Walk on Earth a Stranger

Red says, “It’s much nicer on the river. And faster. The current does all the work.”

Faster. I desperately need faster.

“Not all the work,” the rough man says. “I have to do a bit of it too, while the two of you are busy plucking strings and scaring off the fish.”

“Singing lullabies, making ’em easier to catch, you mean,” Red says.

“We could use another hand,” the rough one says. “Someone to do the unskilled labor on board.”

“For God’s sake, just don’t tell him you sing,” Red Jack mutters.

“I don’t sing at all, sir,” I hurry to say. I love singing, truth be told, but my singing voice would give me away as a girl faster than you could say Open your hymnals.

“That’s too bad,” the newcomer says. “So, if we give you victuals and transport—”

“For me and my horse?”

“For you and your horse, you do whatever work we need on the way.”

I don’t know what unskilled labor is, and I don’t care. There’s no way my uncle or Abel Topper or those brothers could follow me on a boat. And even though I can’t walk on water like the Lord, as Free Jim suggested, Peony and I can swim just fine. “That’s a wonderful idea, sir. I’ll ask the captain.”

Red and Joe share a chuckle. Joe picks up the empty plate and mug. “This is the captain,” he says to me in a low voice.

My face warms.

“Rodney Chisholm,” the captain says.

“Lee,” I reply. “Lee McCauley.”

“Pleased to meet you, and welcome aboard, Mr. McCauley.” He stands up. “This is just a trial, boy. A week from now, if you haven’t proved trustworthy and able, we’ll put you ashore.”

“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 that.

Chapter Thirteen

The 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, 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 blond 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 blond braids who can’t be more than six years old. Another child, a towheaded 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.