by Alison Hart
“She is still tired. Your servant girl will take a tray to her.” He pulled out a chair. “Sit, child. We must eat before the table is empty of food.”
Emma slid into the seat. She took off her hat and placed it on her lap. In front of her, a mountain of cold meat rose from a platter. To her right and left were bowls heaped with food. If this was supper, the lightest meal of the day, she doubted the table would ever be empty.
“Emma, look lively.” Doctor Burton thrust a tureen at her. Impatiently setting it down, he grabbed a platter and spooned a mound of spiced pigshead onto his plate.
Emma stared at the contents of the bowl beside her. Fish heads and tails floated in a murky sea of broth. She was still deciding whether she was brave enough to try it when the diner next to her snatched up the tureen.
“You, waiter! More bread!” Doctor Burton called. Cries for more soup, more pastries, more meat rose in the air. The room echoed with the clattering of forks and clinking of spoons.
Emma filled her own plate with cheese, nuts, fruits, and a roll. While she ate, she watched the other diners, who chomped and slurped as if their manners had been left ashore.
When she had eaten as much as she could, Emma dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Doctor Burton, were you able to check on Twist today?” she asked.
“Of course,” he replied, his gaze intent on a platter of turkey. “Your pony is fine.”
“Thank you,” Emma said. But as she watched Doctor Burton gnaw a drumstick, an unladylike thought came over her: the doctor was not telling the truth. Slowly, she picked up an almond. “And was his stall knee-deep with straw?” she asked. She popped the almond into her mouth, trying not to sound too curious.
He nodded as he tore off a chunk of meat with his teeth. “Soft as a feather bed.”
“And his mane and tail white as snow and brushed until silky?”
“I brushed them myself.”
Narrowing her eyes, Emma stared at the grease dripping from his chin. Doctor Burton was not telling the truth. Twist’s mane and tail were coal black.
Angrily, she grabbed two apples from a fruit bowl and stuck them into the pocket of her pinafore. Then she dropped her napkin on the table and stood. She could spin her own tale. “I’m going to check on Mama,” she announced. Then, she thought, I’ll go and see Twist.
Doctor Burton grunted a reply. When his attention was on a tray of cakes, Emma slipped from the table. She spotted Mister Jenkins three chairs down, surrounded by young ladies. Obviously delighted by their attention, the clerk was waving as if telling an exciting sea story. Shielding her face with her hat so he wouldn’t see her, Emma hurried from the main cabin.
The outside air was refreshing, and she breathed deeply. The wind ruffled her hair and she dangled her hat over the railing. A sudden gust of wind almost sent it into the night. If I let it go, would it fly upriver all the way to Papa? Emma wondered. She missed her father so much.
The miners tell tales of gold nuggets the size of fists, he’d written in his last letter. Prospectors are growing rich. Business men are finding new opportunities. I think of you every day, my precious wife and daughter. Together we will head to California, which holds the promise of fortune for all.
A stateroom door opened behind her, and light spilled onto the veranda. Emma yanked back her hat, startled. She remembered her mother’s sharp words: young girls do not wander unescorted. She sighed, feeling torn. Like Papa, she longed for adventure. Yet she didn’t want Mama to fret.
Escaping from the light, she trotted down the walkway. The door to their stateroom was closed. She opened it slowly, peering inside. An oil lamp cast a golden glow. “Mama?”
“Emma?” her mother whispered from the bottom berth. Emma shut the door, set her hat on a hook, and tiptoed toward the bed. Mama pushed herself into a sitting position, and Emma plumped the pillow behind her.
“Are you all right, darling?” Mama asked as she ran her hand over her daughter’s unruly curls. “You look as if you were tossed by a storm.”
“I’m fine, Mama. I was in the pilothouse with Captain Digby and Mister LaBarge. Did you know we almost ran over a raft?”
“Almost ran over a raft?” Mama sank onto the pillows. “Do not tell me these stories, Emma. They make my heart sink. Oh, why did I consent to this journey?”
“But Mama, we must be with Papa. It’s been ages and I miss him so.” Emma kneeled on the floor. Her mother had always been strong and brave. The past month, though, she’d been sickly and anxious, and Emma was growing impatient.
“I know, dearest. I miss your father as much as you do, and I’m eager to reach him before …” Mama’s voice trailed off.
Emma frowned. “Before what?”
“Before the creaking and shaking of this boat drive me batty,” Mama said quickly. “But I must not bother you with my worries. You are just a child. Is Doctor Burton keeping you safe?”
“Yes, ma’am. As are Mister Jenkins and Captain Digby,” Emma fibbed, not wanting to vex her mother further. “And I’m not a child,” she added.
“Is that so?” Mama smiled and Emma was glad to see her happy again. Perhaps she was feeling better. But then her mother laid her arm over her eyes as if the light from the lantern hurt them. Abruptly, her head tipped sideways.
“Mama!” Emma jumped up. “Where’s Kathleen?” she asked.
Just then, the door leading into the main cabin opened, and the servant girl stepped into the room carrying a tray.
“Kathleen, why did you leave my mother?” Emma demanded.
“I was fetchin’ her supper, miss,” Kathleen said.
“A waiter can bring her meals.”
Kathleen bobbed her head.
“She is feeling faint, I think,” Emma said.
“Yes, miss,” the Irish girl said. “I’ll see to her.”
Emma glanced back at her mother. Mama gave Emma a weak smile and waved her away. “I’ll be fine, sweetheart,” she said. “Go.”
“Yes, Mama,” Emma said. When Kathleen bent to set down the tray, Emma opened her small trunk and found Twist’s brush. She stuck it in her empty pocket. Before she left the room, she looked back at her mother one last time and saw that she was sleeping.
The veranda walkway was dark except for an occasional lantern hanging from a hook. Everyone was in the main cabin, dining. Afterward, there would be music and dancing. No one would miss her.
Emma glanced toward the bow and the stairway to the main deck. This was her chance.
Proper young ladies do not go below. She shook off the thought and headed down the walkway.
Emma knew from Captain Digby that the steamboat’s boilers, cargo, and livestock were on the main deck. She knew it held the deckhands’ living quarters, too. But Emma wasn’t interested in any of that. All she wanted was to see Twist.
She would avoid the engineers at the boilers. She would steer past the firemen and the wood-burning furnaces. And wasn’t she far too clever to get caught like nosy Harry Bixby?
Yes. Emma broke into a run, her boots thudding on the wooden walkway. She didn’t stop until she’d reached the stairway. This time, she didn’t hesitate on the top landing. Without looking back, she clattered down the steps into the dangers of the main deck.
CHAPTER FIVE
Emma froze at the bottom of the stairs. A deckhand stood on the bow, lighting the pine knots in a torch basket. They sizzled and spit, then began to flame. When he moved to the next one, she skittered behind a stack of cotton bales.
Heart thumping, she peered around. The burning torch baskets, which slanted over the water, cast a confusing web of shadows from the lines, rails, poles, and booms.
Emma shivered in the chill night air. She had no lantern, no candle, no shawl, and no notion where Twist might be. This had been a foolish idea, she now realized.
The deckhand swung around, heading toward her hiding place. She said a silent prayer for courage and darted from the bales to a cluster of barrels. When she crouched besi
de them, a voice hissed, “Be gone. No room ’ere.”
Emma started. In the glow of the torchlights, she made out two figures: a man and woman huddled between the barrels. A worn-out blanket covered the woman’s shoulders. Beneath the folds, a baby whimpered hungrily.
“Pardon me,” Emma whispered. Crouching, she hurried toward the back of the boat, past more cargo piled high and neat. She paused to get her bearings. A lone lantern hung from a peg on a wooden pillar. In its circle of light, two deckhands were playing a dice game. Suddenly a quarrel arose, and one man leaped to his feet, a knife flashing in his hand. Emma gasped as he slashed at the other man’s arm, ripping the sleeve. Then both men fled into the shadows.
She pressed against a crate, her pulse racing. Something sharp pecked the back of her neck. She spun around. The beady eye of a rooster glared at her from the slatted crate. Cocking his head, he ruffled his feathers angrily.
Emma crept away, following the path of the quarreling deckhands. A blast of heat hit the side of her face. In the light of the flames, she saw bare-chested firemen throwing logs into the boiler. Their skin gleamed with sweat.
One of the firemen paused to stare at her. His skin and eyes glowed red, making him look like a demon from one of Preacher Hobson’s sermons. Emma gulped and hurried from the roar of the fire. Beyond the boilers, she heard other sounds: coughing, murmuring, a lullaby sung in a strange language.
As Emma’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, she noticed that every nook and cranny was filled with people. They were stretched out on trunk tops, squeezed between boxes, hunkered behind hogsheads. Two little girls swaddled in rags slept in a coil of ropes. A woman wearing a shabby scarf sat on the top of a wooden crate. A toddler lay across her lap, chewing a crust of bread. A man walked by Emma, carrying a bucket. She pinched her nose at the stench.
Immigrants. Or, as Doctor Burton called them, riffraff. She’d seen them board the Sally May earlier, but she hadn’t given them another thought.
A mounded blanket next to Emma’s feet wiggled as if alive. Beside her, a woman propped against a trunk pleaded, “Miss, can you spare a sip of water?”
Emma backed away. Then she realized how priggish she was acting. Mama believed in alms for the poor and pity for the foreigners. Besides, this woman might know where to find Twist.
“I’m sorry, but I have none,” Emma said to the shawl-covered gray head. She was careful not to get too close, wary of lice and fleas. “Ma’am, do you know where the animals are stabled?”
The woman pointed a bony finger aft.
“Thank you.” On Emma’s left, a potbellied stove smoked. Twenty or more immigrants were huddled around it. They murmured to each other in languages that Emma didn’t recognize. At the St. Louis School for Girls, she’d only studied French and Latin.
Emma hurried past, finding more cargo beyond the ring of stove light. A pinch of fear made her tremble. She hugged her arms against her chest, suddenly realizing that she was lost. She sidled behind a crate, not wanting to attract attention. At any moment the immigrants might rise up, steal her boots and apples, and toss her overboard.
Panic filled her. She’d never find Twist in this shadowy maze. She needed to get out. But which way was back to the stairs? Then Emma heard the loveliest sound in the world: the low of a cow. Hopeful once more, she made her way toward the sound. It was dark, but she could tell by the stomp of hooves and the smell of manure that she was close to the livestock. Reaching out, she felt the rough, slatted boards of a pen. A slimy nose tickled her fingers and a hog grunted. How was she was going to find Twist in this sea of animals?
“Twist?” she called, hoping that her pony might hear her voice. “Twist?” she called again as she moved aft, using the boards to guide her.
A high-pitched whinny rang from somewhere in the midst of the animals. Tears sprang into Emma’s eyes as she hurried toward the neigh. The backs and heads of the animals were silhouetted against the light of the lanterns. Emma spotted the wide horns of oxen and the giant ears of mules, but no horses. Where was her pony?
“Twist!” she called again. A fuzzy black muzzle poked over a top board. “Thank heaven, it’s you!” Emma began to cry as she climbed blindly into the pen, not caring if she landed on a piglet or milk cow. She dropped down next to her pony, who whickered furiously. “I’m so glad I finally found you. Are you all right?”
Clasping her arms around Twist’s neck, Emma hugged him tightly. Then she ran her hands from his withers to his flanks, making sure he wasn’t hurt. He seemed to be fine. She looked around her. Twist was indeed in his own stall. But it was so tiny that the pony couldn’t move front to back or side to side, much less turn around. And even if there had been room, the pony’s head was tied to the front board with a rope in a tangled knot.
“Oh, Twist. You must long for your huge stall and grassy paddock at home,” Emma said. “At least someone bedded this pen with straw,” she added as she inched her way toward the front. “But where is your water bucket? Your grain? You must be thirsty and hungry.”
Trying to find the bucket, she ducked under Twist’s neck. The toe of her boot hit a lump that yelled, “Get off me, ye sot!”
Emma screamed as a figure rose from the straw and a scarecrow of a boy glared at her. She jerked herself upright. “Get off you?” she said. “What gall! This is my pony’s private stall, not a gutter rat’s bed.” She gave him a hard kick.
“Ow!” The boy threw up his hands to shield himself. “Stop!”
Emma stopped, but she kept her foot aimed at him. In the dim light she could see that he wasn’t much older than she. He wore a threadbare red-checked jacket. Its sleeves were too short, and the denims that barely reached below his knees were patched.
“What are you doing in here?” she demanded.
“What’s it look like?”
Her mouth dropped open. She’d expected a meek reply. “It looks like you’re stealing my pony’s bed!”
“Stealing?” He snorted. “Yer wee horse invited me to share the stall.”
“He did no such thing.”
“He did.” As if to show her the boy was telling the truth, Twist snuffled at the straw poking from his reddish brown hair.
“Well, he only likes you because you smell like a horse.” Emma wrinkled her nose to prove her point.
At that, the boy scrambled to his bare feet, his fists clenched. Emma shrank behind the safety of Twist’s head.
“Don’t worry,” he snapped. “I wouldn’t hit a girl. Me mum taught me manners.”
“Good,” Emma said. “I’d hate to think my pony invited a ruffian to share his stall.” She cocked her head as he brushed off his tattered trousers and jacket. “What are you doing back here with the animals?”
“No room anywhere else.” He patted Twist with genuine fondness. “We were sleeping good ‘til some lass started shouting, ‘Twist! Twist!’” He imitated Emma’s voice perfectly. “Her yelling could’ve waked me dead grandmum.”
Emma bristled. This boy was not only smelly, but also very cheeky. “And did you pay passage for these sleeping quarters?” she asked.
Even in the near-dark, she could see the shift of his eyes.
“I knew it. You’re a stowaway.” Emma said the word half in disgust, half in awe at his daring. “I read about stowaways in My Boys’ and Girls’ Magazine and Fireside Companion. They sneak onto a boat and—”
“Hush now,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the lantern light. “Or the engineers will hear ye and toss me off this ship. Look, I did ye a favor. Yer pony had no water. I found a bucket and dipped some from the river. He drank as if he was empty.”
Emma softened. “Thank you, um …”
“Patrick. Me name is Patrick O’Brien.”
“Pleased to meet you, Patrick. My name is Emma Wright and my pony’s name is Licorice Twist. Because he’s so black and sweet.” Patrick gave her such a blank look that she knew he’d never heard of the candy, let alone tasted it.
Twist n
uzzled her side. “Oh, I almost forgot, my precious, I brought you a treat.” She pulled an apple from her pocket and fed it to the pony. As Twist crunched on the fruit, Emma glanced sideways at the boy. He was staring at the apple, licking his lips. “I have another one.” She handed it to him, careful not to touch his dirty palm. He bit into it and chewed slowly, his eyes closed as if enjoying every morsel.
“I guess stowaways don’t get food,” she said.
He stopped chewing and squared his shoulders. “I won’t be a stowaway for long. I aim to work off me passage.” He pointed at the knot tied in Twist’s rope. “I’m practicing me sailor knots.”
“I know Captain Digby and Mister LaBarge, the pilot,” Emma said, “Perhaps I can put in a good word.”
“Thank ye, but I need to join the crew without the captain knowing I snuck on board. I don’t want them throwing me and me sis—” Abruptly he stopped talking and took another bite of apple.
“Your sister?” Emma said in surprise. “She’s a stowaway, too?”
“No,” he said, climbing up the boards that formed the pen wall. “I’ll be off now.”
“Wait!”
He stopped but didn’t look back at her.
“Perhaps we can come to an agreement,” Emma called. “I need someone to look after Twist. It pains me to learn he had no water.” She pulled the brush from her pocket. “And he’s used to having a clean stall and being groomed every day. Surely you’d rather sleep here than with the pigs?”
The boy looked at her, the lantern light full on his face. Emma realized he might be a stowaway, but he had fair features and an agreeable, honest look about him. “Perhaps we could make a deal?”
He frowned. “Like what? Ye don’t tell the captain or the mate I’m a stowaway, and I don’t tell him a cabin passenger is below where her don’t belong?”
“Um, no. You’ll get to share Twist’s stall in return for caring for him.”
“I ain’t no stable boy,” he said, sulking.
“I could bring you food.”
Patrick arched one brow, as if interested. Finally, he nodded. “Deal, then.” He dropped back into the stall, holding out his hand to shake. Emma shrank from the gesture—no servant or hired worker had ever dared offer his hand to her.