Nicholas leapt the short distance to the receiving pier, then hurried up the cobblestone street to the store. Cincinnati was a frontier town. No streetlights lined the avenue, and what scant illumination was available came from candles and fuel oil lamps inside the shops lining the road. Half of the shops were closed for the night, and the cobblestones were a patchwork of light. Finding the mercantile, Nicholas entered, made his purchases, then started back for the boat.

Roosevelt was bone-tired. The excitement of the last few days, combined with the fact that he had yet to eat dinner, was dragging him to the edge of exhaustion. He walked with his head down as he descended the hill to the river.

Roosevelt did not see the approaching man until he was already upon him.

“The end is near,” the man shouted, as Roosevelt nearly bumped into him.

Nicholas raised his eyes and took in the stranger. The man was bedraggled and badly in need of a bath. His hair was long, halfway down his back, and matted. His face was deeply tanned, as if he lived outdoors. What few remaining teeth he had were stained from chewing tobacco. It was his eyes that Roosevelt focused on. They burned with an intensity of conviction or madness.

“Back away, my good man,” Roosevelt said, as the man edged closer.

“The squirrels, the birds, a fiery comet,” the man muttered. “How much more proof does man need? Repent. Repent.”

Nicholas passed the man and continued down the hill.

“Bad things are coming,” the man shouted after him. “Mark my words.”

Strangely shaken by the bizarre exchange, Roosevelt returned to the New Orleans, quickly finished his sandwich and milk, then crept into bed. Hours passed before he found the release of sleep. It would be nearly two months before he knew what the strange man had meant.

Two days later, New Orleans bid farewell to Cincinnati, bound for Louisville, Kentucky. At this time the Ohio River was untamed. It featured many stretches with white water and small falls. Luckily, Jack had navigated a variety of Hatboats and barges down this part of the river. He stood at the wheel and steered toward the correct channel. Like a kayak through rapids, the steamboat threaded past menacing rocks as the river’s rushing current hurtled it through the narrow channel at twice the speed she was capable of reaching on her own.

In the ladies’ cabin, Lydia calmly knitted while her servants nervously clutched railings, the rough ride throwing them about the cabin. Everyone sighed with relief when the steamboat finally found calm water again.

The maelstrom passed, and New Orleans reached Louisville under a pale harvest moon.

“Well,” Jack said, as they pulled in front of the city. “We made it.”

Then he released the steam valve. A shriek filled the air. The citizens of Louisville climbed from their beds at the unnatural sound. Wearing nightclothes and carrying candles, they sleepily made their way toward the river and stared at the bizarre beast that had arrived in the middle of the night.

“Looks like you woke the entire town,” said Baker.

“Mr. Roosevelt likes to make a grand entrance,” Jack said.

Just below Louisville the following day, Roosevelt, Jack, and the mayor of Louisville stood staring at the falls of the Ohio River just outside town.

“I’ve seen your vessel,” the mayor said, “and I concur with Mr. Jack. She draws too much to safely navigate the falls. I’d wait until the water rises.”

“When is that?” Roosevelt asked.

“The first week in December,” the mayor said.

“Winter rains and snow raise the water level?” Jack asked.

“Exactly,” the mayor said.

“That’s nearly two months from now,” Roosevelt said. “What do we do until then?”

“The crew of New Orleans will be our guests,” the mayor said.

So that is what they did.

From the start of the voyage, a romance between Maggie Markum, Mrs. Roosevelt’s maid, and Nicholas Baker had been blooming. The pair found time for stolen kisses and furtive groping while aboard the ship. More serious physical pursuits took place during their daily walks in the country. They were madly in love, and it would have been hard for the rest on the boat not to notice.

Their love affair was not the only event that took place while New Orleans was tied up at Louisville.

The first baby born on a riverboat, Henry Latrobe Roosevelt, arrived at sunrise.

The next few weeks in Louisville passed with cleaning and maintenance. New Orleans’s slate-blue paint was touched up and the brightwork was polished. The sails, as yet unused, were unfurled and checked for tears or moth damage, then refolded and stowed on the masts. Andrew Jack studied the measurements on a sheet of paper, then tossed a stick into the middle of the falls and watched its rate of travel. It was late November, and a light chill frosted the air.

“We can make it,” he said at last, “but we’ll need to traverse at full speed so we have steering control.”

Nicholas Roosevelt nodded. A few days earlier, he had received a letter from his partners in the Ohio Steamboat Navigation Company. They’d expressed concern about the delay — the monopoly was in jeopardy. New Orleans needed to get under way. Once they had passed the falls, it would be smooth sailing.

Or at least that’s what Roosevelt thought.

Nicholas sat inside the dining room, spooning a deer stew into his mouth. Dabbing a cloth napkin at his lips, he then sipped from a tin cup filled with steaming coffee.

“The river is fullest in about two hours,” he said. “I’ll have a deckhand take you by wagon to the bottom of the falls, where you’ll meet up with us.”

“Is this for our safety?” Lydia asked.

“Yes,” Nicholas said.

“Then the boat might overturn?” Lydia asked.

“The chance is slim,” Nicholas admitted, “but it might.”

“Then you would be killed and I’d be alone with a new baby,” Lydia said.

“That’s not going to happen,” Nicholas said.

“I know it’s not,” Lydia said defiantly. “We’re going with you. All or none.”

So it was settled. New Orleans left the dock in early afternoon.

“I’ll run upstream about a mile,” Jack said, “then turn down and run her full-out.”

Roosevelt stood outside the door to the pilothouse as New Orleans pulled into the current. Jack’s face was a mask of tension and concern. A thin trickle of sweat ran down his neck, no mean feat with the temperature outside in the forty-degree area.

The steamboat was strangely quiet. The deckhands had secured themselves in the forward cabin. The women huddled together in the aft cabin, lining the windows to watch. Baby Roosevelt lay in a bassinet braced against a bulkhead, sound asleep.

“I’m going to turn now,” Jack said.

He spun the wheel. New Orleans turned slowly in an arc and faced downstream. Then Jack pulled the whistle, rang the bell for full steam, and said a prayer.

Atop the rock outcropping on the south side of the falls, Milo Pfieffer and his best friend Simon Grants were pouring red paint into the water from a bucket they had stolen from the hardware store. The thin stream of tinted water widened as it neared the top of the falls, then spread across the water as it fell, finally completely tinting the discharge a light pink for a mile downstream.

“Okay,” Milo said, “you go watch now.”

“What’s that?” Simon said, as he heard a noise coming from upstream.

“Ditch the paint,” Milo said, “there’s grown-ups coming.”

Simon stashed the stolen paint, then turned to the crowd that was slowly advancing on the falls. Thirty of Louisville’s finest citizens left the dock before New Orleans. They planned to watch the steamboat shoot the falls or break up trying.

“What’s happening?” Simon asked.

“There’s a steamboat going to try and shoot the falls,” a man answered.