Walter walked into the night. At the end of the block he turned along the side street, then cut back along the alleyway. The back door of the Bassoon Saloon stood ajar, spilling a wedge of yellow lantern light onto a little wooden platform porch. He waited in the dark, listening to a man’s voice in the kitchen telling someone how to cure deer meat in the summer. He heard Joanie’s voice, very loud, saying, “Wilbur! Don’t give away your secrets! Write ’em down in a recipe book and sell ’em to the camp cooks. How to boil a skunk and make it taste good.” The man laughed. Joanie said, “Keep Hask off my back for a minute, would you?” Then she stepped out the door and onto the platform.

  Walter walked over at once. “I don’t remember much about last night, but somewhere along the line, I lost my hat. I mean someone took it. I don’t care so much about the hat, but I had all my money stashed in there, and I need to get to Waupaca. Do you remember that hat?”

  Joanie smiled at Walter, sadly.

  “Sweetheart, you touched that hat so often everyone in the place knew what was in there. You might as well have balanced a gold brick on your head.”

  “But did you see me set it somewhere? Did you see someone take it? I asked the barkeep, but he said no.”

  “Then you didn’t set it down and nobody took it,” she said. “Hask don’t miss much.”

  “You and I danced, didn’t we?”

  “I danced. You stumbled. But you were wearing your hat the whole time.”

  He blushed, suddenly aware of the smell of her, a mingling of sweat and perfume, clean and plain and heady, and of his own unwashed condition. He took a step back.

  “I’m a damned idiot,” he said.

  Joanie shook her head. “I could see you were out of your range, drinking with those jacks. I wanted to say something, but Hask doesn’t like it when I tell people to stop spending money. That’s why I got you to dance with me. I thought it might sober you up.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ve got to get back. All I know is, you left with those jacks. The whole bunch of you walked out together. And you were wearing your hat.”

  “I woke up in a field,” he told her. “I need to find those jacks. I need to ask for my hat back. And my money.”

  She shook her head. “They had the look of a crew heading out to the camps,” she said. “But if they do come back, leave them alone. Do you hear me? You won’t get your hat or your money, just a fight with a jack. Then you’ll be stuck here with broken bones. Or worse.”

  Joanie had her hair tied back with a ribbon, but a curl of it hung forward, glowing amber ahead of her brow. She looked at him with her crescent eyes, and in the light of the doorway, her expression was kind and sorrowful. They stood listening to the patrons in the bar; the piano player had gotten a few of them singing again, this time some old sad Irish ballad.

  “Do you have money for another drink?”

  “Ten cents,” he said. “That’s it.”

  “Go back inside,” she said. “Get a beer and wait.”

  “For what?”

  “Just wait,” she said. “I hear things sometimes.”

  walter set his last dime on the bar and watched the barkeep Hask sweep it away with the edge of his palm and draw another stein of beer. He sipped the beer and watched Joanie move from bar to table, table to table, table to bar, fetching drinks and peanuts. She would slap a man’s shoulder from time to time; the harder she slapped the more she seemed to like the man. She spent considerable time at a table with three teamsters, asking questions, and an equally considerable time talking to two men seated at a table by the front windows.

  Walter had decided to put his stein on the bar and leave when Joanie arranged to pass by again.

  “Those two in the corner,” she said. “Introduce yourself.”

  “The little fella?”

  “His name is Percy.”

  “He knows where my hat is?”

  She looked at him crossly. “No. But he might have work for you.” Then she slapped Walter on the shoulder as if he’d said something wicked, and turned to a table of cardplayers and kicked the chair leg of a man leaning back, saying, “Albert, if you tip over, they’re going to see your two pair. Now sit up straight.”

  Walter took his beer and walked to the table. The two men sat side by side, bent over a diagram drawn on a heavily creased slip of paper. The slighter of the two wore a luxuriant blond mustache waxed in the handlebar style. His companion, while clean-shaven, was less kempt, with curls of brown hair escaping his engineer’s cap. Black streaks of grease and soot covered both men’s shirts, though the shirts themselves looked new, as did the men’s boots, which Walter took as evidence that whatever their business, they were not wholly unsuccessful.

  “Can I join you?” he said. “My name’s Walter.”

  The two men leaned back and looked at him.

  “Join away, friend,” the mustachioed man boomed, his voice and accent instantly recognizable as the loudest of the Irish balladeers. He introduced himself as Percy, and his mate as Jess, and with his bootheel he shoved an empty chair out from the table.

  Walter seated himself. He looked across the table at the two men. He thought there was no point in being anything but truthful.

  “I hear you’re looking to hire a man,” he said. “And last night, I lost my hat.”

  walter needn’t have taken work on the frog; even sitting at the table that night, he knew this to be true. The river-paired cities of Menominee and Marinette, logging towns and trading ports both, bustled with activity, and winter was coming. The logging camps already were or would soon be inhaling manpower, just like back home in Michigan. But a camp job would mean going he didn’t know how far into the woods, miles he would have to retrace when he skipped out, for Walter meant to stay no longer than absolutely necessary; he needed only enough money to reach Green Bay before the foretold haunch-deep snow arrived, and from there to Waupaca. What won him over to Percy and Jess wasn’t logic; it was Percy’s indignation on Walter’s behalf.

  “That’s low behavior,” Percy said, hotly, when Walter finished relating the events of the last day, concluding with the theft of his hat and the loss of his father’s stake. “I’m no saint, but if I wanted to take a man’s money I’d win it at cards, not steal it off the top of his head. These logging towns are overrun with shifty needlers and skeezicks. Why didn’t you leave your money in your room?”

  “I’ve never yet seen you win at cards,” Jess said.

  “I should have,” Walter said. “I thought it would be safer with me.”

  Percy nodded. “Weren’t in your plan to get drunk.”

  “No.”

  “And you expected better of people you met face-to-face.”

  “Yes.”

  “A common mistake,” Percy said, shaking his head sorrowfully.

  Walter took a long draft of his beer, feeling relief at this expression of sympathy. For the first time that night, it tasted good. “What do you do exactly?” he said.

  “Ah,” Percy said. “Well. We’re partners in a boat.”

  “A small steamer,” Jess said. “Not quite a barge and not quite a ferry. What’s interesting about it is—”

  “Wretch of a craft, actually,” Percy said. “The Maple Frog. We bought her for a song and two horses after the owner gave her up for dead last winter. Her steam plant was seized and her hull was so woefully bruised he feared she’d sink at her mooring. We hauled her ashore on logs. Jess put to work on the power plant while I sealed the hull with twenty gallons of hot pine pitch. Been afloat since April. We’re committed like priests to not spending another dime. It’s a great experiment, testing the limits of neglect a boat can endure.”

  “We may salvage the plant before the hull goes,” Jess said, gesturing at the paper with its diagram. “It’s an interesting—”

  “You have to excuse my friend Jess,” Percy said. “Before going in partners with me he was jilted by his sweetheart, and in her place he’s fallen in love with the boiler. It’s a mad affair. She’s very curvy. Sometimes he can be heard cooing in the engine hold.”

  Jess blushed and glared at Percy, but said nothing. Percy went on.

  “We’re scab haulers, to be blunt. The Winston brothers have the regular business locked up. They hate and despise us for snitching even a few crumbs. The only reason they haven’t sunk us in the middle of the night is that they’re sure we’ll go down on our own soon enough. But they’ve been waiting all summer for that to happen, haven’t they? Meanwhile, just like the Winstons hate us, their customers hate the Winstons. Extortioner’s fees. So a few take business with us. Plus, we stop places the Winston’s won’t bother with—probably don’t even know about—because the trade’s too small or the water’s too shallow. We’ve made a good profit this summer. Our problem and our blessing right now is that come November this bay will be too icy for boats, but it won’t be solid enough for sleds until late December. And all our customers know it. They’re frantic to fill their stocks. It’s more than two men can keep up with.”

  “You don’t make it sound very safe.”

  “It’s not, I assure you. We assume every voyage of the Frog’s will be her last—it keeps us awake and alert knowing that each wave no matter how small presents a crisis. Not that we tell that to our customers. But don’t worry, friend. We plan to buy a good rowboat and keep it lashed to the bow. When the Frog finally heads for the bottom, we’ll row ourselves to shore, salute the waters with a pair of fingers, and that will be that.”

  “I don’t know much about boats,” Walter admitted.

  “We don’t need you to,” Percy said. “In fact, we don’t want you to. We’ve got too many captains on board already, and they often disagree. I don’t know what would happen if we brought a man aboard who sided with one over the other. But someone’s got to load and unload. That’s where we need help. It’ll only be for a month or so. Then we’ll be frozen out.”

  “Then we pull the boiler,” Jess said. “I’m fairly sure I can—”

  “Or not. Either way, we’ll be quits of the Frog. Have you been to Chicago? That’s where we’re headed.”

  “I’m headed to Waupaca,” Walter said. “But I’ll work until month’s end. What’ll you pay?”

  Percy and Jess exchanged looks. “Dollar a week. We run every day except Sunday. Never north of Escanaba, never south of Pensaukee.”

  “Four dollars a week,” Walter countered. “And two bits daily to help with room and board. And I need the first week in advance, since I’m broke. If you don’t think I’ve earned it by Saturday, you can leave me off anywhere.”

  “We agree to wages of three dollars a week,” Percy said. “But no room and board. You can sleep on the Frog. It’s what we do. She’s the softest mattress you’ll ever find.”

  Walter had sensed he might press for a better deal, but didn’t want to antagonize these men, apparently his saviors. He shook hands with them both.

  “We push off at sunrise.”

  “Where’re you docked?”

  “Half a mile lakeward on the Marinette side. Pier 7. That’s all you need to know. You can’t miss the Frog, I promise you that.”

  two things became clear during walter’s initiation aboard the Frog. First, that Jess Folquist was a mechanical genius. Each morning he patched, repaired, and coaxed another day of operation out of the Frog’s antiquated steam engine. Second, that Percy DuGreen was deathly afraid of the water. “And he doesn’t really know how to navigate. It’s only fair to tell you before we push off.”

  “He can’t be all that bad,” Walter said, unsure of how seriously to take this information. Despite his perpetually solemn expression, Jess didn’t seem above pulling a man’s leg. “You’ve made it all summer, haven’t you?”

  “What baloney are you feeding our new sailor?” Percy said, seeing the two of them talking. “Don’t listen to Jess. On dry land he and I are equal owners, but on the water I’m master, judge, dispenser of justice, and arbiter of truth.”

  Jess snorted. “On the water, he’s petrified.”

  “Slander!” Percy said. “I’d be within my rights to court-martial you for such talk.”

  “I’ll talk any way I want.”

  “Not when you’re aboard. I’m captain, and you have to show me respect. That’s maritime law. We agreed on that last Wednesday.”

  Jess frowned. “All right,” he said. He walked to the bow of the Frog and stepped onto the dock. “Now I’m on land.” He looked at Walter. “Percy can’t swim a lick. He’s never even been in water higher than his balls. Not once in his whole life.”

  “Not true! You’ve seen me bathe. And calmly, with my balls far beneath the suds.”

  “A bath ain’t swimming. I’ve never seen you swim.”

  “What does swimming have to do with the job of a captain?” Percy cried. “It’s not as if the ship needs me to teach it the backstroke.”

  “It’s a boat,” Jess sighed. “Not a ship.”

  Percy waved aside this detail. “I can’t eat hay,” he said. “Does that mean I can’t ride a horse?”

  “No, but—”

  “Besides, just because a man has never tried a thing doesn’t mean he couldn’t do it if called upon to. So ’tis with me and swimming.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s a known principle.”

  “Then why not call upon yourself to hop in right now? Swim a lap around the boat. Just one lap. Do that and I’ll buy your liquor tonight. I’ll buy your liquor for a week.”

  “Jess, Jess—if only it worked that way. We’re talking about a latent gift. If I jumped in the river, sooner or later you’d toss me that cork ring. Knowing that, I wouldn’t be able to swim. But if I was truly in danger of drowning, my ability would emerge. Then I would swim like a champion!”

  “I give you my word,” Jess said. “If you jump in right now, I will stand here and watch you flounder and sink and die.”

  “You don’t know how I ache to prove myself. But I can’t trust you. I’m sorry to say this, Jess, but you’re weak. You claim you wouldn’t help me, but you would. And then I would truly be in danger.”

  “I would be strong,” Jess insisted. “You can trust me about this.”

  Percy now appealed to Walter, resuming an apparently ongoing monologue about why the Maple Frog kept them uniquely safe. “You have to understand, Walt, why this question is moot. A fortunate irony: Since our craft is self-evidently unsound, we’re far less likely to need to swim than the crew of those lovely ships that pass us on the lake. And why? Because those ships are designed for safety. Safety’s built into every plank and rivet—or so they tell the passengers. The hull’s built in layers. The boiler has seventeen valves. The lights cut the fog. They paint the hull white, white as milk, white as snow, white as a bridal gown—a deceiving white—and everyone whistles at their work, thinking it can’t be tipped. Worst of all, they bring in a captain with decades of experience. He’s got the maps, the equipment, the training, the knowledge. He’s never made a mistake in his life! He wants to be on the water every waking minute. He loves the water.

  “But have you heard of the Expedition? Off like a bomb it went, brand-new. Or the Winter Gale? Right out of the docks on her maiden voyage when her oh-so-experienced captain rammed a coal barge. Even white paint couldn’t keep her above the waves after that. And why did these things happen? Because everyone believed the ship was safe. They believed the captain wouldn’t make a mistake. So they relaxed and died.

  “We, on the other hand, can’t fool ourselves. One minute watching us work and you know we’re boobs. One glance at the Frog and you know she’s a catastrophe. But, ah, ain’t she magnificent, then? It makes me want to kiss her the way Jess wants to kiss the boiler. The Frog can’t fail us by surprise because we expect her to fail. In our imaginations, she sinks a dozen times a day, and we congratulate her and thank her for confirming our worst fears. The great surprise is when she doesn’t slip beneath the waves.

  “And so she keeps us terrified of the water, the way God meant men to feel. We loathe and revile the water; we know it means to swallow us down the moment we turn our backs. Whenever I’m aboard the Frog, I want off again as soon as possible. In my heart I kiss the ground each and every time we make port. And aren’t we magnificent ourselves, in our ineptitude? We don’t trust the captain because his judgment is unsound and his experience irrelevant; we don’t trust the crew because we’ve seen what ignorant corncobs they truly are. They can’t make an unexpected blunder; blundering is all they do! Result being that we’re awake—wide awake—mortified by the fools running the ship! That keeps us safe as sinners in a church pew. The real risk is boarding a boat like that”—here Percy pointed at the Union—“so creamy and smooth and piloted by sleepy fantasizers. Any man aboard there ought to quake like a convict at the sight of a noose.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE LADY IN THE LAKE

  The frog caught fire for the first time at around ten o’clock the night of the blaze.

  For hours they had paddled slowly along, less than a mile off the coast, watching the forest burn and dodging the suffocating gouts of smoke that crossed the water. Percy and Jess remained at a stalemate, with Percy in the wheelhouse, surreptitiously angling the Frog toward the middle of the bay, and Jess climbing up from the engine hold to check their distance from shore, then cutting power to one side paddle, leaving the boat chugging in circles until Percy relented and turned them back.

  “What good fortune that the fire is burning so close,” Percy would shout down the mechanic’s hatch. “When we die, we’ll know without doubt where we are.”

  “Do you see any other boats?” Jess would call up.

  “They’ve departed the bay one and all for the safety of the lake.”

  “Then we’re in the right place,” Jess would say, and cut the engines again for good measure.