My face feels hot under their scrutiny as I stack the last chair. Beneath the roof, the boat is divided into stalls. Some are filled with straw; others are fitted with cots or hammocks. It feels like a barn—a barn on water!—which makes it feel a little like home. I guess it is home for some. I bet the crew spends the whole year on this boat.

These fellows don’t know anything about me, and yet they’ve taken me into their home. I know I’ll be working for my keep, but it still feels like an act of angels when I sorely need one. It’s a second kindness in almost as many days. Not everyone is like the brothers or Uncle Hiram. I’d do well to remember that.

Chapter Thirteen

The flatboat is long and low and dark. It takes a bit of tugging to convince Peony to come aboard. She prances in place in response to the boat’s gentle sway, but she settles upon seeing her stall. It’s dry and has fresh straw and plenty of feed, which seems to be all that matters.

Once she’s out of sight and happily eating, a weight drops from my shoulders, and I can breathe easy for the first time in days.

A slave boy from the general store brings the supplies down about an hour later. I help him unload the cart and carry everything into the empty stalls. I can’t figure what some of the items have to do with gold prospecting—like the two full bottles of laudanum or the Oldridge’s Balm of Columbia for hair and whiskers—but it’s possible Mr. Joyner knows something that I don’t.

The surface of the river is burnished red gold with late-afternoon sunshine when two men roll a huge wagon down to the dock. I stare agape at it, wondering how in the world we’ll get everything aboard. It’s full to bursting with flour, grains, barrels of salted pork, and a whole heap of fancy furniture. There’s a sideboard table, and four high-back chairs. A bed frame and a feather mattress. A lady’s dresser with a gilded mirror. Mr. Joyner said he was moving his whole household, but I didn’t figure that meant his whole house.

We unload it all, every single piece, and it’s a good thing Mama’s shawl is wrapped so tight around my chest because sweat pours down the front of my shirt, making it stick to any available skin.

By the time we finish, it feels like my aching back won’t bear another burden, which is when the captain directs us to disassemble the wagon. I don’t dare complain or show even a hint of weakness, so I go at it like I’m as fresh as the morning.