Chapter 33
Three men stood along the opposite bank, dark against the trees.
The one with the lantern was tall and thin.
His free hand rested near his waistband, where something hard pressed against his jacket.
The other two flanked him in dirty work clothes.
Neither held a visible weapon, but both kept their hands ready at their sides.
“River’s closed to unauthorized travel. There’s a designated landing half a mile downstream. All vessels stop there, surrender twenty percent of supplies or useful goods, and receive permits for the next stretch. No exceptions,” the man said.
“There wasn’t a checkpoint on this stretch before. I’ve run this river for thirty years. Nobody ever charged tolls for passage,” Martin said.
Rachel studied the opposite bank. The lantern light reached only a narrow strip of gravel and the first trees beyond it.
No buildings, docks, mooring posts, or boat racks showed in the dark.
There were only three men, a lantern, and a demand.
Rachel considered the toll. Twenty percent would hurt.
It might cost them a day’s rations, medical tape, or water purification tablets, but it wouldn’t ruin them.
Paying could be safer than fighting with Sophie in the boat and darkness thickening over the river.
“Where exactly is this settlement? We didn’t see any lights from the water,” Rachel called.
“Back from the bank. Can’t see it from the river. That’s the point,” the lantern man said.
“How many families are you protecting?” Rachel asked.
“Enough to warrant the toll. Look, lady, I’m not negotiating. Either you stop at the landing like everyone else, or you find another route. The river’s ours to manage, and we’re managing it.”
“They don’t have any boats,” Sophie whispered.
Rachel looked again. Sophie was right. The shoreline was empty. A real landing would have boats, ropes, posts, or some means of securing the vessels being inspected.
“Where do travelers tie up?” Rachel asked. “At this landing of yours?”
“There are posts. You’ll see them. Last chance. Stop at the landing or turn around.”
“Something’s wrong. They’re not waiting for payment. They’re waiting for people to get out of the boats,” Sophie whispered.
Rachel understood then. A toll station would have visible infrastructure and people managing the landing. These men had a lantern, an empty shoreline, and no way to secure a boat. They weren’t collecting tolls. They were collecting boats and whatever the passengers carried.
“We’re leaving. Now,” Rachel said.
Martin understood at once. They righted the rowboat and shoved it into the current. Rachel climbed aboard first and pulled Sophie in after her. Elaine followed, and Martin took the stern with the short paddle already in his hands.
“Stop right there,” the man shouted.
A rock splashed beside the port gunwale. A second hit the hull near the bow with a dull thud that Rachel felt through the planks. The youngest man ran along the bank as the current carried the boat downstream. His footsteps cracked through dead leaves and branches over the rush of the river.
“Stop the boat. Stop it now.”
Martin dug the paddle into the starboard side and pushed it toward the faster current.
Rachel took the second oar and rowed. Her raw palms burned against the wood.
The boat accelerated. The man on the bank ran another hundred yards before the distance swallowed his shouts.
They rounded a bend, and the opposite shore vanished behind willows and sycamores.
Rachel kept rowing until her shoulders shook, then rested the oars across the gunwales.
Adrenaline drained from her slowly. Her hands trembled, and her breath stayed short.
Sophie sat rigid in the center with the supply bag held tight against her stomach.
Elaine and Martin were unhurt. The boat was intact.
They had lost only the belief that the river was safer than the roads.
Rachel took one deep breath, then another.
The current carried them west, away from the bridge and the men at the empty landing.
Stars spread cold above the trees, and their light broke across the widened river in thin, shifting fragments.
Sophie still hadn’t relaxed. She held the supply bag against her stomach and stared at the water ahead.
“They weren’t waiting for payment. They were waiting for us to get out,” Sophie said.
Morning came, and a thin mist hung above the river where the creek met the main channel.
Martin guided the rowboat toward a gravel bar that reached into the current, and Elaine pointed to a footpath winding through the trees beyond the shore.
Her brother’s farm was three miles inland, she said.
It had a working well, stored grain, and enough room for two more people without straining the supplies.
Martin had already decided to leave the rowboat behind.
It was too heavy to drag over land, and his brother had no use for it.
They unloaded in silence. Canvas bags and wooden crates were moved from the boat to the gravel with the practiced efficiency of people who had handled supplies this way for years.
Rachel carried the heaviest items: a sealed five-gallon water jug, a thirty-pound sack of dried beans, and a metal toolbox that rattled with each step.
Sophie handled the lighter bundles. She moved carefully because the blister on her heel had reopened, and the scrape along her forearm had dried into a dark line.
“You sure you won’t come with us? Three miles isn’t far. You’d have a roof, at least,” Elaine asked.
The older woman’s hands were red from the morning cold, and her fingers curled around the wool scarf tied beneath her chin.
Rachel shook her head. “Brenton’s still two hundred miles west. Every day we stop is another day my children wonder if I’m coming.”
Elaine didn’t argue. She touched Sophie’s shoulder briefly, then turned toward the footpath where Martin waited with their belongings stacked beside him.
He lifted the heaviest crate onto his shoulder without strain.
The rowboat sat where they’d left it, pulled halfway onto the gravel with its oars secured along the gunwales.
Martin and Elaine had carried everything they needed inland.
Martin had offered them the boat, but Rachel didn’t take it.
She adjusted her pack, checked Sophie’s feet, and turned west along the riverbank.