Gold Rush Girl

by Avi

  “Ugly,” said Sam.

  “Who’s the fourth one?” I asked. He was a large man, with a shock of white hair and a large white beard.

  “Captain Littlefield,” said Thad. “I’ve seen him about our store, buying supplies. Guess what? He’s captain of the Yankee Sword.”

  “That’s all the proof I need,” I cried. “Why else would he be with those people? Jacob must be on her.”

  Sam started to back away, pulling me with him. “Be better if they don’t see us. Let ’em think we’re still locked up on that ship.”

  We hurried off, Señor Rosales quite puzzled. As soon as we were out of the square, I explained it to him. “You were right,” I said. “The police are working with the crimps. I think that man — remember the man with the broken nose in the police house? — I think he’s the one who locked up Sam and me on the ship.”

  “Madre de Dios,” said Señor Rosales. “The policía and the crimpers. That’s what I was told. When does this Yankee Sword depart?”

  “Tomorrow, latest,” said Thad.

  “Santo Cristo. Have you studied this ship?”

  “Not really.”

  “Come back to my café. Use my telescope. Maybe you’ll even be able to see Jacob. That would help.”

  Once we got the telescope, it was Sam who said, “We’ll see more from Goat Hill.”

  “Por favor, keep the telescope,” said Señor Rosales. “But you must promise to come back and tell me what you intend to do. ¿Lo prometes? Soy responsible. You must not do anything peligroso.”

  Thad turned to me as we headed away. “What’s peligroso mean?”

  Señor Rosales had taught me well. I said, “Dangerous.”

  WE HURRIED, BUT GOAT HILL WAS A STEEP climb, so it was not till midafternoon that we reached the top. Directly across the bay was Angel Island. To the north of us was Alcatraces, or Pelican Island, the desolate place I’d seen when I first came into the bay. Two miles from San Francisco, it sat like a guard before the Golden Gate. As for the Golden Gate, a great gray fog bank was blocking the way, like a cotton cork stuffed in the neck of a narrow bottle.

  To the east was the expanse of the great bay. That was open.

  We sat down and Thad put the telescope to his eyes. It took him a moment before he said, “The Yankee Sword is right there. See? Sails furled. Anchored. Just beyond Rotten Row. Name in yellow letters on her stern. They’re loading her.”

  Sam looked. Then he said, “Unless that fog bank holds her back, the Yankee Sword will be leaving soon. We better decide fast what we’re doing.”

  I took the telescope and studied the ship. Being a brig, the Yankee Sword was not so large, with only two masts; the forward mast was taller than the main mast. Attached to that rear mast was a gaff that held a square sail over the stern. At her bow was a sprit nearly the length of the deck that extended forward over the water.

  Since San Francisco had few loading docks extending into the bay — at least not as far out as the Yankee Sword was anchored — lighters were bringing out her cargo. As we watched, passing the telescope among us, there were decreasing numbers of lighters, suggesting that the loading was a fair way to being completed.

  Sam, after looking again, said, “Not that many men on her.”

  I took back the telescope, hoping to catch sight of Jacob. But it didn’t matter that I couldn’t see him. By then I was convinced he was there.

  We sat in silence. I didn’t know what to do.

  It was Thad who said, “I have an idea.”

  “Say it.”

  “All those lighters loading her, right?”

  “What about them?” said Sam.

  “We could get hold of one,” Thad went on, “go on out to the Yankee Sword, climb on board, and look around for your brother.”

  “In daylight?” said Sam.

  Thad said, “They’re so busy getting ready to leave that they might not notice us.”

  Sam shook his head. “Three kids wandering around the ship? Poking about? They’d see us soon enough. Too risky.”

  To which I added, “And they might catch us. Keep us. Or worse.”

  Thad had no reply.

  After a moment, I said, “How about going to her tonight? It’ll be dark. The fog might be thicker too.”

  Sam said, “They’re sure to have a watch posted. And safety lights. If they’re keeping a lookout, there we’d be, in a dinky rowboat. Won’t matter it being dark. They’d see us for sure.”

  “But we can’t wait any longer,” I said. “She’s scheduled to leave tomorrow.”

  There was some silence before Thad said, “Then I’m betting the best chance we have is now.”

  I said, “To do what?”

  Thad said, “Have a closer look.”

  “How?”

  “Grab a boat and go on out there.”

  I scrambled to my feet. “Come on,” I said. “We need to.”

  It took us a while to get off the hill, but once we did, we went right to the cove, fetched up a rowboat, and pushed it into the water. I took a place in the bow, telescope in hand. Thad was on the stern seat. Sam began to row.

  No one spoke as we worked our way through the Rotten Row hulks. It took a while, but once we broke through into the bay, I looked to where the Yankee Sword was, only to blink at what I was not seeing.

  The ship wasn’t there.

  At first I thought I wasn’t looking in the right direction. I even stood up and shaded my eyes. No question: the Yankee Sword was not where we had last seen her. “She’s gone!” I cried.

  After a moment, Thad pointed and said, “No. There she is. In deeper water.”

  “Is she moving?”

  Sam used the telescope. “No,” he said.

  Thad turned to Sam. “What’s she doing?”

  Sam continued studying her. “Looks like she finished loading. The sails are down and she’s anchored, so she’s staying away from shore, not going anywhere. Maybe waiting for the fog to clear from the Gate and for the tides to run right. Anyway, she won’t be leaving. Not yet.”

  “I’m guessing,” said Thad, “once all is good, she’ll glide right on out.”

  With our rowboat gently rocking, we kept watching the Yankee Sword in silence.

  “If we go after her in this boat,” said Thad, “we’ll be as obvious as turtles in a washtub.”

  “And,” said Sam, “if they get suspicious, they might pull anchor and race off. No way could we catch her in the bay with this.” He patted the gunwales of our little boat.

  “But we can’t do nothing,” I cried.

  Though no one disagreed, no one suggested anything. Our rowboat began to drift while we continued to stare at the brig.

  It was Thad who said, “Tory, remember when we first went looking ’round Rotten Row — that ketch we searched?”

  “What about her?”

  “Sign on her said HELP YOURSELF.”

  “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Remember? She looked ready to sail. We could get on her, go after the Yankee Sword in her.” He turned to Sam. “Could you sail a small ketch?”

  “Reckon.”

  I said, “If the Yankee Sword moved away, could a small boat like that go after her?”

  “Long as she stayed in the bay,” said Sam. “But . . . not if she gets to ocean.”

  Thad said, “They might not notice a small boat.” Then he added, “Much.”

  The boys looked to me.

  I said, “Let’s go and use her.”

  We headed back to Rotten Row. As both Thad and I recalled, the ketch was not deeply embedded midst the Rotten Row fleet but somewhere along its outer edges. Even so, it took a while before we found her.

  After all the big ships we had been on, she seemed smaller than I recalled: maybe thirty feet in length with one mainmast, plus the modest mizzenmast near the stern. The signs — OFF FOR RICHES, HELP YOURSELF — were still there. When we pulled close, I noticed her name: Sadie Rose. Somebody’s sw
eetheart or wife.

  We drew alongside, tied the rowboat to a loose line so it wouldn’t drift off, and scrambled on board.

  The full rig of sails — flying jib, staysail, fore staysail, mainsail, and mizzen — remained hanging from the masts. Lines seemed to be where they were supposed to be, albeit tangled. Strewn about were the tools I’d noticed before.

  Sam stood amidships and, with his seaman’s eye, appraised her.

  “Can you sail her?” I asked.

  “Think so.”

  Thus it was that Sam became captain of the Sadie Rose, or “Cap’n,” as Thad called him with a sharp salute.

  I shall not bore you with all Sam’s ship language — his commands, which, in any case, he often had to translate for my landlubber’s ears, as much as Señor Rosales translated his Spanish. Enough to say, Sam put Thad and me to work. As quick as possible, the deck had been cleared, the mainsail, jib, and mizzen hauled.

  “What about our rowboat?” I said.

  “Tie her to our stern,” said Sam. “We might need her. Just in case. Push her oars under the seat.”

  That done, it took the three of us to work the ketch’s anchor up from where it lay embedded in bottom mud, where its twin flukes — like hooks — held fast.

  I was reminded of the Rhode Island symbol: an anchor. Stay in place. Ancora. Hope. Hope was what I needed.

  With the anchor freed and aboard, Sam turned the Sadie Rose downwind and away from Rotten Row. Out in the bay, the choppy waters caught at our low bow and sent wet and shivery cold salt spray over us. Now and again light rain also sprinkled. But we were moving sprightly, which gave me a sense that we really going somewhere. That made me warm.

  It did require some time for Sam to gain a feel — as he put it — for the ketch, and for Thad and me to understand his orders so we could follow them. In good time, however, we were sailing about the bay with ease, as all three of us worked like old jacks. Our rowboat bobbed behind.

  Sam maneuvered the Sadie Rose so that while we kept our distance from the Yankee Sword, we were able to keep our eyes on her. As Sam explained, he didn’t want her crew to have any suspicions as to who we were or why we were out there. Besides, Señor Rosales’s telescope allowed us to be watchful while keeping our distance. I was becoming excited, filled with the sense that we were truly drawing closer to Jacob.

  All the while, the Yankee Sword remained motionless, though now and again I saw people move about her deck. I need hardly say that I saw nothing of Jacob.

  As we tacked back and forth, we would turn toward the Golden Gate. That fog bank had only crept farther into the bay. It had also become thicker, darker, too, like a thundercloud.

  Let me acknowledge, however, that though we were in the bay and keeping our eyes on the brig, we had yet to form a plan as to how to rescue Jacob. It was as if we were waiting for the Yankee Sword to tell us what to do. It was when we darted in close and Thad was studying her with his telescope that he called, “Come about!”

  Sam shifted the tiller hard.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Someone was standing at her bow. I could have sworn he was looking at us.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  Thad looked again. “White hair.”

  I said, “Captain Littlefield.”

  “He’ll know about us, then,” said Sam, and continued to tack away from the Yankee Sword.

  “Do we have to worry?” I asked.

  “We’re too far away,” said Thad.

  “I’m not so sure,” said Sam.

  By late afternoon, with sunlight fast diminishing, the Yankee Sword had hung lights forward and aft. Another light dangled from a midship spar.

  “What do those lights mean?” I asked Sam, who had kept us at a distance.

  “Safety lights,” he explained. “Tells me she’s not going anywhere. Not tonight. Probably hoping that the fog in the Gate lifts so they can leave early morning.”

  We continued to sail back and forth, in no particular direction but always keeping the Yankee Sword in view. Twilight brought deeper murk. What’s more, the shadowy fog in the Gate was flowing into the bay, spreading, like a balloon slowly swelling bigger.

  Sam said, “It’s going to get too dark for us out here. If we keep sailing about, someone on that ship is bound to get suspicious.”

  “But we have to keep watching her,” I said.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Thad said, “What about Alcatraces? That island. Sits before the Gate. If we can get on it, we can keep an eye on the ship. We have the telescope.”

  “Will they notice us?” I asked Sam.

  “Not likely.”

  Thad added, “And if she tries to run for the Gate, she’ll have to pass right by us.”

  I said, “But if she did run by, we still don’t know how we’ll get Jacob.”

  Thad said, “We’ll think of something then.”

  “Is anybody on the island?” I asked.

  “Rocks and birds,” said Sam, adding, “Won’t be pleasant sitting there.” Then he added further, “Still . . . better than sailing about. And if we sit high up, we’ll be able to see the Yankee Sword a whole lot better than from here.” He patted the gunwales.

  I said, “Then we should do it.” I looked to Thad.

  “Ayuh.”

  I turned to Sam. He responded by blowing out his cheeks as if playing his bugle, let go a puff of air, and then shifted the tiller, all he needed to do by way of saying yes.

  The boom swung about. The ketch heeled. As the twilight dimmed and the fog grew murkier, the Sadie Rose headed for the Isle of Alcatraces.

  THE ISLAND OF ALCATRACES MAY HAVE APPEARED small from the summit of Goat Hill, but it grew larger and more inhospitable the nearer we came. In the increasing dark, it appeared as little more than a mass of gray-blue rocks, all of different sizes and sharp shapes. The island made me think of a gigantic, barnacle-encrusted whale, lying dead upon the waters.

  Since our boat had a keel, and the island shore being nothing but low, jagged cliffs, and with strong currents swirling about, Sam had to work hard to get the Sadie Rose close in. When he did, masses of birds (mostly pelicans and gulls) burst up, crowding the air with their flapping wings. Flying low, they screeched, barked, and dove at us, swooping so close we often had to stoop. It was as if they were telling us that they alone held exclusive claim to this pile of jagged stone.

  As we drew close, our keel scrapped bottom.

  “Can’t get nearer,” said Sam.

  “The rowboat,” said Thad.

  Sam, to me, said, “Toss our anchor.”

  I scrambled forward and heaved the heavy hook, which splashed down.

  “Give it a yank,” cried Sam. “Make sure it’s set.”

  “Holding,” I called.

  Thad dropped our sails.

  Sam pulled the rowboat close.

  Thad grabbed the telescope. “We’ll need this.”

  In mindless readiness, I checked my money belt, with its knife.

  One by one, we climbed into the rowboat, then pushed off from the Sadie Rose.

  Having taken the center seat, I took up the oars and rowed as near to the island as possible. Waves and flowage pushed us closer until Thad, impatient, leaped for shore. He landed on a jutting rock, almost lost his balance, and saved himself by wild winglike waving of his long arms — as if trying to outflap the birds. It worked. He kept his footing and was safe. Then he waded back in the water, grabbed the rowboat line, and pulled her in. I climbed out. Sam, telescope in hand, came from the stern. We all hauled the boat up on the shore so the currents wouldn’t bash her onto the rocks. That done, Sam found a stone around which to wrap her line.

  United, we climbed higher onto the empty island so as to get a better view of the Yankee Sword. When we found a flat place, we sat side by side, gazing eastward into the bay like a trio of Crusoes.

  It was now evening. A damp murkiness clung close, a blanket of dense and soggy air
, whose thickness made it difficult to distinguish water from air. There were no stars, only a high and fuzzy full moon that seemed to smolder in the sky, its edgeless halo casting little light. The three lamps on the Yankee Sword remained in dull sight — an earthbound constellation — so we knew she was there, not going anywhere.

  As we sat there, no one talking, I listened to the bay water lip-lap against the island rocks. Here and there the rippling water shimmered. The island birds, for the most part, had become noiseless, though now and again I heard a faint twittering, the sudden squawk of a seagull, a barking pelican, plus my own anxious breath.

  “Wish I had my bugle,” said Sam.

  “I bet you’d play ‘I Often Think of Writing Home.’”

  “Probably would.”

  I wondered: Where was my home? Was it back in Providence? Or had San Francisco become my home?

  I said, “Do you miss your home a lot?”

  Sam said, “Do. Keep hoping Oats got there. Saving your brother will give me some faith.”

  I said, “Oh, Sam, I want your brother safe too.”

  “Appreciate that.”

  I was thinking about Sam’s brother when, to the left of us, a ship emerged out of the fog, moving slowly eastward into the bay. Though I was not given to believing in worlds that go beyond God’s creation, the ship appeared ghostlike, slow and silent in the murky light. Her unexpected appearance, festooned by veils of mist as much as sail, suggested that she had sailed in from another world, shaped and propelled by the air itself. Seeing her gave me an awful thought: that she was a spirit ship, coming to take Jacob away.

  I hastened to scold myself, knowing that, of course, the ship was real and must have come through the Golden Gate from the ocean. She was moving in stately fashion — her silhouette suggesting she was a fast-moving clipper ship — coming into San Francisco. Maybe, I preferred to think, Mother was on her. Maybe Oats was too.

  Observing the ship, Sam said, “Someone took a chance.” It was hard to say if he was admiring or criticizing.

  “If someone’s coming in, someone could go out,” I said. “Is the Yankee Sword moving?”

  Thad put the telescope to his eye. After some fretful waiting on my part, he said, “Not an inch.”