A few white men walked on the decks — dark lords of this evil creature.

First they would kill the white men. Then they would run the beast onto land and put the fire to her skin. When the Penelore was twenty yards upstream, their leader gave the signal, and the braves rose as one. With a war cry, they ran for the water.

The Mississippi River running underground added more much-needed lubricant to the jumble of opposing plates. Once again the earth let loose in a spasm. This tremor would last longer.

At the same instant that the Sioux braves were sprinting to the water, the ground nearby opened up as if it had been pierced by a thousand spears. Funnel-shaped holes in the earth spewed hot jets of water, and the jets formed an arc nearly one hundred feet overhead. Larger craters opened up in the ground, then spewed forth all manners of woody material: trees, branches, coal. It was a bizarre sight.

“Indians approaching from the island!” Roosevelt shouted.

Jack glanced toward Wolf Island and saw a group of braves carrying canoes racing toward the water. Wearing full head-dress, they carried bows on their backs.

Then, all at once, the downstream end of the island collapsed into the water.

The screams from the Sioux braves filled the air. Scalded by the hot water shooting from the ground, they let go of their canoes and stumbled into the cool water for relief. Twenty of them managed to launch a few canoes unscathed and began paddling into the river with every ounce of their strength, determined to destroy the monster they believed was the cause of the tempest.

They began to close the gap, gaining on New Orleans.

“Pour on the steam!” Roosevelt shouted to Baker. “They mean to have our scalps.”

Baker and his stokers began throwing wood in the firebox like madmen, building up to a full head of steam. Slowly, New Orleans began increasing speed. But the Indians were gaining. Putting their backs into it, they could paddle their canoes at a rapid pace.

One canoe slowed as its occupants dropped their paddles, took up their bows, and shot a flight of arrows at the riverboat. Several arrows struck the rear cabin, giving it the look of a porcupine. Tiger ignored the threat and stood on the stem, barking at the attackers.

The first canoe was only twenty feet behind the stern now. Roosevelt and three of his crew loaded their flintlock muskets and prepared to fire point-blank when the Indians came alongside.

The boarding assault never came. Baker had the steam pressure wavering at the red line, and New Orleans began to pull away, black smoke pouring from her funnel. Seeing the frustrated Indians falling behind, he couldn’t resist adding to Tiger’s barking with a series of shrieks through the steam whistle.

Soon the Penelore had disappeared around the next bend, and there was no way for the Sioux to catch the beast.

The series of unforeseen dangers past, Jack glanced to the river ahead. The sun looked like a smoking copper plate framed by a purplish haze of atmosphere. Jack glanced at the shoreline ahead. The earthen hills alongside the great river were tumbling down like sand castles in a tsunami. Large chunks of peaty soil floated on the water, along with downed trees, part of a house, and what looked like a floating casket wrested free from the earth.

“The channel’s shifting,” Roosevelt said easily. “I’d steer to starboard now.”

New Orleans would be miles downstream before the quaking stopped. Amazingly, she made it through the holocaust with minimal damage.

In Mississippi you can sweat even in January. Particularly if you are dressed in a wool band uniform left over from the Revolutionary War and are carrying a tuba. Cletus Fayette and the rest of the makeshift band hurried toward the waterfront.

A tuba, a single large drum, and a fiddle — not really a band, more of a trio.

Word of the dramatic voyage of New Orleans had reached Natchez three days before. The mayor had wasted no time assembling a suitable welcome. Along with the band, Titus Baird, the mayor, was planning to give Roosevelt the key to the city. Two city councilmen were pressed into service for the obligatory speeches. Several of the local girls had been rounded up to present flowers to the brave women aboard. A banquet would follow in the evening.

Nearly a hundred citizens stood on the hill and glanced upriver for sign of the steamboat.

“Yes,” Nicholas said, “we’ll be in Natchez at least a week.”

“I’ll bank the fires, then. The boilers need a break.”

“Fine,” Roosevelt said, “we should have sufficient steam to reach the dock.”

Nicholas climbed from the engine pit and glanced at the scenery. The virgin forest of the upper Ohio River, the falls near Louisville, the terrible cataclysm of weeks of earthquakes and aftershocks were still a vivid memory. His ship and crew had survived the trials with courage and conviction. He and Lydia had grown closer, and Engineer Baker still planned to marry Maggie Markum when they reached New Orleans. Andrew Jack had started to exhibit a hidden sense of humor.

New Orleans rounded the last bend, and Roosevelt glanced toward Natchez.

Baird signaled for the band to begin playing as soon as the steamboat came into sight. The band kept repeating the only song they knew, a crude rendition of “God Save the Queen,” but, for some reason, the steamboat stayed away.

Mayor Baird watched as the ship began a turn to make its way to the dock, then began to drift with the downstream current.

“I don’t have enough steam to make the dock,” Jack said.

Nicholas Roosevelt could only laugh. The steamboat had successfully navigated a thousand miles of toil and trouble. With salvation only yards away, they had run out of steam. The situation was so ludicrous it was humorous. Baker walked into the pilothouse. He was already dressed in a clean white shirt, and his hands and face looked freshly washed. The grimace on his face was barely hidden.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said quietly.

Cletus Fayette’s head was spinning. A man could play a tuba only so long before he needed a break and a cigar. Fayette had reached his limit.

“We need to take a break, Mayor Baird,” he shouted.

“Okay, Cletus,” Baird said, “but hurry up. Smoke is coming from the stacks again.”

Fifteen minutes later, New Orleans was tied to the dock in Natchez. The weary crew walked down the gangplank and made their way through the reception committee to a local hotel and a hero’s welcome. The remainder of the journey would be a cakewalk.

In the dead of winter, the trees in the forests surrounding Natchez were devoid of leaves. From the bluff outside town, Nicholas Baker looked north. He could see where the river made a giant loop before passing the city and flowing downstream. A stiff wind blew west, bringing the smell of fields in Alabama being cleared with fire.

“I made arrangements with a preacher in town,” Baker said eagerly. “We can be married this afternoon — if you still want me, that is.”

“Of course,” Markum said, “but what brought this on?”

“I just don’t want to wait any longer,” Baker said.

“Have you told the Roosevelts?” Markum asked.

“No,” Baker admitted, “but I thought we could both tell them right now.”

“Now?” Markum said.

“Yes, now,” Jack said, “if you want them at the service.”

A little over an hour later, on the deck of New Orleans, moored just off Natchez, Nicholas Baker stood next to Nicholas Roosevelt. Lydia Roosevelt, holding Henry the baby, wrapped in a clean white blanket, stood next to Maggie.

“Do you, Maggie Markum,” the preacher said solemnly, “take Nicholas Baker to be your lawfully wedded husband?”