by Alison Hart
“Deal,” she said quickly. “Now, as for Twist’s care and feeding …” She launched into a list of long-winded instructions.
“And in return for me service, I fancy porkpie topped off with a mash,” Patrick demanded when she finished, as if he was the master and not the worker.
“You’ll get whatever I can hide in my pinafore pocket,” Emma said, “whenever I can sneak below. The third clerk thinks he has to keep an eye on me.”
Patrick nodded as if he understood what she was going through. “‘Tis best to do it at night, then.”
“I’d best head off before Doctor Burton sends out a search party,” Emma said. “He thinks he has to keep an eye on me, too.”
“Too many eyes on you, I’d say,” Patrick said with a grin. Emma had to agree.
She said good-bye to Twist and climbed from the pen, careful not to let her skirts rise up over her knee when she swung her legs over the highest slat.
“Miss Emma, want me to walk with ye to the cabin stairs?” Patrick asked politely.
Emma paused. He was being gentlemanly. And an escort through the riffraff might be safest.
“I would like that. Do you know the way?”
“Aye.” He clambered up the boards again like a squirrel, jumping down on the other side before Emma’s boot toe touched the floor.
“Come,” he said, gesturing for her to follow.
Emma kept close to him as he wound his way toward the bow. She tried to remember the route so she wouldn’t get lost on her next visit. If she expected Patrick to keep his word, she needed to keep hers.
He stopped behind the barrels and pointed to the torch-lighted bow. Emma smiled a thank-you. She was about to step from her hiding place when the pounding of feet on wood made her freeze.
Coming down the stairs were half a dozen waiters carrying pans piled high with food. Behind the waiters, she saw Mister Jenkins carrying a ledger.
Emma bit back a scream. If the mud clerk caught her on the main deck she was done for. He’d tell Doctor Burton who would tell Captain Digby, and just like Harry Bixby, she would be cast ashore at the next stop!
CHAPTER SIX
Grub pile! Grub pile!” the waiters chanted as they headed straight toward Emma.
Deckhands seemed to appear from nowhere. They carried tin cups, spoons, and wooden slabs. In the middle strode the first mate. He swung his gnarled stick, knocking all others from his path so he would reach the food first.
Patrick grabbed Emma’s wrist and pulled her back the way they had come. The hungry deckhands swarmed past, threatening to trample them.
Dropping on all fours, Emma and Patrick scrambled beneath a canvas sheet stretched like a curtain between two pillars. Boots and bare feet narrowly missed tromping on Emma as she pulled her legs under the canvas.
When she dared to look up, she saw tiers of narrow bunks. The crew’s sleeping quarters, she guessed. The area was now empty, but it would soon be filled again when the deckhands brought back their grub.
“This way,” Patrick whispered. Like mice, they scurried under another canvas and alongside a stack of crates. Patrick stopped, peered around the last crate, and pointed ahead. Emma could see one of the torchlights on the bow. While the waiters and Mister Jenkins were busy giving out the food, she could make it safely up the stairs.
“Thank you,” Emma told Patrick. She took one last look around before hopping to her feet and sprinting toward the bow. She rounded the corner and flew up the stairs and out of the cabin. She didn’t slow to catch her breath until she reached the veranda.
Music came from the main cabin. The two girls from the ladies’ parlor were strolling down the walkway toward her. Each was accompanied by an older woman. If they saw Emma, they would wonder about her lack of a chaperone. And if the news reached Doctor Burton or her mother, she’d be forever forbidden to go off on her own.
Emma bolted in the opposite direction, found the door to her stateroom, and threw it open. In the faint light from the kerosene lamp, she could see Kathleen sitting on a stool next to Mama’s berth, her head slumped over. Emma closed the door, and the maid’s chin quickly snapped up. “I only nodded off for a wee moment, miss,” she said, jumping to her feet.
“Is my mother feeling better, Kathleen?”
“Yes, miss.” Kathleen hurried over and poured some water into the washbowl. “Let me help ye wash up.” She handed Emma a bar of soap. “I laid out yer nightgown.”
“Thank you.” As Emma scrubbed, she glanced at Mama, who was sleeping peacefully. Then she thought about the day, and her heart began thumping excitedly.
Papa had been right: this river journey was full of adventure! Her friends at St. Louis School for Girls would be glittery-eyed with envy. Their tea parties and parlor games were dull in comparison. Best of all, she’d found that her beloved Twist was doing well, and she’d even met a stowaway named Patrick.
As Emma dried her face, she couldn’t help but smile. She’d fooled Doctor Burton and Mister Jenkins. Neither had a whit of an idea that she’d gone to the forbidden main deck. Tomorrow she’d have to risk being caught again. Patrick would need food and Twist would need hugs. But for now, she—and her secrets—were safe.
* * *
Emma paced the carpet of the ladies’ parlor. For two very long days, she’d been trapped in the company of those two annoying girls Josephine and Julia, as well as their mothers Mrs. Hanover and Mrs. Ringwald. There had been no chance of going below to the hurricane deck or up to the pilothouse. Doctor Burton surely had no idea she’d snuck to the main deck the other day, but he seemed to be punishing her anyway.
Emma was worried about Patrick and Twist. At supper, she’d stuffed the pockets of her pinafore with bread, sausage, cheese, apples, and nuts in hopes that tonight she could get away. She’d wrapped the sausage in her napkin, but already the grease had soaked into her dress.
“Emma, it’s your turn,” Julia said from the other side of the checkerboard.
“Yes, please sit, dear,” Mrs. Ringwald said. “You’re wearing out the carpet.”
“And your stomping back and forth is quite unbecoming to a young lady,” Mrs. Hanover added.
Without a word, Emma slouched into her chair and pushed her red checker two squares.
“King me!” Julia declared. Emma plunked the only black checker of Julia’s that she had captured on top. Then she crossed her arms and frowned, wishing she was anyplace else.
“You look like a deckhand, Emma,” Julia said. “Grunting and scowling like that.”
Mrs. Hanover gave her daughter a sharp look. “And how would you know about the deckhands?”
“We can see them over the railing,” Julia said quickly.
Josephine giggled. “Sometimes they smile up at us.”
“Josephine!” Mrs. Ringwald placed the back of her hand on her forehead in alarm. “Do you want to find a suitable husband one day?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Then act like a proper lady.”
Emma didn’t listen to any more of this boring conversation. She had important things to think about. Tomorrow the Sally May was scheduled to stop at Jefferson City. What if Patrick was getting off? What if he hadn’t been caring for Twist all this time?
Emma chewed her lip, growing frantic with worry. Suddenly she sprang from the chair, announcing, “Excuse me. I need to check on my mother.”
“But I was about to win,” Julia protested.
“You’re excused, my dear,” Mrs. Ringwald said to Emma. “However, you must go directly to your stateroom. Doctor Burton’s orders. Do you understand? Young ladies do not run wild.” She gave her own daughter a stern look.
“Yes, ma’am,” Emma said politely before hurrying away.
“I’m glad she’s gone,” she heard Josephine say. “So snooty. And did you notice she smelled like sausage?”
Instead of going to the stateroom, Emma made a beeline to the main deck. She found her way past the immigrants, deckhands, and roustabouts who
seemed to occupy every nook. No wonder Patrick was bunking with the livestock.
This time she didn’t get lost. When she reached Twist’s stall, the pony poked his nose over the top board and wiggled his upper lip. “Hello, my precious!” Emma greeted him. “Did you miss me?”
“I surely did.” A face popped up next to Twist’s. “Nearly starved, I am. All these days I been feeding and brushing yer horse like he belongs to the Queen of England, and ye don’t show up with one bite fer me.”
“I couldn’t,” Emma said. “Doctor Burton had two ladies watching me like hawks eyeing a rabbit.”
“Rabbit?” A grubby hand, palm up, slid over the top slat. “Give it here. I like it fried, roasted, stewed—”
“Mind your manners, please.” Emma climbed up the side of the pen. When she swung her leg over, her petticoat caught on the top. Unsnagging the lacy hem, she climbed down next to Twist.
Hungry lips smacked beside her. “Do I smell sausage?”
Emma whirled. Up close, Patrick’s face seemed even dirtier than before, and he reeked of the hogs penned nearby. “Don’t you ever wash?” she snapped.
“Why yes, m’lady. Me servant filled a hot tub last night and scrubbed me down.” His gaze dove to her pocket. “Hurry before I keel over from hunger.”
Emma pulled out some of the food. He snatched the sausage, barely unwrapping it before shoving the whole thing in his mouth. “Weren’t you taught to chew slowly?” she asked.
He laughed, the sound muffled by the mouthful of sausage, then swallowed. “In me family? I would have starved.”
“Where is your family?” Emma asked, feeding Twist an apple.
He shrugged. “Me mum is dead. And me da …” He shrugged. Crouching in the corner by Twist’s bucket, he wolfed down the cheese and bread she had brought.
“My father’s in Kansas City,” Emma said. “We’re meeting him and traveling upriver to St. Joseph. From there we’re going to California to find gold.” Patrick’s eyes lit up at the word gold, but he kept eating. Emma found Twist’s brush on the ground by the bucket. “Do you have brothers and sisters?” she asked, remembering his earlier slip.
“A whole flock of ‘em.”
Emma couldn’t imagine a large family. She was an only child with a bedroom all to herself and two parents to spoil her.
“Aidan, Kevin, Nial, and Ronan are the oldest,” Patrick recited. “Me and me sister are the youngest. Me brothers are still in Ireland with families and woes of their own. When Mum died, they already had too many mouths to feed. So …” His voice trailed away.
“So then you set out for America? Just you and your sister?”
“Just me,” he said quickly.
“How brave.” Emma ran her hand along Twist’s neck, fascinated by Patrick’s story. “So where is your sister now?”
Patrick didn’t answer. “Me gut’s still rumbling. What else do ye have stashed in those pockets?”
Emma pulled out another apple. “I was going to give this to Twist. But since you’re so hun—”
He snatched it from her. “I’ll leave him the core.”
“My, but you’re generous,” Emma said. “Though I must say, Twist’s coat does look silky, and he has a bit of water and hay. I suppose you have earned your keep.”
Patrick nodded. “I guard that bucket with me life so them Germans don’t steal it to wash their babies.”
“Thank you. I promise that next time I visit, I’ll bring more for you to eat.”
He polished off the apple, fed Twist the core, and began to lick the sausage grease from his fingers.
Emma busied herself brushing Twist’s mane. She’d never really talked to a boy before, especially one so dirty and ill-mannered.
“So what’s it like up on the cabin deck?” Patrick asked. “Do ye get sausage and bread every day?”
“Every day.” She didn’t list the other endless meal choices.
“Where do ye sleep?”
“My mother and I share a stateroom. During the day, we spend most of our time in the main cabin. The gentlemen play cards and smoke. In the parlor, the ladies read and gossip. At night there’s music and dancing.”
Patrick stopped licking his fingers and stared at her. Emma decided not to tell him about Kathleen and the other maids who emptied the chamber pots and washbasins. Or about the waiters who served the guests all day and played music all night for their pleasure. Instead she told him a funny story.
“One of the passengers, Missus Thornrose, carries her poodle everywhere. This morning, when the Sally May backed from the woodyard, the poodle leaped from her arms. It must have seen a rabbit on shore because it jumped over the veranda railing and fell into the river. By the hullabaloo, you would have thought Missus Thornrose had fallen in.”
“So that’s the ruckus I heard,” Patrick said.
“The poodle would have been lost except the first mate jumped into the water and saved it. Wasn’t that brave? The deckhands threw him a rope and hauled him and pup aboard. Of course, Missus Thornrose rewarded him with a gold coin.”
Patrick frowned. “Ye want to hear me own story?” he asked, his shoulders hunched in the red jacket. “Early this same morning, I was helping at that same landing. ‘Woodpile! Woodpile!’ the mate hollers before the sun’s barely up. They need strong arms to carry the wood on board, and the captain offered me two bits to help. Four logs at a time, I carried. Two on each shoulder.”
Emma gave him an admiring look although she’d seen many of the roustabouts carrying six.
“The gangplank’s narrow and slippery, and the man in front of me fell into the river. Dropped like a stone and disappeared without a cry. Do ye think the brave first mate dove in after him?”
“Why, of course,” Emma said.
Patrick shook his head. “‘Ah, leave him, he’s just a bloody Irishman.’ That’s what the first mate said.”
Emma stopped brushing. “What happened?”
“The Irishman couldn’t swim. What do you think happened?”
“You mean he drowned?”
Patrick shrugged, which seemed to be his response for just about everything he didn’t care to answer. “Do you know how to swim?” Emma asked him.
He cut his eyes from her.
“I’ll teach you then,” Emma said. “When we get to Jefferson City. That’s our next stop.”
He rose to his feet. “You’ll not be teaching me nothing,” he said gruffly. “By then, I’ll be working full-time with the roustabouts.” He pointed to Twist’s rope. “I’ve been practicing me knots, and one day I’ll be a deckhand. Then I’ll save enough money to travel to the gold mines, too.”
“But you’re just a boy.”
Patrick scowled. “A boy don’t earn his own way, miss.” Picking up the bucket, he plunked it at Emma’s feet. Water spilled over her boots. “Tend yer own pony from now on,” he said. Then he grabbed the top board and vaulted from Twist’s pen.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Patrick!” Emma called. She heard the thump of his bare feet on the floor and saw the flash of a red sleeve. Then he disappeared among the animals.
Twist nudged her side. She turned around and scratched the white star on the pony’s nose. “What a wretch,” she muttered. “He breaks our deal, speaks to me curtly, and soaks my boots. Then he runs off like he has hot cinders in his pants. Just because I called him a boy.”
But he was a boy, wasn’t he? He couldn’t be more than eleven or twelve. Alexander Renshaw, who lived on their street in St. Louis, was about that age. His mama accompanied him everywhere, and he still wore his hair in long curls.
Emma began grooming Twist again. “No matter. He’s only a gutter rat. That’s what Cousin Minna would call him. Besides, I can take care of you myself.” She leaned back to admire Twist’s shiny coat, then looked down at the empty bucket. Patrick had dipped water from the river. How difficult could that be?
She was picking up the bucket when Twist raised his tail. Steamy manure plopped t
o the straw. Emma pinched her nose shut. At home in St. Louis, her job was riding and petting Twist. It was Mister Tommy’s job to keep the stable spotless. Emma had never seen him clean a stall, but she knew he used a pitchfork, which she certainly didn’t have.
“Oh, I wish Mister Tommy were here,” Emma grumbled. The door to the pen was at Twist’s tail end. Still holding her nose, Emma squeezed her way around the pony’s flank. A cord was tied around the post and door frame, holding it secure. The cord was knotted on the outside, so Emma couldn’t open the door from where she stood.
Draping the bucket handle over her arm, she climbed from the stall. When she jumped down on the other side, she stumbled into the bony side of a cow. The animal swatted her with its ropy tail.
Several oxen were tied near the door to Twist’s pen. Emma edged past them and then wound her way between the other pens to the outside edge of the deck. The air was chilly away from the warmth of the animals. Shivering, she stared over the edge, which had no railing. A foot below her, the river flowed inky and cold. She was wondering how to fill the bucket when a skeletal hand rose from the water.
With a scream, she jumped back, her heart thudding. Was it the drowned Irishman Patrick had told her about? Could he still be alive? She forced herself to peer closer, then saw that the bent fingers were only twigs on a branch. Silly goose, she told herself.
Setting down the bucket, Emma stretched out flat, belly down, on the deck. Grasping the rope handle, she carefully dipped the bucket into the river. The pull of the water almost dragged her overboard, but she managed to hang on. Even though the bucket was only half full, she could barely lift it.
This is folly, Emma thought. The river that would lead her to Papa might also take her away from him forever. She could swim, but Patrick was the only person who knew she was on the main deck. If she fell in, she’d be as lost as the Irishman.
But Twist needed water, and she couldn’t count on Patrick, Doctor Burton, Captain Digby, Mister Jenkins, or the first mate to care for her pony.