Walk on Earth a Stranger (13 page)

The Joyners rise late. While they eat breakfast, I learn what the captain meant by “unskilled labor.” It's my job to muck stalls every morning, which is no different from my chores back home. At least I go after it with a sure hand.

“Just toss it overboard,” the captain says. “The current washes everything away.” I do as he says, but it gives my belly a squirm to think of drawing our cooking water from the same river.

Water laps gently against the boat as we get underway, morning mist rises from the banks, and great white herons swoop low for leaping fish. No wonder some people spend their whole lives here. Just like Joe said, it's a pleasant way to travel, with the lovely river to do most of the work.

Or maybe saying so was all for show, because we haven't drifted far before Joe and Red and the captain become thin lipped, and wound tight as rattlers. About ten miles downriver from Chattanooga, I discover why.

We reach a narrow gorge. Walls of rock rise up on either side as the water flows fast and white, like it's being pushed through a mill chute. The wind picks up, whipping at my short hair. Spray coats my skin, making me shiver. The walls of the gorge sweep by faster and faster.

The captain orders the Joyner family inside, and Mrs. Joyner can't comply fast enough. Her husband lingers beneath the overhang. “Chisholm!” he booms. “Our contract stipulates
safe passage
to Missouri. If we don't arrive safely, you don't get paid.”

“You've nothing to worry about, sir,” the captain returns.

But once Mr. Joyner ducks inside, Captain Chisholm and Joe Fiddle exchange a dark look. The captain takes the steerboard while Joe and Red grab their poles and take up position to either side of the boat.

I still don't have a pole of my own. I look around for something useful to do, but the boat dips violently, and my legs fly out from under me. I hit the deck hard, pain shooting up my tailbone. The boat lurches again as I scramble for the edge, for anything to hold on to.

The captain stands on the roof, yelling out hazards, riding the waves like a duck in a storm, while I cling for dear life. We veer left, toward the wall. It looms over me, getting closer and closer. The wall is slick with tiny waterfalls, and dotted with clumps of stubborn vegetation that I could reach out and touch if I wanted.

The captain strains at the steerage, but our course won't correct. What happens if we hit the wall? I imagine the boat splintering apart, wood and water flying everywhere. Peony can swim in a pinch. I hope the Joyners can too.

Red Jack jams his pole all the way down to the bottom of the river. He strains until every vein in his neck stands out as though painted in blue ink. The water froths between the boat and the cliff side, geysering up and soaking me to the skin. I hold my breath.

Slowly, the boat turns on Red's pivot.

We break free, and the boat shoots down the center of the gorge like an arrow. Red Jack lets out a whoop of joy.

The gorge opens up, wider and wider. The cliffs give way to gentle hills. Our flatboat slows until it lazes along like it's out for a Sunday buggy drive.

“Any damage?” calls the captain.

“We never hit!” Joe calls back. “Not even once.”

“Nice work, men,” the captain says, and his glance includes me, even though my only accomplishment was not getting washed overboard.

Red Jack stashes his pole and helps me to my feet. “So, how did you like your first trip down The Suck?” he asks.

It takes a moment to find my voice, but when I do, I surprise myself by blurting, “Very much, sir!”

He grins and slaps me on the back.

I'm alone in my sudden affection for white water, though, because now that things have quieted, I can hear the oxen lowing mournfully. Something crashes inside the cabin, followed by a long wail.

Aunt Tildy charges out, her face white and her hands shaking. “No, Lordy, Lordy, no, I'm not going one mile farther. You put me ashore! You put me ashore this second, or I'll tell your mother.”

The rest of the family tumbles out after her.

Mr. Joyner's cravat is askew, and he mops his forehead with a handkerchief. The children cling to Mrs. Joyner's skirts, who is just as wide-eyed and white-knuckled as Tildy.

“Please don't go, Auntie,” Mrs. Joyner says. “Who will feed the children?”

“Get Fiddle Joe over there to do it,” Aunt Tildy says with a wave of her hand. “Or learn to do it yourself, I don't care. But Lord have mercy, I am not fit for this mode of travel.”

Captain Chisholm hops down from the roof. “Don't worry, ma'am,” he says. “Most of the river is as calm as a sleeping babe. We're through the worst already.”

Aunt Tildy shakes her head. “I'm going ashore at the first landing, and I'll make my own way back home if I have to crawl.”

“We should have brought one of the slaves,” Mrs. Joyner says to her husband. “Polly, or maybe Sukey. Surely your father would let us have Sukey? We can put ashore here, and the children and I will wait while you go overland to fetch her.”

My heart lodges in my throat. Waiting here on the riverbank, possibly for days, is the very last thing I want to do. We're only a day's ride from Chattanooga where I saw Abel Topper. I hope he's on his way to Kentucky by now, but I can't be certain.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Joyner says. “I've read about these pioneers. They're rugged, hardy types who solve their own problems, and we shall do the same.”

“Darling, you know I don't cook! I am mother to your children, not some . . . not some . . .”

“There's really nothing to it, ma'am,” Joe says.

Mrs. Joyner looks back and forth between Joe and her husband, her face shifting from panic to horror.

“Then it's settled,” Mr. Joyner says. “We'll put off Aunt Tildy as she requests, and you shall use the remainder of our waterborne voyage to practice your culinary skills for our principal journey west.”

The ensuing silence is long.

In a near whisper, Mrs. Joyner says, “If you think it's best.” I almost feel bad for her. Almost. I've never heard of anyone
who couldn't cook a blessed thing. Even my daddy could make coffee or fry up bacon or spit a rabbit.

After many tearful farewells, the family puts Aunt Tildy ashore at the next settlement. I hang back, because it's none of my business, but I can't stop staring after her. Tildy was the only one of the Joyner party to show me any kindness, and now she's gone.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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W
e drift for days down the meandering Tennessee River, first through Alabama, and it feels strange to head south after I spent so much time trying to go north. But soon enough the river twists up through Tennessee toward Kentucky, ultimately aiming for the Ohio. Our journey is cold and wet, and at mealtimes, we huddle by the stove while Mrs. Joyner tries her hand at cooking. She pretends to ignore us, but our hovering must make her nervous because we end up with burned flapjacks and runny grits every time.

Occasionally, we land to get supplies and stretch the horses' legs. I'm glad for the opportunity to care for my personal needs in privacy, but I don't breathe easy until we're back on the river. More often than not, we go days without stopping, and I'm forced to duck down in Peony's stall and use a slop bucket. I don't dare remove my clothing to launder it. My shirt becomes stiff and stained.

The nights we do put to shore, Mr. Joyner always tries to
find other gentlemen for a game of cards, even though Mrs. Joyner prevails upon him not to go. I think about the brothers and their plan to rob card players along the river, about Uncle Hiram and Abel Topper, and I sit on the roof unable to sleep because I'm keeping watch. The fact that I never see them is no reassurance. I didn't see the brothers coming the last time.

Each morning, I muck stalls. During the afternoons, Joe teaches me to pole, using a piece he helped me cut from a long, skinny spruce. The work is no harder than what I'm used to, and indeed, some of it is a good deal easier. With so much feed and so little exercise, Peony fattens up, and her winter coat grows in thick and lovely. I don't begrudge her one bit; she'll need a store of strength for what's ahead.

After a week, I screw up my courage to approach Captain Chisholm, who stands at the back of the boat, one hand on the rudder, the other shading his eyes.

“Captain?”

“Son?”

“It's been a week.”

He stares at me a moment as if confused. “Oh. Right. Well, I reckon I can give you another week's trial.”

A twitch of his lips indicates he might be having a bit of fun at my expense, but I don't dare put it to the test. I mutter a quick “Thank you, sir” and get right back to work.

One of the oddest things about this boat ride is the utter lack of gold. I'm the only one who carries gold coins. The mirror we loaded on board must be gilded with brass, or
maybe even paint, and I hope the Joyners didn't pay good money for it. I know the captain carries some money, and surely a wealthy man like Mr. Joyner does too, but if so, it's in small denominations; Seated Liberty dollars and quarters and dimes never give me the smallest niggle. Back home, and even on the road, gold was always poking at my senses. But not now. Now, there's a hollowness inside me, like I'm missing a part of myself.

I find myself reaching for Mama's locket more and more. I pinch it between thumb and forefinger, trace the hinged edge and the lacelike filigree on the front, letting the gold sing sweet until I'm filled up again.

Weeks pass. Captain Chisholm does not put me to shore. The flatboat winds through rolling blue mountains and deep valleys like I've never seen. Small towns and lone farms hug the riverbank every bend or so. We pass flatboats heading down the river, and rowboats coming up. Even this far west, the river is the busiest highway I've ever seen, full of energy and purpose.

We're halfway through Kentucky one sunny morning, and I'm in the stalls mucking. My belly has been feeling hot and tight for hours; I hope I'm not getting sick. Suddenly, wet warmth blossoms between my legs.

I freeze, pitchfork half raised.

No need to look at my drawers to know I'm in a heap of trouble. Mama told me all about it, and once she made me wash her monthly rags so I'd understand. She said my time would come when I was seventeen or so, that since I wasn't
planning on having babies anytime soon, it would be a regular visitor. With another start, I realize we've passed well into February, which means that sometime in the last couple of weeks, I turned sixteen years old.

“It came early, Mama,” I whisper, touching the lump of locket beneath my shirt.

I'm a woman now. A woman with a big problem.

I dash into Peony's stall, where I hunker down and rip off Daddy's pants. I check them over and am hugely relieved that they seem untouched. My drawers are ruined, though. I whip them off and use them to wipe myself down, then I put on my one spare. Using my teeth, I rip a strip from the blanket Joe gave me, then I fold it up and shove it between my legs. I re-don the pants, and I bury the stained drawers under a pile of straw. Tonight, when it's dark, I'll rinse them in the river, then lay them out to dry where no one can see. They'll be spare rags now, though not nearly as many as I need.

There's no doubt the crew has accepted me for a boy; Joe and Red and the captain relieve themselves around me without a thought, though I avert my gaze every single time. When Red teased me about it once, I told him my mama raised me to be modest.

Stained rags are a different business entirely. There's no way I can explain them away. I'll have to be very careful and very smart.

At night after dinner, I offer to help Mrs. Joyner clean up. While we're scraping dishes and rinsing them in the river away from everyone else, I say, “Your pardon, ma'am, but I
was wondering. Do you have a spare blanket I could buy?”

Her hands freeze over the cook pot. “You don't have a blanket?”

“An old one. It's small and . . . ripped.”

“I'm sure I can manage something.”

“Thank you.”

We finish the dishes in silence. Mrs. Joyner avoids me the rest of the night, refusing even to meet my eye. Maybe she's taken offense at my request. But after I quietly wash up in the dark, I return to Peony's stall and find a small quilt hanging over the low wall. It's faded and patched, and one end is a bit ragged, but it's a whole heap better than the blanket Joe gave me.

I'm not one for praying much, but I can't help the bit of gratitude that slips heavenward. Then I get to work ripping strips from Joe's blanket, which I hide in my saddlebag. Now I have all the rags I need.

The next night, while Joe is fiddling away and Red is strumming his guitar and the captain is singing to the stars, I try to slip Mrs. Joyner a dime. She closes my hand into a fist and pushes it away. She turns her back and takes little Andy onto her knee to bounce in time to the music.

I slink away. Mrs. Joyner did me a kindness, and I don't understand why she won't take my dime or even glance my way, but I'm grateful to her just the same.

In fact, all the Joyners have proved amazingly adept at ignoring me, even on this tiny boat. Just this morning I caught little Olive, their daughter, staring at me as I stacked
poles. But the moment her mother noticed, her gaze darted away. I suppose it's for the best. Wouldn't do to have little ones milling about, pestering me with questions I'm not willing to answer.

In the end, I'll never be fully crew or pioneer. The men are friendly enough, but they know I'm leaving when we reach the Missouri shore, and they have a whole history together before this trip that I'll never be a part of.

The crew's music is still going strong as I curl up in Peony's stall, Mrs. Joyner's blanket around my shoulders and Mama's locket clutched in my fist. The tightness in my belly spreads to my lower back and sets it to aching. I remind myself that Jefferson will be waiting for me in Independence. He's the closest thing I have to family now.

The morning sun hasn't yet peeked over the hills, and the air is clammy with fog. We push off from shore, and I congratulate myself at being an old hand with the poles now. We slide past the sleepy, low-lying city of Cairo, and suddenly, impossibly, the river breaks wide.

I gape, my pole dangling uselessly. We've reached the massive, muddy confluence of the Ohio and the Mississippi rivers, and never have I seen so much water. With the fog clinging thick to the surface, and the shores a distant blur, I can almost imagine we're poling through the calmest ocean.

A bell echoes behind us, chased by the sound of churning water. Captain Chisholm orders us to the sweeps and runs forward to the gouger. Together we steer the boat out of the
main channel.

A giant paddleboat materializes in the fog. It's two hundred feet long if it's a yard, with a pair of giant chimneys belching black smoke.
The Western Hope
” is painted in gold letters on the side, surrounded by the yellow rays of a rising sun. I've never been superstitious, despite being a girl with witchy powers, but the coincidence of this moment and our intentions could make me reconsider my notions.

“That's a good omen,” Mrs. Joyner says in a wistful voice.

Maybe she's wishing she were on that steamboat, and I don't blame her. The decks are lined with clean, white railings. Crowds of people stand at the upper levels, packed as tight as cattle in a flatboat. I take off my hat and wave to them, and they wave back. A few cheer at us. Their captain stands outside of what passes for a crow's nest but looks like a gingerbread house. Beside it is a big bell, which he gives a yank and sets to ringing. Olive looses a rare grin, and little Andy runs around in a circle yelling, “Ding, ding, ding!” until he suddenly falls down, giggling.

Mr. Joyner frowns through the whole thing, and I can't imagine what's in that man's head. I've never seen such luxury in my life—That steamboat must be as fine as the finest hotel in Savannah, and if that's not worth getting excited about, I don't know what is.

It glides beyond us as quickly as it arrived, and we steer our humbler craft into the middle of the river and aim for a shore I can't see.

“Pa, I want to ride a boat like that one,” Olive says.

Mr. Joyner removes the cigar from his mouth and blows out a cloud of smoke. “It's a fine sight, isn't it, darling?”

The girl's mother brightens. “Mr. Joyner, perhaps we should pass the next part of our journey on a steamboat. It will make a wonderful memory for the children.”

Andy and Olive regard their parents with wide, hopeful eyes.

“I wouldn't advise it,” the captain jumps in. “The accommodations are fine, for them that can afford it, but all the paddlers are overbooked and crowded.”

“But the cabins are nice?” Mrs. Joyner asks.

“Some of them, yes. Another word of warning: Lots of gambling takes place on those boats. If you go for a ride, hold on to your coin purses.”

Mr. Joyner brightens at “gambling,” but when he sees everyone staring at him, he frowns again. He takes a puff on his cigar and says: “I've read about this. It's a swindle. They take you all the way up the Missouri, but in the end you have to walk south again to get back on track. We're better off putting ashore here.”

Mrs. Joyner stares at him.

He hastily adds, “We'll place our trust in my original plan. I see no reason to change our course before we've even reached the starting line. No, we'll head overland for Independence as intended.” He gazes after the steamboat, though, his mustache twitching.

As we cross, the rising suns burns through the last of the gauzy clouds, finally revealing the far shore. The water
between here and there is busier than the busiest town. I count three more steamboats, with smoke from still more rising around the river bend. We steer among flatboats—too many to count—and tiny row boats that are clustered like gnats between them. We even pass a tiny raft containing two boys with straw hats and fishing poles.

As we approach the mud-churned riverbank, Captain Chisholm leans over and says, “You'll want to go north along the river until you reach Cape Girardeau. You can go west from there, but the most popular route is to continue north to St. Louis and then head westerly.”

I picture it like Free Jim's map and try to memorize it, but I'm not sure it will do any good. The Mississippi River is so much broader and murkier than the twisting blue line I saw. Turns out, the great, wide world doesn't look anything like a flat, little map.

I reach under my shirt and grab the locket, but instead of thinking of Mama like I usually do, Jefferson springs to mind, and it's a punch to the gut how quick and easy and clear I imagine those keen dark eyes and that wide, serious mouth. I wish I could poke at his quiet ways and get a quick grin out of him, just like always. Tell him about my journey so far and hear about his.

Ask what exactly he meant by that mealymouthed proposal. Marrying for the sake of traveling convenience seemed like a fool-headed notion at the time, but now I can't get it out of my head.

Trust someone,
Mama said.
Not good to be as alone as we've been.
Your daddy and I were wrong. . . .

Floating down the river has given me plenty of time to ponder, and I'm not sure Mama was right. I wouldn't be in this heap of hurt if Daddy hadn't been so trusting. Still, I can't help thinking about Jefferson and about how, in California, we could start all over; maybe even build up something great.

What if Jefferson didn't make it? What if he's not waiting for me in Independence after all? Suddenly, it feels as though I'm falling into a mining pit, with no gold and nothing at the bottom but dark forever.

By midday my back and shoulders ache from unloading the Joyners' wagon and furniture. The wagon must be reassembled and reloaded, but Captain Chisholm's contract with them has officially ended, and Mr. Joyner plans to hire respectable workers to help with the journey to Independence. In the meantime, Fiddle Joe calls out from the roof of the boat: “Victuals is ready, for them that's hungry.”

My stomach rumbles as I soak my kerchief in the river and wash up. Joe has made a chowder from a big catfish he caught this morning, mixed with salt pork and onions. Beside the pot of chowder is a steaming cornmeal cake. Thank the stars Mrs. Joyner didn't bake it, or it would be burned to a crisp.