Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 by The Morning River (v2.1) Page A

man
and a hard-boned woman laboring to raise kids, corn, and pigs.
                   And this is the great destiny my father
believes in?
                   Any semblance of civilization had stopped at Pittsburgh . That rowdy town at the confluence of the
Monongahela and Allegheny might have met the approval of a Saxon chief, but
little more.
                   Despite his disappointment in the people, the
eternal voices of earth and water had captured his imagination. The majestic
river amazed him. At first it had been cluttered with floes of ice. The Ohio exuded a sense of power and propriety,
bounded by its tree-furred bluffs and somber, wooded banks. Staring out over
the water instilled in him a feeling of tranquillity he'd never experienced
before. As the river gained a hold on his soul, he began to fill the pages of
his journal with poetic musings, an amorous tone apparent in his flowery words.
                   Beyond the river lay the forest, perpetually
somber, a place of labyrinthine shadows and secrets. Richard had grown acutely
aware of its presence. Once, at a wood stop, he'd walked out into the
leaf-matted silence and stared up at the patterns of mighty limbs that blocked
the sky. He'd run his fingers down the rugged bark of oaks, hickories, and
walnuts, sensing the age and power of the land.
                   What was it that touched him? The prickle of
danger? The warning that his soul was somehow in jeopardy? At the first threads
of fear, he'd turned and bolted for the boat, relieved by the sound of human
voices, the clank of metal, and the soothing reassurance of men and their
works.
                   Even now, safely huddled in his bed, he
shivered at the memory. It was out there, just beyond the thin wall of his
cabin: a terrible presence he could not understand. The rational mind told him
he'd seen nothing but trees: wilderness. What had made him feel so small, so
meaningless?
                   Ever since, he'd watched the forest as it
passed, uneasy at what might lurk in those dim shadows.
                   Like a child hearing ghouls in the winter
wind. You're a fool Richard.
                   His growling stomach finally drove him to
throw back the blankets and climb to his feet. Shivering, he dressed, tied a
thick white scarf about his neck, and broke the crust of ice out of his wash
bowl to wet his face and slick his hair. Fingers numb, he unlocked his door,
plucked up the grip containing the money and his copy of Kant, then stepped
into the cramped corridor. Narrow black doors, each designated with a white
letter painted by a wobbly hand, lined the way. The boards creaked underfoot as
he proceeded forward to the parlor. The boat shuddered, the deck swaying in a
most unsettling manner.
                   The boat is going to shake itself apart and I’m
going to drown.
                   After his arrival in Pittsburgh , the Virgil had been the first steamboat
making passage to Saint Louis . She was a small sternwheeler, no more than one hundred and ten tons.
Two black smokestacks rose from behind the capstan in the bow, and through the
forward gallery. Richard could see them through the large windows as he entered
the main cabin. His fellow passengers, some twenty in all, had already filled
the room with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that mercifully covered the taint of
unwashed humanity. They sat at the tables, some engaged in cards, others in
companionable talk over steaming tin cups. Most glanced up, noted his arrival,
and returned to their conversations and games.
                   "Good morning, sir." The Virginia planter spoke with his usual politeness. He
wore a gray beaver-felt hat, charcoal frock coat, and a silk scarf that
contrasted with his blue eyes, pale face, and black hair.
                   "Good morning to you, too, sir."
Richard gave a slight bow and turned