Walk on Earth a Stranger

“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 rowboats 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 mind.

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.

We crewmen grab our bowls and run to be served. Mrs. Joyner retrieves a checkerboard tablecloth from a trunk and spreads it out over a walnut table with shiny polish. It’s an odd sight, all that fancy furniture sitting on the riverbank, surrounded by mud and grass, water and trees. People stare as they pass, but Mrs. Joyner goes about smoothing that cloth just so and setting a perfect table like she’s preparing for Sunday after-church visitors.

I sit on the edge of the flatboat’s roof and dangle my feet, watching the Joyners eat their formal meal together. That’s what civilization looks like out west, I suppose. Like a round peg in a square hole. As I use the cornbread to soak up the chowder, I find myself itching to put all that furniture away and out of sight.

“You sure you don’t want to travel down river and see New Orleans?” Captain Chisholm says at my shoulder.

I jump. “No, sir, I’m set on heading west.” If he could find gold the way I can, he’d head west too. Anyone would.

“Thought as much.” He reaches out to shake my hand, and presses some coins into my palm. “Here’s wishing you luck along the way.”