I need to wrangle an introduction; it’s not proper to just go over and announce myself.

No, it wouldn’t be proper if I was a girl. Maybe I should walk right up and offer my hand. I take a few steps in his direction, but remembering his reaction to Abel Topper’s interruption gives me pause. If he considered Topper uncouth, then he certainly doesn’t have time for me, with my bad haircut, mud-smeared shirt, and ill-fitting trousers. I pretend to examine the hats on a nearby stand while I try to figure out what to do.

“Say hello to Captain Chisholm for me,” the clerk says.

“I certainly will,” Mr. Joyner says.

Captain Chisholm. That’s who I need to talk to. I dash from the store, looking right and left to make sure Topper is not around. Captain Chisholm, Captain Chisholm, I repeat silently.

The blacksmith is only a few blocks away. I walk fast, but not too fast, hat brim low, hands shoved into my pockets. I glance around one last time before heading into the stable, and I nearly trip over my own feet because Abel Topper is just down the street, broken suspender swinging at his side. I hold my breath as he mounts the steps to a tavern door and disappears inside.

Now is my chance. If Peony isn’t shod yet, we’re leaving anyway.

“You’re in luck, lad,” says the blacksmith’s apprentice, coming toward me. “Just finished with your pretty mare.”

My relief is so great I nearly stumble. “So fast!”

He shrugs. “You’re paying for it.”

I fumble for my money and hand him two dollars. “Thank you.”

“Heading west like everyone else?” he says.

I almost deny it, but I get a better idea. “Sure thing. Heading to Kentucky on the Federal Road tomorrow.”

“Well, good luck.”

Peony nickers in greeting, and I drag her from the stables. I ask the first person I bump into: “Which way to the landing?”

“You’re close enough to smell it,” he snaps, and he walks off.

I sniff the air; he’s not wrong. Following the fishy, rotten vegetable scent of slow water, I head toward the riverbank and see it at once. I stare, mouth agape.

A line of flatboats hugs the river’s edge. They seem as rickety as rafts, but they’re eighty to a hundred feet long and covered with low roofs. One is full of cattle; others are stacked with barrels, which men are rolling down the riverbank. In the middle of the river, a small, rocky island serves as anchor for a swing ferry. A thick line of people stretches along the landing as they wait their turns to cross.

“Where can I find Captain Chisholm?” I ask one of the men rolling barrels.