CHAPTER 7

Where Is It?

Libby went straight to the Christina’s office. “I’d like to put one of my drawings in the safe,” she told the young clerk who worked there. As he opened the safe, he looked curious but made no comment.

He doesn’t dare ask why, Libby thought, wanting to giggle. He knows I’m the captain’s daughter.

By the time she finished eating the evening meal, the sun had dropped low in the western sky. Libby went to her room in the texas, the boxlike structure at the top of the boat where many crew members had their rooms. Long shadows fell across her bed, but Libby could still see her way around.

The first thing she noticed was that her drawings were out of order. Then she knew someone had opened her large trunk. Next she found a drop of wax on the floor. Here on the texas, far away from water and help, Pa did not allow her to use a candle. Yet there was no mistaking the wax.

Someone was here while I was gone. Someone entered my room, my private place. Whoever that person is, he looked through my things, searched everything I own. It has to be the man I saw on deck!

At first Libby felt angry. She wanted to scream, to cry out, to sob. That man wanted the sketch I drew. Why? Who is he? What is he trying to hide?

Then Libby knew something even worse. Whoever he is, he knows I can recognize him. That I can show the drawing to others.

Without wasting another moment, Libby went looking for her father. She found him and Annika sitting on the hurricane deck, talking together. Libby stopped, not wanting to break in.

Annika saw her and asked, “What’s wrong, Libby?”

When she finished telling them, Pa had another question. “Do you know the man’s name?”

Libby shook her head. “He looked like Mr. Trouble to me.”

“Give me his description again.”

“Tall, brown hair, blue eyes. Cruel lines around his mouth.” Libby told about the drawing in the safe.

“I’ll get my best men working on it,” Pa said. “We haven’t much time before we reach St. Paul. But if they see the drawing, they can begin to search.”

Pa started off, then came back. “I love you, Libby,” he said. “Remember that, okay? Bring your blankets to my cabin tonight. You can make a bed on the floor.”

Partway across the deck, Pa turned back a second time. “That man has it in for you, Libby. Wherever you go, take Samson along.”

“I wonder what’s going on,” Libby said to Annika after Pa left. Spreading her hand wide, she counted on her fingers. “First, the tall man in the shadows of the main cabin. Black hat and long, black coat.”

“Second—” Libby ticked off another finger. “The short, thin man on the main deck. Hair slicked down, collar so high that it looked as if he has no neck. He’s the one who threatened Jordan, saying, ‘I know you’re Micah Parker’s son.’”

Libby drew a long breath. “Third, the man I drew on the deck for first-class passengers. Tall, brown hair, blue eyes. Cruel lines around his mouth. And no doubt, the man who searched my room.” Just thinking about it, Libby’s stomach knotted again.

“Maybe it’s like children in a classroom,” Annika said. “If they’re troublemakers, they always manage to find each other.”

“You mean they’ve found each other on the Christina? And we can expect more trouble?”

“Maybe,” Annika said. “Your pa would know better than I.”

Half an hour later, Libby and Peter watched from the hurricane deck as the Christina rounded the bend a mile below St. Paul. As the steamboat whistled its long, deep blast, Libby saw the city against the last rose color of the sunset.

Near the riverfront stood large warehouses. On higher ground homes and businesses spread across the bluff. Rising above all the other buildings, church steeples pointed upward.

Then a high, squealing noise shattered the peace. As the bloodcurdling sound cut through to her bones, Libby trembled. Is this what it means to come to Minnesota Territory?

When she turned to Peter, his happy look had not changed. But Wellington yipped and squirmed, rubbing his paws against his ears.

The high-pitched squeal kept on and on. Unlike anything Libby had ever heard, the sound terrified her. Leaping up, she ran to her father’s cabin.

“It’s the Red River oxcarts,” he said, meeting her at the door. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Oxcarts?” Libby whirled around. Ahead, she could see nothing but an island and the buildings on the bluffs.

“Two-wheeled carts filled with furs,” Pa explained. “They come from Pembina, way up at the edge of Minnesota Territory, near the Canadian border. The drivers don’t use grease on the axles. It’s wood turning on wood. People say they hear the squeal for miles.”

Libby believed it. Though she couldn’t see the carts, the noise was so loud that Pa had to talk above it.

Going to the railing, he stared upstream. “Usually the drivers reach St. Paul in July. I wonder why they’re here this late in the season?”

Pa turned to leave. “There might be a hundred carts or more. I need to talk to the passengers. They’ll be frightened too.”

Libby went back to Peter. By now the Christina was close enough for them to see the steamboat landing. Peter still tried to hold Wellington in his arms, but the dog wiggled and squirmed, yipping continually.

“What’s wrong with him?” Peter asked.

Libby pointed to the dog’s ears, made a face showing pain, then covered her own ears with her hands.

“Do you have an earache?” Peter asked. “Does Wellington have an earache?”

Libby took Peter’s slate. “Oxcarts,” she wrote. “High squeal. Hurts Wellington’s ears. Mine too.”

Libby motioned toward the streets of St. Paul. “Watch,” she signed. “Maybe we’ll see them.”

Four other steamboats had already tied up at the Lower Landing. Mr. Fletcher, the pilot, guided the Christina to the flat area of land that was the levee.

Beyond the waterfront a dirt street led up the steep bluff. There Libby saw the oxcarts pass by. Their wheels were huge—five feet high or so. The drivers walked beside their oxen.

As the Christina’s deckhands threw out the lines, Libby hurried down to the main deck to watch. She found Caleb standing near where the gangplank would go down. Seeing him there told Libby that he, too, was eager to visit St. Paul.

The line of first-class passengers waiting to go on shore were backed up the stairway. Near the steps on the side away from the gangplank, Oliver White stood along the wall. On the deck next to him was his large trunk.

I wonder how he got back there, Libby thought, surprised that he hadn’t pushed his way to the head of the line. Then Libby saw that Mr. White was talking with Annika.

Uh-oh! Libby thought. I hope they aren’t becoming friends. She disliked even the thought.

The squeal of oxcarts went on and on. Then, to Libby’s relief, it finally stopped. Through the opening between warehouses, she saw men start to unload their carts.

The moment the Christina’s gangplank went out, the first-class passengers streamed across. Waiting their turn, deckers stood with baggage ready and children in hand. The tired, worn look Libby had often seen on the immigrants’ faces was gone. Instead, their eyes were full of hope, their voices eager. The sound of several languages filled the air.

In the long twilight after sunset, a man carried a young boy across the gangplank. Once clear of the crowd, the man set the boy on his feet and pointed down.

“Minnesota Territory,” he said. “Sure and if we aren’t in the land of opportunity.” Dropping to his knees, the man kissed the ground. His son dropped down beside him.

Libby couldn’t imagine herself kneeling in the dirt, touching her lips to the trampled soil of the landing. Yet as she looked around, a woman did the same thing. When she rose to her feet again, excitement lit her face.

I’ve never really understood, Libby thought. With both Pa and Auntie, I’ve always had a home, a safe place.

Forgetting everything else, Libby watched the people leave the Christina. Young and old. Single and married. Couples with no children. Parents with few or many children. Some with little baggage, others with much. All with one look. They were eager to begin a new life.

The fiddler stood among them. Waiting in line, Franz held a carpetbag in one hand and his violin case in the other. Ahead of him a woman with two children balanced a large cloth bag on her shoulder. In spite of the warm evening, she wore a heavy black coat.

As she started onto the gangplank, the woman reached down, took the hand of the youngest child, and motioned for the other girl to follow. Halfway across the gangplank, the older girl looked down at the dark water and froze.

Caleb started over to help, but Franz set his belongings on a crate and hurried forward. Taking the child’s hand, he led her safely across.

Other immigrants streamed forward. Out of the corner of her eye, Libby caught a quick movement. Then the crowd shifted, and Libby saw Franz again.

“Tank you, tank you,” the woman said as she reached the levee.

“You’ll be fine now?” he asked. “You have someone to meet you?”

“Yah, my husband, he meet me here.” The woman pointed to the piece of paper pinned to her coat. It read St. Paul, Minnesota Territory. “My husband, he come here to work, save money to bring us to America.” She touched the blond hair of the youngest child. “This one he has never seen.”

Franz wished the woman well and hurried back across the gangplank to the Christina. When he reached the crate where he had left his violin and carpetbag, his smile disappeared. Suddenly he cried out. “My violin! It is gone!”

As Libby whirled around, a tall man slipped through the door into the cargo room.

“Caleb!” Libby called, and the two tore after the man. In the dimly lit area they raced between piles of freight, following the sound of running footsteps.

Before long the footsteps stopped. Libby and Caleb stopped to listen. From one side of the boat, Libby heard a door close.

Caleb leaped into action. Libby followed him through the cargo area to the engine room. On the far side Caleb flung open the door. When he and Libby came out on the side deck, it was empty.

Together they raced along the deck back toward the front of the boat. When Caleb rounded the corner, he stopped so suddenly that Libby crashed into him. Together they scanned the crowd of immigrants still waiting to leave. Not one person moved quickly, as though trying to flee.

Caleb frowned. “Whoever that thief is, he’s mighty bold.”

“Did you see his face?” Libby asked.

Neither of them had managed to get a good look. Angry at his failure to catch the man, Caleb pounded his fist against his hand.

To Libby’s relief Annika was no longer talking to Oliver White. He still stood next to his trunk, waiting for the crowded front deck to clear. Looking concerned, he asked, “Did you find anything?”

Caleb shook his head. Moving between the deckers, he and Libby made their way over to Franz.

“Where is it?” he asked. “Where is my violin?”