by Alison Hart
Kathleen nodded. “I certainly can, miss.”
“Oh.” Emma blinked. Now Kathleen sounded as prideful as Patrick. For a moment, she was envious. But she quickly shook away the feeling. How could she be jealous of a maid and a stowaway? Besides, she would soon be on her own adventure with Papa.
“The way is clear, ladies,” Doctor Burton said, puffing his cigar. “Walk carefully across the gangplank.” He guided Mama across the deck.
Emma started after them. Suddenly fingers clawed at her shoulder, pulling her back. “Miss Emma!” Kathleen cried out. “Yer hat’s on fire!”
CHAPTER NINE
Emma froze. Sizzling sounds came from atop her head. Heat frizzled her hair. Kathleen grabbed the straw hat and threw it on the deck. It fell against a cotton bale. Flames licked at the cotton and ignited it.
Stunned, Emma stared at her burning hat.
“Get back, miss!” Kathleen pushed her aside and began stomping the hat. A spark jumped, catching the hem of her uniform, where it blazed up and flared like golden wings.
Emma gasped. “Fire!” she shouted, finally finding her voice.
Someone shoved past her and tossed a bucketful of water onto Kathleen’s skirt. It was Patrick. “Get another one,” he ordered Emma. He handed her the bucket, then knocked his sister to the damp deck and rolled her around. A roustabout grabbed the bucket from Emma’s arms and ran for more water. Other workers rushed up to douse the smoldering cotton bale.
Emma helped Kathleen to her feet. “Are you all right?”
The maid was dazed and her hem charred, but she nodded. “Yes, miss. Thank ye for calling for help.”
“Thank you, Kathleen, for swatting off my hat. I need to thank your brother as well.” She nodded at Patrick, who was tossing another bucket of water on the cotton bales.
Just then the first mate bustled into the fray. “What numskull tried to burn up the boat?” he asked. He snatched up what was left of Emma’s hat and waved it in her face, scowling. She shrank from the smoking brim and his furious glare. “Was it you, miss?”
Patrick stepped in front of Emma. “It were an ash,” he said. “Probably from a man’s cigar. It fell onto her hat. She is not to blame.”
“It did happen that way, sir,” Emma added meekly, thinking of Doctor Burton. Then she mustered some Cousin Minna courage and glanced at the first mate. “I would be a numskull to set my own hat on fire, wouldn’t I?”
The man’s frown deepened. Around them, deckhands and roustabouts had gathered, as if watching a play in the theater. Emma swallowed hard, waiting for him to order her off the boat. Or worse, flog Patrick for speaking up. But with a shrug, the mate threw the hat overboard.
“These boats are floating woodpiles,” he said. “Everyone must be careful at all times.” He jerked his thumb toward the roustabouts. “Now pop yer eyes back in yer turtleheads and get these bales unloaded,” he told them, aiming his words toward Patrick as well. “This ain’t a holiday.”
Emma blew out a relieved breath. “Come, Kathleen, we must find Mama and Doctor Burton.” Tilting her chin, she marched across the deck to the gangplank. All who had been watching must have thought her a puffed-up goose who needed rescuing by a maid and a boy.
Servants must obey us, Cousin Minna often said. Even if it meant risking their lives to save a silly girl from fire? Emma frowned. As she crossed the gangplank, she realized she hadn’t thanked Patrick. But when she jumped onto the wharf and turned around, he had disappeared.
The landing was packed with people searching for family, workers unloading cargo, and townspeople pulling carts. Emma peered through the crowd, hunting for Mama’s velvet cloak and Doctor Burton’s top hat.
“Miss Emma!” the doctor’s voice thundered over the noise. “Come, child. You are giving your mother fits. She feared you were lost.”
“Not lost, just on fire,” Emma muttered to no one as she and Kathleen hurried toward the doctor. Mama stood next to him on the stoop of a building, a piece of paper in her hand. Was it the telegraph from Papa?
Emma broke into a run. The streets were muddy and her boot heels sank deep.
When she leaped onto the stoop, Mama asked, “Emma, what happened to your hat?”
“Nothing … I mean … the wind blew it into the river. Is that from Papa? What did he say?”
“Yes, dear,” Mama said, smiling down at the telegraph. Her face glowed for the first time since they’d started the journey. “He eagerly awaits us. If all goes well, we will see him in three days.”
Emma sang out a loud hurrah, startling the strollers on the street. The cigar almost fell from Doctor Burton’s mouth.
“Emma,” her mother scolded. “Young ladies do not make such public displays. Now we need to purchase a new hat for you. And Kathleen”—she gestured to the maid—”we need to find you a new dress. That one is strangely black and tattered and won’t be suitable for the rest of the river journey.”
Kathleen curtsied. “Thank ye, ma’am. Thank ye very much.”
“Yes, Mama. Thank you.” Emma tried to sound grateful, too, but her thoughts were on her father. As the four of them made their way to the general store, her heart continued to sing silent “hurrahs.” In three days she’d be with Papa!
* * *
That evening the Sally May departed for Lexington. Emma headed to the main deck after supper, a bunch of carrots hidden under her pinafore. At the general store, she had begged her mother to buy them for Twist.
Mama had eyed her suspiciously. Emma had hastily told her that Mister Jenkins had promised to take them to the pony. The pockets of her pinafore held other treasures from the store: sardines wrapped in paper, a box of crackers, and a licorice twist. “Since when do you have a taste for sardines?” Mama had asked. “Always,” Emma had assured her, not telling her that they were for an Irish lad she needed to thank.
If I can find him, she thought as she hurried past the stove on the main deck. She had no idea where Patrick might be. Working with the roustabouts? That meant he’d forsaken her pony. Guilt tugged at her as she imagined Twist, his tongue hanging with thirst. The carrots were an apology for forgetting him and spending the afternoon in Jefferson City. She loved her pony more than she loved anyone else except Mama and Papa. Not seeing to his care was unforgivable.
“Horses are dumb beasts,” Cousin Minna had remarked the only time she’d gone to the stable with Emma.
Cousin Minna isn’t always right, Emma decided. The sun was setting, lighting the shadowy main deck with a glow. Emma passed a family huddled in a cave they’d made of some crates. The father was breaking a hunk of cheese into pieces. Four grubby children stuffed the bits into their mouths. A baby, wrapped in a thin blanket, screamed in his mother’s arms.
As the children chewed, they stared at Emma with hollow eyes. She had just finished a meal of roast turkey, rabbit stew, and apple pie. She ducked away, her insides twisting at the thought of this family’s hunger.
At home in St. Louis, their servants had eaten well. After Papa left on his trip, Emma often sat in the kitchen with Mister Tommy and Cook eating scones thick with jam. Their laughter had made the house less lonely.
“Twist!” she called when she finally reached the animals. A neigh greeted her, and Emma’s heart thumped with joy. She climbed to the top of the pen. Her pony gazed up at her. His thick forelock was brushed smooth; his star shone pure white. A full bucket of water stood in the corner. The stall floor was freshly bedded.
For a moment, Emma was too astonished to move. Who had cared for her pony? Had Captain Digby ordered one of the deckhands? Had Doctor Burton paid Mister Jenkins? Then she noticed the new sailor’s knot tied in the rope. Patrick?
“‘Tis about time ye showed up,” Patrick said from behind her.
Startled, Emma lost her grip on the board and tumbled backward. She landed with a thump on the side of the milk cow, who mooed with annoyance.
Emma scrambled to her feet, tugging her skirt over her pantaloons. Manure s
tains dotted her pinafore and bits of straw stuck to her sleeves. “You should warn a lady when you approach,” she scolded, flushing with embarrassment.
“A lady?” He laughed and leaned against the slats. A porkpie cap that matched the red checks in his jacket was angled on his head, making him look older.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “And where did you get that cap?”
“I bought it in Jefferson City with me pay.”
“Pay?”
“Aye. First mate likes me mettle.”
“And does he like it that you’re a stowaway?”
He glared at her from under his brim. “Are ye aiming to tell him?”
Ignoring him, she reached for the top board. Patrick was up and into the stall before her. She hugged her pony, who snuffled her pinafore. “Here my sweet, I brought you a treat from the general store.” She held out the carrots.
“Well? Are ye?” he demanded.
“I got something for you at the general store, too.” She pulled the paper package and crackers from her pocket.
Patrick took them and settled in the corner to eat. “I gather that means ye won’t tell him.”
“I gather you’re still caring for Twist?”
“A deal’s a deal.”
“Thank you. I’m glad we agree on something.” While Emma brushed Twist’s glossy coat, she watched the Irish boy eat. First he unwrapped the paper. Then he carefully laid three sardines across a cracker and stuffed it in his mouth. “You thought a fancy cap was more important than food?” she asked him.
He shrugged.
“In three days Mama and I meet my father,” she went on. “Then we’re traveling to California. Kathleen says you’re traveling there, too.”
Patrick stopped chewing. “You talked to me sister?”
This time Emma was the one to shrug.
“We have grand plans,” Patrick said.
“Perhaps you could travel with us? I could ask Papa.”
The boy frowned. “As yer servants?”
“Of course. Your sister is already planning to leave the employ of the steamboat. She could continue caring for—”
Jumping to his feet, Patrick tossed the paper and cracker box to the floor. “We don’t need yer charity. Nor yer wages.”
Emma sighed. This boy certainly was touchy. “Then how do you plan on paying for the long trip to California?”
“We’ll manage without ye.” Patrick jerked his thumb at Twist. “Look, miss, I’ll continue caring for yer wee horse. But when we reach St. Joe, our deal is over and we’ll part ways.”
“You are so ungrateful, Patrick O’Brien,” Emma said as he climbed over the pen wall. “Perhaps I should have tattled on you to Captain Digby after all. Perhaps then you’d be more grateful for the offer.”
Jumping to the ground, he turned and glared at her again through the slats. “And perhaps we should have let yer spoiled self burn up along with yer hat!”
“Spoiled?” Emma huffed. “For that you will not get your licorice!” she added, but he had already run off.
Fuming, she tackled Twist’s tail with the brush. Perhaps it was just as well Patrick hadn’t accepted her offer.
Her mother had grown to depend on Kathleen. The girl would have been great help on the journey west. But Patrick? He was a pigheaded boy who had neither proper manners nor clean clothes. Although …
Tipping her head, Emma thought for a moment. The first mate was right about one thing: Patrick did have mettle. Hadn’t he shown his true worth during the fire? Hadn’t he also kept his side of the deal even though she hadn’t been very nice to him?
A gentleman always keeps his word, Papa often said. Patrick was more gutter rat than gentleman. However, Emma decided with a smile, her papa might just like him.
CHAPTER TEN
Ice is clogging the river,” Mister LaBarge warned Captain Digby.
Emma peered out the front of the pilothouse, spotting the sharp, glistening chunks that floated on the river. The chill morning air blew through the open window, and she wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck.
“It might break the paddlewheels,” Mister LaBarge continued. “And steering ‘round the Lexington Bend is dangerous enough without ice.”
“Aye.” Captain Digby clenched his pipe stem firmly between his teeth. “We’ll moor at Lexington until the sun melts the ice. After that, we’ll waste no more time tackling that devil of a current. The passengers expect to reach St. Joe in two days. And by golly, I aim to have them there.”
“Mama received a telegraph yesterday from Papa. He’s riding south to Fort Osage,” Emma told the men excitedly. “I hope this pesky river and its currents don’t keep us from meeting him. He says he can’t wait any longer to see Mama and me.”
Captain Digby and Mister LaBarge exchanged glances. “And perhaps he’ll be meeting someone else,” Mister LaBarge said, winking at Emma.
Emma frowned. “No, no one else,” she said. The two men started chuckling, and she wondered what was so humorous.
“Miss Emma, go below to help your mother prepare for landing,” Captain Digby said abruptly. “And be quick.” He was staring out the side window. Emma craned her neck to see why he was so eager to get rid of her.
Near shore, two towering black pipes jutted from the water. For a moment, Emma didn’t realize what they were. Then she exclaimed, “Captain Digby, are those steamboat chimneys?”
“Aye. That’s what’s left of the Martha Bee. Now, get below.”
Emma continued to stare, her eyes wide. A crow perched atop one of the chimneys was the only sign of life. “What happened?”
“It’s best not spoken of, miss,” Mister LaBarge said. “We don’t want bad luck traveling the river.”
“Bad luck? Did it sink?”
“Enough questions.” Captain LaBarge shooed Emma away with his hand. “We’ll be tied up in Lexington only a short while. I reckon your mother could use the fresh air.”
“Yes sir.” Emma rushed from the pilothouse, a brisk wind almost toppling her as she struggled across the hurricane deck. She held onto her new straw hat, glanced at the chimneys one last time, and shuddered. Perhaps Mister Jenkins would tell her the story of the Martha Bee.
Few strollers braved the morning, which was dark with billowing clouds. Missus Thornrose strolled with her poodle, and Emma gave them a wide berth. She wished she could take Twist out for air. Each day the main deck grew smellier and her pony more restless.
She had no idea what to expect when her family finally reached St. Joe. Papa had written of purchasing mules and a wagon. But these past two days, Mama could barely move from bed to washbasin. How was she to travel across the vast wilderness to California?
Perhaps Mama simply suffered with seasickness, and a night on land would cure her. Emma was tired of the steamboat, too. She was weary of the noisy paddlewheels, the stifling staterooms, and the boring ladies. The prairie is an ocean of grass and flowers, Papa had written. A gallop across the prairie on Twist’s back would be joyous.
Emma hurried down the stairs to the cabin deck. Mister Jenkins, who was bustling up the walkway, bumped into her. “Pardon me,” he said, his gaze on the ledger in his hand.
“You are pardoned.” Emma fell into step beside him. “I gather you are busy as we near Lexington?”
“That is true.”
“Too busy to see the wreck of the Martha Bee?”
“It is bad luck to speak of wrecks.” He lowered his voice. “And even worse to speak of the dead.”
“There were many?”
“Indeed. Many immigrants, deckhands, and roustabouts perished. When a boiler explodes, those on the main deck rarely survive.”
An explosion! Emma stopped in her tracks. She clutched her middle, thinking of Patrick and the families who traveled on the main deck. But she felt better when she remembered Captain Digby’s reassuring words: the Sally May is a floating fortress and Mister LaBarge its able commander.
“I just came f
rom below,” Mister Jenkins went on. The man did like to talk. “The engineer discovered a broken section of paddlewheel. It needs to be repaired. Captain says we’ll be docking in Lexington for the night. Will you help me pass on the word?” When Emma nodded, he strode off, pausing here and there to tell other passengers the news.
Emma found Mama and Kathleen in the ladies’ parlor. Mama sat on a sofa, sipping tea and listening to Mrs. Hanover prattle on about nothing. Kathleen hovered nearby, her hands primly clasped together.
Emma skipped across the carpet. “We must pack a valise,” she said dropping to her knees beside Mama’s skirts. “We can stay the night in Lexington.”
She told them Mister Jenkins’s news. Immediately, Mrs. Hanover rose. “Dear me. We must hurry if we are to find accommodations.”
“Go tell Doctor Burton,” Mama told Emma as she struggled to stand. Kathleen darted over to help her. “Oh, a night sleeping on a feather bed on dry land,” Mama said. “I have prayed for this.”
“I’m sorry it will delay our reunion with Papa, though,” Emma said.
Mama smiled. “Perhaps he will join us in Lexington. He is not far off.”
“Perhaps.” Emma thought excitedly of the possibility. “We must find a boarding stable for Twist, too. He is miserable below.”
“Twist is an animal, Emma.” Mama steadied herself on the back of a chair. “He will be fine onboard.”
“No, Mama, he will not. And I will hold my breath until you agree he needs fresh air just as we do.” Inhaling noisily, Emma squeezed her lips together and her cheeks puffed out like sails in the wind.
Mama raised her eyes to the heavens. “You will be the death of me, child.” She sighed. “Find Doctor Burton and inform him that Twist is to be—”
“Thank you, Mama!” Before her mother could change her mind, Emma raced to the gentleman’s cabin. As soon as Doctor Burton saw her coming, he slapped his cards face down on the table. “This time you will not give away my hand.”
Emma rushed to tell him the news about landing. All the men at the table threw down their cards and rose, knocking over chairs in their haste. “Come.” She tugged on Doctor Burton’s sleeve. “Help me unload Twist.”