Emma's River

by Alison Hart

  Hugging her pony, Emma wallowed in her sorrow. For months, she’d waited and prayed to see her father. The day was almost here, but there would be no joyful reunion. Emma pictured the immigrants’ babies. They had mouths forever wide with crying and hunger. Mama would be burdened. Papa would be as disappointed as Emma was.

  To make matters worse, she’d forgotten to ask her mother about hiring Kathleen. Now it was too late. The maid would not want to care for Mama and a demanding little baby. Emma would never see Patrick again.

  When she’d run below to see Twist, she’d tried to find her friend. But Patrick wasn’t among the shouting deckhands. And the roustabouts, who scurried to and fro with no thought of who was under their feet, had sent her fleeing to the animal pens.

  “It’s not fair, Twist,” Emma continued to complain. “I never asked for a brother or sister.”

  She heaved a sigh, and the smell rising from the animals stung her throat and nostrils. After the fresh air of Lexington, the stench in the pens was unbearable. Twist reached around and snuffled her leg.

  “I bet you miss being on the farm,” she said to him. “And you’ll miss Patrick, just as I will.”

  Spritzing noises from outside the pen caught her attention. Holding onto the pony’s mane, she leaned close to the wall of the pen and peered between two boards, hoping to see Patrick. A woman was sitting on an overturned bucket, milking a cow. Beside her in the straw, a baby’s round face peeked from a blue-fringed blanket.

  Screwing up its brown eyes, the baby began to scream. The woman turned, dipped a finger in the milk, and stuck it in the child’s mouth. For a moment it sucked hungrily, then again began to cry.

  Emma frowned. Will I never get away from babies? She listened for sounds that the Sally May would be departing. Why was it taking so long?

  Finally, above the infant’s howling, she heard the hiss of rising steam and the thunk thunk of the paddlewheels. At last they were getting underway.

  She slid off Twist’s back. “Soon we’ll be landing in Kansas City, and I’ll be hugging Papa,” she told the pony. “Perhaps I’ll feel better then.”

  Giving Twist one last pat, she let herself out the pen door. As she made her way to the stairs, she kept her eye out for Patrick’s red jacket. She spotted him on the starboard side of the stern, reeling in lines. She waved to him, but he turned away as if too busy to bother with her.

  “Stubborn boy,” Emma muttered as she headed upstairs. The cold wind had let up a little, and the boiler deck was filled with passengers. Emma loosened the scarf around her neck as she climbed to the hurricane deck. Captain Digby stood between the two chimneys on the bow. He was hollering at the deckhands through the megaphone.

  Emma hurried to the pilothouse. Standing on the steps, she poked her head inside. “Is everything full steam ahead for the Sally May?” she asked Mister LaBarge.

  “Aye, Miss Emma. We’ll need all she’s got to make it ‘round the Lexington Bend. The strong current and ice are still making it treacherous.”

  “Full speed!” Captain Digby shouted, as if he’d heard the pilot’s words. “We’ll crush this ice and beat this river or my name isn’t Thomas Digby!”

  Emma and the passengers cheered on the captain. All were eager to reach Kansas City. Mister LaBarge rang the bells, and Emma heard the roar of the boilers below. She peered over the wheel, trying to glimpse the “treacherous Lexington Bend,” but saw only river and shore.

  “Emma!” someone called. Doctor Burton was gesturing from the Texas stairs. “Your mother wishes to see you. You have a new sister.”

  Emma didn’t move. A sister. A jarring thought hit her: What if Papa wasn’t angry when he saw the new baby? What if he loved her sister more than he loved her?

  “There is another surprise as well,” the doctor added over his shoulder. “So come quickly.”

  “I don’t wish for any more surprises,” Emma said peevishly. But Doctor Burton had already gone. She scuffed her boot on the pilothouse steps, certainly not wishing to see that new sister.

  Twist and I will just stay on the Sally May, Emma decided. She would work as a chambermaid like Kathleen. Or learn fancy knots and be a deckhand like Patrick. Later the three of them would travel together to California, pan for gold, and open a laundry. This new plan pleased Emma greatly. Saying good-bye to Mister LaBarge, she started below to make sure Mama was all right. She was curious about this new baby who was causing so many problems.

  Emma headed for the stairs on the right side of the stern, nearest their stateroom. Suddenly a loud boom filled the air, and she was knocked to the deck. Her straw hat flew off. Cinders and splinters pelted her back.

  Gasping, she flipped over and tried to figure out what was going on. Flames shot in the air. Roiling clouds of smoke hid the pilothouse and the Texas deck. She couldn’t see Captain Digby or Mister LaBarge anywhere.

  The Sally May had exploded, just like the Martha Bee!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Emma heard an ear-splitting shriek. One of the boat’s chimneys appeared through the smoke like a ghost and fell toward her. Scrambling to her feet, she raced for the stairs. She took them in twos, tumbling down the last steps to the hurricane deck. The chimney hit the deck above her, rattling the entire steamboat. Planks snapped, and she scuttled like a crab behind a crate.

  She covered her head with her arms. Cries came from all directions. Footsteps pounded past. Flames licked at the crate. Mama. Twist. Patrick. Kathleen. A jumble of names flew through her head. I must find them!

  Peeking up, Emma searched for the stairs to the cabin deck. The steamboat groaned as if in pain and began to tilt. Was their boat sinking like the Martha Bee?

  Fear and smoke choked her, but she could still see the stairs on the starboard side and the crush of passengers streaming down. Keeping low, she darted toward the stairway and clambered down to the cabin deck with the crowd.

  There she froze while the rest of the people pushed past. What was left of the veranda railing stood in broken, jagged spikes. Cabin doors, which had been blown open, flapped like heavy wings. Billowing smoke filled the walkway in front of her and Mama’s stateroom.

  With another groan, the steamboat listed sharply, tossing Emma against the inside wall. Palms flat against the siding, she made her way in the direction of their stateroom. “Please keep Mama, Kathleen, and the baby safe,” she prayed.

  A man and woman rushed from a cabin, their faces spattered with blood. The man held the lady’s elbow tight, guiding her. “Leave the boat, child, before it sinks,” he said to Emma as they passed. “Save yourself. There is little left of the bow.”

  A sob welled in Emma’s throat. I can’t leave. Mama and the baby might be lying helpless in the berth. She had to find them.

  Bending over, she coughed to clear the soot that seared her lungs. Just then, another explosion rocked the steamboat. Emma grabbed a support post. A section of the veranda roof collapsed and splashed into the river.

  Her heart hammered in her chest. “Courage,” she told herself. Pressing her scarf against her mouth and nose, she plunged down the walkway and into the smoke. At the same instant a man burst from it and plowed into Emma. His hair was singed, his eyes bloodshot and wild. She fell backward, crashed through the broken railing, and hurtled downward. Landing with a smack in the river, she instantly went under.

  Icy water closed around her like a black curtain. It pulled at her skirts and heavy boots and tightened the scarf around her neck. Emma ripped off the scarf, her arms and legs flailing. At last she reached the surface, gasping for air. A piece of flat wooden roofing banged into her. Ignoring the flash of pain, she grabbed the board and pulled herself onto it.

  Shivers racked her body, but she swiped the water from her eyes and peered around. The current was spinning her downstream. She caught a glimpse of the Sally May—or at least what was left of the steamboat. The chimneys and the pilothouse were completely hidden in the smoke.

  Emma remembered Mister Jenkins
’s tale of the Martha Bee. When a boiler explodes, he’d said, those on the main deck rarely survive. That meant Patrick, Twist, and all the crew and deck passengers were probably gone. What about Mama, Kathleen, the baby, and Doctor Burton? If only she had made it to the cabin. Could she have saved them?

  Hot tears rolled down her cheeks. Dragging herself higher onto the board, she glanced toward the riverbank. Townspeople were streaming down the bluff and along the wharf. She tried to call to them, but no one could hear her.

  She looked back to the water just in time to see a length of railing coming toward her, its splintered end as sharp as a lance. She kicked, trying to move her makeshift raft out of the way. But the rail rammed her left arm, ripping her dress sleeve and knocking her off the board. Emma struggled to keep hold of it, but the current pulled her under. She swam to the surface, gulping for air. Her left arm throbbed, and she could feel her strength ebbing.

  She kicked and paddled, struggling to keep her head above water. Again she looked back at the wreckage. The Sally May was sinking, its stern stuck in the air like the tail of a duck bobbing for fish.

  Mama, I’m so sorry, Emma whispered. She was exhausted and numb with the cold. Still she kept paddling, until at last she found another piece of wood to grab onto. Holding tightly, she let the current float her downriver for what seemed like forever.

  Suddenly the water began to churn. Emma sputtered and raised her head. She heard a snort and a splash. A black animal appeared beside her. Its nostrils flared pink; its eyes were white-rimmed.

  Twist! Grabbing the pony’s long mane, she used her last burst of strength to drag herself onto his back.

  The pony swam toward shore, his legs thrusting powerfully. Boxes, crates, and boards bobbled around them along with a pillow, a man’s hat, and a lady’s parasol. Then Emma spied a piece of red-checked cloth, puffed with air.

  Patrick? She grabbed the jacket, felt the weight of a body. The current tried to suck the cloth from her fingers, but she held on. When Twist reached shallow water, he lunged forward. Emma fell off and found footing, her boots sinking into the muddy bottom. She tried to grasp the jacket collar with both hands. Her fingers were stiff and her left arm had no feeling, but somehow she managed to turn the body over. It was Patrick. Happiness brought tears to her eyes when she saw he was gasping a little.

  Still clutching the collar, Emma dragged the boy from the water. Exhausted, she collapsed onto the riverbank. Her soaked skirt weighed down on her legs like a sheet of lead. Her boots felt like sodden bricks.

  Twist sloshed from the river onto the bank. Snuffling Emma’s hair, the pony whickered anxiously. His mane dripped and his chest was covered with mud.

  “Thank you,” Emma whispered as she stroked the pony’s muzzle. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.” He still wore his halter and rope. “How did you get loose?” She examined the end of the rope. It wasn’t frayed or torn. Had Patrick untied him? Had he made sure that Twist wasn’t trapped when the boat sank?

  She crawled across the gravelly beach to Patrick’s side and placed her cheek by his mouth. A whisper of breath brushed her skin. Emma wept, thankful he was alive. He was cold, but she had nothing dry to cover him with.

  Wiping her tears, she sat beside him. After the chill of the river, the afternoon sun felt warm. She looked upstream to the tiny speck of the Sally May. Several rowboats floated around the tip of the stern. Were they searching for survivors? A thimbleful of hope rose within her. Perhaps Mama and the others had made it after all. Emma remembered those spiteful thoughts she’d had about her mother and the new baby. How she wished she could take them back.

  Beside her, Patrick moaned. Emma leaned over him. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was coming in wheezy gasps. When she felt his hands, they were icy cold.

  She needed to find help right away. Twist stood behind her, munching a tuft of grass growing from the bank. She’d never be able to lift Patrick onto the pony. Riding for town would be the fastest way.

  Emma forced herself onto wobbly legs. Holding onto Twist, she checked him for injuries. Finding none, she tried to mount. But when she raised her left arm, a wave of nausea set her head to spinning and she dropped back beside Patrick in a heap of soggy skirts. Gingerly she touched her arm. Her fingers came away sticky with blood.

  “Emma!” A voice came from the river.

  She looked up to see a man frantically rowing toward shore in a small boat. He was bearded, but she recognized the worried brown eyes. “Papa!”

  “I can’t believe I found you, child!” The hull of the skiff ground against the beach. Papa tossed the oars inside and scrambled out of the boat. Stooping, he gathered her to him. She buried her face in his jacket coat and cried with great noisy gulps. “Papa, you’re here! But Mama, the baby, oh … I tried to reach the stateroom but I couldn’t … and now they’re gone and I didn’t tell Mama how much I loved her.”

  He stroked her hair. “Mama and your little sister are fine.”

  “Fine?” Emma pulled back to search his face for lies. “How can that be? The Sally May exploded.”

  “I helped them escape. I arrived in Lexington about an hour before the Sally May left the dock. I made it onboard just as your sister was born.”

  “You were the other surprise Doctor Burton was talking about,” Emma said.

  Papa nodded. “Yes. When the first boiler exploded, Doctor Burton and I carried Mama from the cabin to the stern, which was slowly sinking. Kathleen took the baby. A fisherman nearby saw us and rowed us ashore in his boat.”

  “What about Captain Digby and Mister LaBarge?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, Emma. We will pray for the best. Now, let’s get you to town. Your skin is like ice and you’re trembling with cold.” Taking off his jacket coat, he wrapped it around her. When the fabric touched her left arm, she winced.

  “You’ve quite a gash, I see. And it is still bleeding.” Hastily, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped her upper arm carefully. “That will do until I get you to a doctor. Come. I’ll take you in the skiff.”

  “W-w-we can’t go without Patrick and Twist,” she said, her teeth beginning to chatter. “They s-saved my life.”

  “Patrick?

  “Y-yes.” Leaning over, Emma touched Patrick’s hand. “He’s … he’s …” What? An immigrant? Stable boy? Deckhand? “He’s my friend.”

  Papa knelt to inspect him. “He has a pretty good lump on his head, but his pulse is strong. The boat will hold only you and me. I’ll come back for him and Twist or send someone. I promise.”

  “No, Papa. I won’t leave without Patrick or my pony.” Emma recognized Mama’s steely tone in her own voice. “We can put him on Twist. I can use my good arm.”

  To show she meant it, Emma stood. Swaying, she picked up Twist’s dangling rope and led the pony beside Patrick.

  “All right then.” Papa scooped up Patrick and draped him over Twist’s back like saddlebags. “Can you lead the pony? That way I can walk alongside and keep your friend from falling.”

  Emma nodded. Gritting her teeth against the pain in her arm, she struggled up a path worn in the bluff. Twist walked slowly, one hoof in front of the other. Emma’s feet slid in the sandy earth, and she almost toppled over. With her right hand, she held onto the pony’s neck. Finally they reached the top.

  There Emma halted, her eyes widening. A clover-sprinkled field stretched west from the riverbank. It was dotted with survivors from the Sally May. Some were sitting up, some lay quiet. Doctors with medical bags and townspeople moved from one injured person to the other.

  Patrick groaned again. His eyelids fluttered. “Papa, he’s coming to,” Emma said. Just then, a man pushing a handcart spotted them and hurried over. He helped Papa lift Patrick from the pony and into the cart.

  The man introduced himself as Mister Kerry. “The injured are being taken to the Lexington church where they’ve set up a hospital,” he told them.

  “Thank you, Mister Kerr
y.” Papa bent so he was eye level with Emma. “Into the cart with you, too, daughter. I need to see about Mama. She’s in Doctor Burton’s care at a hotel. If she’s feeling up to it, I’ll bring her to the church to see you. She’s out of her mind with worry.”

  “But first you’ll take Twist to the livery?” Emma gave the pony one last hug. “He saved Patrick and me.”

  “I’ll see that he gets proper care.” Gently her father hoisted her into the cart next to Patrick.

  Mister Kerry started off at a trot, and soon her father and Twist were far in the distance. Emma hated to leave them, but she knew Patrick needed a doctor. With each jostle of the cart, pain washed over her and chills wracked her body. Still she shrugged off her father’s jacket and laid it over Patrick. “You’re safe now,” she told him, even though he hadn’t opened his eyes and didn’t seem to hear. And taking his icy hand in hers, she held on to him until they reached the church.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Emma huddled in the first pew, a dry shawl draped over her shoulders. Her damp, stocking-covered feet were warming on a heated rock. A muslin bandage was wound around her throbbing arm. A wood stove burned nearby, and she had finally stopped shivering.

  Patrick was lying on the pew, his bare feet sticking out from the blanket someone had spread over him. Every once in a while he stirred and muttered something Emma couldn’t understand, but he was still unconscious. A white bandage angled over his forehead, making him look like a pirate. His head rested on a Bible, and his red-checked coat was hanging on the end of the pew.

  Moments ago, a doctor had checked on Patrick. “He’s a strong lad. He just needs time to recover from the blow to his head,” he told Emma. “For now it’s best to keep him warm and quiet.”

  Behind her, the church door creaked open. Emma twisted to see if Mama and Papa had arrived. She longed to see her family. But it was another group of injured passengers arriving. The sounds of their suffering made her own wound seem trifling.