Like a River Glorious

  Jefferson sits beside me. Our thighs brush occasionally, but neither of us inches away.

  While the rest of us finish up, Becky is already hard at work baking for tomorrow—another batch of biscuits, along with a meat pie she’s sure she can sell to someone. Martin Hoffman holds Baby Girl Joyner in one arm while he eats, occasionally giving her a taste of his beans. I suspect he misses his little sister.

  Hampton sits at the table across from me. He’s hardly recognizable from the half-starved Negro who followed our wagon train at a distance, gleaning scraps when he could. Regular food and water have filled him out, giving his face a healthy roundness. His strength has grown, too. I’ve seen him flip sheep upside down with hardly more than a thought, and he can wrestle Sorry into submission with a few tugs on her halter.

  He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve and clears his throat. “I got something to say,” he informs us, and everyone looks up expectantly. “I’ve found enough gold, with Lee’s help here”—he indicates me with a lift of his chin—“to buy my freedom and that of my wife back in Arkansas.”

  Becky gasps. “Hampton, that’s wonderful news,” she says.

  The Major reaches over and claps him on the back. Jasper raises his tin cup, which is purportedly filled with water, though my money’s on whiskey. “To Hampton’s freedom!” Jasper says, and we all lift cups or forks in echo.

  “Are you going to leave us?” I ask.

  Hampton shakes his head. “Not yet. Maybe never. I need to figure out how to go about this. Do it in a way that doesn’t put the slave catchers after me.”

  He’s made himself scarce the whole time we’ve been in California—leaving for the corral to care for the oxen and horses before the sun is up, working his claim all day, joining us only after dark for meals. Talking to folks at Mormon Island, it became clear that the general mood of California is anti-slavery, that once it joins the union, it will probably be as a free state. But I don’t blame Hampton for not wanting to take any chances.

  Tom Bigler sits at the rough-hewn table behind us, the one Major Craven made for Becky. He places his elbows on the surface and leans forward. “Want some help?” he asks.

  Hampton shoots him a grin. “That’s why I brought it up. I want everything clean and legal. Unbreakable.”

  “It would be an honor,” Tom says. “I need to consult with one of my books first, but I think I can figure out how to draw up the sale offer without revealing your location.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “After the sale’s done,” Becky says, “will you go for your wife?”

  “I was hoping we could send somebody white for her. I don’t ever want to set foot in Arkansas or any other slave state again if I can help it.”

  “We know some abolitionists who could help with this sort of thing,” Tom says. “I’ll write a letter in the morning to Reverend Sturtevant.”

  Hampton leans forward. “Who’s that?”

  “He’s the president of Illinois College, and my mathematics professor. He’ll know who to contact, and he’ll be wholly circumspect. I won’t even mention your name.”

  Hampton settles back with a nod, but I can see the gears spinning in his head. Sometimes when you say something out loud and ask for help with it, it becomes real in a way it never was before.

  Becky’s smile is soft and yearning. “I’d dearly love to have another woman around to talk to.”

  Jefferson chokes on his biscuit.

  “Not that Lee isn’t a woman,” she amends hastily. To me she says, “It’s just that you’re always out working the claims, as God ordained for you to do.”

  I smile to show I take no offense. “I wouldn’t mind some female company either,” I tell her, with a pang for my friends Lucie and Therese. Both gone home now, one to Oregon, the other to that great beyond.

  Therese’s brother, Martin, is bouncing the baby on his knee, and the tiny thing babbles happily. “I need to get to Sacramento sometime this winter,” Martin says. “See if I can figure out how to send some of my money home. It would be a nice surprise if it was waiting for my family when they got back to Ohio.”

  “I’m confident there’s a way to do that,” Tom assures him.

  “I’m short on medical supplies,” Jasper says. “I need a few things you can’t find at Mormon Island. I may have to go all the way to San Francisco for them.”

  “Actually,” Becky says, “I need to go to San Francisco, too.”

  “You do?” I say.

  Becky drops biscuit batter into a cast-iron pan, where it sizzles and steams. “Before we left Tennessee,” she explains, “Mr. Joyner had our entire house dismantled and sent to San Francisco by way of Panama.”

  I had forgotten about that.

  “My home and everything in it—furniture, dishes, knickknacks—are all waiting for me somewhere in the harbor.”

  “Sounds like trips to Sacramento and San Francisco are in order,” Jasper says cheerfully. “I’m keen to see the Pacific Ocean. Can you imagine it? More water than even Lake Michigan.”

  “It’s not that easy,” Becky says, wiping her hands on her apron. “Andrew passed on, God rest his soul. I have all his documentation in my trunk, but I’m just a woman. None of it belongs to me.”

  We all exchange looks of alarm. That she could come all this way, children in tow, nursing her sick husband for more than half the journey—only to lose everything?

  “I’m thinking they might hand it over on behalf of my son,” she continues, indicating little Andy. His face is smeared with mashed beans, and his feet knock the bench as he swings them back and forth. “As eldest son, he stands to inherit. Surely I have rights as his mother and guardian?”

  Tom rubs at his chin. “Let me think about this, Mrs. Joyner. I’m sure there’s a way. If we get your property released, would you have it shipped here?”

  She raises a chin and primly says, “I would indeed.”

  “Anyone on that boat ever lay eyes on your husband?” Major Craven asks.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Everything was handled through my father’s solicitor.”

  The Major’s eyes take on a mischievous twinkle. “Then one of us can pose as Mr. Joyner.”

  Becky gasps. “But . . . that would be . . . I couldn’t . . .”

  “Just think about it,” he says.

  “It wouldn’t be exactly legal,” Tom says, and the Major glares at him. “But sometimes, the law doesn’t embody justice the way we’d like,” he adds.

  “It’s an elegant solution to a tricky problem,” Jasper says.

  “Maybe,” she murmurs doubtfully.

  “I’ve got no reason to go to San Francisco or Sacramento or anywhere,” Jefferson declares. “So I volunteer to stay right here and watch our claims.”

  “If someone poses as my husband,” Becky muses, “then I could stay, too. Keep feeding those miner boys.”

  “What about you, Lee?” Hampton says. “Staying or going?”

  “I’d love to see the ocean, too,” I admit. “But if Jefferson’s staying, I’m staying.”

  My neck warms as everyone stares at me, Jefferson hardest of all. But it’s true. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had, and those months traveling all alone were some of the worst of my life. I’m not losing him again. Besides, I feel safe here, where I know the people and every hill and tree. I don’t want to go someplace strange right now, where I might turn around a corner and run into Frank Dilley or my uncle.

  “Blast!” Becky exclaims, and we all look up, startled. I can’t remember hearing her cuss before. “Burned them again,” she says, frowning down at her pan. “You know, one of these days, those miners are going to figure out that I’m a terrible cook.”

  No one says anything for a moment. Then Henry starts to giggle, then little Olive, and soon we’re all laughing like it’s the Fourth of July.

  I’m snuggling down into my bedroll. From the shanty beside mine come the sounds of movement—a dropped boo
t, a snuffed lamp. Jefferson is settling down, too, and I close my eyes against a sudden pang of lonesomeness. We used to sleep side by side, Jefferson and me, when everyone thought we were just two friends traveling together. Sometimes we’d whisper long into the night, or at least until Becky’s husband thumped the floor of his wagon to tell us to shut it. I guess I got used to the sound of Jeff’s breathing, of feeling his presence beside me all through the night. Once in a while, he’d even reach out and hold my hand.

  I didn’t think much of it then. I thought he was sweet on Therese, that the hand-holding was just his way of showing kindness to an old friend. But I see the truth of it now. It was a declaration, maybe even a promise.

  Jefferson wants a lot more from me than a little hand-holding. He wants me. And as I lie here all alone, feeling colder without him, I have to admit that maybe I want him right back.

  I need to put it from my mind and get some shut-eye before Hampton comes to wake me for my watch shift. I close my eyes tight and try to think of pleasant things, like the way Peony’s winter coat is coming in, making her look like a fuzzy cat with hooves, or the genuine mirth in Becky’s face when we all laughed about her cooking.

  In the distance, Coney barks. Which is nothing curious, but then Nugget joins him, and soon the two of them are caterwauling something awful. With a sigh, I throw off my bedroll and reach for my boots. Someone has to check it out, just in case something is truly amiss, and since I’m not sleeping, it might as well be me.

  I stumble from my tent, rubbing at sleepy eyes. It’s darker than dark, with not even a moon to light my path as I feel my way through our shanties in the direction of the corral. I grab the oil lamp from its place beneath Becky’s awning and take a moment to light it.

  The acrid scent of smoke pricks at my nostrils. We stomped out the fire pit hours ago, and the woodstove inside Becky’s cabin sends its smoke high into the sky. Maybe it’s one of our neighbors, a mile or more distant. The wind through these hills can be tricky.

  Nugget’s barking takes on a frenzy. A sick worry wriggles at the back of my head.

  “Jefferson!” I holler, without thinking. He needs his sleep too, but something is wrong out there in the dark, I just know it, and Jeff is always the person I think of first when I’m in a predicament.

  The Major barrels out of his shanty holding a lantern. He swings forward on his crutch, moving faster than I can believe. “What’s going on?” he says.

  “Not sure. The dogs are after something. Hampton and Martin should be walking the perimeter out there.”

  Jefferson comes running, rifle in one hand, ramrod in the other. The strap of his powder horn is clutched in his teeth, and the horn bangs at his chest. “Martin and Hampton still making their rounds?” he says around a mouthful of leather.

  “Haven’t seen either.”

  He starts loading his rifle. “Let’s find them. Major, wake the college men and make sure they’re ready for anything. Then check on the Joyners in the cabin.”

  “I’ll join you afterward,” the Major says, and heaves off in the direction of the college men’s shanty. Those boys would sleep through anything if we let them.

  “You got that five-shooter loaded?” Jefferson asks, with a chin lift in the direction of the gun at my hip.

  “Yes, sir!” I say with a mock salute.

  His glimmer of an answering grin fades quick. “It’s probably nothing, but . . .”

  “Better safe than sorry,” I finish for him.

  We head down the hill toward the corral and pasture. “With Hampton and Martin out there, we can’t just shoot at any old thing,” he says as we walk. My lantern barely lights our way, and we have to step carefully. “So keep your eyes open and your ears pricked.”

  “Always.”

  “Sure wish you’d consider replacing that old thing with a Colt. Better range, faster loading, and beautiful to boot.” I can’t see his face in the dark, but I hear the smile in his voice. He knows why I won’t give up my five-shooter. “Wait.” He puts up a hand. “Do you smell smoke?”

  “Thought I smelled it earlier. But there are camps all through these hills. No telling where it’s coming from.”

  “The oxen are making a bit of a racket.”

  “Let’s hurry.”

  We near the bottom of the hill. The pine trees break onto a meadow, which is just a wide smear of darkness to our eyes. Hampton’s fence posts enter the circle of light cast by my lantern, then the oxen, and just beyond them are the lumpy shapes of our horses. All our creatures are milling about, tossing their heads. Peony dances back and forth, stepping high.

  “Hampton!” I call out. “Everything all right?”

  No answer. Jefferson and I exchange a worried look.

  “Maybe he walked a wide circuit tonight, to see what had the dogs all worked up.”

  “Maybe.” The dogs’ barking is distant now. “Nugget!” I call out. “Coney!”

  Jefferson whistles for the dogs, a trick I haven’t mastered. I climb over the log fence into the corral and make my way toward Peony. The scent of smoke grows stronger.

  “How are you doing, girl?” I say soothingly. She tosses her head, but she settles and lets me plant a kiss on her nose. “I smell it, too,” I say when she snorts.

  Jefferson checks on Sorry, and I send a quick glance around at the other horses: the Joyners’ gelding, the Major’s tall mare, the cart horse. Artemis the cow is pressed up against the fence, her big eyes rolling around in her head. This corral isn’t much. Hampton rigged it quick to give the animals a homey place, but it won’t hold them all if they panic.

  I let the scent of smoke pull me forward, through the milling animals and over the opposite fence. “Jefferson?” I call out, staring at the feed shed. Hampton built it out of the way of the animals, so they couldn’t get to it at night. It looks like a wide outhouse open on one side, filled halfway to the roof with hay bales. A few bags of oats sit on shelves up high. Maybe it’s the darkness, but my view of it seems fogged, and my lungs are starting to burn. “I think the shed is on fire.”

  He sprints toward me and clears the fence with a single leap.

  “Hampton?” I call out, and it’s almost a scream. Maybe he brought a lantern out here. Maybe he set it down on a hay bale and forgot about it. He’s probably asleep somewhere, the fool man. He’s been working too hard to keep a proper watch, I’ll wager, in his eagerness to see his wife again.

  Several things happen at once.

  “A leg!” Jefferson says, pointing at the ground. Sure enough, a boot snakes out from behind the shed. “Hampton?” he calls out, running forward.

  The shed whooshes into flame.

  A gunshot cracks the air, less than fifty yards away, and something squeals—a hurt-animal sound that I feel deep in my bones.

  From the opposite direction, where our camp is, comes a human scream.

  I freeze, knowing I need to do something, not sure which direction to dash off to first.

  “Hampton!” Jefferson says again. He squats down beside him and smacks the man’s cheeks. “C’mon, wake up!”

  Heat licks at my face, and I can see everything for yards now that it’s washed in a firelit glow.

  “Lee, don’t just stand there!”

  His voice jolts me to action. I heave the top log from the corral’s fence and thrust it aside. Peony dashes out first. “Go on, git!” I yell, smacking the rump of the nearest ox, then Sorry, then Artemis. We’ll be a day rounding them up, if we find them at all, but at least they won’t hurt themselves trying to escape or, worse, get burned.

  I sprint over to Jefferson and Hampton. “Is he dead?” I ask in a breathless voice, then I cough. The shed is a conflagration now. The very air feels like it’s on fire.

  “Not yet! Grab his legs. Help me get him away from here.”

  For a short man, Hampton sure is heavy. We cough and heave our way farther into the meadow, Hampton’s body swinging between us. We reach a muddy patch free of dry grass, a
safe distance from the feed shed, and we lower him gently to the ground.

  “What’s wrong with him, Lee?” Jefferson asks, finally letting fear into his voice.

  “Was he shot?” I say, remembering the gunshot moments ago.

  “I don’t see any blood.”

  “But he’s breathing?”

  “For now.”

  I jump to my feet. “I’ll get Jasper. And water.” I hesitate. There’s no way we can bring enough water down the hill to put out that fire. “I’ll bring shovels. We need to dig a break, before the trees catch fire.”

  Jefferson rises to come with me.

  “Stay with Hampton! Someone’s still out there. They might—”

  “There’s trouble back at camp, too.”

  He’s right. My toes curl to think of the scream I heard. Becky, probably. No, it wasn’t her voice. Henry? And something got shot, out there beyond the meadow. I’m terrified it was one of our dogs.

  “Let’s go.”

  I grab the lantern, and together we run back up the hill. My foot catches on a rock, and I nearly fall, but I don’t dare slow down. The air glows, and smoke sears my lungs. We crest the top. Our camp is on fire, too.

  Jefferson runs to help the Major, who has whipped off the canvas roof of his shanty and is futilely smacking at the flames licking the corner of Becky’s cabin. The college men sprint back and forth from the pond with buckets of water, trying to douse the conflagration that used to be our cart. Andy and Olive stomp around, snuffing sparks and tiny flames that flutter to the ground.

  “Where’s Becky?” I yell. “And the baby?”

  Becky barrels from the cabin, baby in her arms. She shoves her tiny daughter at me. “I’ll be right back!” she says, and she turns and dashes back inside.

  “No! Becky!” Smoke thickens, blurring my view of the cabin door she disappeared into.