The Book of Lost Friends(40)

There’s something peculiar about this boat, Gus says. Something wrong. Folks talk in whispers if they talk at all, and the Genesee creeps along like a ghost not wanting to be seen by the living.

“We ain’t movin’,” I whisper to Gus.

“Wooding, I bet. Must be we come in at another farm landin’. Don’t hear no town sounds.”

“Me neither.” Ain’t unusual for a boat to stop off no place particular to take on fuel. Swamp folk and farmers make their living woodcutting for the riverboats. White folk doing what used to be the work of gangs of slaves.

The cotton bales shift like something’s shoved them hard. The palace sways over our heads, two bales falling together, wedged shoulder to shoulder. “What if they’re taking on more than just wood, or bringing goods off the boat?” I whisper.

Gus casts a nervous look. “Hope they ain’t.” He wiggles to a stand, whispers, “We best git.” Then he’s headed down the tunnel.

I snatch up my hat, dig out Missy’s reticule, shove it in my pants, and start pushing and wiggling like a burrow rabbit with a camp dog at the door. Shucks and twigs pull at my clothes and slice ribbons in my skin while I struggle toward the clear, trying to hold up the walls as I go. Dust and cotton fills the air, falls in my eyes till I can’t see, clogs my nose so I can’t breathe. My lungs squeeze and I keep pushing on. It’s that or die.

Men outside holler and shout orders. Wood hits wood. Metal rings on metal. The floor lists sidewards underfoot. The cotton walls lean.

I hit the end of the tunnel and fall out onto the deck, half-blind and choking on the dust. I’m too turned round to even worry if anybody saw. Getting air again is all that matters.

The light outside is barely gray, the hanging lamps still burning. Men run everyplace, and passengers in deck camps scramble from their bedrolls and tents to grab buckets and carpet bags, smoking pipes and skillet pans that’re sliding downhill as the Genesee Star leans in the water. There’s too much fracas for anybody to notice me. Roustabouts and white men scurry with bundles, crates, and barrels on their backs. Bringing on a new load of cordwood, they’ve got the boat too overweighted on one side. On account of her shallow hull, she’s started to roll. She groans as she ticks another notch sidewards. The main deck goes anthill crazy, men and women snatching up pokes and dogs and children, screaming and yelling, livestock carrying on. Chickens flap in their cages. Cows bellow loud and long and slide against the cow pens. Horses and mules dig for footing on the deck boards and thrash the stalls and whinny. Their calls carry off into blue-white fog so thick you could scoop it with a spoon.

Wood splinters. A woman screams, “My baby! Where’s my baby?”

A boatman hurries by with a load of wood. I figure I’d best get out of here before he has a good look at me.

I move toward the stock pens at the middle of the main deck, thinking I’ll slip closer by the stalls where Old Ginger and Juneau Jane’s gray still are, and pretend I been sent there to calm the horses. But there’s so much commotion, I can’t even get near. I end up pushing myself against the rails on the shoreward side, figuring if the boat goes over, at least I’ll jump. I hope Gus is where he can do the same.

Just as quick as she started leaning, the Genesee lets out a heavy moan and rolls back upright in the water. Goods and people slide and clatter. Horses and cattle clomp and fuss. Folks rush to set the mess right.

It’s a while before everything quietens and the crew’s back to bringing wood up from the landing. Down on the riverbank, there ain’t much more than a little cleared spot along a wide sandy stretch. It’s piled high with cut wood. Colored roustabouts and even some passengers hurry up and down the ramp, moving the load onboard. Seems like they’re putting more weight on this boat than she oughta hold. They want her loaded down with as much fuel as she can carry. The Genesee ain’t planning on stopping till a ways upriver.

Might be you’d do best to get off now, Hannie, I tell myself. Here, and then follow the river back home.

Something hard and wet hits my ear so sudden, sparks bust out behind my eyes and my head rings like a church bell.

“Get to work, boy.” A voice pushes through the sound. A knotted hank of rope skims down my shoulder and leg and lands on the deck. “Tote wood. You don’t get paid to stand lookin’.”

Pulling my hat low, I scurry down the ramp and scrabble round with the others, tying bundles and toting them up on my back. I carry all I can. I don’t want to get whipped again.

The deckhand hollers, “Haul that wood! Haul that wood!”

Someplace above the ruckus, I hear Moses’s deep voice. “Even out the load! Step up, now, step up!”

I keep my hat low and move in a line with all the others. Don’t look at anybody. Don’t talk. Make sure nobody sees me in the face.

This’s a sign to you, Hannie, I tell myself as I work. You got yourself a way off this boat. Right now. You got a way to leave, go back home. Just duck into them trees.

Every trip down, I think, Do it, now.

Every trip up, I think, Next round. Next round, you do it.

But I’m still there, back on the boat when all the wood’s loaded. The Genesee Star looks like a pregnant woman overdue for the birthing, but she’s level in the water, at least.

I stand at the slats near the back, watch the men finish offloading sugar, flour, crates, and barrels of whiskey to pay for the wood. Last thing they do, before swinging in the ramp, is clear folks out of the way and lead two horses down. One sorrel, one silver-white.