Walk on Earth a Stranger Read online

  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.

  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.”

  Before I can force out a thanks, I notice Joe packing leftover cornmeal cake into my saddlebag. “It’s going to go bad with no one here to eat it,” he says.

  “Please stay,” Red Jack says. “But only so I don’t get demoted back to unskilled labor.”

  “We emptied the whole boat,” I protest. “There’re no more stalls to muck. You’ll sleep in every morning like the lazy cat you are.”

  He frowns at me, just like he did that first day, but now I know he means it kindly.

  That’s about all the good-byes I can take, so I pull my hat brim low to hide my watery eyes and head ashore. Peony paws the ground, itching to stretch her legs, but I hang around, pretending to check my gear while Mr. Joyner haggles with some longshoremen about pay.

  “Need help loading everything?” I ask Mr. Joyner.

  “I’m not paying you,” he says.

  “I didn’t ask for pay.”

  He hesitates, but he nods. “I’d be much obliged.”

  As I heft a trunk toward the wagon, he says, “You might as well go north with us, at least as far as Cape Girardeau.”

  My relief is short-lived. Mrs. Joyner, who sits the wagon bench, jumps in with, “Now, darling, don’t impose yourself on the lad. I’m certain he has plans of his own.”

  I angrily heave the trunk over the side, and it lands with a too-loud clunk.

  “There’s only one direction to go,” Mr. Joyner says, “and the lad might as well travel with us. It’s too late to send him scouting ahead, and there’s no point in making him wait behind when he’s traveling light—He’ll simply overtake us. He can help load and carry, and I don’t even have to pay him.”

  “That’s fine by me,” I’m quick to add. It’s not fine. It’s highway robbery, is what it is. But it’s also better than being alone.

  Mrs. Joyner folds her hands into her lap and frowns.

  We wait while Mr. Joyner hires two men who are relatively clean and able to provide references. Even so, we’re another hour getting all the furniture loaded. Mr. Joyner climbs onto the bench, snaps the reins over the oxen, and the wagon lurches forward. Peony and I follow, Coney running circles at her heels.

  We glimpse the Mississippi River through breaks in the trees as we ride along. I keep Peony behind the wagon and out of Mrs. Joyner’s sights, which ensures that I inhale buckets of dirt and mud flecks. Andy and Olive peek at me through the bonnet, their cherub faces jerking up and down with each rut in the road.

  We travel less than five miles before night begins to fall. The wagon slows and pulls over to the side. I steer Peony around and discover that we’ve reached a small farmhouse.

  A small slave girl, no more than ten years old, answers the door and runs to fetch her master. He’s a lean, older man, with skin like weathered hickory.

  “Hello, good sir,” Mr. Joyner says. “My family and I—”

  “What state are you from?” the old man asks.

  “Tennessee,” says Mr. Joyner.

  He grunts. “As long as you aren’t from Illinois or Ohio or any of them places.”

  I gape at him, realizing he means free states. Maybe things are different near the frontier, but no one in Georgia ever refused to help my father because of his Yankee ways.

  The old man steps inside to have a brief conversation with his wife, and they reach an agreement. “We can provide accommodations and provisions. Supper and breakfast. You’ll have to share the beds.”

  Mr. Joyner offers many expressions of gratitude, as well as a few coins. After taking care of the animals, we go inside and find a cozy, warm cabin that smells of dried apples and wet soot. We sit around a plank table beside a stone hearth. The table’s centerpiece is a wooden vase, filled with wrapping-paper flowers dyed yellow, and I swallow against the sudden sting in my throat.

  The tiny slave girl brings a tray of salt pork and onions, which isn’t nearly as tasty as Fiddle
Joe’s cooking but still hits the spot. The men trade news, most of it focused on the gold in California and the settlement in Oregon territory. When the table is cleared, the old man and his slave drag a feather mattress out from the bedroom and place it before the hearth.

  “I reckon you and your family can sleep here tonight. Your hired hands can have the back porch, and your boy can make do in the barn.”

  Mrs. Joyner bristles. “He is not our boy. He’s traveling with us temporarily.”

  I don’t understand how that woman can be so hot and cold, so kind one moment and so uppish the next. But I know better than to stay where I’m not wanted, so I excuse myself and slip into the barn.

  “Looks like I’m sleeping with you tonight, girl,” I say to Peony. “Just like always.”

  I’m so tired it’s only a few minutes until I drift off. A whisper startles me awake.

  “Mr. McCauley?” Mrs. Joyner’s voice.

  Lantern light pools around me, and I tense up in my bed of straw, but I don’t turn over. “What?” Maybe she wants her blanket back.

  “I . . . Um . . .” She falls silent.

  “Spit it out, ma’am. I’ve very tired.”

  She gasps a little, then says all in a rush: “Mr. Joyner says he wants you gone by morning.”

  “What?” I flip around to face her. “Why? I haven’t been any trouble. I work hard.”

  Her face is even more prim by lantern light, her features sharp and mean. “We face a grave challenge, Mr. McCauley, as we head into the godforsaken wilderness. I must shelter my children, give them a chance at a good life. That means protecting them from . . .” She falls silent again, and a muscle in her cheek twitches.

  “From people like me?”

  “I am a mother, and a mother knows a runaway when she sees one. I’m sure you understand. Perhaps if you had references . . .”

  “Does Mr. Joyner really know you’re here?”

  Her lips press into a thin line.

  “Pardon my saying, but this is hardly the Christian thing to do.”