Gold Rush Girl

by Avi

  Sam said, “I promise: a ship like that won’t work against the fog. Not tonight.”

  Thad handed me the telescope.

  I took it and aimed for the points of light. After a while, I could see the ship’s profile. Then, as I looked, I saw a few lights moving about on what I took to be her main deck.

  “Something’s happening on her,” I said, and passed the telescope to Sam.

  He studied her. “They’re lowering jolly boats,” he said. “With men in them.”

  Alarmed, I said, “Think they’re coming after us?” I even put a hand to my money belt.

  Sam said, “My guess is that since the ship isn’t going anywhere, they’re allowing crew to go ashore for a last night. That’s good. Means they won’t come back till morning.”

  Thad took the telescope and looked. After a while, he said, “Ayuh. That’s what they’re doing.”

  It was left to me to say, “Then there will be less of a crew on her.”

  Sam said, “Right. Not many going to give up last shore night. They’ll have only left a short watch.”

  “How many is short?”

  “One. Two.”

  I said, “Doesn’t that make it easier for us to get on her?”

  “Could,” said Sam. “Unless it’s a trick.”

  “What kind of trick?”

  “Pretending not to have a lot of men on board. We have to keep studying her. Need to be patient.”

  We continued sitting, waiting, and watching.

  I did not say anything, nor did the boys. I suspect we all knew what was going to happen: at some point, we were going to board the Yankee Sword.

  THE CONSTANT, STEADY LAPPING OF LAZY LITTLE waves against the island shore measured our time. Cold, I wrapped my braid around my neck like a scarf and hugged my body while resting my chin on my drawn-up knees. My hair felt heavy and dirty. My scalp itched. I was also starving, but I wasn’t going to say anything about that. I’m sure the boys were just as uncomfortable. No one spoke a complaint.

  Sitting there, once again I could almost hear Father saying to me, “Try and act a little ladylike.” What would Mother think if she could see me? I even thought about Aunt Lavinia. What would she say if she knew what I was about? She’d have an eruption. The thought made me smile. But then, with a plunging heart, I knew that if we didn’t rescue Jacob, I must be the one to tell them. It would be ghastly.

  From time to time, we passed the telescope between us, studying the Yankee Sword, but saw nothing of note. I was certain that those boats — with the crew — that had left the Yankee Sword and headed for the city had not returned. There could be, however, no doubt: at some point, they would return.

  I suspect I briefly — once or twice — nodded into sleep. I jerked awake. The lights on the Yankee Sword looked to be brighter. I asked myself: Was it because my eyes were fixed upon them so steadily? Or was the fog beginning to thin?

  I decided it was thinning. We must move. I grew excited even as I felt hollow in my stomach. When the fog fully went, so too would the Yankee Sword. Once again, that old urgency: a need to do something. Trying to keep my voice steady, I said, “What time do you think it is?”

  “Two, three,” said Sam.

  I stood up and looked around toward the Gate. The fog seemed to have melted away. “The fog’s gone,” I announced.

  The boys stood and looked for themselves.

  After a moment, Sam said, “Means, soon as there’s some daylight, that crew will come back.”

  “Which also means,” I added, “the Yankee Sword will go.”

  “Likely,” said Thad.

  Sam said, “As I see it, even if they were worried about us, they wouldn’t think we’d go out there. Not now. They might even believe we’re still locked up on that rotten ship.”

  I waited a few moments and then said, “Then we should get on her — now.”

  “Fine with me,” said Sam.

  “Ayuh,” added Thad.

  That was all it took to reach that momentous agreement.

  Even so, we continued to stand there, gazing at the Yankee Sword. It was as if we needed to measure, not just the distance from where we were to the ship, but our own courage as well.

  It was me, at last, who said, “Let’s go.”

  Thad said, “Odds look good.”

  To which Sam added, “I’m ready.”

  We lit my lantern but kept the flame small. Moving with care, we climbed down over the island rocks to the water’s edge, taking one another’s hands when necessary. It was a fact: we three had come to work so well together that there was no need of talk.

  It took all of us to get the rowboat off the rocks and back into water. We held the line to keep the bobbing rowboat from floating away. Thad, who had the longest legs, waded out and clambered on. Once set, he pulled the line to get her closer to shore. With a jump from a shoreline rock, Sam boarded her. I was left holding the line. Once he got on, I also leaped aboard, Sam steadying me as I landed.

  Thad rowed us to where the Sadie Rose was anchored. When he got on, I tied the rowboat to the stern.

  As before, Sam was at the ketch’s tiller and took command. Under his orders, Thad and I hauled up the mainsail, then the mizzen. Though the wind was light, our sails fluttered and filled. The tiller shifted. The boom swung around and Sam pointed us straight in the direction of the Yankee Sword’s lights.

  We were on our way.

  In the predawn — the darkest time of night — the bay seemed immense, our little vessel small. Waters were calm, broken here and there by flashing flicks of foam. The air was moist, but the fog continued to wane. Like awakening eyes, multiple stars began to appear above. The moon, still woolly, began to brighten and gain an edge, even as feathery clouds streaked across its face. We were about two miles from the city, but I could see some lights. Most important of all, we were drawing ever nearer to the Yankee Sword.

  As we sailed along, I thought, Miss Tory, do you understand that you are about to steal upon a ship in the middle of the night? You are like a pirate. I recalled what Señor Rosales had warned, that what we were doing was peligroso — dangerous. Sí. Muy peligroso.

  Would it be wrong to make a confession? At that moment, yes, I was scared, but I was also truly thrilled to be part of this adventure.

  Sam had us tacking back and forth across a light, moist headwind, with Thad and me periodically ducking the swinging boom. No one spoke. The only sounds were a slight ruffling of the sails, and the slap of our bow as the Sadie Rose spanked through the water, slap, slip, slap. The spray of water kept me alert.

  Not that I ever took my eyes from the safety lights on the Yankee Sword. At first they appeared far away, but as the Sadie Rose drew ever nearer, they became bigger, stronger, and brighter. I began to see the outline of the ship, a long, low black shadow against the deeper dark, an island of darksomeness.

  From time to time Thad turned and looked toward the city. I looked too. There were only a few lights. Nothing moving.

  “What are you looking at?” I asked.

  “Want to make sure that crew isn’t returning,” said Thad.

  “You think they will?”

  “Absolutely,” called Sam from the helm. “By first light.” But he didn’t look toward the city the way Thad and I did. Perhaps he didn’t wish to. I decided he was nervous, the way I was, but I chose not to ask.

  I gazed up. The moon kept growing bigger, clearer, even as it lowered in the western sky.

  I could see the Yankee Sword with increasing clarity: her masts, her spars, her furled sails. Her safety lights never moved. I saw no sign of life on her. I kept wondering how many of the crew had remained on board for the watch. It abruptly occurred to me: if I saw them with any such great clarity, they would see us just as well. Wasn’t that what keeping a watch meant?

  We drew closer.

  Sam sailed the ketch round the Yankee Sword’s bow, dodging her anchor line, which was holding the big ship fast. Simultaneously, I remi
nded myself that we had made no plans for how to board her. Only then did I have yet another thought: What if Jacob is not on her?

  I whispered, “What do we do now?”

  Thad, his voice low, said, “Get on her.”

  “All of us?”

  Sam said, “Someone needs to take care of the ketch. If anyone on the Yankee Sword steals her, we’ll be dead in the water. And I mean dead.”

  “I have to go on,” I said.

  Thad said, “I’ll stay. Sam knows ships better than me.”

  “Can you handle the ketch?” asked Sam.

  “Been watching you,” said Thad.

  “Huh,” muttered Sam.

  Though I was tense and excited, the boys seemed quite casual. I doubted they felt that way; they must have been masking their worriment.

  Sam edged the ketch in until we drew close to the Yankee Sword. Next moment, we jolted softly against her hull, not the city side, I noticed, but the bay side. Smart. If the crew returned, we would be less likely to be seen.

  All this to say, we had arrived. I don’t think my senses had ever been so alert. Now we needed to board her.

  THAD STOOD UP IN THE BOW OF THE KETCH, LOW-lit lantern in hand, in search of lines hanging from the Yankee Sword. He found them easily enough, most likely the ones that had been used to let down the crew’s boats when they had gone to the city.

  He grabbed two, pulling them hard to make sure they held. When they did, he passed one to Sam, who tied it to a cleat on the bow of the Sadie Rose. The other line went to our stern. That kept us stable.

  I worked to drop our sails.

  We were now held fast to the Yankee Sword.

  Speaking softly, Sam said, “No talking unless we have to. Remember: they’ll have someone on board. Maybe more than one.”

  “What about light?” I asked.

  “Her safety lights will have to do.”

  “I’ll keep my lantern,” said Thad. “That way, you’ll know where to come back to.”

  “If we do,” muttered Sam.

  “You will,” said Thad. Then he added, “Tory, give me your flint in case my lamp goes out.”

  Briefly, we stood there in our ketch. The Sadie Rose rocked, but far less than my beating heart. In the faint yellow light of Thad’s little lantern, we looked at one another as if only then fully aware of what we were daring to do. I think only then did I allow myself to acknowledge: We were going to board her.

  It was Thad who put out a hand. I put a hand on his, and Sam put a hand atop mine. Without words, it was understood: bright hearts in faint light. Oh, how much then did I love my two friends.

  “God keep us,” Sam whispered.

  “Amen,” said Thad.

  To which I actually said, “Our will is our destiny.” Just to say it sent a cold quiver through me.

  “I’ll go first,” said Sam. “It’ll be quicker.” He reached as high as he could on one of the free lines. Using both hands, he hoisted himself up from the deck of the Sadie Rose. Then he began to walk and pull himself aloft. Thad and I, in the ketch, watched him go, his shadow before him. When he reached the topgallant rail, he swung over, and then vanished from sight.

  It seemed forever before I saw — if dimly — Sam’s head pop up. He didn’t call or speak, but made a waving motion. I understood. Things, so far, were safe. It was my turn to climb.

  Thad touched me on my back, leaned forward, and whispered into my ear, “Good luck.”

  Heart hammering, I reached up and grabbed the loose line as high as I could with two hands as I had done before. Then, with all my strength, I hauled myself up from the ketch’s deck. As soon as my feet had nothing beneath them, I swung them flat against the Yankee Sword’s hull and began to pull and walk.

  My efforts were not as hard as the first time I climbed that ship in Rotten Row. Not to say it was easy, but I had a surer sense of what I was doing, and how difficult it was. Which is to say, I knew I could do it. Had to do it. Thus, with some swiftness, I moved up, and did not look down, not once.

  I grasped the topgallant rail. Sam was waiting. Two hands extended, he helped me up and over. Next moment, I was standing near him on the deck of the Yankee Sword, my legs full of trembles, but no more than my heart.

  I went back to the rail, looked over and down. Thad was standing on the ketch, peering up. I waved. He waved back. As I watched, he made the flame on his lantern even smaller, in hopes that if anyone was looking out from shore, he would not be seen.

  A tap to my shoulder made me swing around to face Sam. He gave me a nod. I understood. We needed to move.

  Turning from him, I gazed about the ship. Sam had been right: the glowing lantern hanging from a lower spar cast enough shadowy light to allow us to see most of the main deck. Moonlight helped. There was almost no color, just light and dark. The ship’s only movement was a gentle rise and fall.

  The deck was cluttered, nothing such as might be called shipshape. But among the vessel’s usual paraphernalia — lines, standing blocks, deadeyes, and the like, all of which lay disordered about the deck — we saw no one. Nor did there at first appear to be any place in which someone might hide.

  As we stood there, gazing about, there was almost complete silence, a silence broken by the occasional thrum of rigging lines and wires, plus chains and turnbuckles, making fretsome rattles. Bay waters flip-flopped against the ship. The quietude enhanced these meager sounds, and put brittle edges to my nerves, as if they were being plucked.

  I reminded myself there had to be someone on the ship keeping watch. What’s more, the ship’s safety lights were meant not only to protect the Yankee Sword but also to guide the crew coming back from the city. At some point, they absolutely would come. We needed to hurry.

  We had yet to move when Sam noticed the boxlike structure near the stern. He nudged me and pointed. It had a window, and within the box was a feeble light. When I studied it, I could see the top edge of a spoked steering wheel. From where I stood, I could not see anyone.

  Sam whispered into my ear, “Steering house. Need to look.”

  We would have to draw much closer if we were to see if anyone was there.

  Walking side by side, we moved toward the stern, working hard to be as quiet as possible.

  We soon reached the small structure. Being taller than Sam, I stood on my toes and peeked inside.

  What I saw was a man on the floor, sprawled on his back. His eyes were closed. On his rising and falling chest lay a Colt pistol. I could hear his loud snoring and I saw some white spittle on his lips. By the man’s feet was a tipped-over whiskey bottle. It appeared empty. To one side stood an oil lantern with a small burning flame, the flame enclosed in a hurricane glass to keep it from blowing out. As far as I could guess, the man was deep in besotted sleep.

  But the instant I saw him, I knew who he was: the man with the crooked nose, the one in the police station, the man who had seen me outside the tent, the one I supposed had followed us into Rotten Row and locked Sam and me up. Jacob’s jailor. To see him took away any remaining doubts: my brother was on the ship.

  I gestured to Sam, wanting him to have a look.

  Standing on a deadeye, Sam did, then backed away and gazed at me with great intensity. I mouthed the word “Crimp.” He nodded. We both understood: we now knew there was at least one person aboard, and that person was armed. It was obvious: we needed to move faster.

  “Where?” I mouthed that word too, rather than saying it.

  Sam’s reply was a wave of his hand, signaling me to follow. As we went along the deck, he pointed out two companionways fore and aft. Both were open. I looked down into the aft one. There were steps leading down. Below, faint light glowed — a lit lantern, I supposed — which allowed me to see decking beneath the last step. The tween deck.

  Sam pointed. He was going below. When he did, I trailed after, descending into the heart of the ship.

  We reached the bottom step. Hanging from the timbered ceiling was an oil lamp, which swung w
ith the ship’s slight rising and falling motion, as if to suggest that time was moving quickly. Timbers creaked. The lamp’s flame was small but shed enough light for me to see the bulky trunks of two masts that rose up from below and on up through the ceiling. Between these fore and mainmasts was a double row of open sleeping berths. From where we stood, it took no more than a glance to see that they were empty. There were also long tables and benches.

  Most of the deck space, however, was taken up — along the port and starboard sides — by something like forty doors, all of which were closed. Sam came up to me, leaned close to my ear, pointed to the doors, and whispered, “Staterooms.”

  I understood. If Jacob was being held on board, more than likely he would be in one of these rooms.

  SAM WENT TO THE STARBOARD DOORS. I WENT TO the port-side ones. Each door had an iron door handle and an empty keyhole. Taking hold of one handle, I pulled. The door opened with ease.

  In such faint light as there was, I could see at once that no one was in the room. But there were two beds, one to either side. Also, a small table and chair. On the table, another empty whiskey bottle. A glass. The ship’s movement made it roll back and forth. One of the beds had rumpled blankets, suggesting that someone had slept there recently. Had Jacob been there? The whiskey bottle told me otherwise.

  I moved to the next door, opened it, and found the same emptiness, but with no evidence that anyone had been there. I went on to four more staterooms. All were the same, uninhabited. I glanced across the way. Sam was opening and shutting doors. He shook his head. His staterooms were just as bare.

  The sixth door I tried to open refused to budge. I yanked harder. It stayed shut.

  “Sam,” I hissed.

  He hurried to my side. I gave another pull with no results. Sam understood. The two of us now gripped the iron doorknob with four hands and yanked, once, twice, with all our strength.

  With an ear-splintering screech, the door ripped out, bringing part of the frame with it. I peered in. Sitting up in one of the beds, a look of amazement on his dirty face, was my brother Jacob.