The Fiddler's Secret

by Lois Walfrid Johnson

  On the front side of the pilothouse, the hinged boards at the top and bottom of the opening were nearly closed against the weather. Pa and Fletcher peered through the narrow opening that remained. Glass windows filled the other three walls, but one whole side had iced over. Minute by minute, conditions were growing worse.

  As Libby looked around, she saw the far shore of Lake Pepin along the eastern horizon. On the west and closer side, the land was stripped bare of trees, but not of rocks. Behind the Christina a narrow trail of black water showed where the boat had passed through, breaking the ice. Ahead, and growing thicker by the hour, the ice stretched out as far as Libby could see.

  Soon a deckhand came to the door. Holding it open long enough to talk to Pa, he said, “Carpenter says the ice is splintering the hull.”

  Within minutes another crew member opened the door. “Engineer says there’s ice in the buckets.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Libby whispered to Caleb.

  “The wood planks on the paddle wheels. The buckets catch the water and send the boat forward.”

  “And they’re plugging up with ice?”

  “Carrying too heavy a load.”

  Pa turned to Libby. “If the ice breaks the paddle wheels, we can’t move ahead, no matter how hard we try. We’ll freeze into the lake.”

  Libby swallowed hard. In her wildest imagination, she hadn’t thought of something that terrible. The Christina frozen all winter in the great open stretches of Lake Pepin?

  Yet there was something even worse. In the spring breakup, the Christina would have no protection. Caught by tons of floating ice, the boat would be thrown up on shore like matchsticks!

  CHAPTER 19

  Swede Hollow

  Fletcher stepped aside to let Pa take the wheel. Leaning forward, Pa spoke down the tube into the engine room. “All hands prepare to back out.”

  A moment later he called down the next order. “Reverse wheels.”

  As the engines stopped, Libby felt the wind from behind push them against the ice. Almost at once, the paddle wheels reversed, and the engines started again. Yet in that brief time the wind and current had pushed the ice in the channel against the Christina’s stern.

  Libby glanced at Caleb, not daring to speak. Caleb leaned close.

  “The rudder,” he whispered, and Libby knew she had reason to be afraid.

  The shaft of the rudder projected out back of the stern and down into the water. That stock held the rudder, a large board shaped like a capital D that steered the Christina.

  “What if the rudder breaks?” Libby whispered back.

  Behind the Christina the open channel was only the width of the boat. With his hand on the large wheel, Pa stood sideways, looking upriver as he backed the steamboat through the narrow trail the boat had opened. With each turn of the paddle wheels, the Christina pushed into the ice lodged against her rudder.

  At first that ice was like a wall against the Christina’s stern. For a quarter of a mile Pa backed, slowly, gingerly, trying to get free of the ice that had piled up in the minute they stopped. When the last chunks fell away, Libby breathed deep. But her relief lasted only a moment.

  Soon the Christina veered off. Leaving the trail of open water, she swung into the unbroken mass of ice on one side.

  The door to the pilothouse opened. “Chief engineer says we’ve lost our rudder.”

  “On your toes,” Pa answered as if expecting this. “We’ll steer with the wheels, but first we have to turn.”

  Again Libby looked at Caleb, then at the wooden housing that surrounded the paddle wheels above the water line. Each of those wheels was operated by its own engine, independent of the other. While the chief engineer operated one wheel, the assistant engineer took the controls on the other. By reversing one wheel and going forward with the other, the Christina would turn. Yet what could be simple under ordinary conditions had become extremely dangerous.

  This time even Caleb looked afraid. Fletcher’s worried look matched Pa’s.

  With dread Libby remembered her father’s words. Not having a rudder was bad enough. If the ice broke a paddle wheel, the Christina would go around in circles. Now Libby wondered how they could possibly turn without the ice backing up along one side. The pressure against the wood housing and the paddle wheel could splinter them into thousands of pieces.

  In spite of the cold, beads of sweat stood out on Pa’s forehead. For one instant he closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. “Everyone pray for a miracle,” he said, then leaned forward and spoke into the tube.

  “Prepare to turn. I’ll give a rapid series of orders. Respond as quickly as you can.”

  His commands clear and strong, Pa spoke without hesitation. “Come ahead easy on the starboard wheel. Come back easy on the port.”

  As the Christina responded, she edged out from the solid mass of ice next to the open water. “Stop your port wheel. Come back strong on the port wheel.”

  Libby held her breath.

  “Stop your starboard wheel,” Pa ordered. “Stop your port wheel. Come back strong on the port wheel.”

  In the next moment the Christina’s bow turned upstream. As the backed-up ice slid off the housing around the paddle wheel, Libby breathed deep with relief.

  “Hold her there,” Pa called down. “You’re in open water. Hold her steady.”

  A moment later he turned to Libby and Caleb. “We seem to have our miracle!”

  Suddenly it struck Libby what that meant. Filled with excitement, she led Caleb from the pilothouse. Across the icy deck they inched. But when they reached the large main cabin where Pa could not hear, Libby raised her arms in victory. “We’re going back! We’re going back to St. Paul!”

  Caleb grinned. “Now all we have to do is find Annika!”

  “And the stolen violin! Why haven’t we found it in all this time? Why hasn’t Franz found it?”

  Then Libby had a dreadful thought. “What if the violin has been taken down the Mississippi to New Orleans? Or across America on one of the trains to New York? By now the violin could be in Europe!”

  For at least ten miles, the Christina followed the narrow channel of open water she had opened coming down. After what seemed forever, the steamboat passed out of Lake Pepin.

  In the swiftly flowing water of the Mississippi’s main channel, there was less ice. Yet they could waste no time in reaching a winter harbor. At a safe place, the Christina pulled over to one side of the river. The ship’s carpenter attached a makeshift rudder that would work until better repairs could be made.

  As they drew close to St. Paul, Libby heard Pa humming. When he caught her eye, Pa laughed. “Maybe there was a reason why Annika thought she should stay in St. Paul this winter.”

  The early November darkness had already settled over the river as Pa and his crew began looking for a safe harbor in the backwaters. A short distance below St. Paul, they found an island big enough to protect the Christina from what could be a thirty-foot pile of ice in spring. Fletcher guided the steamboat into her winter home.

  As Libby stood at the bow of the Christina, a high bluff rose from the starboard side. Across the island and upstream lay the bluffs on which St. Paul was built. By daylight they would be able to see the homes, businesses, and tall church spires.

  The minute the lines were out, deckhands with rooms on the texas began moving down to staterooms usually used by first-class passengers. Pa assigned the staterooms closest to the wood stove to Gran and Libby. Then he and the crew members who chose to stay on board took rooms nearby. That night the ice in the backwaters froze around the Christina’s hull.

  The next morning Pa walked into St. Paul. He returned with a horse-drawn wagon filled with lumber. Together he and his men boarded off the end of the cabin that had the wood stove. Instead of one long, narrow room that would take mountains of wood to heat, they now had a room large enough for the few people left on board to sit around, talk, and eat.

  As soon as the new wall was built, P
a set his men to hauling firewood for the long winter ahead. Then Pa returned to St. Paul to begin his search for Annika.

  After he left, Libby looked around the room Pa had created in the main cabin. The new wall was made of rough sawn wood, the only thing available in this town where the need for houses had been so great. The wall looked completely different from anything else in the large, elegant room that Libby had always loved. Yet staying warm was more important than having a smoothly painted wall.

  Standing in their new winter room, Libby remembered the immigrant family that had stretched a piece of canvas between two barrels to make a roof. She thought about the tepees of the oxcart drivers and the way they draped hides over their carts. They all made a shelter—a home—wherever they were.

  Wearing her warmest coat, Libby walked into the part of the cabin that had been shut off. The chairs and tables stood as they always had but now looked strangely deserted. It was the paintings Libby came to see—the large paintings centered on white panels along the walls.

  Walking up and down the long room, Libby chose the three she liked best. From the carpenter’s supply she found a hammer, nails, and a small ladder. Working together, she and Peter took down the paintings and hung them on the new wooden wall. Together they carried Pa’s big rocking chair from his cabin on the texas.

  When Pa returned late in the day, it was already dark. Libby took one look at his face and knew he had found no trace of Annika. Then Pa saw his rocking chair and the paintings.

  At the center of the wall, a northwoods scene showed farmland, hills, and trees surrounding a small house. From the bluff there was a view of the river.

  Pa stopped in front of the painting. “You did this, didn’t you?” he asked Libby.

  “With Peter’s help.”

  “You’re growing up,” Pa said gently. “You’re learning how to make a home.”

  His voice was gruff, and he turned away quickly, but Libby saw the tears in his eyes. “I’d still like to see the land you bought,” she told him.

  “Sometime, Libby,” Pa promised. “Not now.”

  The next morning Caleb and the crew hauled wood, and Pa walked into St. Paul again. This time Libby went with him. Near the Lower Landing, Pa went one way and Libby another.

  She asked questions wherever she could, hoping to learn something about Annika that Pa hadn’t.

  At last she gave up looking for the teacher and walked to the music store.

  Franz was surprised to see her. “I thought you left.”

  “We did,” Libby said. “We had to come back.”

  “But you’re all right now?” Franz asked when he heard the story.

  “Except for Annika. She stayed in St. Paul, and we can’t find her.”

  “Ach!” Franz exclaimed. “In my country—” Suddenly he broke off, as if he had said more than he intended. “Is there a way I can help you find Annika?”

  Libby felt glad for anyone who would help. “Listen,” she said. “Ask questions whenever you can.”

  “I want to find my relatives the way you want to find your Annika,” Franz said.

  “Your relatives?” Franz had not mentioned them before.

  “My cousin and his family. I wish to talk to him. To see how he does, living on a farm near the village called Nicollet.”

  “Where’s Nicollet?” Libby asked.

  “South and west of here in Minnesota Territory. Between St. Peter and New Ulm. But I cannot leave until I find my violin.”

  “We still want to do whatever we can to help,” Libby promised.

  All the way back to the Christina, Libby thought about her promise to Franz. The minute she reached home, Libby found Peter. Taking his slate, she wrote Suspects, then listed the three men:

  1. tall Shadow Man

  2. short pawnbroker

  3. tall Mr. Trouble

  “But which tall man has a violin mark below his jawline?” Libby asked. “And who is Shadow Man?”

  While Pa searched for Annika, Peter taught Wellington more commands. He wanted the dog to find Libby even if he couldn’t see her.

  “Let’s play hide-and-seek,” Peter told Libby as they walked along the main deck. “I’ll throw a stick so Wellington doesn’t see where you’re going. I’ll use my secret sign to send him after you.”

  The moment Peter threw the stick, Wellington raced down the deck. Libby slipped inside the engine room and left the door behind her slightly open. She found a hiding place behind a big piece of equipment.

  Soon she heard Wellington sniffing his way toward her. When the terrier found her, Libby hugged him and slipped him a treat. “Good dog! Good dog!”

  Peter’s eyes shone. Again and again he asked Libby to hide. He wanted to be sure Wellington remembered the secret sign.

  If only we could have Wellington find Annika, Libby thought.

  Each day Pa, Libby, Caleb, Peter, and Gran had prayed together for Annika. On the third morning after returning to St. Paul, they again gathered around the breakfast table. Pa needed to talk.

  “Annika was so sure God wanted her in St. Paul this winter,” he said. “Because she believed that, I don’t think she’d leave. She has to be here. But if she is, why can’t we find her?”

  Not even Gran had an answer, and Pa went on. “My greatest dread is that something happened to her. If she became sick, we wouldn’t even know who took care of her.”

  After they once again prayed for Annika, Caleb spoke up. “I’d like to go into St. Paul with you today.”

  Pa looked grateful. “Thanks, Caleb. I could use your help.”

  When they returned home that evening, Caleb looked so excited that Libby thought they had found Annika. But he only said, “I got work at the Pioneer and Democrat office today.”

  “The St. Paul newspaper?”

  “One of them.”

  “Really? They took you on as a writer?”

  “Oh no!” Caleb exclaimed. “In these hard times I couldn’t possibly get a job as a reporter. Besides, people think I’m too young. But I did get a job emptying trash and sweeping floors one or two hours a day.”

  Libby felt curious. “How is that going to help you be a better writer?”

  Caleb grinned. “I’ll get in on the ground floor.”

  Then he grew serious. “As I sweep floors I’ll listen. I’ll see what reporters and editors are doing. I’ll learn from them. Maybe sometime I’ll get the chance to write something.”

  Later Libby and Caleb went out on deck, and Caleb said more. “What your pa is trying to do is really hard, you know. Thousands of immigrants passed through St. Paul this summer.”

  “It scares me, Caleb,” Libby said.

  “At the beginning of the panic, there must have been ten thousand people in the city. Unless someone stays with a group of people who know each other well, a person like Annika can drop out of sight.”

  Right down to her toes Libby felt frightened just thinking about Pa’s loss. “Isn’t there anything you remember about her that would help?”

  For a moment Caleb was silent, thinking about it. “Swedish!” he said suddenly. “Annika is Swedish!”

  “But Annika has black hair.” She certainly didn’t look Swedish to Libby.

  “Just the same, she is!” Caleb exclaimed. “We talked about it once. One of her ancestors was a Walloon from the French-speaking part of Belgium.”

  He explained that the Walloons came from southern Belgium. They were skilled ironworkers and blacksmiths and miners. When the leader of the Swedish iron industries asked for their help, several hundred emigrated to Sweden. They played an important part in Sweden’s industrial growth.

  Already Caleb’s mind was running ahead. “I just need to find a settlement of Swedes.”

  Libby knew that when people came to America, they often settled with people who spoke the same language. It helped them during the time when they were learning English.

  “I’ll ask at the Pioneer office,” Caleb said. “I’ll find out where t
he Swedes are.”

  When Caleb returned that night, he was even more excited. He led Libby out on the deck where they could talk without anyone else hearing. “I don’t want to raise your pa’s hopes until I know. Tomorrow you and Peter and I are going to Svenska Dalen.”

  “Svenska Dalen?”

  “Swedish Valley. Most people call it Swede Hollow.”

  Then Caleb said, “Libby, there’s something else. The reporters were talking about a man who’s a big, well-known crook. The police think he came to St. Paul to hide from the law. Tall. Brown hair. Blue eyes. A cruel mouth.”

  Filled with dread, Libby stared at Caleb. “Mr. Trouble?”

  “I think so. He fits the description.”

  “Then he’s the brains behind everything?”

  “I don’t know,” Caleb said. “But it would help the police to see your drawing.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Samson Again

  During the night it snowed. In the morning, Caleb decided that Peter wasn’t well enough to walk all the way to Swede Hollow. As Libby and Caleb set out, she looked back and saw the tracks they had made up the steep hill next to the backwaters. The tall white steamboat looked like an ice palace surrounded by snow.

  On the way there, Caleb told Libby more about Swede Hollow. “It’s a ravine—a narrow place between steep bluffs. Fur traders lived in the ravine for a while. When they moved on, Swedish immigrants moved in. They started fixing up the houses—”

  Caleb corrected himself. “Shacks, the men at the newspaper called them. People stay in the shacks by paying the city five dollars a month for taxes. It’s a hidden-away part of St. Paul. If Annika is there, it’s no wonder your pa can’t find her.”

  Before long they came to the edge of the ravine. Looking down, Caleb whistled. “It’s seventy feet deep!”

  The sides of the ravine were nearly straight up and down. At the bottom of the valley was a swiftly moving stream that Caleb called Phalen Creek. Even from where Libby stood, she heard the water rippling over the stones.