by Tim Champlin
“Great. Thanks a lot.”
“Ah put de note in de yawl, like you axe,” Jim said.
“Good. After that boat sets there for a time, I’d bet somebody will try to steal it or at least find out who owns it. It has the name of the Millicent on it, so they’d likely think it was stolen or lost overside. If they try to take it, they’ll have to furnish their own oars, since we hid our two pair,” Zane said. “If they find the note, they might be curious enough to take it to the police.” But Zane knew the chances of anything positive coming from that were only slightly better than securing help from a message in a bottle.
“I think we’ve done all we can for now,” Zane said, thinking back over their actions. “Jim, let’s rest here a few minutes and then go out and have a stroll around.” He glanced at the inside door of the cabin. “Were does that lead to?”
“Into the main saloon,” Becky said.
“Saloon? Like an old west saloon?”
“No, silly. It’s only another name for the main cabin of the boat. This packet is a small stern-wheeler, so it’s not a big room, but it’s where the meals are served and they have dances and such. There’s usually a bar up forward where passengers can buy drinks.” She glanced at him. “Don’t you know how most steamboats are made?”
“No. We don’t have steamboats where I come from.”
“Where’s that?”
“Well, it’s a long story. Tom and Huck know all about it. When we rescue them, we’ll all sit down together and I’ll explain it as best I can. It’s pretty complicated,” he said. “But meanwhile, can you tell me how this boat is arranged?”
“Sure. Once you start exploring, it’ll help to know what you’re looking at,” Becky said. “And Jim can help, too. These little passenger cabins are called staterooms because they’re sometimes named after states of the union—mostly on bigger boats. These rooms are arranged along both sides of the second deck, called the boiler deck. Each room, like this one, has two doors. One opens outside to the walkway where we came in, and the other opens into the main saloon.” She sat down on the lower bunk beside him.
“The main deck below us is where the boiler and steam engines are that drive the paddle wheel. It’s also where the cordwood is stacked. The hold carries cargo, and any overflow is stacked on the main deck. Cheaper tickets are for deck passage, and people sleep there, too. You can see it’s pretty crowded with the crewmen trying to walk around all that clutter and do their work of firing the boiler and tending the capstans and such.”
She smiled and continued in the voice of a schoolteacher. “The top deck, above us, is called the hurricane deck, I guess ’cause it’s mostly open to the weather. This boat’s too small to have a Texas, but that would be a few rooms all clumped together up there. This clump of rooms would be quarters for the captain, pilots, and crew. On this boat, though, rooms for the crew are in other places. Of course, the pilothouse stands up top, above everything. Now, does that help?”
“It surely does. Thanks.” He saw she was back in good spirits.
Zane stood and stretched. “Jim, you want to take a stroll around?”
Jim put on his hat.
There was a sharp knock on the outside door.
Zane’s heart skipped a beat, and they glanced at each other.
“Who is it?” Becky asked.
“The purser, ma’am, to collect for your tickets.”
Zane let out a deep breath. He hadn’t realized how keyed up he was.
Becky turned the door latch and opened it. Farley Nicholson stepped in, glancing curiously at Jim. “Since you didn’t purchase tickets ashore, I’ll take the fare now.”
He gave her the price and Zane paid it from several gold coins he had in his pocket without exposing the money belt. It was a dollar too much for three one-way tickets to St. Joe. “Keep the change,” Zane said. “And please ask the steward to send up a small mattress we can put on the floor.”
“Right away.” The purser didn’t address him as “sir” apparently due to the fact that Zane was a good ten years younger. Nicholson nodded and backed out, with a last appraising glance at Becky.
Before the door closed, Zane noticed the cabin was number one.
Becky had mentioned earlier the cabins were numbered from aft forward, odd numbers to larboard, even to starboard.
They waited a couple of minutes before Zane and Jim left. “Keep the door locked,” Zane cautioned Becky as they departed.
The heat in the sun was fearsome and Zane was glad to have his hat. In his previous life, he’d rarely worn a hat, except for a baseball cap sometimes.
“Jim, let’s go down and start on the main deck and work up,” Zane suggested.
They reached the forward stairs and Zane had to keep turning around to talk to his friend. “What are you doing back there?”
“Anybody lookin’, ah walks behind, so’s ah ’pears to be yo slave,” Jim said in a low voice.
Apparently, long, hard experience had honed this man’s survival instinct.
“Jim, where I come from my dad told me some of his white friends say all black folks look alike.”
“Dat mebbe so, but dis man, Weir, he be a slave hunter. He knows black faces. He study ’em fo his bisness.”
“You’re right.”
Farley Nicholson had told Zane the truth about one thing—the Penrose was loaded about as full as she could be with cargo and people. There was less than three feet of freeboard between the main deck and the water, Zane noticed as they stepped carefully among the boxes and bales and lounging passengers.
St. Charles had disappeared behind them and the shoreline along this broad stretch of river was nothing but solid forest. The water was high and the brown muddy current was sweeping along logs and planks, limbs of trees and bushes—even an occasional outhouse.
When Zane passed near the firebox, he felt a withering blast of heat from an open door. How could these crewmen stand to work down near this constant heat? He noted about half the deckhands were black. Surely there weren’t that many free men around here. If slaves, then who owned them? He assumed an armed guard was posted while the crew was wooding up at remote woodyards. But it still seemed very possible one or two determined slaves could slip away to freedom in the twilight of an Illinois forest. Slaves were expensive, and even more expensive to have recaptured.
A few of the rougher-looking men eyed him, possibly resenting the fact that a part-Chinese boy could own his own slave. Maybe his rich parents had favored him with an upriver cruise to escape the outbreak of cholera in St. Louis. And they’d sent along a slave to wait on him. In Zane’s imagination, at least, this is what lay behind some of the baleful stares.
He was glad when they went topside to the boiler deck again and strolled past the outside cabin doors on both sides. One or two of them stood open for the slight breeze created by the boat’s forward motion.
Most of the passengers, it seemed, were outside moving about the decks, lounging under the overhangs, dressed in light dresses and shirtsleeves, thirsting for a breeze.
Zane and Jim went into the main “saloon” as Becky had called it. It was carpeted and contained several small tables and chairs. A few of the men at the forward end were playing cards and smoking cigars. Lunch was over and it was too early for supper.
A coffee urn stood next to a bar stocked with various wines and hard liquors.
Zane took two coffee cups out of a rack and filled them for himself and Jim, handing one to his friend as they went out the forward end of the main saloon and up to the hurricane deck.
A slightly cooler movement of air caressed the wide expanse of water, and at least a dozen people were strolling the deck to take advantage of it. A foamy wake was being kicked out behind the boat as they churned up against the current in the middle of the engorged stream.
The top half of the pilothouse was visible through the glass front window as Zane and Jim walked by. The spokes of the large wheel were in continuous motion as the pilo
t made smooth corrections to their course, apparently dodging floating obstacles and driftwood.
They paused in the shade of one of the twin smokestacks to sip on their coffee and take in the scene.
“Take it all ’round, dis travelin’ by steamboat sho beats rowin’ a skiff.”
“Is it even better than a raft?” Zane asked.
“Ah don’t know ’bout dat. Dis be mo fun; a raf’ be home.”
A wise man many think of as ignorant, Zane thought.
Zane suddenly felt Jim’s fingers grip his arm above the elbow. He saw the man’s eyes focused on something over Zane’s shoulder.
“Don’t tun aroun’,” Jim said in a hoarse whisper. “Ah see two men. Dey fits de size and look o’ de kidnappers.”
CHAPTER 20
* * *
Zane casually shifted his position to one side of the smokestack and flicked a glance in the general direction. When he saw they weren’t looking his way, he focused on them. Some twenty feet away, two men were facing each other and talking.
The slightly taller one wore a full beard and had a wide nose that might have been altered. The other was clean-shaven, and white hair protruded from under the brim of his hat.
He’d verify this later, but he had a feeling these were the two they sought. He’d seen no other passengers who came even close to the description Becky had given them. Instead of a mix of older and younger passengers, this boat carried a preponderance of young males, obviously headed for the gold fields. These two didn’t fit that group. They looked somewhat older.
“Jim, can you keep an eye on those two until I come back? I want Becky to see them.”
“Dey best not see her,” Jim said.
“I have a plan to prevent that.”
“Ah keeps ’em in sight, Mars Zane.”
Zane slid down the forward companionway and back to their cabin. He rapped on the door. “Becky, it’s Zane!” he whispered, his mouth close to the crack of the door.
A few seconds later the door opened and he slipped inside. He almost tripped on the matting on the floor the steward had apparently delivered to serve as their third bed.
“Let’s fix up a signal, since we only have one key,” she said.
“Okay. How about two raps, a pause, and one rap?”
“Good. Tell Jim, too.”
“I think we’ve spotted the two kidnappers up on the hurricane deck. Jim’s watching them, but I want you to see them.”
“They’ll know me,” she said.
“No. I’ll ask the steward to give me some mosquito netting and make a veil for you that will fit over your wide hat. It’ll hide your face and hair. Then you can come on deck with me. If they see you it won’t matter. They don’t know me, and they won’t be expecting you on this boat anyway. Besides, you have on different clothes than the dress they last saw you in.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Remember our signal. And shove that mat under the bunk.”
He was out the door before she could reply.
Twenty minutes later, Zane and Becky found Jim lounging near the entrance to the main cabin, in low conversation with one of the black waiters. When he saw them he gave a slight nod in the direction of a table several feet away where the two suspects sat.
Zane maneuvered Becky casually to another table and seated her where she had a good view of the two men. “I’ll fetch some coffee,” he said, and moved away. He glanced back at her and realized the mosquito netting was a good disguise; it formed a tent over her wide straw hat and was tied under her chin, completely obscuring her face and blond hair.
He returned to the table with two mugs of black coffee, even though he knew she couldn’t drink it without lifting the veil.
They feigned conversation for a few minutes. The men under surveillance did not even glance their way.
“Okay, I’ve seen enough,” she said quietly. “It’s them.”
She rose from the table and Zane walked with her slowly out on deck. A minute later Jim came up and stood beside them. They all leaned on the rail, as if watching the timbered shoreline slide by.
Zane, touching her arm, could feel her tremble slightly. “I had a good look at both of them. Even with that disguise I’d know Weir anywhere. When I saw those eyes—it was like looking into the eyes of a snake. Fake nose, fake beard—they don’t matter. I’ll always see those eyes in my nightmares.”
“Did you hear their voices?”
“No. Didn’t need to.”
“Jim, can you keep watch on them and find out their room number? I’ll walk Becky back to our cabin.”
“Ah sholy will.”
“When you come to the cabin, knock twice, pause, and then once, and we’ll let you in.”
Nearly an hour later, Jim rapped on the door with the signal and the three of them sat down, ignoring the afternoon heat to plan their next move.
“Dey be in number two cabin,” Jim reported. “Mostly straight across de saloon from us on de stabbard side.”
“Next thing we need to find out is where they’re keeping Tom and Huck,” Zane said.
“It’ll be suppertime in a couple hours,” Becky said after a minute of silence. “You know they won’t let Tom and Huck come out and eat in the main cabin. And they won’t let the steward carry any food to them, either. Weir or Smealey will take the boys’ supper to them, wherever they are. All we have to do is watch where they go.”
“Simple plans are best,” Zane agreed. He smiled. “I reckon Tom would throw more style into it with a few complications, but he’s not planning this operation.”
They discussed how they’d affect a rescue once they discovered where the boys were being kept. But here their plow struck a stump.
After a minute of silence, Becky suggested, “Maybe I should describe to the captain what these two kidnappers look like—tell him they’re wearing disguises, and now have the boys hid on board somewhere. If we don’t discover where Tom and Huck are, the captain could have the boat searched.”
Zane looked at Jim, then replied, “I’m new here, but I’m guessing it’ll take more than the word of two kids and an ex-slave to convince a steamboat captain to confront two of his passengers with an accusation like that.”
“We needs de proof,” Jim said.
“Let’s take one thing at a time and wait and see,” Zane said. “Something will suggest itself.”
“De ways o’ Providence be mighty strange,” Jim added. “But it point de way by ’n’ by.”
Their plan worked. While Zane ate in the main cabin, Jim, in his role as servant/slave, took Becky’s supper to her, along with a bowl of stew for himself.
Meanwhile, Zane lingered at his table until Weir and Smealey were finished, then mingled with the milling passengers outside and followed Smealey. He unlocked cabin number six on the starboard side and entered with the tray of food. When he came out a minute later, he was carrying what one of Zane’s great grandmothers used to call a “thunder mug”—a chamber pot. Holding it carefully, Smealey headed toward the boxy privy mounted far aft.
That made sense, Zane thought. The boys would not even be allowed outside to use the bathroom. And Smealey, being the underling in this kidnapping operation, would have to accept the most onerous chores.
Zane, feeling elated, reported to Jim and Becky that the boys were apparently being held prisoner in the second cabin from that of Weir and Smealey—number six.
“Maybe they couldn’t reserve adjacent rooms,” Zane said. “The boat is full so there’s likely somebody occupying the room in between.”
“We’ll have to pick the lock some dark night,” Becky said. “But I don’t know how to pick a lock. If we try to force our way into the room from the inside door that opens into the main cabin, somebody will see us.”
“I don’t know anything about locks or how to open them, either,” Zane said, “except with a key. Maybe you could charm Farley into lending you the key.”
“No . . .�
� Becky was very reluctant. “He might want something in return. Besides, I’m not sure the purser has keys to the rooms.”
“Mebbe we bust de door,” Jim said.
“That would make a lot of noise and get us in all kinds of trouble, especially if the boys aren’t in there,” Becky said.
“I’d stake my life they’re in number six,” Zane said.
“If we bust ’em out, we could do it when de boat tie up fo’ de night,” Jim said. “Den we kin jump fo’ de shore and steal away in de woods.”
“Boats that don’t run at night usually tie up at woodyards where there are men who sell the cordwood,” Becky said. “Even if we slipped past them, where are we gonna go—lost in some strange forest at night?”
“Why not wait ’til we reach St. Joe, and then bust ’em out if it don’t look like the kidnappers are getting off the boat there with Tom and Huck?” Zane suggested. “There’d be lots of people around forming up wagon trains and such and we could find help right quick.”
“Dat be a good idea,” Jim said. “Let a few days slide along. How long do it take to get dere?”
“I’ll ask the pilot,” Zane said. “There are a few other things I need to ask him about this boat anyway. If we decide to bust the door down, I reckon you’re strong enough to do it,” Zane said to Jim.
The black man nodded. “But it be mighty noisy wid all dat wood crackin’ and splittin’. Zane, you’s mighty handy wid an axe. You could slip out one of dem axes down on deck near de woodpile.”
“That’s right. Two or three whacks in the right place and I could have that latch chopped right outa there. Better than bustin’ the whole door.”
“I guess the main thing is not to rush and do something rash, and mess up the whole rescue,” Becky said.
“Okay, we’ll sleep on it and give it some more consideration. Give Providence a chance to work,” he added.
The next day, Zane and Jim accosted the pilot when he came off duty at noon and engaged him in casual conversation as he went below to his midday meal.
“Name’s Billy Randall,” the middle-aged, graying man said, thrusting out his hand. “Come join me for lunch while we talk.”
