Even the two children carry bulging satchels. At the family’s feet is a huge luggage trunk, which will probably take all four of us to haul inside and which Coney the dog is now giving a thorough sniffing.
Red Jack shares an amused look with me before grabbing a couple of satchels. “That’s a fine rocking chair we just loaded,” he says by way of conversation.
Mr. Joyner nods solemnly. “I’m having my whole house disassembled and floated downriver on another flatboat,” he explains as we work. “When it reaches New Orleans, it’ll be loaded onto a ship and sent down to Panama, where it will be trucked across the isthmus and then loaded onto another ship and transported up the coast to California. We’ll have our own familiar home waiting for us—walls and all—when we get to San Francisco. We’re only bringing with us those things essential to our overland journey.”
I had no idea packing up a whole house was possible—or that a dressing table could be considered essential. “Why didn’t you go the same way?” I ask.
He seems startled that I would dare speak to him, but he answers nonetheless. “And expose my wife and children to the harsh climates and rough heathen of Panama? Or the relentless waves of the Pacific? Never. Besides, the trip across the continent will be an adventure, something they’ll remember for the rest of their lives. Isn’t that right, Andy?” He tousles the boy’s near-white hair.
“Yes, Pa,” Andy says, but he gazes wide-eyed at the decking before him. The river is choppy with activity, which makes the boat pitch and sway. He slips a hand into his mother’s.
Mrs. Joyner is stiff beside her husband, and I’m put in mind of an egret, the way the woman’s senses are attuned to everything around her, the way she stands so pale and frozen, but perhaps ready to launch into graceful flight if startled. She squeezes her son’s tiny hand, saying, “It’s God’s will for America to cover the continent from sea to sea.” Her voice is soft, and it seems to have a question in it. “We’ll be part of something grand, helping spread civilization into the wilderness.”
“That’s exactly right, dear,” Mr. Joyner says.
I imagine civilization as a bag of seeds that she’ll be scattering along the roadside as we go. Like Johnny Appleseed. The thought makes me smile, but she glares at my grin like I’ve done something wrong.
“Come along, children,” she says, pointedly turning her back on me.
“Yes, Ma,” they chorus as she herds them aboard. I stare after them, wondering at “Pa” and “Ma.” I’ve never heard anyone call their parents that before.
“Hello,” someone says in my ear, and I whirl. It’s a gray-haired lady in sensible navy wool, with a straw hat and a patched satchel.
“I’m Matilda Dudley,” she says. “The Joyners’ cook. But you can call me Aunt Tildy.”
I tip my hat. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’m Lee.”
She chatters at me while I continue to load cargo, explaining all the ways in which she has served the Joyner family over the years, from tending their herb garden to caring for the children.
I don’t discourage her from talking, but her friendly prattle sets me on edge because the flatboat, which originally seemed huge, is shrinking rapidly. I don’t know how I’ll keep my identity a secret aboard this floating homestead, with all of us crammed in like sheep in a pen. How does anyone attend to their private business on a boat like this? What if I need to launder my shirt?
“That’s enough, Aunt Tildy,” Mr. Joyner interrupts finally. “No need to bore these gentlemen with ancient history.”
“Yes, sir!” she says. Then she continues, unabashed, “You know, it’ll be a wonderful thing to see the wild frontier. They say it’s summer all the time in California.”
If a sweet dumpling took human form, it would look just like Aunt Tildy, right down to the flour-dusting of her gray hair. When she starts to argue with Joe about who’s going to do the cooking, I dare to hope I won’t be eating runny, oversalted eggs again.
Mr. Joyner gestures to the captain. “Everything’s aboard. Why aren’t we under way? California’s not getting any closer while we tarry.”
“Soon enough, sir,” Chisholm calls out.
He calls the crew over and says to us in a low voice, “We’ll just push off and float a few miles until dark. Make our passengers happy.”
It’ll make me happy too. Once we’re under way, it’ll be harder for Uncle Hiram to find me, either by accident or on purpose. Almost everyone in Chattanooga who might remember me—or Peony—is aboard this boat.
“We won’t try to pass the rapids today, will we?” Red asks.
“Not on your life,” says the captain. “Or mine.” Then he turns around, and the size of his voice turns from pistol shot to cannon fire: “Get ready to push off!”
Red and Joe untie the ropes tethering us to shore. The animals, crowded inside their swaying barn, start lowing and kicking. Coney launches onto the roof and barks at nothing in particular. Mrs. Joyner brings the children to the open bow of the boat and says something about beginning a great journey.
I glance around, feeling useless. “What should I do?” I ask.
“Grab a pole and push off,” says Joe, lifting his pole high with both hands to show me. Red and the captain already have theirs in hand, and the three men space themselves along the side of the boat.
I see where the poles are stored and grab one. It’s heavy and at least twice my height. It thumps and scrapes along the deck as I hop onto the roof, dragging it up behind me. I maneuver it around, whacking Joe in the back of the knees.
“Hey!”
“Sorry!”
He glares at me while I jab the end into the shore and push.
“Your grip is too far back,” Joe warns.
The pole sticks. Our boat slides away, but my pole won’t come free. I yank harder. The pole starts to slide through my hands. I’m leaning over the edge, tipped precariously over the water.
“Joe!” I holler.
Joe darts over and grabs the back of my trousers. “Let go.”
“I’ll lose the pole!”
“Then go with it,” he says.
I let go, and the pole sticks out of the mud a moment before slowly drooping down and sinking into the water.