Emma's River Page 2

  Whack! “Ouch!” Emma clapped a palm to her stinging ear and glared into the narrowed eyes of the lady with the umbrella.

  “Watch where you’re going, you muddleheaded girl!” the woman said. The poodle, still clutched in her arms, bared its needle teeth.

  Emma backed away quickly, rubbing her ear.

  The ladies’ end of the steamboat cabin was carpeted. Emma looked around, marveling at the brocade-covered sofas, candelabras, gilded mirrors, and a potbellied stove surrounded by rocking chairs. Smartly dressed matrons and fashionable girls gossiped, embroidered, played piano, and read Bibles. Chambermaids served tea and crumpets.

  Emma grabbed a crumpet from a lowered tray. She settled onto a rocker, swaying to and fro as she chewed the powdery sweet. “Did you glimpse the heavenly blue of Professor Almond’s eyes?” one young lady said. “Why, he’s a poem!”

  “And did you hear the gentleman who spoke with a British accent?” the other young woman fluttered. “His servant addressed him as Lord Highbatten. I was smitten!” With that, the two broke into a fit of giggling.

  Emma rolled her eyes. As far as she could see, there was not a whit of adventure in the ladies’ parlor.

  Stuffing the last of the crumpet into her mouth, she bolted for a door at the end of the parlor. Dash the rules. She was going to find Twist.

  She swung open the door, only to find the ladies’ retiring room. Sachets of rose petals dotted the washbowl stand and the toilet, a hole in a wooden seat. Holding her nose, Emma peered curiously into the hole. River water flashed far beneath. Pee-ew.

  Emma quickly shut the door and hurried back to the midship gangway. She really needed to find Twist. For all she knew, the first mate had treated her pony as roughly as he’d treated the roustabouts.

  She turned to go to the larboard, the left side, of the steamboat. Once outside, she peered over the veranda railing and watched the Mississippi flow past like melted chocolate. In the distance, she could see St. Louis. The late afternoon sun shone on the roofs of the town’s shops. A pang filled her. Would she ever see her home again?

  No. The river was taking her to a new home—and to Papa.

  The sun was sinking and the afternoon was waning. Soon it would be supper time and Doctor Burton would come searching for her. She had to hurry.

  Couples strolled along the veranda. “Pardon me, pardon me,” Emma said as she bustled past them to the main stairway.

  Hesitating on the top step, she stared down to the main deck. Squeals, cries, bellows, hisses, and clangs rose from below. A deckhand was tying a line. Another worker rolled a barrel closer to the wall and secured it in place. The smell of burning wood, rotting fruit, and sweating animals wafted upward.

  You are forbidden to go below. It is too dangerous …

  Emma was no stranger to rules. Speak in turn. Walk with small gliding steps. Take dainty bites. And she had broken many of them. But her disobedience had never put her in danger. Maybe I should go back to our stateroom and look for Twist later, she thought.

  Then she pictured her beloved Twist among the oxen and hogs. Taking a deep breath, Emma started down the stairs. Step by hesitant step, she made her way to the forbidden main deck.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Fingers grasped Emma’s upper arm, yanking her backward. “Oh!” She caught herself on the railing before she fell.

  “Halt this instant, Miss Wright.” On the top step, Arthur Jenkins, the mud clerk, stared down at her, his arms folded across his chest.

  “How dare you grab me!” she retorted.

  “How dare you disobey Doctor Burton’s orders!” The toe of his leather shoe tapped the wooden step.

  “What are the doctor’s orders to you?”

  “He paid me handsomely to keep you out of trouble.” Putting one hand in his pocket, he jingled several coins.

  “He paid you to keep me out of trouble so he can smoke and gamble? How clever of him.” Turning, Emma stomped back up the stairs. She didn’t know who she was more vexed at, the meddling mud clerk or the sneaky doctor. Then an idea came to her. “Mister Jenkins. You are the clerk in charge of baggage, are you not?” she asked.

  “I am.” He tilted his nose in the air.

  “Then I have some valuable baggage for you to check on. My pony Licorice—”

  His mouth flew open. “Caring for livestock is not my responsibility.”

  “My pony is not livestock. He is my dear friend.”

  Mister Jenkins smirked. “Then perhaps you should have bought him a ticket for cabin passage.”

  “Oh, you are so rude.” Emma tossed her brown curls. Pushing past him, she strode down the veranda. The clerk followed behind. “You do not need to escort me,” she told him.

  “Alas, miss, I do.”

  “I am only going to my stateroom.”

  “Which is on the starboard side. And you are marching around the larboard side.”

  Emma stopped, realizing she’d gotten herself all tangled up. But she wasn’t going to admit it to the lowly clerk. “Fine, then. I was really going above to see Captain Digby.” She gave Mister Jenkins a winning smile, like the one Cousin Minna used when she wanted to get her way. “Did you know that the captain and I are friends?” She stared with pretend anger at her upper arm. Her dress sleeve was wrinkled where he’d grasped it. “Perhaps I should mention to him how one of his employees mistreated a valued passenger.”

  Mister Jenkin’s brows shot up and sweat beaded on his skinny moustache.

  “But no. I’m quite sure you were only doing your job.” Again, Emma beamed at him. “Rest assured, I will put in a good word for you. However, then you might owe me a favor?”

  He swiped the sweat off his upper lip. “I believe not telling Doctor Burton what his silly charge was up to is favor enough.”

  “Fiddlesticks.” Emma stamped her foot before marching off again. Mister Jenkins followed her until she reached the narrow stairway leading up to the hurricane deck. By then, she’d decided she really did want to see Captain Digby. Perhaps if she pleaded, he would take her below to check on Twist. Or at least give her permission to go. If not, the pilothouse was sure to be more exciting than the ladies’ parlor.

  “Supper is in thirty minutes.” Jenkins consulted his pocket watch. “Ladies and children,” he said, “and their male escorts dine first. Doctor Burton expects you to be prompt.”

  “Obviously his appetite is more important to him than my pony,” Emma grumbled. Without so much as a good day to the clerk, she turned away and climbed the narrow stairs. When her head poked into the evening light, she gasped in delight at the rush of the wind and the closeness of the clouds.

  Above her, dark smoke streamed from the tall chimneys. Cinders pattered like rain onto the deck, which was covered with sand so it wouldn’t catch fire. Since supper would soon be served, there were few strollers on this level.

  A railing circled the deck. Emma hurried past a red fire barrel brimming with water and a wooden rack filled with empty buckets. She pressed against the railing, the wind tugging at her hat ribbons. Far below her the Mississippi writhed like a brown snake. Cottonwood trees lined the banks. A flock of black-necked geese lifted off from a sandbar.

  “Miss Emma Wright!”

  She spun toward the familiar voice. Captain Digby, dressed in his trim black suit, waved. Tall and stately, he stood on the stairs leading to the Texas deck, the smaller one that held the captain’s and officers’ rooms. Perched behind him on top of the Texas, like the uppermost tier of a wedding cake, was the pilothouse.

  He waved again, this time signaling her to join him. Emma ran across the deck.

  “I feel as if I could touch the sky!” she declared when she reached him.

  “Well, the pilothouse is sixty feet above the river,” he said. Then he frowned, looking like Papa when he was displeased. “Why in all nation are you running around the ship unescorted, Miss Emma?”

  “Mama is resting, Doctor Burton is gambling, and Mister Jenkins is catalo
ging mud,” she recited.

  Captain Digby laughed. “Fortunate that you found your way up here. You’ll be safe under my watch.” He pointed to the pilothouse. “Come, there are a few moments left before supper. I’ll show you how to navigate my steamboat.”

  Emma clapped her hands. At last, an adventure!

  “This way, m’lady.” He swept his arm toward the stairs, beckoning her to go up and enter the pilothouse. Breathless with anticipation, Emma climbed to the top. A man with his back to her stood on one side of a great spoked steering wheel almost as tall as he was. She could only see half of the wheel. The rest of it disappeared into a slot in the floor. Brass knobbed ropes hung from the roof on both sides. The floor was covered with oilcloth. Along the back wall were an unlit stove and a bench, for visitors, she supposed.

  Captain Digby introduced the man at the wheel. “Miss Emma, this is our pilot, Mister LaBarge. He’s in charge of steering the Sally May up the Missouri.”

  Emma blinked in amazement. The pilot wore a cap of striped fur, an animal’s black nose poking from the fuzzy crown. His face was bronzed by the sun and deep lines cut across his forehead. A whittled toothpick jutted from beneath a bushy mustache, which bristled as if alive.

  Mister LaBarge winked at Emma. “I might not be the captain of this leaky vessel,” he said, the toothpick bobbing up and down. “But I am personally acquainted with every bar, snag, landing, and woodyard along the Mississippi and Missouri.”

  “A boastful statement if I ever heard one,” Captain Digby told Emma with a wink of his own. “But Mister LaBarge is a lightning pilot.”

  “Aye, I can read these rivers like a schoolgirl reads a primer.”

  “Read a river?” Emma repeated.

  “Look here. I’ll show you.” The pilot waved her closer. Emma stepped next to him. If she stood on tiptoe, she could see out the open front of the pilothouse. The sun was slowly setting, turning the river into a golden-red ribbon.

  Mister LaBarge pointed ahead. “See those ripples in the water to yer left?” She nodded. “See how they slant? That tells me ‘gravel reef ahead.’ If we hit that reef, the Sally May could stop dead in the river.”

  “We don’t want that.”

  “Nay, we do not. Traveling upstream, the Sally May’s slow enough.” He pointed to the right. “See that circular whirl? That signals a snag.”

  “A snag is a tree that’s fallen into the river,” Captain Digby explained. “If the Sally May is unlucky enough to ram a big one, it could split her hull and we’d sink.”

  Emma gasped. “Sink? Just like that?”

  “Aye.” Mister LaBarge pointed straight ahead. “See that rough water stretching bank to bank?”

  “Another gravel reef? We mustn’t hit it!”

  Captain Digby chuckled. “No, it’s a false reef, made by the wind.”

  “Fiddlesticks.” Emma frowned. “I’ll never get the hang of reading the river.”

  “Don’t be impatient, young lady. It takes hundreds of trips up and down these waters to master them,” Mister LaBarge said.

  As Emma looked ahead, the sun disappeared behind a grove of cottonwoods. The air grew cooler and shifting shadows blackened the river. She watched carefully, wanting to “read” the river, too. But in the fading light she could barely tell land from water. “How do you steer in the dark, Mister LaBarge?”

  With a solemn look, he tapped his chest. “A good pilot knows the shape of the river—every channel and bend—deep in his heart.”

  She reached high up for a rope hanging nearby. “May I—?”

  “No, Emma!” Captain Digby thundered behind her. She snatched back her hand. “Ring the bell,” he said, “and you may cause a riot below.”

  “Oh!” Emma was glad she hadn’t caused a riot.

  “The bells are used to signal the engineers to stop, go ahead, back up, or proceed full steam ahead,” he explained. “Can you imagine the confusion?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Emma said. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

  “Apology accepted. You cannot ring the bell, but here, place your hands on the pilotwheel.”

  Emma gripped the handles. The curved top of the wheel rose high to her left. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel the power of the mighty river.

  “See? You are steering the Sally May.”

  Emma spied a faint light swinging to and fro before the bow. Squinting, she tried to see what it was.

  “Raft ahead!” Mister LaBarge suddenly shouted.

  Emma’s heart flew into her throat. The light was growing closer. If that was a raft, the Sally May would smash it to pieces!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mister LaBarge seized the wheel on the left side, spinning it down so quickly that it tore from Emma’s grasp. Losing her balance, she tumbled to the floor. At the same time, he yanked the bell ropes, setting off a loud clanging below.

  “Raft dead ahead!” the pilot shouted into a speaking tube. “Ease up! Ease up!”

  The steamboat slowly veered starboard. From the raft, an angry voice shouted, “Watch where yer goin’, yer hog-carryin’ scow!”

  Captain Digby helped Emma to her feet. Stepping back, he lit his pipe. Emma righted her hat and stood on tiptoe again. She placed her hands gently on the pilotwheel handles, but let Mister LaBarge do the steering.

  The raft floated safely past, the voices of its occupants soon distant. Hurrahs and cheers rose from the main deck of the Sally May.

  “You did it, Mister LaBarge!” Emma said.

  “Blasted raft should’ve had a bigger signal light.” He grinned as he spoke, the waxed ends of his mustache curving downward.

  “That was very exciting,” Emma said. “It was almost a disaster.”

  “For the raft, perhaps,” Captain Digby said. “But the Sally May is a floating fortress and Mister LaBarge its able commander. No raftman’s pile of logs will keep us from reaching St. Joe.”

  “I believe it,” Emma said.

  Mister LaBarge smoothly steered the Sally May back on course. Once again, the pilothouse hummed with the patter of the paddlewheels and the pilot’s low singing. Holding tightly to the wheel handles, Emma gazed ahead. The sky was silver, the water black. She could feel the lure of the river, and she grinned as wide as Mister LaBarge.

  Then shouts of the workers rising from the main deck reminded her of her earlier quest. “Captain Digby, my pony Licorice Twist is penned below on the main deck. I would like to check on him—”

  “Below?” The captain nearly dropped his pipe. Yanking the end from his mouth, he pointed it at her. “Proper young ladies do not go below to the main deck. Your mother would be aghast.”

  “But I need to make sure that Twist is—”

  “Do not fret, Miss Emma. I will personally check on your pony.” He lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t want you to end up like Harry Bixby.”

  “Harry Bixby?”

  Captain Digby nodded. “On our last trip, Harry Bixby, a nosy little boy, had the misfortune to disobey rules and sneak down to the main deck.”

  “What happened?” Emma asked.

  The pilot answered her this time. “Our mud clerk Mister Jenkins caught him.”

  “What did Mister Jenkins do?” Emma asked.

  Mister LaBarge snorted. “Made me stop the boat so he could kick Harry off. Set him on shore—in the wilderness.”

  Emma gasped. “That’s terrible!”

  “Indeed it is.” Mister LaBarge’s mustache twitched. Was he laughing? Emma glanced at Captain Digby. His lips were clamped tightly to his pipe stem but his eyes danced.

  Was the story of Harry Bixby true? Emma wasn’t sure. Grown-ups were always telling tales to make children behave. Didn’t Mama point out—over and over—the lessons to be learned in Aesop’s Fables? But she decided to be careful. It could have happened.

  “A well-mannered girl like you has naught to worry about of course,” Captain Digby added.

  “I suppose,” Emma said. “Will you check on Twist after supper,
then? I won’t be able to rest unless I know my pony has feed and water.”

  “Yes, yes, my dear. This evening,” the captain said. But he sounded almost as impatient as Doctor Burton.

  Emma sighed. Once again, she wished Papa was here. He would know how important Twist was to her.

  “Now let’s get to more tasty affairs.” The captain held out his elbow. “Allow me to escort you to the main cabin and the delicious supper that awaits us. I hear the cook has prepared a bounty of dishes: squirrel pie, possum stew, and who knows what other delights.”

  “Thank you, Mister LaBarge, for a gripping adventure,” Emma said politely to the pilot before leaving. Taking the captain’s arm, she let him lead her from the pilothouse. But she wasn’t thinking of squirrel pie or the near-accident. Her thoughts were on Twist.

  As they entered the main cabin a few minutes later, she realized that Captain Digby had been talking to her. “The Sally May,” he was saying, “is a floating hotel for its distinguished guests. The crew leaves no wish unanswered, no desire unmet.”

  Emma was tempted to ask him, why can’t I see Twist, then? But for once she held her tongue.

  The gentlemen’s end of the main cabin had been changed into a dining room. Waiters bustled to and fro carrying trays of steaming dishes, which they placed on a long table laid with silverware, pitchers, and plates. Most of the ladies and children were already seated. Doctor Burton hurried over as soon as he spied Emma.

  “Allow me.” He held out his own arm to her. “Captain Digby, are you in command of this table?”

  “Indeed,” the captain said. “Miss Emma, I leave you in the doctor’s capable hands.” Then he strode off to greet a group of passengers who were calling to him. Soon he was lost in the sea of diners, and Emma knew there was no use reminding him about Twist.

  “Is Mama not eating?” Emma asked as Doctor Burton whisked her around the table to two empty places.