Soon the busy port came into sight and the man in the black cap walked past,
announcing that they were ready to dock. Olivia wasn’t happy to have arrived.
The cold hard deck had become familiar and she was terrified of plunging into
those crowds of people down on the docks. All those statistics she’d read to Mourning, attesting to Detroit’s burgeoning population, had been only numbers
on a page; she’d still expected to arrive at a frontier town – hovels of sticks and
wattle, a cluster of log cabins, maybe a few homes built of fieldstone – not this
enormous city strung along the shore.
Neither did Mourning seem anxious to disembark. They remained at the rail
while the boat emptied around them. The wharves were a madhouse, the road
behind them clogged with large wagons and dozens of funny one-horse buggies,
most of them with only two wheels. These makeshift vehicles had a place for only the driver to sit; one or two passengers perched on a small ramp behind him, clutching the back of the seat.
“Well,” Olivia said at last, “I guess if we’re going to buy a wagon …
Mourning, look at that! There’s an Indian down there.” She pointed at a man with long black hair adorned with feathers.
“They won’t do you no harm, Miss.” The man in the black cap spoke from
behind her. “They been living here forever. Started with the French letting ’em
put up their village outside the old fort. Heard one of ’em bought one of the old
French ribbon farms.”
Olivia chatted with him for a short while and then turned to Mourning.
“Should I stay here and watch our things while you go look for a wagon? Or do
you want me to come with you?”
He looked down at the crowds on the wharf. “Can’t see what help you gonna
be to me.”
The deck around them was empty. Mourning had made a stack of his tool box
and her wicker baskets and Olivia squatted behind it to reach under her skirts for
money. She stealthily pressed the coins into Mourning’s palm, afraid of anyone
seeing a flash of gold before he slipped them into his pockets.
“How much you give me?” he whispered.
“A hundred and fifty dollars.”
They had agreed that he would try to get a team for $80, but go as high as $100, and try to get a wagon for $30, but go as high as $45. He slung one of the
water pouches over his shoulder and turned to leave.
“Don’t you want to eat something before you go?”
“Ain’t hungry,” he said and plopped his wide-brimmed felt hat onto his head.
“At least take some fruit.”
She bent down for two apples and two pears, which he shoved into his
pockets. Then she watched him tromp down the gangplank, praying he wouldn’t
be abducted or robbed the moment his feet hit the road. He didn’t look back and
was soon swallowed up in the general chaos. Olivia leaned against the rail,
prepared for a long wait and trying not to fret about the disasters that might befall Mourning. The man in the black jacket came near again and she asked him
some questions about the city.
“Tell ya, Miss, I ain’t all that familiar with the business establishments. Know
