River

Gregor

I already miss her so much. When I finally let go of Ayola, she didn’t cling to me as I might have expected. She just, sadly, told me, “Woosh,” and passed over into her mother’s arms. Yes, woosh. We will both be missing it.

Dalila was pleased to see Hester, but I know that she is missing someone as well. As he is missing her. Moses normally has a happy expression on his face, but when Rosalind and I climbed into the cab of the rented carriage before he drove us away, he looked stricken. It doesn’t take long for people to grow attached to each other, I contemplate. I’ll have to engineer ways to have him come to Homochitto when I visit, so that he can see Dalila as well.

In the meantime, I must just get used to this again, this feeling that something is lacking. The nagging hunger I feel in my soul, which is longing for the completion that only the company of another Seer can bring.

Wolk regards me with sympathy, as we ride in silence back to Natchez. Even Rosalind, attuned as she always is to my feelings, knows that I feel bereft. I hope she doesn’t think I am being ridiculous, a grown man pining for a baby. But no, I see that she doesn’t when she says, “I know you miss her, Gregor. She is a sweet baby. You’ll see her again in a few days when you go visit.” I reach my arm around her and pull her to my side, appreciative.

When we get back into town, I heave another sigh, hopefully not annoying her with my dismal company, and tell her, “Darling, I need to go to the post office to collect my mail. I haven’t been in a few days. Do you want me to wait and do it later? Or would you like to walk with me from the stables when Moses drops off the carriage?”

I don’t offer to drop her off at home first. I still want to make sure that either Moses or I are always with her when she is there. I don’t know when Mason will strike, but I can’t let my guard down, can’t let myself be distracted by my other concerns.

She smiles over at me. “A walk sounds lovely. Let’s do that.”

“Just go straight to the stables, Moses,” I lean out the window to tell him. “Return the carriage and have them put it on my account. We’re walking home from there.”

“Mmmph,” he responds, unusually impolite. Poor fellow. He is really missing Dalila a great deal.

It is a nice day, early afternoon, not too hot, and walking along with Rosalind is actually quite pleasant. She looks about herself, a happy expression on her face, her hand resting lightly on my arm. We should do this more. In her condition, I know that she has to get some exercise. I resolve to accompany her on walks more frequently.

When we stop by the post office, there is a great stack of correspondence waiting for me. Oh my. I probably should have found the time to come by in the last week, but I was entirely distracted with having Dalila and Ayola at our home.

I leaf through it briefly before resuming our walk home, and am delighted when I see a letter from Pittsburgh. “There’s a letter from the Roosevelts, darling,” I tell her, my spirits lifting.

“How nice,” she says, “would you mind reading it to me?”

“Of course,” I smile. I love the way that she always is interested to hear from my friends the Roosevelts, even though she has never met them. I believe she is intrigued by my description of their unusual relationship.

When we get home, I ask her, “Shall we sit in the garden?”

She smiles and takes my hand, leading me around the house. We settle down on the bench back there, where Dalila would often sit with Ayola during the past week. It makes me sigh again, but then I shake it off and open the letter. I begin reading it aloud to her.

“‘My dearest Gregor,’ it starts,” I tell her. “It is in Lydia’s handwriting.” She looks at me with a twinkle in her eye. She has always loved hearing from the unusual young woman, and I believe she feels a certain kinship with her. I look forward to the day they meet. I look back down at the letter and continue.

“‘I write with exciting news! The basic construction of the New Orleans is complete!’” I grin, thrilled to hear it. The letter is dated from several weeks ago, so this means they are well on schedule to have everything on the steamboat finished and ready to attempt their journey by sometime next month. I am glad my dock project is moving along as well, to be ready for them when they arrive.

“‘I shall describe the whole thing to you,’ Lydia goes on, ‘in all of its glory. First, it is even more enormous in its final form than it was in its conception. We always knew it would be a very large ship, but to see it fully fleshed out is overwhelming. It is nearly 150 feet long, and over 32 feet wide.’”

I pause, and whistle, imagining the enormous vision this must present. Rosalind looks up at me, clearly not able to picture this. I think of how to explain. “Do you remember the keelboat that Margaret and Stephen boarded the day after their wedding, to go to New Orleans?”

She nods. “Is it as big as that was?”

“It is nearly three times longer, and more than twice as wide!” I grin when her eyes widen. “Yes, when Lydia says it is enormous, she means it! You can imagine now why I have to expand the dock. Something that huge would never have been able to fit at the port Under-the-hill otherwise.”

I move back to the letter. “She says that the tonnage is enormous too, nearly 400 tons of carrying capacity.” I look at Rosalind, then explain, “This is about ten times more than a keelboat can carry.” She looks properly impressed.

“Carrying on,” I tell her, “Lydia says, 'We have painted the hull black, and everything else either white or a lovely sky blue color. It is truly a vision to see. The two masts are up, but the sails are furled and tied down. Nicholas does not anticipate ever needing to use the sails, he is so confident in the ability of his steam engine.'”

I look down at Rosalind, who tilts her head, clearly trying to envision the craft. She says, “A gigantic boat all sky blue and white. It will look like it is flying through the sky, won’t it, not just floating on water.” I grin, and continue.

“Lydia says, 'The engine is in place, with most of it inside the hull, but the top is visible, and it is interesting to watch while the steam is building up inside the boiler. You can see the piston and the cross beams moving, driving the water wheels on each side of the boat. I heard somebody say that it looks like some kind of sawmill operating. The captain stands on the deck with the wheel there next to the engine so that he can call down instructions to the crew feeding the fire to create the steam.'”

“It sounds so complicated,” Rosalind says.

“It really is. It is such an innovation.” I ask her, “Ready for more?” When she nods, I continue. “Lydia says, ‘Nicholas is putting the finishing touches on the boat. He wants the cabin, which is large enough to hold 60 passengers, to be very fine indeed, so he is making sure to install very elegant fixtures.’” I laugh at her next line. “‘Thank you again for the funding, our dearest investor, without which the steamboat would be nowhere near as fancy.’”

I skim through the rest of the letter, more details about financing and minutiae which I doubt that Rosalind would be interested in. When I get to the bottom of the letter, I exclaim “Ah-ha!” Rosalind looks at me curiously, and I read aloud, “'To close, the Roosevelt family is eagerly anticipating our voyage down the rivers, and our visit with you in Natchez. We are hoping to accept your generous invitation to stay with you in your home for a night or two while we are there. Be warned, though, by that time you can expect an additional little Roosevelt to have joined our group!'”

Rosalind smiles widely. “They’re expecting a baby too? How lovely! She must be due very soon, since I know she wouldn’t want to be pregnant while they are on their journey.”

I grin. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? That is nothing to Lydia. She came all the way down here on a flatboat a couple of years ago, and she was pregnant the whole time! She had her baby, Rosetta, the moment they finally sailed their way back up the Atlantic coast and arrived in New York. She is certainly the most adventurous young lady I have ever met.”

I gaze at my wife, fondly, wrapping my arm around her. “Possibly except you,” I murmur into her hair. “Being married to me has got to be even stranger than boating down the Mississippi river while pregnant.”

She bursts out into peals of laughter. With the letter, and her wonderful company, I am feeling better. Maybe I’ll survive the separation from Ayola after all.