Riding the Flume (15 page)

“But that man was drunk,” Francie remembered. O'Brien and Murphy, the two who made it all the way to St. Joseph, were both small, wiry men, fast on their feet
and with good balance. O'Brien was a wrestler—nobody had ever beaten him in a match. And Murphy always won the footraces held every Fourth of July.

“Charlie thought I could beat him,” Francie said, thinking that she was also fast on her feet. And she had good balance, too. Carrie had said so in her diary. Her heart began to beat in slow, painful thuds. Was it such a crazy idea? Did she dare try it? Could she ride the flume to St. Joseph?

She glanced at the sky again and rubbed her shaking hand on her skirt. “Is there any other way to get there in time?” she asked herself. Not by horseback, and not by stagecoach. And certainly not walking—it was forty miles to St. Joseph.

Maybe someone else could go on horseback. She could send the will and a letter explaining everything. She held the oilskin pouch on her palm, and then clutched it to her. She couldn't trust it to anybody else. There was the telegraph office, but even if the operator would let her telegraph to Mr. Court—“Not likely,” she grunted—what if Mr. Court ignored her telegram the way he'd ignored her letter? She needed to talk to him, face-to-face.

Thoughts spun around in Francie's head so fast she felt dizzy. Was riding the flume the only way to get to St. Joseph? Could she do it?

“They'd never let me near it,” Francie whispered, knowing that the mill workers in Connorsville wouldn't let her
even enter the yard. She imagined sneaking into the yard after dark, but she discarded the notion immediately. “The courthouse would be closed,” she said, “and so would the newspaper office.”

Somehow those thoughts calmed her. “It's impossible,” she said, firmly tucking the pouch into the bodice of her dress. “Even if I could ride it, I won't have the chance.”

She had begun walking back to town when she remembered Two Creek Mill. It had been abandoned years earlier when the loggers moved their operations to the opposite end of Connor's Basin. But at one time, Two Creek Mill had been the beginning of the flume line.

Francie's steps got slower, until she was standing absolutely still in the middle of the dirt road. “I'll just go look at it,” she said. “I won't get on—I'll just look. There probably won't even be a flume boat there.”

B
ut there was an old flume boat. In fact, there were two of them sitting beside the flume. The V-shaped track was close to the ground here, built low so the mill workers could slide the bundles of boards into the water without too much trouble. She shut out all thoughts and watched the clear water in the track swirl by—the day was warm and it looked as inviting as a cool mountain stream.

She placed one foot on the X-shaped trestle that formed the flume scaffolding, stepped up and put her hand into the water, cupping her palm to feel the strength of the current. The land here was flat, so the water tugged only gently on her fingers. On the mountainside's steep grades, however, she knew that the water ran faster than a steam locomotive.

“Don't think about that,” Francie told herself, hopping down from the scaffolding. She bent down to examine the
flume boats. They looked like animal drinking troughs with one end missing; they were V-shaped to fit into the flume. A flat board fit just inside the top of the V; that was the seat. Two narrow boards had been nailed crosswise across the top as extra protection to keep the contents of the boat from sliding out. She picked up the splintery end of one boat. It was heavy, but she raised it up about two feet and then dropped it—letting it thump down into the dirt. Then she sat in it, bracing her hips on one side and her feet on the other. She rocked back and forth, trying to push the two boards that formed the V-shape apart, but they held fast. The boat appeared perfectly sound.

Francie's cheeks were burning and her heart was pounding. She traced the outline of the pouch, hidden inside her bodice. Even if she got soaked, the oilskin would protect the will, she thought. “But the boat's too heavy. I can't even lift it up into the flume,” she said aloud.

A sudden gurgle and splash to her right made her turn and look up as a bundle of lumber slid past her heading for St. Joseph. She imagined its trip to St. Joseph, floating down the flume just as logs float down a stream. It would be prodded and pushed by the flume herders, stationed in their little houses along the flume track. But once a load of lumber was put into the flume, not even the flume herders could stop it. She could feel her knees trembling, and she walked across the abandoned mill yard away from the flume. “I can't do it,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears.
They would begin cutting Carrie's tree tomorrow and nobody would be there to stop them.

“If only there were another way!” She cried out and the sound of her voice came echoing back to her. “But there isn't,” she whispered, and she heard no echo of that soft sound.

Biting her lip she turned back to the flume. “At least I should see if I can get that boat into the flume,” she said. She gritted her teeth, grabbed the edge of the flume boat, and dragged it to the scaffolding. She lifted one end up until the boat stood with one end on the ground—the end in her hands just cleared the edge of the flume track. She hooked her fingers around the end of the boat that rested on the ground, and with a mighty heave, she pushed it up. It rose up in the air like a breaching whale, and then fell forward, resting cross-wise on the flume. The water rushed under it on its way to St. Joseph.

“I did it!” A rush of pride pushed away her fears. An image of her father's face crowded into her mind, but she forced it away. “Think only of riding this boat,” she said, wondering if it would buck like an unbroken horse. Well, she had ridden an unbroken horse once, if it came to that. She and Carrie and Charlie had tried to ride Father's mare before she'd been broken to the saddle. Carrie had borne the brunt of the punishment for that adventure, she remembered. But Francie had stayed on the horse the longest.

She climbed up onto the flume and moved the boat until it was just inches from sliding into the flume. “Please let me be able to hold it,” she prayed, and nudged the boat into the water.

Her prayer was answered. The boat lurched like an impatient pony, but the current was slow here, and Francie could hold it with one hand. “Please, let my father forgive me when he finds out,” she prayed again. Holding the boat with one hand and the side of the flume with the other, she eased herself onto the flat board seat. Then, taking a deep breath, she let go of the flume track and grabbed the narrow piece of wood in front of her. The water slapped the back of the boat, and it moved off down the flume.

At first it was like floating on a raft down a lazy river. The flume was no more than four or five feet from the ground, and Francie's perch was above the level of the water. The water swirled around the boat, gurgling peacefully. Francie leaned forward, shifting to her knees, and the boat bobbed down, then up again. She heard the grating sound of wood scraping against wood, but her momentum did not slow.

In fact, as the flume track headed down the mountainside, the pace of the little boat increased. Francie gasped the first time cold water splashed in over the back of the boat, wetting her up to her waist. Her fingers gripped the wooden crosspiece, and she hunkered down, determined to hold on no matter what.

As the mountainside became steeper, the scaffolding upon which the flume was built became higher. It was as if the little boat were rising up into the air. Now Francie was level with the tops of the trees—she felt like a bird flying through the forest. If she let go . . . if she held out her arms . . . but instead she grabbed the crossbar even more tightly.

Water splashed up in front like a geyser, drenching her from head to foot. She could hardly breathe—she squeezed her eyes shut and leaned forward, blocking the onslaught of water just enough to grab a breath of air.

She had no idea how fast she was going, but everything she fixed her gaze on whisked out of her vision as fast as it came into it—trees, rocks, outcroppings all went by in a green-and-brown blur. When she looked ahead, the flume track was heading straight down. It was impossible that the boat could stay on the track. “We're going to fall,” she cried, curling herself into the smallest possible ball over the crossbar. She made her mind a blank and let the water stream over her back.

Then the momentum slowed a bit. Francie sat up carefully, feeling the boat bob and lurch as it bounced from one side of the track to the other. She glanced back once, but the sight of the steep grade she'd just come down made her almost nauseated. She looked forward and did not turn around again.

Looming ahead was the first flume house. Francie had
thought her heart could not beat any harder without exploding, but she was wrong. Now she thought she could hear it beating over the waterfall noise of the water. She blinked against the splashing water and looked for the herder. He wasn't at his post beside the flume; instead, he was sitting on his little porch, leaning back in a chair with his hat tipped over his eyes. “Please don't let him see me,” she murmured as the boat flew by—but she didn't dare look back to find out.

She was getting used to the furious pace and the continual flow of water over and around her. Her knees were beginning to ache from kneeling in one position for so long, but there was nothing she could do to ease them—if she sat down she wouldn't be able to balance as well. How long had she been traveling? How much farther would it be? She clenched her teeth together—she would just have to bear it.

And then, suddenly, there was no more water. Wood screeched against wood and the flume boat stopped. She lost her grip on the crossbar and was flung the full length of the boat. She opened her eyes to find that she had overrun the water. She scrambled back to her knees and just had time to grab the crossbar before the water came tumbling after her, slapping the flat rear of the boat and jerking her forward.

There was little time to think, but she realized how lucky she'd been. If she had been sitting down, or if the
grade she'd been traveling had been much steeper, she might have been thrown out altogether. “I wonder if that's what happened to the man who died,” she said. She peered over the side of the boat, watching the ground fall away below her. She was coming to the river, and Francie knew that this was where the flume rode farthest above the ground—to a height of almost one hundred feet. She checked to make sure she was in the center of the boat and held on tight. If the boat stopped again, she must be ready. She couldn't count on being lucky another time.

The boat rounded a bend and Francie could see another flume house ahead. She didn't know how close together the houses were, but there must be more herders to pass before she got to St. Joseph. She couldn't possibly hope to get by all of them without being seen. She hunkered down as she'd done before, but this herder was standing on a platform beside the flume. She heard him shout as she sped by.

“But I can't stop,” she murmured. “And I don't see how he can stop me.”

She was getting the hang of riding the flume. Each time the boat slowed, she rose up and leaned over the crossbar to give her knees a rest. When the boat gathered speed, she crouched low and moved with the rhythm of the water as it bobbed along. It reminded her a little of running.

At the next flume house, the herder was standing on the platform. As she approached, she could tell he was expecting
her—he had his long, curved picaroon held up and looked like he was going to try to hook her as she went by. “I'll be stabbed,” she cried, and tried to scoot to the far side of the boat. He leaned forward, but at the last moment raised the hook as she whisked by. She heard him call out and saw his angry brows and his mouth twisted in a shout, but there wasn't anything she could do. She couldn't stop, either.

How had he known she was coming? And then she remembered that each house was equipped with one of those newfangled telephone devices. It was one of the innovations Thomas Connor always bragged about. None of the houses or businesses in the mountains had telephones, but Connor had run lines to the flume houses so that each herder could telephone to the next. Of course they knew she was coming!

At the next house the herder was standing on the platform, but he only watched her. And at the next, the man cheered. “You're going to make it, girlie,” he shouted, grinning. “Not far now.” She was afraid to let go of the crossbar, but she smiled at him as she went by. They were letting her go, she thought, amazed. They thought she was doing it for fun.

She was out of the mountains when the boat overshot the water again and stopped once more. She glanced back to see that the stream of water was only a trickle. Ahead was the town of St. Joseph—she could see the buildings in
the distance. It couldn't be more than a mile away now. She thought about the herders calling, letting the people in the mill yard know she was coming. They'd be waiting at the end of the line to cheer her. Or maybe to arrest her.

She knew what she had to do. She grabbed the side of the flume and swung over, first one leg and then another until she was standing on the narrow ledge the herders used. Her clothes were soaking wet and her fingers were numb, but she was only about twenty feet from the ground here, and she climbed down easily. It wouldn't take very long to walk to St. Joseph. They were expecting her to arrive on the flume boat, and they thought she was trying to make the ride all the way into town. They wouldn't start looking for her until the empty boat floated into the mill yard.

T
he hot valley sun had begun to dry Francie's clothes by the time she made it to town. She took her time, walking slowly at first until her cramped legs loosened and warmed. Her boots were soaked and felt as if they were rubbing her feet raw, but that couldn't be helped. She would have plenty of time to sit down later. She walked beside the flume scaffolding for a while, but when she could see the road, she crossed the rough, open land and finished the journey that way. Following the flume would lead her straight to the finishing mill and into the arms of the sheriff!