Walk on Earth a Stranger (11 page)

The clerk frowns. “These are overland supplies, Andrew. Please tell me you didn't get the fool notion to go gold hunting.”

“It's just lying on the ground,” the gentleman says around his cigar, “waiting for a man of action to pick it up. But you have to be an early bird, or it'll be too late. Just like the gold rush in Georgia.”

I inch closer, ears pricked like a cat's.

“You're taking everyone? Mrs. Joyner and the little ones too?”

He nods. “I aim to stay on. A prosperous man in California can live like a king.”

“If he's prosperous enough, he can live like a king wherever he is. The railroad'll be bringing a lot of opportunities for a smart fellow with connections in these parts.”

“A smart fellow with connections makes his own opportunities wherever he is.”

The clerk laughs and gives up. They dicker over a few items on the list, like shovels and pans and coffee.

“Excuse me! Sirs!” comes a familiar voice. My mouth goes dry.

I catch the barest glimpse of Abel Topper—ragged hat in hand, left suspender strap busted and dangling at his side—before I melt into the shadowy corner.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asks in an annoyed voice.

Topper is between me and the door. If I tried to sneak out now, he'd see me for sure and certain. I keep my back turned and pretend to study a bolt of canvas.

“I'm looking for a horse. Well, a horse thief. I expect—”

“Do you mind?” the fine gentleman interrupts. “We are in the middle of a business transaction.”

“Your pardon. It's just that time is precious—”

“I assure you, there are no horse thieves in Chattanooga. They stay to the back roads.”

“Yes, but—”

“I'd lay odds your thief fled north into Kentucky. That's the
quickest way to lawless lands, where folks like him would feel right at home. Now, please allow me to conclude my affairs.”

“North into Kentucky, eh?” Topper says.

“You a sheriff?” the clerk asks. “A marshal?”

“Naw. Just trying to get in good with the horse's fancy owner, if you know what I mean.”

“I'm sure I don't,” the gentleman says.

“Do you have a leaflet?” the clerk asks. “I'd be happy to post it at my door.”

My heart races like a thousand galloping hooves.

“Naw. Never got a good look at the fellow.”

If he doesn't know I'm the one who took Peony, then he struck off on his own. My uncle didn't send him. But my relief is short-lived; Abel Topper could describe my horse to anyone, easy as pie.

The gentleman loudly clears his throat.

“Fine!” Topper snaps. “I'm leaving.” Boots tromp away as he mutters something about uppity rich folks under his breath.

“Uncouth fellow,” the clerk says.

“Can't trust a man with only half his teeth,” the gentleman agrees.

They continue to dicker over supplies, but I pay no attention. I have to get out here. I have to retrieve Peony from the blacksmith and flee before Abel Topper sees her. And maybe I shouldn't take the road north like I'd planned. Not if that's the way Topper aims to go.

“So who's your captain?” the clerk says.

“Rodney Chisholm.”

“I heard he's crewing with Fiddle Joe and Red Jack,” the clerk says.

“I don't know any gentlemen graced by those sobriquets. But perhaps they have Christian names with which I would be more familiar?”

“Perhaps they do,” the clerk says. “But those are the only names I know. Great musicians both, fiddle and guitar.”

“Thank the good Lord you said guitar—I thought I might have to suffer a banjo.”

“Whatever you say. Is this everything?”

“Yes. Put it on my father's tab and have your boys carry it down to the landing.”

“When do you need it?”

“At once. The river's high, good for passage over the shoals.”

Free Jim warned me against taking a flatboat, but it might be my best option. If this Andrew Joyner fellow and his family are heading west, maybe I can follow. Or better yet, join up. It'd be a whole heap safer; those brothers would never have robbed me if I'd been traveling in a group, and it's the last thing my uncle would expect.

I need to wrangle an introduction; it's not proper to just go over and announce myself.

No, it wouldn't be proper if I was a girl. Maybe I should walk right up and offer my hand. I take a few steps in his direction, but remembering his reaction to Abel Topper's interruption gives me pause. If he considered Topper
uncouth
, then he certainly doesn't have time for me, with my bad
haircut, mud-smeared shirt, and ill-fitting trousers. I pretend to examine the hats on a nearby stand while I try to figure out what to do.

“Say hi to Captain Chisholm for me,” the clerk says.

“I certainly will,” Mr. Joyner says.

Captain Chisholm. That's who I need to talk to. I dash from the store, looking right and left to make sure Topper is not around.
Captain Chisholm, Captain Chisholm,
I repeat silently.

The blacksmith is only a few blocks away. I walk fast, but not too fast, hat brim low, hands shoved into my pockets. I glance around one last time before heading into the stable, and I nearly trip over my own feet because Abel Topper is just down the street, broken suspender swinging at his side. I hold my breath as he mounts the steps to a tavern door and disappears inside.

Now is my chance. If Peony isn't shod yet, we're leaving, anyway.

“You're in luck, lad,” says the blacksmith's apprentice, coming toward me. “Just finished with your pretty mare.”

My relief is so great I nearly stumble. “So fast!”

He shrugs. “You're paying for it.”

I fumble for my money and hand him two dollars. “Thank you.”

“Heading west like everyone else?” he says.

I almost deny it, but I get a better idea. “Sure thing. Heading to Kentucky on the Federal Road tomorrow.”

“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 until he's out of 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 make 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.

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.”