“Sounds like a good plan,” Brady responded. “I’d love to make another trip on a boat from Cincinnati. Besides, it’s been a month, so all my former injuries have long been healed—it’s a distant memory.”
Mr. Lovejoy chuckled. “I just knew you couldn’t say no.”
“Maybe this time, if I run into trouble, I can somehow invoke the wrath of God.”
“I’d rather we invoke God’s love. At least that’s what I teach in Sunday school all the time. We’d all be much better off living with more love.”
Brady leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. Amazing, he thought. With all that’s going on, that man still has time to teach Sunday school.
* * * * *
The morning fog of mid-September had mostly lifted, but still lingered along some of the recesses of the Ohio River shoreline. A slight chill reminded Brady fall wasn’t far away, although the leaves were fending off any takeover by gold and red hues.
Now, a new sense of optimism stole in with the morning mist. Safely loaded with a crate containing a new press, the Moselle disembarked from Cincinnati. Brady took the opportunity to talk with Pilot Carson shortly after departure. Mr. Lovejoy had sent a letter to Pilot Carson, with bonus money, outlining his wishes.
“I hope you don’t mind my visiting with you, Pilot Carson. Just want to make sure we all know Mr. Lovejoy’s expectations.”
“Yes, I received Mr. Lovejoy’s letter, and I’m prepared to step in when needed. But I need you to tell me when that should be.”
“Understood. I plan to check on the crate frequently, but I’m not going to stay there full-time because I just draw undue attention.” Brady stood silent, then asked, “Where’s your cub pilot today?”
“A last-minute problem came up. I’m going to miss him. I wish I had him here because he’s a gem.”
“Well, just so you know, I’ve had a lot of experience. Not so much on the Ohio, but I know the Mississippi leg from Cairo to Alton like the back of my hand. I love piloting.”
“Is that right? Good to know.” Carson took a big swallow from his coffee mug.
Brady looked out at a passing scow loaded with wood. I’d rather be on this boat than that one, he thought as the two boats passed in opposite directions. The two men remained silent for several minutes.
“So that boss of yours—he’s not afraid to speak his mind.” Carson leaned in toward Brady. “Getting some national attention, isn’t he?”
“That’s for sure.” A hawk sweeping down toward the boat distracted him. “But a strong core of dissidents are fighting him. This is the third press he’s had to order in little over a year.”
“Gosh, that’s something. I believe he should have the right to print what he wants. I just don’t think the country is ready for abolition, though.”
“Well, unfortunately, that’s how a lot of people especially down here feel.” An upcoming point caught Brady’s attention. “Say, I’d better jot down some notes.” He grabbed his notebook off the front panel. “Didn’t realize that reef was so prominent.” After a few quick notes, he returned the notebook.
“Getting back to Mr. Lovejoy,” Brady continued, “I sure do admire how fiercely he’s staked out his position.” He remained quiet a moment, then ventured a probing question. “How do you feel about the problem?”
“Well, I like the compromise of colonization—free all those folks but let them go back to Africa where they came from. Wouldn’t they be happier there than working as slaves?”
“Several years ago, believe it or not, that’s where Mr. Lovejoy was at. But his faith has led him to believe full equality and rights is the only answer, and God has ordained him to help bring that about.”
“Very courageous. I tip my hat to him.” Pilot Carson reached for his cap and tipped it.
Brady stared out the side window as the boat hugged the shoreline. A fish jumped from the water and shook itself in midair as if to bask in a moment of God-given freedom, then fell back into the water with a huge splash.
“I guess I’d better get down to check the crate.”
* * * * *
As the day grew long, Brady made multiple forays three levels down to the main level where all the crates were stored. Unlike his earlier trip a month ago, he kept his distance, watching for any suspicious activity.
When not watching the crate, Brady made a point of visiting with Mr. Carson, sharing his observations about rocks now appearing with lower water levels, the changing shoreline, and sandbars. He was beginning to feel more comfortable with the Ohio River stretch, as this was now his third trip. But as darkness enveloped them, he felt lost. Occasional buoys with lanterns atop them were welcome sights. It was well into the night before they docked in Cairo. Brady slept well, knowing further travel would await morning.
The next day, he forewarned Pilot Carson about his concerns with St. Louis, where they would arrive come evening. He recounted the story of his attack a month earlier. Throughout the day, he found himself rubbing the back of his neck, closing his eyes, and taking calming breaths. Far better to focus on something familiar along the shoreline—a prominent rock serving as a resting spot for a gull. He gulped down dinner, oblivious to what he actually had eaten, and headed down to find a good vantage point from which to spy on the crate.
Once the Moselle had docked in St. Louis, Brady carefully watched each person who walked among the wooden crates. A couple of the large boxes were transported off the steamboat, but the press remained untouched. He released a sigh of relief when two deckhands stood abreast of the gangplank preparing to lift it prior to departure.
But at the last moment, four men rushed aboard. Brady peered intently. Can I recognize any of them? Not in the fading light of early evening. He moved a bit closer, hiding behind another crate. They walked among several of the big boxes, their backs to him. Then one turned around. He was the one who had beat him up before! But what were their plans? They’d missed their opportunity as the boat was already disembarking.
“I’ll look for a wheeled cart,” one of them said, just barely audible over the engine noise.
Knowing he’d better alert Pilot Carson, Brady rushed back up to the pilothouse.
“We’ve got trouble.” He flung open the door and gripped the handle tight to steady his headlong run. “Some bad-looking fellows are eyeing the press crate.” He bent over, bracing his hands on his knees as he drew in heavy breaths.
“Oh yeah? How many?” Pilot Carson bit down on his bottom lip.
“Four, including one I recognize from the earlier incident.” Still gulping air, he was able to stand up straight now.
Pilot Carson lifted his cap and ran a hand through his hair. “Do you think they’re going to try to push it over along the way?”
“Maybe. Not sure. I always thought they wanted to do it where it would get the most attention afterward—you know, like in a port. But in the end, they just want to keep Mr. Lovejoy from printing.” Brady felt his leg muscles tightening, his knees starting to lock.
“Maybe they’re waiting until Alton. We’ve got a bit less than an hour to go.” Pilot Carson looked through all sides of the windows, double-checking his bearings. “I’d better go down and find out exactly what’s going on.” He paused a moment and cleared his throat. “Well, Pilot Scott. You said you knew this part of the river. Are you ready to take over?”
“Without a doubt!” As warmth filled his chest, his cheeks flushed. He offered a crisp salute as he stood a bit taller.
“All right! I’ve got to first round up my firearm. Stay close to the speaking tube. Once I get situated, I’ll try to get in touch from down below.” The way Pilot Carson set his jaw gave Brady goose bumps.
“Cast your worries aside, sir!” Brady stepped to the wheel and grasped it with a firm grip. He peered ahead into the fading evening light. “Yep,” he said, his tense m
uscles now relaxing. “That’s Watson’s Point over there.” With a satisfied smile, he added, “We’re going wide.”
Chapter 19
Brady kept looking over to the speaking tube, waiting for it to live up to its name. Where was Mr. Carson? What was taking him so long? Maybe it was just his own ears. Could it be they were failing him at this critical time?
Finally, the sound of his voice came through.
“Brady, can you hear me?” Pilot Carson sounded out of breath.
“Yes sir. I was beginning to get worried.”
“Sorry it took so long. I’ve got the four guys right here in front of me. I made a few stops first. Pilot Abrams was sound asleep for the early morning shift. I let Captain Francis know what we were up to. He agreed with our plan. I had to tell him you were an expert cub pilot, well schooled in this part of the river. None better!”
“Thank you, sir.” Brady’s heart throbbed as he planted his feet wide.
“Please don’t let me down,” came back loud and clear through the tube.
“Don’t worry, sir.” He leaned forward, looking ahead to make sure he was on track.
“So where was the press crate when you last saw it?”
“Near the center, forward of the engines.” His pulse increased.
“Ah, these blokes have already managed to move it all the way to the starboard gunwale. Don’t know if they could lift it over, but I’m glad I caught them when I did.”
“You bet. So, are those ruffians cooperating?”
“Once in a while, they get a little feisty, and I have to show them who’s boss. The barrel of my musket is always a good persuader. Of course, they keep saying they haven’t committed any crime.”
“Yet,” Brady was quick to add.
“You’re right.” A moment of silence followed.
It was broken by a loud bang at the front of the boat. The banging continued several times until reaching the transom.
Brady winced as, at first, the noise was startling to his jumpy nerves. His heartbeat soon settled, though, as he recognized the sound. It should not be new to an experienced cub pilot.
“I suspect that was a log floater,” Brady offered.
“Your suspicion is no doubt correct—you’ve probably run into one of those before. Don’t worry. May have scuffed up the paint all along the hull, but doubt there are any holes.”
“At least we better hope so, sir.” A quiet lingered in the speaking tube, and Brady held his breath.
“Let me see. What time is it?” Pilot Carson started up again. “We’ve still got about twenty-five minutes before we arrive at Alton. I don’t want to risk bringing these hoodlums up to the confines of the pilothouse. Heaven forbid.”
The tube went quiet again. Then came, “Brady, have you ever docked a big boat like this?”
“Once, but it was in full daylight.”
“I see. Would you feel comfortable doing it at night? If not, I can go roust Abrams up.”
Brady struggled to find the words as he tried to picture himself bringing the large whale to rest at the Alton wharf. Darkness was already beginning to assert its hold on his surroundings. It would soon be ironclad.
“I-I feel good about i-it,” he finally stammered. “It would help if there was more light, though.”
“I can have one of the deckhands put up some more lanterns on the docking side. It’s a good thing we’re going upstream. As long as you cut the speed way down, there’s little risk of overshooting the dock. You’re going to have to use your engine bells to let the engineers on each side know what to do.”
“Yes, I know just where those engine bell pullcords are—right here above me.”
“I’m also going to try to get a clear view of the shoreline and dock from here so I can warn you if you get off track. Got to get another crate moved out of the way first.”
Brady double-checked his own view, wiping with a cloth to remove any glare on the front glass.
“Hey,” Pilot Carson continued with a chuckle, “I think I’ve got four guys here who have already figured out just how to move crates!”
With the pilot’s lighthearted comment, a sense of relief calmed Brady’s body. Before him, darkness had settled in. He tried to locate the moon and was happy to find the three-quarter-full beacon lighting the way. Its radiance shimmered off the waters, quiet but for the boat’s bow plunging headlong in front of him. About twenty minutes later, as he steered around a bend, a slight glow from the town’s lights made it through the nighttime mist. Just ahead on the right, a familiar dock soon appeared.
A minute later came Pilot Carson’s steady voice. “We’re slowin’ her way down now. Pull her down.”
Brady’s pulse seemed to race in contrast with the slowing steamboat.
“Start your starboard turn.”
His heart now pounded in his chest. The rate of turn is the most critical thing.
“Easy now. A bit more. More I said . . . more! What are you waiting for? You’re not turning enough! Wait! Shut down the starboard engine. Ring the bell. Ring it!”
Brady rang the stopping bell so the engineer would close the throttle valve to the starboard engine.
“Okay, let the current push us back a bit. Now move back in. Start up the starboard engine.”
Brady rang the bell. They moved forward again, and he steered a more aggressive turn.
“That’s right. Turn it. Nice, you’re on track. That’s it. You’ve got it.”
A solid bump caused him to lurch slightly to the side.
“Good job. Now two long whistles and one short,” Pilot Carson said with a heavy sigh of relief.
Brady pushed a foot pedal to actuate the whistle two long blasts and one short to announce their landing.
“Tie her up, mates, tie her up,” Pilot Carson’s voice boomed. Then in a softer tone, he directed his comments through the speaking tube to Brady. “You adjusted well, son. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, dear Lord,” Brady whispered to himself, a sense of peace permeating his body.
* * * * *
A flash of light caught Brady’s eye. Peering from the first deck out upon a throng of people greeting the Moselle, he saw lantern light reflect off the constable’s shiny badge. Brady’s eyes moved up to a dimly lit mustached face. Yes, it was Constable Morgan—here as planned to safeguard the passage of the press to a warehouse. Brady exhaled his relief.
Several minutes later, he was on shore greeting Constable Morgan with a hearty handshake. “I’m so glad to see you here, Constable.” Brady smiled for the first time all evening.
“Well, Mr. Lovejoy impressed upon me the importance of all of this. He also sent some people here to help transport the press to the warehouse. We’re planning to post a guard until midnight, as well.”
“Wonderful. You should know there were some characters on the boat with bad intentions. Pilot Carson kept them at bay, so we can’t say they actually committed a crime.”
* * * * *
The following morning, Mr. Lovejoy had asked Charlotte to go check on the press at the warehouse. He had decided to spend the morning at home, helping Celia Ann, pregnant with their second child.
Finding the warehouse door ajar, with no press inside, Charlotte raced with her fears down to the wharf. She dreaded that those fears might get there first. Off the end of the pier, a lonely gull rested upon a piece of metal protruding from the water’s surface. A pain radiated in her stomach like someone had punched her. She couldn’t breathe. Surrounded by fresh air, yet she couldn’t pull it in! Tears flowed down her cheeks, lingering with a biting saltiness on the tips of her lips.
“Oh, Mr. Lovejoy,” she mouthed in pain. “I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry . . . ”
The gull scanned the waters ahead and then seemed to be looking back at her—most oblivious to her emotions. Why was h
e there? For new explorations, new adventures, new opportunities? Some simple words, in poetic cadence, started to form in her head.
A most unusual spot,
But, lo, he knows it not.
A fresh new resting place
In this wide-open space.
His latest vantage point,
But little does he care,
The heartbreak it causes
If he only knew where.
For adventures await,
He must scope them all out.
But, no, that is not yours!
Surely, that can’t I shout?
Charlotte could manage but a whimper. She wept in soft faint gasps. Like a bird, could she somehow look at this as something new? She most certainly could not feel that now. But ever? Was God still to deliver some new opportunity?
Chapter 20
Mr. Lovejoy was so distraught by the drowning of his third press into the Mississippi River, he decided he must get away from Alton with his family. He took them to Celia Ann’s mother’s home some distance away in St. Charles, Missouri.
While there, he had the opportunity to preach sermons at Reverend William Campbell’s church for both morning and evening services. That night, on the way out of church, a stranger approached him discreetly with a note.
Elijah was troubled to read: “Mr. Lovejoy, be watchful as you come from the church tonight.” It was signed, “A friend.” But he proceeded on, inviting Rev. Campbell as their guest.
Nothing transpired on the way home, and Elijah thought no more of the matter until later. Around ten o’clock, as Rev. Campbell, Mrs. Lovejoy, their sick child, her mother and sister, along with Elijah, were occupying rooms upstairs; a loud knocking on the front door interrupted them.
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