“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 inside 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 makes 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.”

“Understood, sir.”

“This table and chairs get stacked in that nook.”

Seconds pass before I catch on. I jump up. “Yes, sir!”

I try to tuck all three chairs under one arm, but they slip from my grip and clatter to the deck. So I pick up two and run to put them away, then come back for the last.

The crew stands at the bow, smoking their pipes, watching me.

“Please tell me I was never that green,” Joe says.

“Ha,” the captain says. “Don’t let Joe fool you, boy. I signed him on to do unskilled labor too.”

“Thirty-four years old before I ever set foot on a flatboat,” Joe says. “If an old dog like me can learn it, you’ll do fine.”

My face feels hot under their scrutiny as I stack the last chair. Beneath the roof, the boat is divided into stalls. Some are filled with straw; others are fitted with cots or hammocks. It feels like a barn—a barn on water!—which makes it feel a little like home. I guess it is home for some. I bet the crew spends the whole year on this boat.

These fellows don’t know anything about me, and yet they’ve taken me into their home. I know I’ll be working for my keep, but it still feels like an act of angels when I sorely need one. It’s a second kindness in almost as many days. Not everyone is like the brothers or Uncle Hiram. I’d do well to remember that.

Chapter Thirteen

The flatboat is long and low and dark. It takes a bit of tugging to convince Peony to come aboard. She prances in place in response to the boat’s gentle sway, but she settles upon seeing her stall. It’s dry and has fresh straw and plenty of feed, which seems to be all that matters.

Once she’s out of sight and happily eating, a weight drops from my shoulders, and I can breathe easy for the first time in days.

A slave boy from the general store brings the supplies down about an hour later. I help him unload the cart and carry everything into the empty stalls. I can’t figure what some of the items have to do with gold prospecting—like the two full bottles of laudanum or the Oldridge’s Balm of Columbia for hair and whiskers—but it’s possible Mr. Joyner knows something that I don’t.