He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his glove and points me to a flatboat that sits high in the water on account of not having cargo.

I stare at the boat, hesitating. If Mama is watching, she’ll probably toss in her grave to see me walk over to a bunch of strange men and ask a favor. But I’m Lee McCauley now, I remind myself. It shouldn’t be a big deal.

I leave Peony tied to a dock post, then I hitch my suspenders the way I’ve seen Jefferson do a hundred times and swagger across to the boat like I’ve every right. “Captain!” I stand at the dock’s edge and holler down under the roof. “Hey, Captain.”

A short fellow with a sunburned nose and carroty hair pokes his face out. “Who’s asking?” he says.

“I am.”

“Who’re you?”

“Who’re you?”

He grins. “Red Jack.”

“Are you going to California, Red Jack?”

He steps into the cold sunshine. His feet are bare, and his belly hangs over the waist of his trousers. His suspenders strain to keep them up.

“Lord, no, we’re just heading over to the Mississippi.”

“But you’re taking folks west, right?”

“Are you a friend of Mr. Joyner’s?”

“Never met him. Just heard you were taking people west, and I’m looking for a ride in that direction.”

Red Jack studies me, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to stir loose some thoughts. “We’re taking Mr. Joyner’s family as far as Missouri. They’ll have to walk the rest of the way on their own.”

“How much for passage to Missouri?”

“Rates are up to the captain, who ain’t here right now.” He looks me up and down, taking in my filthy clothes, my second-or thirdhand hat. “But if you ain’t with the Joyners, you ought to know they’ve hired the whole boat for themselves.”

My shoulders slump. “All right,” I say, gazing down the length of the river at all the other flatboats. It’ll mean talking to an awful lot of people, but surely I can find someone willing to take us aboard.

“Ah, don’t go looking all forlorn,” he says.

Another fellow pokes his head out. He’s so tall he can’t stand up straight inside the cabin. His skin is as wrinkled and brown as tree bark, and his twiglike fingers are long and thin. He sees me and smiles, and it’s such a friendly, craggy grin that I can’t help grinning back.

“Are you the captain?” I ask.

“No, name’s Joe.”

Fiddle Joe. He turns away and starts up a fire in the little cookstove perched on the edge of the boat. His back is still turned when Joe says, “You like chicory coffee?”

A cup of warm anything would taste heavenly at the moment. “Yes, sir.”

“Then come aboard.”