Fawn strolled along the row, looking for likely candidates for their boat. Some had long top-sheds that clearly left no room for a horse. Others were carrying livestock already—one had four oxen stalled on the bow end, quietly chewing their cud, so the boats could carry big animals, but that one was plainly full-up. Several had chicken coops, on top or tucked into a corner, and some had dogs, though none roused enough from their naps in the sun to bark at her. She stopped and studied a likely prospect. A fellow sitting on a barrel in the open bow tipped back his floppy hat and grinned in return with what teeth he had.
“Do you take passengers?” she called to him.
“I’d take you, little lady!” he replied enthusiastically.
Fawn frowned. “It would be me, my husband, and his horse.”
He swept off the hat with a flourish, revealing greasy hair. “Oh, leave the husband and his horse. I bet I can give you a better ride. If you—ow!” He clapped his hand to the side of his head as a small wooden block from seeming nowhere bounced off it with an audible clonk. Looking up to his left, he complained, “Now, what’d you go and do that for? I was just bein’ friendly!”
Atop the flat roof of the next boat over, a figure in homespun skirts sat in a rocking chair, whittling. As Fawn squinted, she saw it was a surprisingly young woman, almost lanky in build, with straight blond hair escaping from a horse-tail tied at her nape. She had light blue eyes and a wide mouth, both pinched with annoyance.
“To remind you to behave your fool self, Jos,” she replied tartly.
“Now apologize.”
“Sorry, Boss Berry.”
This won another wooden missile, which Jos did not dodge quite fast enough. “Ow!” he repeated.
“To her, you nitwit!” snapped the blond woman.
Jos put his hat back on, for the purpose of tugging its brim, evidently. “Sorry, miss—missus,” he mumbled to Fawn. He shuffled into his boat’s shack, out of range.
“Dolt,” observed the woman dispassionately.
Fawn strolled on a few paces, noting with interest that while Jos’s boat had its hull stuck in the mire, Berry’s, moored farther out, still floated. And it had an empty animal pen in one corner of the bow. Some chickens were penned on the opposite side, pecking up a scattering of corn, and their coop didn’t stink in the sun, unlike a few she’d passed; someone here cleaned it regularly. She put her hands on her hips and stared up at the woman, who didn’t look to be much older than Fawn herself.
“What are you carvin’ on?” Fawn called up.
The woman held out a rounded block. “Floats. Cottonwood makes good floats, for ropes and whatnot. A lot of softwoods do.”
Fawn nodded, encouraged by the sociable explanation and an almost-smile that erased the earlier tightness from the woman’s face. She might have just said floats, or none of your business. “So…does this boat take passengers?”
The blond woman—girl—rocked forward to eye Fawn more closely. “I hadn’t thought to. I’m doing a bit of trading down the river, plan a lot of stops. It’d be a slow ride.”
“That’s all right. We’re not in a hurry. How far down the river are you going?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Can I see inside your boat? I’ve never been on a flatboat.” Fawn smiled up hopefully. Not a request she’d have dared make of the lewd—well, would-be-lewd—Jos; she was in luck to find this woman.
The woman tilted her head, then nodded. She stuck her whittling knife in a sheath at her belt and dismounted from the roof of the cabin by simply jumping down the five feet, ignoring the crude ladder of nailed slats, landing with a thump and a spring of her knees. She grabbed a long board and ran it out to the bank. Fawn eyed the narrowness and flex of it dubiously, but held her breath and picked her way aboard without falling into the mud.
She hopped down onto the deck and straightened in exhilaration. “Hi, I’m Fawn Bluefield.”
The woman bobbed her head. She had wide cheekbones, but a pointed chin, lending an effect like a friendly ferret. She was taller than Fawn—as who was not? — and even a bit taller than Whit, likely. Her fine, fair skin was sunburned. “Berry Clearcreek. I’m boss of this boat.”
A boat boss was captain or owner or sometimes both; Fawn guessed both, and was impressed and heartened. Berry stuck out a welcoming hand, slim but even more work-roughened than Fawn’s. Fawn clasped and released it, smiling. “What lives in the pen?” she asked, nodding toward it, then spotted the droppings in the straw. “Oh, a goat.”
“Our nanny Daisy. My little brother took her ashore to graze.”
“So you have fresh milk. And eggs.” Already this boat seemed homey.
Berry nodded. “Some.”
“I grew up on a farm. Up by West Blue.” And at Berry’s puzzled look, added, “North of Lumpton Market.”
Berry still looked geographically uncertain, so Fawn added, “Lumpton’s way up the same river that comes out to the Grace near Silver Shoals.”
Berry’s face cleared. “Oh, the Stony Fork. Big sand bar, there. You know how to milk a goat, do you?”
“Sure.”
“Hm.” Berry hesitated. “You can cook, too, I guess. Good cook?”
“My husband says so.”
The boat boss regarded Fawn’s shortness, which, Fawn knew, made her look even younger than she was. “How long’ve you two been married?”
Fawn blushed. “About four months.” It seemed longer, with all that had happened.
Berry smiled a little. “Not sure whether to trust his judgment or not, then. Well, come see my boat!”
A small doorway or hatch in the front of the shack led down by a few crude plank steps into a dark interior. Even Fawn had to duck through; Dag would likely have to bend double, and be very careful when he straightened up. The front of the shelter was full of cargo: coils of hemp rope, rolls of woolen and linen cloth, stacks of hides, barrels and kegs. Fawn could smell apples, butter, lard, and what might be bear grease. One barrel was set up on sawhorses and had a spigot in the end. It hissed a little ominously as the apple cider within hardened, fermenting in the unseasonable warmth. There were sacks of nuts, and smoked meats hanging from the rafters. Tucked everywhere were bundles of barrel staves. All the local produce from up some tributary river or creek of the Grace. At one side was an array of what were obviously Tripoint steel and iron tools and metalwork, from shovel and axe heads, coulters, and kegs of nails, to needles and pins.
“Did you come all the way from Tripoint?” asked Fawn in awe, fingering a shiny new plow blade.
“No, only from about halfway. We pick up things in one place, sell them downstream in another, as chance offers.”
The back end of the shack was living quarters, lit by two little glazed windows and another door up to the back deck. Two narrow bunk beds with pallets stacked three-high along the walls had more cargo jammed underneath; one bunk had a curtain. This was one of the boats with a real stone hearth. A few coals glowed under a black iron water-kettle. A cleverly hinged tabletop could be raised up and hooked flat to a wall, its legs folded in tight, to cover and contain a shelf full of metal dishes and cups and cooking supplies.
“How did you come to own this nice boat?”
Berry’s smile faded to a grimace. “My papa builds—built—builds one every year, to float down to Graymouth. He and my big brother do the timberwork, and I do the caulking and fitting. He’s been taking us kids along ever since my mama died when I was ten.” Her expression softened. “He’d come back upriver working as a hand on a keelboat, he and my big brother, with me and my little brother as cargo, till I learned me how to play the fiddle for the keelers. Then I got paid more than him! He used to complain mightily about that, in a proud sort of way.”