I meet his eyes. “Not passenger. Freight. Wallace & Sons. Textile shipment under McKinnon. I’m to ride with the crates, sample inspection when we reach Pascagoula. McKinnon swore it’d be cleared.”
He frowns, ledger open, but don’t find the name. I press before doubt sets in.
“Look here,” I say, reaching into my vest and pulling the gold watch. The shine of it is enough to help him see things my way. “Invoice might’ve been misfiled in the rush, but you’ll surely find it in your morning post. Freight’s paid, that’s certain.” I hold the watch out to him. “Here. I’ll let you hold it. Collateral.”
The purser glances again at the watch, then at my gloves. Men trust gold, always have. He takes it, turning it over in his hand. The lamplight glints on the glass face like a wink, and he closes it in his fist with a knowing look. I ain’t getting that watch back.
“You’ll ride quiet, then. No meals, no complaints.”
“I’m nothing if not quiet,” I say.
Dropping the watch into his pocket, he nods toward the gangway. “Find a bunk aft.”
Seems we understand each other. I step aboard, boots thudding on damp planks. The ship smells of oil and iron. As we push from the wharf, the city blurs into fog, only the cathedral spire left to mark the place I’ve burned behind me.
Two nights of keeping my head down later, we come into Pascagoula through thick air, rich and green with pine and mud. The docks smell of fish and coal. A poorer sort of town, less polished and more forgiving than New Orleans and Galveston.
No one stops me when I walk ashore. The purser don’t even look my way. He’s got his watch, and I’ve got a name that don’t belong to any poster in Mississippi. Fair trade.
The streets off the wharf are a cross between boardwalk and mud. A telegraph office buzzes two doors down. I pass a grocer hauling shutters open and a barefoot boy sweeping sawdust into the street.
My pocket is light, the pawn watch gone. But I’m clean, dressed, and standing in a place where nobody cares who I’ve been. No wagons idle, no horses hitched. From here, the road bends north and I start walking. Alice is a long way off, but I’m finally facing the right direction.
By the second day on foot surrounded by a lot of nothing, I’m half starved, half limping, and aching for a meal. Toward dusk, I come on a store at a crossroads. L. Poole Mercantile & Sundries, the sign says, letters faded, shop wrapped in honeysuckle.
A cat sleeps in the window beside jars of penny candy. Smoke rises from the chimney out back. I straighten my coat, brush the dust from my cuffs, and step inside. The bell over the door gives a sharp little ring. Smells sweet inside, like peppermint and sugar.
An old woman stands behind the counter, white hair wound in a tight knot, apron faded to the color of flour. She looks up from her ledger and takes me in, eyes moving slow, measuring.
“Evenin’, ma’am,” I say, touching the brim of my hat. “Name’s Wallace. Been on foot since Pascagoula. Horse left me short of town.”
She looks me over again. “You don’t strike me as a man used to walkin’.”
“Never planned to,” I say, smiling tired. “Luck turned sudden.”
She nods like she’s heard it a million times. “You’ll eat first. Then talk about luck.”
She has me wash up at the pump, then sets me at her kitchen table. Beans, cornbread, fried chicken. I try to mind my manners but the hunger wins out, and I eat something fierce till my hands stop shaking.
When I look up, she’s watching me with a small, knowing smile. “You’re headin’ somewhere important?”
I set my fork down. Lying to her would feel like kicking a dog, so I give her half of the truth. “Yes, ma’am. North. There’s a woman waitin’ on me there. Alice. We were to be married, but life came between.”
“You plan to set it right.”
“I aim to.”
She stands, crosses to a cupboard, and comes back with a folded paper. When she presses it into my hand, I feel the crisp edge of bills.
“Enough for a train ticket to Meridian,” she says. “You’ll make better time.”
I start to shake my head, but she stops me with a click of her tongue. “Don’t argue with an old woman. I got no use for money I can’t spend, and the world needs a few more weddings.”
I laugh. “You’re kind, ma’am. Kinder than I deserve.” I pocket the bills and stand. “I’ll see her right. I promise you that.”
She smiles. “I reckon you already did, just by walkin’.”
Before I go, she hands me a warm biscuit rolled in a cloth.
