Chapter 29

29

Sullivan didn't want to restrain himself from visiting Enya any longer.

Through the blackness of the night, he studied the brightly lit windows of the homes in the general area of their house. Even from as high as he was in the pilothouse, he couldn't distinguish the homes.

Should he have gone to her earlier when he'd had the chance instead of sending her the chicken dinner Cook had made before leaving the steamer for well-deserved time off?

Sullivan's chest squeezed hard, his need for Enya pinching off his airway and slicing into his heart. Maybe he wasn't too late to call back the night watchman for the evening shift. Then he could go see her tonight.

He stepped out of the pilothouse and started toward the stairs.

With a sigh, he halted. What if he went to her and she pushed him away? She might even refuse to see him. After all, when he'd left her that last time, he'd been insensitive and impatient. And he'd gone from St. Louis without a good-bye.

He gripped the railing and held himself in place. "Tomorrow." The whisper came out harsh, the strong, steady wind from the northeast picking up his word and tossing it away.

He had a duty to fulfill to Silas, who was still tucked safely in the closet in the cabin. Even though the night was without cloud cover or mist, Sullivan planned to execute the exchange anyway. He'd already sent the crew away and placed the lantern in his cabin window to alert the next rescuer to row over at two o'clock. He couldn't change the plans now.

A lone man attired in ragged and frayed garments stumbled down the gangplank of the White Cloud, one steamer away to the north of the Morning Star . The steamer's night watchman rose from his seat on forecastle and called out to the fellow.

Sullivan couldn't hear all that was exchanged, but soon enough the man circled out of sight behind the piles of lumber and bales of dry hemp.

There were always stragglers along the levee ... and thieves who tried to board the steamers while they were moored so they could steal anything of value left behind. That's why vessels posted a watchman during the night.

Thankfully most watchmen had their eyes on the waterfront and not on the river behind them. Even so, the rowboat coming for the slave tonight would be at greater risk, just as it had been last month.

The danger of harboring the runaway had weighed more heavily upon Sullivan during this voyage. He had so much more at stake now that he had a wife and soon a baby. At the same time, he only had to think about enslaved men his age who had their wives and babies torn away from them. Sullivan couldn't begin to imagine their pain, and contemplating their plight only strengthened his resolve to do more.

At the waft of smoke in the air, Sullivan straightened and peered over the Morning Star , as well as the steamboats moored next to his. Through the darkness, he couldn't distinguish anything unusual. As far as he could tell, there were no flames.

He'd just learned the Highland Mary had caught fire two weeks ago as she was moored near the foot of Cherry Street. From the tales the dockworkers told, the fire had spread to every part of the little steamer within five minutes, and the captain had been forced to dive into the river to extinguish the flames from his clothing.

Surely with the story of the disaster so fresh, his mind was playing tricks on him. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd imagined smoke and flames where there were none. He supposed after what he'd experienced during the Battle of Veracruz, he'd always suffer from the vivid memories.

The trouble was that most steamboats were built entirely out of wood, and the wood became drier over the life of the ship, almost dangerously so. Fires were a risk of the business.

The scent of smoke tickled his nose again, and this time he stepped up to the forecastle so he could get a better view of the line of steamers that stretched along the St. Louis waterfront.

Sure enough, a telltale red glow came from the White Cloud .

Sullivan's pulse slammed hard and fast. He didn't hesitate before he leapt over the railing to the deck below. He had to get to the steamer and help put out the fire before it spread to the vessels on either side.

To save himself time, he climbed over the railing and jumped onto the Edward Bates , the adjacent steamer . He sprinted to the opposite side, and by the time he reached the railing, the flames filled the doorway of one of the White Cloud 's passenger cabins.

The night watchman had a bucket in hand already, but he would need assistance if he had any hope of keeping the flames from consuming other parts of the steamer.

Sullivan swiped up several buckets from a supply closet on the Edward Bates . At the same time, the White Cloud 's fire alarm bell rang out into the silence of the night.

Sullivan wasted no time climbing the railing and leaping onto the White Cloud. As his feet slammed onto the deck, the watchman gave a start, but at the sight of Sullivan's buckets, he nodded toward the barrel of rainwater down the passageway.

The heat and the intensity of the flames reached out as though to grasp Sullivan in their dangerous tentacles, but he raced along with the night watchman to wrestle the fire under control.

Even with the two of them throwing water upon the fire, it continued to spread, and he prayed that the nearest fire department had heard the alarm bell and would respond soon. The Franklin Fire Company No. 8 was the closest, only three blocks from the levee. But the Missouri Fire Company No. 5 was also fairly close.

Would they be able to reach the waterfront in time to save the White Cloud ?

After what felt like an hour later but was really only minutes, the shouts of firemen on the levee broke through the crackle of the flames and the pounding of Sullivan's heart. From his periphery he could see men dragging hoses to the nearest fireplug attached to the foundry at the corner of Main and Cherry Streets.

Sullivan and the night watchman continued to douse as much of the fire as they could, but the wind was fanning the flames, and it was moving to the pantry beside it.

"We've gotta keep it from reaching the Edward ," the watchman called above the roar of burning wood.

Sullivan nodded. But as he turned to take stock of the distance of the flames from the White Cloud to the steamer beside it, his heart plummeted. A faint reddish glow from the Morning Star illuminated the darkness. And he didn't need to examine it closely to know that now his steamer was on fire too.

Sullivan cocked his head toward his vessel. "Looks like I've got trouble."

He didn't wait for the night watchman's response. Instead he leapt from steamer to steamer until he reached the Morning Star . He quickly grabbed more buckets and then followed the trail of red glow until he found the passenger cabin that was ablaze. The fire was almost identical in nature to the one on the White Cloud .

Did that mean someone had purposefully set both fires, maybe waited until he'd left his steamer before sneaking on board and starting it? Perhaps the same raggedy-looking fellow?

Thankfully the fire was a deck below and farthest away from his cabin and from the closet where Silas was hiding.

As Sullivan dipped his buckets into the rain cistern on the prow, he threw a glance toward the levee, hoping to catch sight of the culprit. Someone had to identify him and hold him accountable.

In that single glance he noticed two things. The first was that amidst the growing chaos on the levee with firemen and others rushing to the emergency, one man stood absolutely still, his eyes fixed upon Sullivan. With the tight black coat, stocky build, and stiff posture, Sullivan recognized him right away.

Roan Whistler, the slave catcher.

The second was that the Morning Star 's landing stage was gone. And that couldn't happen unless someone had purposefully tossed it into the river.

Sullivan didn't have time to stop and demand an explanation. He sprinted back to the cabin that was ablaze and threw first one bucket of water, then another onto the flames, hardly touching the extent of the fire.

As sweat ran down his forehead and cheeks, he tried to make sense of everything. He and Silas were trapped on the steamer. If the blaze fanned out of control—which was very possible with the strength of the wind—then the entire vessel would become a death trap. Without the landing stage, he wouldn't be able to disembark, and no one would be able to come aboard to help.

Sullivan would have no choice but to jump overboard with Silas to save both their lives. And the moment he did, Whistler would be watching and waiting for him to swim ashore with the runaway slave in tow, ready to capture them both.