Gold Rush Girl

by Avi

  We searched five ships: main decks, twin decks, forecastles. We even checked deep holds, with me constantly calling for Jacob. We found no trace.

  We decided to go back to our rowboat and go to another part of Rotten Row. That we did. We found a ship — our sixth one — that had a rope ladder, and climbed on board. As Sam began to look about, I, feeling discouraged, held back. I stood on the main deck and looked toward shore, hoping I’d see or hear Thad. Our search would be so much easier if we learned which ships were leaving. That is, if we could find them.

  Wishing Thad would hurry, I remained in place, listening hard. The eddying fog had thickened, so I couldn’t see shore or city. But, as I stood there, I heard what sounded like the soft splish-splash of oars.

  “Thad?” I shouted, thinking that maybe he was coming after us on his own.

  At my call, the rowing sounds ceased abruptly. I waited. All I heard was what sounded like the wash of water.

  I remembered that police officer. What if he’s been following us all along and that was his oar sounds? Means he knows where we are.

  I whirled about. “Sam!” I called. “Come here and listen. Quick.”

  When Sam didn’t reply, I assumed he had gone to the lower deck. I hurried over and looked down the companionway.

  “Sam!” I cried.

  No answer.

  I tied my shawl round my waist in a tighter knot and hurried down the steep steps, holding on with two hands. It was much darker below, making it hard to see.

  “Sam!”

  “Here!”

  It took some moments for me to find him on the tween deck.

  I said, “I may have heard someone. It could be Thad trying to find us. Or someone else. Come up and listen.”

  Sam said, “Let me just check in here.”

  He was moving toward the forecastle. I followed. There was just enough light for us to see that the door was closed with a metal hasp lock — an iron peg on a cord. Sam undid it with ease and pulled the door open. We went in and looked about.

  It was a long and narrow space, quite dark, with one small porthole, which let in some little light. That allowed for some fresh air, a good thing because the area was close and fetid, the smell of rot intense. I said, “Did you live on ship in places like this?”

  “’Course.”

  We started to examine the empty crew berths.

  A noise came from overhead.

  The instant we heard it, we stood still, looked up, and listened. The sounds weren’t the moans and rasping of ship timbers we’d grown used to. These were sharp and hard.

  Sam pointed toward the ceiling and mouthed the word: Footsteps.

  “Thad?”

  “Don’t know.”

  I listened fixedly. “Just now,” I whispered, “on deck, I heard something out in the water.”

  Sam said, “This ship has a ladder. Easy to get on.”

  More sounds.

  After a few moments, Sam, in a low voice, said, “One person. Don’t move.”

  I didn’t.

  The overhead footsteps halted, resumed, and then grew quiet. We waited there, in the forecastle’s semidarkness, intent on sounds. At some point, I realized I was observing a feeble light through the open door. I stared at it. Though ill defined, it appeared to be someone holding a lantern.

  “Thad!” I called.

  “Shhh,” Sam hissed sharply.

  The outside person not only ceased to move but made no reply. Then the light vanished.

  “Not Thad,” Sam whispered.

  I took a step forward only to have Sam grab my arm and hold me back. “Careful. He’s blocking the door.”

  Sam made a waving motion. I took it to mean I was to move to one side of the door, which I did. He went to the other side. I understood: if someone came forward into the forecastle, we could slip behind him and get out.

  Again, we waited.

  Next moment, there was a slamming sound. The door had been shut. On the instant, Sam threw himself against it and pulled. It was of no use. We were locked in.

  WHAT WE HEARD NEXT WAS THE SOUND OF running steps. Whoever had shut the door was sprinting away, the footfalls diminishing fast. Then all became silent.

  Sam went to the door. He fumbled for the latch, then shook and rattled it. It refused to budge. “Locked,” he said. “We were dumb to stay in here.”

  “Did you see who it was?”

  “No.”

  I joined Sam. The two of us struggled with the door. It wouldn’t open.

  “He probably pegged the hasp,” said Sam.

  I pulled out my knife and used it to poke at the door. That proved useless.

  I heard Sam’s agitated breathing.

  “Who,” I said, “do you think it was?”

  “You just heard someone out on the water, didn’t you?”

  “Think so.”

  “That crimp. He did follow you.” He was looking around. “We’re stuck. At least we have air.” He gestured toward the small porthole.

  “Thad will come,” I said.

  “With all these dead ships,” said Sam, “how’s he going to figure out which one we’re on?” There was anger in his voice.

  I envisioned Thad on the beach, calling to us, we not responding. I said, “He’ll know something happened. Come after us.”

  “Maybe.”

  Sam was right, though: even if Thad guessed things had gone amiss, he’d have no idea where we were.

  Out of heart, blaming myself for shouting, I sat on the floor, and with my back propped against a wall, tried to think what to do. I had no ideas. Cold, I reached for my shawl, only to realize it must have fallen off. I didn’t even bother to look for it. The damp clung to me. I shivered.

  “I make a lot of mistakes,” I said.

  “People do,” returned Sam. He was sitting against a nearby wall.

  For the longest while we didn’t speak. Twice, we attempted to force the door. It was of no use.

  After a while, I said, “Sam, what’s going to happen to us?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But —”

  “Told you, Kassel don’t give a hoot. You think that crimper cares? Took my brother, didn’t they? Took yours. Why should they worry about us?” He was quiet for a moment and then said, “What about your friend, Señor Rosales? Does he have any idea where we are?”

  “Not . . . really. Does . . . your father know?”

  “Didn’t tell him I was coming here. Wouldn’t have let me.”

  “Why?”

  “He told me to have nothing to do with Kassel. Or you. The only thing he can think about is trying to find work so as to get us back east.”

  “By ship?”

  “Don’t think walking will work.”

  We lapsed into silence.

  “Sam . . . we can’t stay here forever.”

  “Forever is not going to happen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ll either die here — starve — or they’ll come and do away with us.”

  “Why?”

  “They got a good business going.”

  “But . . . but I don’t want to be here,” I cried out, only to realize how pointless it was to act and say such things that way. As I sat there I recalled believing — when my family sailed into San Francisco — that life was enhanced when embracing danger. Childish, I told myself.

  Sam remained quiet.

  I continued to sit, though at one point I shouted out, “Thad!” It was yet another useless thing to do.

  Sam said nothing.

  We sat, waited, and listened to the sounds of the old ship creaking. I’m not sure how long we were there, but at some point, I had an idea. “My shawl,” I said.

  “What about it?”

  “I dropped it. I think in here somewhere.”

  “You cold?”

  “That small porthole. If I dangle the shawl out and Thad sees it, he might guess where we are.”

  It took some time, but we found
the shawl on one of the berths. It took only a moment for me to push it out through the small porthole so that most of it hung outside. From that point on, all we could do was wait, and hope.

  The air was cold and clammy, as if the fog had seeped in and closed around us. In the dimness, it was impossible to say how much time passed. We didn’t talk much. And, as I had eaten hardly anything that day, my hunger increased.

  At some point, I began to hear high-pitched squeaking.

  “Rats,” Sam said. “If they get close, kick at them.”

  I hugged myself that much tighter.

  To keep up my spirits, I asked Sam to tell me about his time on a whaling ship. His tales about his three-year voyage were extraordinary.

  In return, he asked me about my life. To my ears, our family existence in Providence was altogether indifferent. But when I told him why and how we came to California, our accounts were not so unlike: our fathers’ fever for gold.

  “You sorry you came to California?” he asked.

  “Most of it was good,” I said, “until Jacob. . . . You sorry?”

  “Yup. My father and I, all we want to do is to get home to Sag Harbor, safe and free.” After a while he asked, “You think your father will get lots of gold?”

  “Be splendid if he did. But . . . I don’t think he will.”

  “Why?”

  “You know: not many do. And it’s not his kind of work.”

  “If he did get gold, what would he do with it?”

  “He’s going build us a big house. What’s your home — back east — like?”

  Sam described his village as a small fishing and whaling port on Long Island, about a hundred miles from New York City.

  I said, “If my father gets gold, I’ll make him buy you passage home.”

  “Thanks,” said Sam. “But you just said you didn’t think he’ll get much.”

  “True.”

  We lapsed into dreary silence.

  After a while, I said, “Tell me about your brother.”

  Sam held off a bit, then said, “Named Otis. When I was little, I couldn’t say it right. Called him Oats. It stuck. Older than me. Smart. A fiddler. Good one too. Oats was my best —”

  Even as Sam spoke, we heard the unmistakable sounds of steps overhead again.

  “Shhh,” Sam cautioned.

  We stared up. The steps kept on, slow, careful.

  “It might be Thad,” I whispered. “I could call.”

  “Like last time? What if it’s the crimps coming to finish us?”

  I shut my mouth.

  The footsteps crossed overhead, faded, and then died out. Within moments, they resumed. Whoever was on the main deck appeared to be wandering. Perhaps searching. I could only hope the person didn’t discover where we were.

  Next moment, I told myself that the crimps had locked us in here, so these footsteps couldn’t be made by the same people. That is, unless they were coming to make sure we were still here and were intending to do away with us.

  The footsteps ceased, as if the person above were gone. We remained motionless. Moments later, however, a faint light — shaped like the blade of a white knife — poked under the forecastle door, into where we were. It was all too clear: whoever had been above was now on the lower deck, not far from where we were.

  As I stared at the light, it appeared to be growing brighter. The person was approaching the door.

  In the faint glow, I saw Sam make a motion. It was as he had suggested before: I should move to the right side of the door, while he went to the left. If the person opened the door — and intended to do us harm — we might be able to get out or overpower whoever it was.

  In quiet haste, we took our positions and stood, waiting. I tried to keep calm. But I took out my knife and held it in my hand.

  The light withdrew.

  I heard someone fumbling with the latch. The door began to swing open.

  I held my breath.

  TORY? SAM? YOU IN HERE?”

  “Thad!” I cried.

  The door was pulled open, and there stood Thad, lit lantern in hand. “What the dickens you two doing in here?”

  Though I could have sworn he was smirking, never in all my life was I so glad to see anyone. I flung myself at him and gave him a hug. As for Sam, I saw him grin. The first time.

  In a great rush, I told Thad what had happened.

  He said, “Any idea who locked you in?”

  “Has to be the crimps,” said Sam. “How’d you find us?”

  “Soon as I checked the list of outgoing ships at my store, I came back to the beach and started hollering. When you didn’t come, I figured something had happened. Got me a boat and rowed around. Took a while, but then I saw Tory’s red shawl drooping from this here ship. Not hard after that. Glad I found you.”

  Thank you, Mother, I thought. But what I said was, “Let’s get off this boat.”

  We all but ran up to the main deck, then scrambled down the rope ladder, but I didn’t feel safe until I was in Thad’s rowboat. Once there, with him at the oars, we began to move away from the hulk in which we had been trapped.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  Thad said, “’Bout noon.”

  “What’s the date?”

  “Near end of November.”

  Almost December. December was when my father had promised to return. My heart hurt.

  The fog was thin, and the day had become warmer. We rowed about in search of the rowboat Sam and I had left behind. When we found it, we towed her along as we headed back to shore. It was only then that I said to Thad, “Did you find out which ships are leaving?”

  “Only one that’s been cleared, the Yankee Sword, was for today. But changed for tomorrow. Don’t know why.”

  “Fog,” said Sam.

  Thad said, “She’s headed for Panama.”

  I remembered: that was the one Jacob talked of joining. What if he had? No. Impossible.

  Sam said, “If she’s heading there, it means she’s going to pick up new immigrants. Which also means when she goes, she’ll be mostly empty.”

  “Could Jacob be on her?” I asked.

  Thad said, “She’s the first one going out, isn’t she?”

  I said, “Jacob told me they were looking for a cabin boy.”

  “There you are,” said Sam.

  “Think he could be on her now?”

  Thad said, “We’re pretty sure they just moved him, didn’t they? Probably why they locked you up.”

  Sam said, “Can’t be sure he’s there, but we should look.”

  I said, “Could we get on her? Search?”

  “You can’t just board her,” said Sam. “And if he’s there, they’ll never let you on.”

  As soon as our boat touched the beach, we climbed out. The fog was gone, replaced by dreary drizzle.

  I turned to Sam. “Do you need to tell your father what’s happened?”

  “If I do, he won’t let me out of the tent.”

  Thad said, “We sure need you.”

  “Told you,” said Sam. “I’m not doing it for you. My way of going against Kassel.”

  “I’m grateful,” I said, and reached out and held his arm, and gave it a little shake. “We couldn’t do this without you.”

  Sam didn’t pull away. All he said was “I know.”

  I said, “I need to speak to Señor Rosales. I promised to tell him what I’m doing.”

  Thad said, “What are you doing?”

  “Not sure,” I returned, feeling exasperated. “But I need to speak to him.”

  “Where’s your friend?” asked Sam.

  “Up the hill.”

  “Let’s go,” said Sam, and the three of us started off.

  Though I had no idea what the boys were thinking, for my part, I wanted to believe that Jacob was being held on the Yankee Sword. The notion both encouraged me and scared me. Encouraged that we had a real idea where he might be. Scared that if the ship was about to leave, we had to get to her fast
. At the same time, I had to acknowledge what Sam had said: we weren’t truly sure Jacob was on her. And even if he was, we had no notion how we could get him off.

  My worry led me to a further thought: that Señor Rosales just might be wrong, that perhaps that man I’d seen in the police office — the one with the broken nose — had acted on his own. That made me think that if I told Chief Fallon what had happened to us — being trapped on that ship — he’d know that Jacob was in trouble and he’d help. It would make things so much easier. Surely, he could board the Yankee Sword.

  Fortified by the idea, I moved faster. Thad and Sam stayed with me.

  We never reached our tent. Señor Rosales saw us coming and ran out from his café. “¡Hola!” he cried. “Corderita, I’m glad to see you. Any news of Jacob?”

  “We think so. This is Sam. He’s been helping us look.”

  “Mucho gusto,” said Señor Rosales, shaking Sam’s hand, but he was more intent on my account of all that had happened.

  “Good for you,” he said to Sam when I was done. “And you too,” he said to Thad, “for helping Tory.”

  I said, “Señor Rosales, I want to go back to Chief Fallon.”

  He grimaced. “Señorita, I told you, he may be working with these crimps.”

  “We don’t know that for certain.”

  Señor Rosales looked to Sam and Thad as if to get them to convince me.

  “If Fallon is connected to the crimps,” Thad reminded me, “and you go to him, you’ll only be telling them we’re off that ship.”

  “Won’t be good,” Sam agreed.

  “I know it’s risky,” I said, “but he could make a big difference. I have to try.” Not wishing to wait a moment more, and without lingering to see if my friends would join me, I started off for Portsmouth Square. The others, albeit reluctantly, followed.

  I approached the square from the south side. As ever, it was swarming with men. I worked through the crowds, but as soon as I spied the old schoolhouse — the police office — I came to a halt. Four men were standing in front of the building, talking. I recognized three of them: Chief Fallon, Mr. Kassel, and the man with the broken nose.

  I needed no further proof: Chief Fallon was working with the crimpers.

  My friends came up to where I was standing. “What’s the matter?” asked Sam.

  I pointed. “The police house. See those men.”