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Milo ran upstream until he spotted New Orleans racing downstream. He stared in awe. The slate blue of the hull seemed to blend with the blue of the river water. Sparks and smoke poured from the stack and trailed to the rear like a signal fire run amok. The twin paddle wheels chopped at the river, flinging sheets of water high in the air. No one was visible on deck save for the big black dog atop the bow sniffing the air. In fact, the vessel looked like a ghost ship. Suddenly, the steam whistle shrieked, and Milo watched as New Orleans entered the middle cha
“Back left wheel,” Jack shouted, “full starboard.”
New Orleans leaped sideways.
“Full on both wheels,” Jack said a second later.
Spray washed through the open windows in the aft cabin, wetting Lydia’s and Maggie’s faces. To each side of the vessel were rocks and churning waters. They braced themselves as New Orleans took a sharp turn from left to right. In the pilothouse, Nicholas Roosevelt peered downstream.
“Looking good,” he shouted over the roar of the water.
Engineer Baker poked his head into the pilothouse. “How much longer?”
“Two, maybe three minutes,” Jack said.
“Good,” Baker said. “I’ll rupture a boiler if it’s much longer.”
“Twenty yards ahead is a series of boulders we need to avoid,” Jack said.
“What’s the sequence?” Roosevelt shouted.
“Hard left, right half, left half, then full to the right and hug that side of the river until we’re in the clear,” Jack said.
“Here they go,” Milo shouted as New Orleans lined up to tackle the last rapids.
“He had better get her over to the left,” Simon added.
The mayor of Louisville crested the rocks. He panted from the exertion of the climb. Stopping to catch his breath, he pulled the stub of a cigar from his vest pocket and crammed it in the comer of his mouth before speaking.
“Hard to believe,” he said. “They just might make it after all.”
Inside the pilothouse, the mood was tense but optimistic. Eighty percent of the falls had been navigated already. All that remained was a small series of rocky outcropping at the outflow. Then they would be in the clear.
“We’re almost through,” Jack said.
“The river narrows a bit right ahead,” Roosevelt noted.
“And the current becomes stronger,” Jack noted. “I’ll need to steer at the rocks to the right, then let the current swing the bow around. Once she’s straight, give her full steam. We should pop right out the other side.”
“Should?” Roosevelt asked.
“We will,” Jack said.
Inside the aft cabin, Lydia Roosevelt, Maggie Markum, and the heavyset German cook, Hilda Gottshak, were huddled together alongside the widows on the starboard side. Henry the baby was awake, and Lydia held him up to see.
“Looks like we’re headed right for the wall,” Lydia said, pulling the baby closer.
Gottshak hugged her Bible. “I pray the rest of this trip goes smoothly.”
“Pray the engines keep ru
At that instant, the current grabbed hold of the bow and swung the vessel around.
“Bully of a job,” Nicholas said, as they cleared the last of the falls. “Maxwell will bring you a snifter of brandy.”
“The river is smooth from here to the Mississippi,” Jack noted.
“How long until we reach Henderson?” Roosevelt asked.
“Barring any problems, we’ll be there tomorrow afternoon,” Jack said.
“Quiet,” Lucy Blackwell said, “or you will scare it away.”
Blackwell was Lydia Roosevelt’s best friend. She was also the wife of artist John James Audubon, who would become famous for his sketches, drawings, and paintings of birds. Lydia Roosevelt was the daughter of Benjamin Latrobe, surveyor general of the United States. Nicholas had known the Latrobe family before Lydia was born, and he had watched her grow into womanhood. Though there was more than a twenty-year age difference between the two of them, Lydia was a happy wife.
“Carolina Parrot,” Lucy said.
“Beautiful,” said Lydia.
Half a mile away, in the Audubons’ store in Henderson, Kentucky, Nicholas sat in front of a checkerboard. He glanced over at Audubon, then made his move.
“We are 150 miles below Louisville,” Roosevelt said. “So far, so good.”
Audubon studied Roosevelt’s move. Reaching onto the table, he removed a deerskin pouch of tobacco and filled his pipe. Tamping down the tobacco, he lit it with a nearby candle. “From here downstream,” Audubon said, “the river widens and the current slows.”
“So you think we’ll make New Orleans?” Roosevelt asked.
“Sure,” Audubon said. “I made it to the Gulf of Mexico once in a canoe.”
Roosevelt nodded and watched as Audubon made his jump.
“Did a painting of a pelican there,” he finished, “with a fish hanging from his bill.”
On December 16, New Orleans left Henderson and continued downstream.
Inside a buffalo-skin tepee near present-day East Prairie, Missouri, a Sioux Indian chief drew in smoke from a long pipe, then handed it to his Shawnee visitor.
“General Harrison defeated the Shawnee at Tippecanoe?” the Sioux chief asked.
“Yes,” the Shawnee messenger noted. “The white men attacked the morning after the harvest moon. Chief Tecumseh rallied his braves, but the white men attacked and burned Prophet’s Town. The tribe has retreated from Indiana.”
The Sioux took the proffered pipe and again inhaled the smoke. “I had a vision yesterday. The white man has harnessed the earth’s power for his own evil purposes. He has rallied the beasts to his cause, as well as controlling the comet in the heavens.”
“One of the reasons I came,” the Shawnee explained, “is that our braves witnessed a Penelore on the river above here. It might try to enter the Father of Waters.”
“A Fire Canoe?” the Sioux chief asked. “Must be part of the burning star.”
The Shawnee exhaled smoke from his lungs before answering. The Sioux had powerful tobacco, and his head was spi
“Where did you see this beast last?” the Sioux said.
“It was still at the city by the falls when I left,” the Shawnee said.
“Once it comes down my river,” the Sioux chief said, “we will kill it.”
Then the chief rolled over onto a pile of buffalo robes and closed his eyes. He would seek the answer from the spirits. The Shawnee opened the flap of the tepee and stepped out into the bright light reflected off the early snow.
Deep inside the earth below New Madrid, Missouri, all was not well. The layers forming the first thousand feet of overburden were twitching like an enraged lion. Molten earth, heated by the immense temperatures below ground, mixed with water from the thousands of springs and dozens of tributaries along the Mississippi River. This superheated, black, slippery liquid worked as a lubricant on the plates of the earth that were held in place under great tension. Earth had given fair notice of the wrath it was about to unleash. The birds and animals had sensed the danger. A great burp from the earth was building. And the burp would soon erupt.
New Orleans was steaming right toward the inevitable eruption.
The Ohio River current ran faster nearing the Mississippi River, and New Orleans was steaming smoothly. In a few moments, the ship would arrive at the confluence of the two rivers, hours ahead of schedule. The mood aboard the steamboat was one of happy contentment. The deckhands went about their duties with gusto. Markum had already cleaned the cabins and was hanging the sheets from a clothesline stretched between them. Andrew Jack was taking a short nap on the bow while Nicholas steered. When Roosevelt sent word that they were at the confluence, he would go to the pilothouse to direct the passage.