Walk on Earth a Stranger Page 12

“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.<
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  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.

  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.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  We 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.