Leaning over, he kissed her on the cheek and as he straightened, her eyes opened. Delighted, he smiled.
Her peaceful expression turned to one of alarm. “What’s that noise?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I think we should go find out.”
“I agree,” she said, throwing off the blanket and moving to the window to peer out through the breaking dawn. “It’s a race,” she said.
“A race?”
“A steamboat race. It happens all the time,” she explained. “Two captains decide to see whose ship is faster.”
Though her expression was dispassionate, her words struck fear in his heart. He’d read the accounts of the horrific steamboat explosions. Death by fire and water. “We have to get out of here,” he said, taking her hand, and pulling her toward the door.
She went with him. Surely she’d heard of the explosions. He searched his memory, but couldn’t remember if any had happened before 1838, but he was almost certain they had. Either way, he wanted no part of it.
When they got out on the deck, it was more crowded than it had been. They could barely walk, there were so many people. And worse, they were yelling and cheering. Bradley held onto her hand as he pulled her with him toward the railing.
There. He saw the other boat through the mist on the river. Fortunately, the two boats were far apart. “We have to get off of here,” he said.
“And go where?” Camille asked, gesturing toward the river.
She was right. The Mississippi River was so wide, they may as well be on the ocean.
Or in the air. The realization stirred him to action.
He had to get to the captain. He had to get him to stop this insanity. “I have to get to the captain,” he said, yelling so she could hear.
“It won’t do any good,” she said, gazing toward the bank.
“Are we going to miss our stop?”
“Probably.”
How could she be so unaffected? She wiped at her eyes and yawned. She was still half asleep. He smiled in spite of himself and pulled her to him. It was easy to pull her to him in the crowd. No one noticed and it kept her safe. “I have to find the captain,” he said into her ear. “If we don’t slow down, the ship could explode.”
“They do this all the time,” she said. “It’s kind of a good thing. It means we’ll get to Natchez faster.”
“We’re gonna miss our stop,” he said. If we get there at all.
“I’ll wait here,” she said, looking around for a place to sit.
“No way,” he replied. “I’m not leaving you alone with all this going on.” He pulled her by the hand toward the stairs leading up to the captain’s deck.
“We can’t go up there,” she said, pulling back, her eyes wide open now.
He stood, one foot on the step leading up to the captain’s area, and one foot on the deck with Camille. “All right,” he agreed. “You stay right here. I’ll be right back. Don’t move. Okay?”
“Oh.” She scowled. “All right.”
It was the best he could do. He left her standing there and dashed up the rickety wooden stairs leading to the captain’s area. As he neared the top, he heard the Captain yelling at the other steamboat captain.
“You’ll never catch me, you sorry son of a gun! You’re a worthless bucket of steam.”
Bradley smelled the alcohol before he even got to the top step. The captain was swaying and yelling at the top of his lungs. He was a fully bearded fellow with a uniform that had clearly seen better days.
Bradley saw an overhead rope and two ropes leading down. “Sir,” he said. “Captain?”
“Come on in and join the fun, my boy,” the Captain said. “Captain John Crawford is my name.”
“And my name is Captain Becquerel.”
“You’re a captain, too?” he asked, a moment of clarity passing through his eyes, then was gone. Bradley wondered if he imagined it.
“I am. And I’m here to help you.” Bradley took a quick survey of the situation. It was a good thing he was mechanically inclined and he sent a silent thank you to his grandfather for dragging him through all those museums when he was growing up. “How long have you been awake?” Bradley asked, under the guise of making conversation while he assessed the situation.
“Oh, I’ve been awake since time began.”
“Well, in that case, shouldn’t you get a little sleep?”
“I don’t need no shut eye boy. I can stay up as long as my ship can outrun that one over there. That damn Captain thinks he can outrun me. He’s as daft as the day is long.”
While the captain was intent on his rant, Bradley slowly pulled a lever that he hoped would decrease the pressure in the boilers down to a safe level.
The ship began to slow, but the uproar from below on the deck increased in protest.
“Do you have a co-pilot?” Bradley asked, attempting to keep the drunken captain distracted from losing the race.
“Tom? I sent that worthless young’un to bed hours ago. Now my boy is in the boiler room. Let’s tell him to add some more fuel, shall we?” He pulled on the rope that led below.
It was probably for the best. Captain Crawford probably would have sucked Tom into his drunken insanity. The captain was sitting now. Ranting about the other captain, the Mississippi River, and a myriad of other nonsensical things, all the while waving his bottle of liquor.
Bradley knew absolutely nothing about piloting a steamboat, but nonetheless, he grabbed hold of the wheel and hoped he could keep it away from sandbars until the mysterious copilot named Tom showed up. In the meantime, while the captain was distracted, he pulled on the rope that set off the steam whistle which at the same time, decreased the pressure on the boilers. The boy in the engine room was doubtless confused by now, but the ship was slowing and that was all that mattered.
The noise from the crowd below decreased to a low grumbling as the ship slowed to a crawl. Captain Crawford had passed out
“Bradley!” Camille appeared at the door and saw him behind the wheel. “Where’s the captain?”
“Unfortunately, Captain Crawford had a little too much.”
Her gazed landed on the captain, passed out. Her lips twitched up at the corners for a fleeting moment, before she turned back to him, her voice urgent. “We’re not far from Natchez,” she said. “If we don’t stop soon, we’re gonna miss our stop.”
Bradley turned and fiddled with the ropes some more, doing the opposite of what he’d seen the captain do. There was nothing he wanted right now than to get off this boat. “We’ve got to find Tom. Otherwise, there’s no one to pilot this boat.”
“I’ll take care of it,” she said and disappeared as quickly as she had come.
He saw her on the deck below, talking to a couple of men who subsequently scattered. She then gathered up her skirts, turned, and disappeared. A minute later, she reappeared at the door. “Someone is going to wake Tom and I sent for our trunks.” She bit her lip as she studied the large wheel. “Can you get us a little closer to the bank?”
Bradley was already working on that. He saw bluffs up ahead on the right. “Is that it?” he asked.
“Yes. That’s Natchez Under the Hill. We’ll get transportation there and go up to the town. Then…” She locked her green eyes onto his. “Then we can find your sister. Do you know where she might be?”
He turned back to the ropes to avoid her gaze. He’d always pictured her at his grandparents’ plantation, but she could easily have left there by now.
No. He reminded himself that her portrait had been painted and survived close to two hundred years at the house. She would be there. If she wasn’t, they would know where to find her. “Yes,” he said. “I know where to find her.” He even knew the address, but doubted it had an address yet. It would be known as the Becquerel Plantation.
As they drifted toward the bank, the copilot entered the captain’s area. Bleary-eyed from sleep, he took one glance at Captain Crawford and shook his head. “Thank you for bei
ng here,” he said. “That bloody…” he glanced at Camille, “fellow will get us all killed one day.”
“I’m happy I could be of assistance,” Bradley said. “But mostly, I’m happy this is my stop.”
“Your name, Sir?”
“Bradley Becquerel.”
“Ah, the Becquerel name is well-known in these parts. Now you’ll be one who saved the day.”
“Please, no need for that,” Bradley said, a flash of horror going through his mind at his name appearing in the history books and what implications that might spell for his future self. “I was in the right time at the right place.”
“Very well,” Tom said, shaking Bradley’s hand while he kept another on the wheel. “If you ever need a job, let me know and I’ll be more than happy to make sure you’re hired.”
A little light bulb went off in Bradley’s mind and he glanced at Camille. “I may take you up on that,” he said. A steamboat pilot. A worthy career that he hadn’t even thought to consider. He tucked it into the back of his mind as he helped Camille down the narrows stairs to the common deck area and they located their trunks which had been brought up from their cabin.
They got into the small yawl boat and Bradley experienced an intense sense of relief at being off the riverboat coupled with anticipation at seeing his sister again. As they neared land, he was in awe at the sight of Natchez Under the Hill. In his time, it was nothing more than a slice of history visited by the occasional tourist. But here, in this day, Natchez Under the Hill was a small town in itself. It was crowded with wagons full of freight and people on horseback, some apparently just there to see the steamboat.
Once they were on land, they secured a horse and wagon - what appeared to be their version of taxi. Riding in the wagon along the road leading away from the dock, he stared at the booming town.
There was a row of buildings, eating establishments, stores, and what appeared to gentlemen’s clubs if the ladies watching them from the balconies was any indication. He caught himself staring, but got himself in check before getting no more than a raised eyebrow from Camille.
He grinned sheepishly. “It’s much different now,” he said. By standards of the future, the ladies were more than overdressed.
As the smell of food drifted through the air, Bradley’s stomach growled. “Should we get something to eat for breakfast?”
Camille scowled at him. Then laughed. “You’ve never been here before.”
“Sort of, but not really,” he said. “I remember it much differently.”
“Well, you might enjoy eating here, Under the Hill, but I don’t think you want me to be with you.”
“Why not?” He asked, “It smells really good. And I’m starved.”
She leaned over and whispered in his ear. “It’s a place of ill-repute.”
“Ah,” he said, as understanding dawned. He remembered stories his grandfather had told him, but being here and seeing it was an entirely different thing.
“Where are we headed?” the driver called back over his shoulder.
Camille looked expectantly at Bradley. Oddly enough, this was more his territory now than hers. The sensation was a bit disturbing. “Becquerel Plantation,” he said, with all the confidence he could muster given the situation.
“I’ll have you there in two shakes of a lamb’s tale,” the driver said and they rode through town and up the hill to the more reputable part of Natchez.
Bradley marveled at how different everything looked. The unpaved streets. The people on horseback and on foot – all dressed in what looked like formal clothing. The wooden storefronts as they passed through downtown. The white church that still stood to this day.
“We can get something to eat here if you want to,” Camille said as they passed a café.
“Do you want to stop, Miss?” the driver asked.
They agreed to stop and went into a restaurant with white table cloths. Bradley wondered if this was the same building where he had lunch with his grandfather what seemed like an eternity ago.
“This seems familiar to you,” Camille observed.
“A little bit,” he said. “I suppose small towns don’t change as much as cities.”
“But Natchez is a city,” she said, glancing toward the window where people moved to and fro, her expression perplexed.
He smiled. “You’re right. It is.”
Her eyes narrowed. “It is now, but it won’t be.”
The waitress came to their table and they ordered eggs, cornbread, dried apples, coffee for Bradley and cold tea for Camille.
The waitress suggested flapjacks and molasses, so they added that to their order.
As they waited for their food, for the first time since last night, Bradley had the time to just gaze into Camille’s eyes.
She was wearing the same clothes she had worn when they set out on this trip and he suspected that she rarely allowed that to happen.
“It’ll be nice,” he said, “to freshen up and change clothes.”
She agreed whole-heartedly. “We brought all those clothes and haven’t had the opportunity to change.”
“And even after we managed to get a cabin,” he agreed.
“If it hadn’t been for that daft riverboat captain.”
Bradley grew serious. “He endangered our lives. I know I stepped over a boundary with that, but someone had to do something.”
“I was very impressed,” she said.
“Then it was worth it,” he said, the smile back on his lips. “And, who knows, I may have found work.”
“Maybe,” she agreed, lowering her gaze. Before he could ask her about her less than enthusiastic response, their food arrived. He decided to let it go. It wasn’t important anyway.
“It’s to rain,” Camille remarked off-handedly.
Bradley glanced out the window at the bright sunshine. He knew better than to question her though. He learned quickly.
After they finished their breakfast, Camille reached into her pocket and handed him some coins. “For you to pay with,” she whispered.
Bradley paid a man who came around to the tables. He would have to ask her later about females not handling money.
However, once they were back in the buggy, he was reminded that the driver could hear their conversation, so he again, decided not to bring it up.
The driver turned south and headed down what would probably be a highway someday.
They turned down an even less traveled road and Bradley began to recognize landmarks. Not buildings, but the terrain. Then he recognized a house that belonged to his grandfather’s neighbor.
Bradley began to feel fidgety. He felt like he needed to walk or perhaps even get out of the buggy and run, though he certainly wouldn’t get there any faster.
He had the sensation that he was going home. He knew that his grandfather wouldn’t be there, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he would be.
Perhaps it was the weather. There was an electricity in the air. Not only was it going to rain, it was going to storm. The dark cloud was to the east and the wind was picking up.
Whatever it was, the weather or the anticipation, Bradley wanted to be there already. He’d never been on such on interminable long trip.
“Are you alright?” she asked as they turned down an oak lined lane. “You must be nervous about being here.”
He glanced at her, unable to keep his gaze focused on any one thing – even her at the moment. He nodded and she sat quietly next to him.
They rounded the curve and he could see the house up ahead. His drew in his breath sharply. And nearly come out of his skin. It was the same. His head spun a little at the impossibility of being here at his grandfather’s house. In 1838.
Camille reached out and put her hand over his. He felt her support through that simple touch.
“Thank you,” he said, looking into her green eyes before his gaze bounced back to the house.
“We just made it before the rain,” the driver said. “I’d have to sto
p and put the cover up if we had much further to go.”
Even as the driver said that, a raindrop landed on Bradley’s forehead.
As they pulled into the circle drive, Camille handed him some more coins. Bradley took the money, but didn’t bother counting it or worrying about if it was an appropriate amount to pay. He just handed the money to the driver and after getting down himself, helped Camille from the buggy. It was imperative that they get to the porch before the rain set in.
Taking her hand, they raced to the steps leading to the porch. Laughing as they raced to beat the rain, raindrops started falling. Breathless, they gathered under the porch. “You need that umbrella of yours,” she pointed out.
“Where is my umbrella?” he asked.
“I think my father has it,” she said. “He’s trying to find out where you bought it so he can get one like it.”
“I’m glad he didn’t ask me,” he said, wondering how he would explain having an umbrella from Target.
He watched as the driver brought their trunks to the porch. Perhaps the driver should wait for them in case Erika wasn’t here.
Perhaps they should have spent the night in Natchez so they could clean up before coming to visit.
He took a deep breath. Now was not the time for anxiety.
Camille looked at him questioningly. “Ready?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said. Then, going on impulse, he held out his hand and drew her toward him. “Thank you,” he murmured, his cheek against hers. “Thank you for coming with me.”
She didn’t answer. She just put her arms around him and held him close. When he released her, she said. “Come on, let’s find Erika.”
He followed her to the door and lifted the heavy iron door knocker. Dropped it against the door.
Within minutes, a tall black man dressed all in black, appeared at the door. “How may I assist you?” he asked.
In the seconds Bradley was trying to decide the best way to ask for his sister, Camille said, “We’ve come to call on Miss Erika Becquerel.”
When the Stars Align Page 13