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Authors: Richard S. Wheeler
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the whole front end of the packet upward on its spars, like a grasshopper rising on its legs. The spars themselves had been set at an angle, leaning forward to give the vessel a push when the moment came. The packet creaked and the rope hummed and spit spray as the prow inched upward.
Roux nodded, and LaBarge yanked the bellrope hard, and a sudden roar of the steam pistons echoed. The eighteen-foot wheels churned, driving the packet ahead on its spars until the angle was too great and the packet settled back onto the sandbar, but twenty feet forward of its previous position. Fitzhugh had seen it before, and marveled at its ingenuity as much now as when he’d first witnessed a riverboat being eased over shallow water. It took two more grasshopperings before the packet slid free on the far side of the bar, and danced on the sparkling waters like a manumitted slave while men cheered down below.
LaBarge smiled. “It can be worse than this,” he said. “Sometimes we must shift cargo to the rear, or forward, and the crew hates it.”
“I reckon the river gets shallower and tougher every time we pass the mouth of a creek,” Fitzhugh said.
LaBarge snorted. “It’s the June rise that counts. I’ve always thought there’s water deep enough to go to the great falls of the Missouri on the June rise. But no one’s ever been there. Too many rocks and rapids.”
“I’d take it kindly if you’d push on up the Yellowstone far as you can. The Bighorn’s a long ways up, and I hate the thought of three or four wagon trips from wherever you drop us, and that mountain of stuff sitting unguarded out there.”
“We’ll find an island. A place where you can store your goods while you’re hauling. Lots of them on that river, M. Fitzhugh. Some of them separated from the riverbank by a gravelly bottom with only a few inches running over it — easy to ford. I wish we could just anchor and wait, but we’d never make it back down.”
“We’ll manage,” he said, “But I don’t have enough men to do it right.”
LaBarge smiled tightly. “M. Chardonne warned about calamities,” he said softly. “It’ll depend on whether the tribes on the Yellowstone know about us.”
* * *
Maxim took his new duties seriously. He had grown up solemn by nature, not given to laughter and lightness, and inclined to see life as a series of crushing responsibilities.
M. Fitzhugh showed him how to check inventory. Each morning, as the packet toiled up the endless miles of the great river, the bourgeois swung down the ladder into the low hold carrying a coal-oil lantern and his cargo manifest. Maxim could stand, but just barely, in the five-foot-high hold, but M. Fitzhugh had to crouch, which wasn’t easy with his stiff leg.
“Now this’ll take time. It’s slow and tedious, but we’ve got to do it each day, boy.”
Maxim nodded as Fitzhugh limped to the closest freight, oblong crates. Maxim could hear the water gurgle and suck at the hull, and slide beneath the bottom. Above, the thunder of pistons rumbled softly.
“Hyar, hold the lamp now. This crate’s got axes in it, fifty according to the waybill. Now first you look at our manifest, and find out how many axes we’re taking for trade. Hyar, now. A hundred. Have we two crates? Hyar we are, two crates. Now look and see, here, whether they’ve been pried open. If someone’s filching axes, he’s got to open the case. Try it with your hand, eh?”
Maxim did, discovering that the lid remained tightly attached.
“Petty thief ’ll fool you; he’ll make it look like there’s been no tampering, so look sharp and use your hands.”
And so it went. Maxim learned to look and feel, and check off the boxes and bales and sacks, and to use his hands as well as his eyes because thieves would deceive. He learned how to spot-check, too. There were too many boxes of blue-and-white glass trade beads to examine, but M. Fitzhugh showed him how to make a random check, and look at
Roux nodded, and LaBarge yanked the bellrope hard, and a sudden roar of the steam pistons echoed. The eighteen-foot wheels churned, driving the packet ahead on its spars until the angle was too great and the packet settled back onto the sandbar, but twenty feet forward of its previous position. Fitzhugh had seen it before, and marveled at its ingenuity as much now as when he’d first witnessed a riverboat being eased over shallow water. It took two more grasshopperings before the packet slid free on the far side of the bar, and danced on the sparkling waters like a manumitted slave while men cheered down below.
LaBarge smiled. “It can be worse than this,” he said. “Sometimes we must shift cargo to the rear, or forward, and the crew hates it.”
“I reckon the river gets shallower and tougher every time we pass the mouth of a creek,” Fitzhugh said.
LaBarge snorted. “It’s the June rise that counts. I’ve always thought there’s water deep enough to go to the great falls of the Missouri on the June rise. But no one’s ever been there. Too many rocks and rapids.”
“I’d take it kindly if you’d push on up the Yellowstone far as you can. The Bighorn’s a long ways up, and I hate the thought of three or four wagon trips from wherever you drop us, and that mountain of stuff sitting unguarded out there.”
“We’ll find an island. A place where you can store your goods while you’re hauling. Lots of them on that river, M. Fitzhugh. Some of them separated from the riverbank by a gravelly bottom with only a few inches running over it — easy to ford. I wish we could just anchor and wait, but we’d never make it back down.”
“We’ll manage,” he said, “But I don’t have enough men to do it right.”
LaBarge smiled tightly. “M. Chardonne warned about calamities,” he said softly. “It’ll depend on whether the tribes on the Yellowstone know about us.”
* * *
Maxim took his new duties seriously. He had grown up solemn by nature, not given to laughter and lightness, and inclined to see life as a series of crushing responsibilities.
M. Fitzhugh showed him how to check inventory. Each morning, as the packet toiled up the endless miles of the great river, the bourgeois swung down the ladder into the low hold carrying a coal-oil lantern and his cargo manifest. Maxim could stand, but just barely, in the five-foot-high hold, but M. Fitzhugh had to crouch, which wasn’t easy with his stiff leg.
“Now this’ll take time. It’s slow and tedious, but we’ve got to do it each day, boy.”
Maxim nodded as Fitzhugh limped to the closest freight, oblong crates. Maxim could hear the water gurgle and suck at the hull, and slide beneath the bottom. Above, the thunder of pistons rumbled softly.
“Hyar, hold the lamp now. This crate’s got axes in it, fifty according to the waybill. Now first you look at our manifest, and find out how many axes we’re taking for trade. Hyar, now. A hundred. Have we two crates? Hyar we are, two crates. Now look and see, here, whether they’ve been pried open. If someone’s filching axes, he’s got to open the case. Try it with your hand, eh?”
Maxim did, discovering that the lid remained tightly attached.
“Petty thief ’ll fool you; he’ll make it look like there’s been no tampering, so look sharp and use your hands.”
And so it went. Maxim learned to look and feel, and check off the boxes and bales and sacks, and to use his hands as well as his eyes because thieves would deceive. He learned how to spot-check, too. There were too many boxes of blue-and-white glass trade beads to examine, but M. Fitzhugh showed him how to make a random check, and look at
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