again. Gus and me come to at the same time, sit up and twist to see each other, worried. The slap-slap of the paddle wheel and the engine’s rumble is gone. The cotton bale above our heads shudders side to side. We both wiggle up on our haunches at once.
Except for fire, this is the thing that’s worried us most. Cotton don’t get freighted all the way to Texas; it gets brought out of Texas and south Louisiana and carried north to cloth mills. Sometime before Texas, our cotton palace is bound for an offload. We just don’t know when.
First night in our hiding place, we slept in shifts, so’s to keep an eye out, but we’ve turned lazy. Water’s been smooth, and the weather’s clear, and the boat passes by the towns and the plantations that have their own river landings along the way. Don’t even stop for folk that come out to their docks and try to wave her down to catch a berth upwater. The Genesee Star is loaded for the long haul. Just eats boiler wood, stops for reload here and there, and steams right on. Ain’t the normal way of the river, but it’s the way of the Genesee Star. She ain’t sociable and she don’t want to be troubled with new folks.
There’s something peculiar about this boat, Gus says. Something wrong. Folks talk in whispers if they talk at all, and the Genesee creeps along like a ghost not wanting to be seen by the living.
“We ain’t movin’,” I whisper to Gus.
“Wooding, I bet. Must be we come in at another farm landin’. Don’t hear no town sounds.”
“Me neither.” Ain’t unusual for a boat to stop off no place particular to take on fuel. Swamp folk and farmers make their living woodcutting for the riverboats. White folk doing what used to be the work of gangs of slaves.
The cotton bales shift like something’s shoved them hard. The palace sways over our heads, two bales falling together, wedged shoulder to shoulder. “What if they’re taking on more than just wood, or bringing goods off the boat?” I whisper.
Gus casts a nervous look. “Hope they ain’t.” He wiggles to a stand, whispers, “We best git.” Then he’s headed down the tunnel.
I snatch up my hat, dig out Missy’s reticule, shove it in my pants, and start pushing and wiggling like a burrow rabbit with a camp dog at the door. Shucks and twigs pull at my clothes and slice ribbons in my skin while I struggle toward the clear, trying to hold up the walls as I go. Dust and cotton fills the air, falls in my eyes till I can’t see, clogs my nose so I can’t breathe. My lungs squeeze and I keep pushing on. It’s that or die.
Men outside holler and shout orders. Wood hits wood. Metal rings on metal. The floor lists sidewards underfoot. The cotton walls lean.
I hit the end of the tunnel and fall out onto the deck, half-blind and choking on the dust. I’m too turned round to even worry if anybody saw. Getting air again is all that matters.
The light outside is barely gray, the hanging lamps still burning. Men run everyplace, and passengers in deck camps scramble from their bedrolls and tents to grab buckets and carpet bags, smoking pipes and skillet pans that’re sliding downhill as the Genesee Star leans in the water. There’s too much fracas for anybody to notice me. Roustabouts and white men scurry with bundles, crates, and barrels on their backs. Bringing on a new load of cordwood, they’ve got the boat too overweighted on one side. On account of her shallow hull, she’s started to roll. She groans as she ticks another notch sidewards. The main deck goes anthill crazy, men and women snatching up pokes and dogs and children, screaming and yelling, livestock carrying on. Chickens flap in their cages. Cows bellow loud and long and slide against the cow pens. Horses and mules dig for footing on the deck boards and thrash the stalls and whinny. Their calls carry off into blue-white fog so thick you could scoop it with a spoon.
Wood splinters. A woman screams, “My baby! Where’s my baby?”