Tildy lets Joe cook dinner one last time. She vows to take over the boat's kitchen tomorrow, and no one argues. After the plates are cleaned up, Joe gets out his fiddle and Red Jack fetches his guitar. They sit on the roof and play while the captain sings in a startlingly beautiful tenor. Joe dances while he fiddles, slapping his boots on the thick planks of the roof. Mrs. Joyner holds tight to her children, refusing to clap along or even smile, but when Aunt Tildy and the little ones start clapping, she doesn't protest.

It's not the best music I've heard, but it fills the cold night sky with energy and warmth. I gaze up at the stars and find the bright cluster of the Pleiades. My throat tightens with the memory: Jefferson and me lying on our backs in the hayloft
last winter, straw poking out of our mouths, the loft shutter propped open to the sparkling crystal sky. The Cherokee don't call it the Pleiades, he told me, but the “Ani'tsutsa,” which means “the Seven Boys.” His mother told him the story, how eight boys got so mad at their mama they decided to run away, but as they leaped into the sky, she grabbed the eighth boy by the heel and dragged him back to earth, leaving his seven brothers to shine in the night.

Jefferson liked to imagine he was the eighth boy, the one who stayed. Staying is important, he said. And he liked the idea that he had brothers somewhere, maybe looking after him. Jeff was embarrassed afterward, and he made me swear never to tell that he had such fanciful notions. I swallowed the lump in my throat and said that having a brother would be the very best thing.

I hope Jefferson's all right; I hate to think what might happen if he ran afoul of the brothers or their ilk. I wish I could have caught up with him on the road, but now I find myself hoping he's still three days ahead. Because anyone sent after me would recognize him just as easily. With luck, he's practically to Independence by now.

The final note from Joe's fiddle echoes over the water, dying slow and sweet. The wind on the river is icy cold, colder even than on the road, so everyone gets up and turns in. No one has indicated where I should sleep, so I head back to Peony's stall and prop myself up in the corner. It's been a long day of hard work, and this is the first time I've had a roof over my head at night since leaving home. I'm cold, but
I feel safer than I have in weeks, with a full belly to boot. My eyes drift shut.

I startle awake. It's Fiddle Joe. He hangs a blanket over the side of the stall and walks off without saying a word. I snatch it up. It's old and threadbare, but after losing everything else, it seems finer than gold.

Morning on the river is one of the prettiest I've ever seen, with golden sunshine gleaming on water as smooth as a mirror. Red Jack pokes his head out moments after I do. He yawns and stretches, and he's untying his pants to relieve himself into the water when he spots me.

“Holy,” he says, jumping in alarm. “You're up early. Been sitting there the whole night?”

I'm blushing like the girl I am. “I'm an early riser,” I say, turning my back and giving him his privacy.

Joe stumbles out a while later and starts bacon sizzling on the box stove. At the breakfast table I try to return his blanket.

“Naw,” he says. “Everybody ought to have their own blanket.”

I can't squeeze out my thanks through the tightness in my throat. I have a blanket again, and I didn't even have to buy it.