by Susan Wiggs
Twenty-One
Blue Calhoun’s late wife had exquisite taste and a budget to match, thought Isabel, picking her way through the busy network of streets and alleys leading to the waterfront. She lifted the hem of the indigo cotton traveling skirt above a gutter overflowing with refuse. She had no qualms about appropriating a suit of clothes from Sancha’s dressing room.
The tailored gown, with its matching cropped jacket and hat, were years out-of-date, she conceded, but only the most discriminating arbiter of fashion would notice. Besides, it couldn’t be helped. She had been swindled out of all her scraped-together savings and could ill afford a proper set of traveling clothes.
As she had dressed herself and made her brief, hurried preparations, it had occurred to her that she might help herself to something more than clothing. As quickly as the notion occurred, she dismissed it. There had been times in her life when she wasn’t above stealing in order to survive, but this was not one of those times. Even though the stately Calhoun house offered any number of fenceable goods, from silverware to jewelry, Dr. Calhoun had done enough for her. She would not add insult to injury by stealing from him.
There was another reason, one she would scarcely admit to herself. She wanted him to think well of her, or at least not judge her too harshly. His opinion mattered. This was a new and unsettling concept for Isabel. Ordinarily she cared nothing for the good opinions of people she left behind. But this latest sojourn was anything but ordinary.
However, it was over. Right up to the last moment, she’d harbored a private hope that he would ask her to stay—not because she was injured or ill, but because he wanted her around. But his dismissal of her, right in front of Eliza, had pointed to only one option for Isabel. Her mission now was to resume her travels, all on her own.
The prospect of an imminent departure used to gladden her. There was nothing quite like the sharp anticipation of embarking on a voyage to a new place. Yet something had changed her here in San Francisco. A part of her yearned to sink deep into this place, to take root and make herself a part of it. For the first time, she understood that home was much more than a place to live.
The deep ache that pressed at her heart was a new and unwelcome surprise. How silly of her to get attached. It wasn’t like her at all. Worse, she had developed friendships with Lucas and Delta, Mrs. Li and June. She already missed them.
It didn’t pay to give your heart. She had always known that. Now she was living proof of it. But it seemed her heart was a fickle organ that didn’t always listen to her head.
“You are Isabel Fish-Wooten, lady adventurer,” she whispered to herself to shore up her determination. It was a role that had come easily to her, fitting like a comfortable dancing slipper. As far as anyone knew, she was an aristocrat so mysterious and sophisticated that she created a stir wherever she went. There was only one drawback to maintaining the illusion, however. She could never stay anyplace for long. Invariably the questions became more probing, the pretense more strained. A prolonged sojourn was far too risky. It meant unmasking herself and revealing the despised and terrified creature she had once been.
Stopping at the broad plaza in front of the commercial wharves, she tried to shake herself free of regrets and focus on the task at hand. She’d been foolish enough to allow herself to be swindled. Now she had to be smart enough to get her money back.
Certainly it would behoove her to be smarter than she had been upon her initial arrival in the city. Flush from a successful shooting tournament at a Wild West Show in Denver, she traveled in high style to California. Her first night in San Francisco, she immediately sought out a ticket agent to book her passage to the magical isles of Hawaii. Mr. Henry Leland of the Great Pacific Line had been most accommodating, promising her a first-class berth on a modern steamship that would make the crossing in just seven days. He was polite and efficient, and occupied a respectable office in Ecker Street, right next to Underwriters Fire Patrol. There was nothing about him to tip her off, which in itself should have roused her suspicions. She couldn’t think why it hadn’t.
She even inspected his vessel before purchasing the berth. Moored at Central Wharf, the Hawaiian steamer St. Ives was modern and sleek, its staterooms gorgeously appointed, its purser gracious and accommodating. Leland had taken her money as well as the steamer trunk packed with all her belongings, promising that the porters of the shipping line would see to everything. He told her to report to the St. Ives, advising her that the ship would leave from the Market Street Wharf. She should have questioned him about the change of moorage, but she had been almost giddy with excitement, imagining flower-scented tropical breezes, the cry of exotic birds, the heady sensation of surf-riding in crystal waters.
She’d arrived at the designated wharf to find a garbage scow moored at the pier.
Even now, she felt dull echoes of her hollow sense of disbelief. Her sinking, sickening disappointment. She tried to tell herself that no, she must’ve got it wrong. But she couldn’t deny the dread certainty that curdled in her gut. She’d been swindled.
She wasn’t sure what had been stronger—shame or anger. She of all people should know better. She should have seen through the setup. But now she knew something valuable about Leland. He was good. Better than good. Better than her. If he’d fooled her, that meant he was one of the best.
Immediately upon realizing she’d been bilked, Isabel took action. Though she knew the probable outcome, she tried to lodge a complaint with the authorities. The local police wearily informed her of the six dozen swindles they were currently investigating, and told her they would get six dozen more complaints the following day. She’d find no help there.
On her own, she traced Leland to a suite of warehouse offices. A brass plaque on the brickwork identified the firm as the Far East Tea Company. With haughty insistence, she demanded restitution of her money and belongings. He claimed to know nothing of her or her allegation.
She had reached into her reticule for her gun, but someone else had arrived, foiling her. Some official, whose role related to cargo inspection. He had come to sign off on a shipment. At first, she was mystified. Why would an official of the health department have to sign off on a shipment of tea?
Isabel remembered waiting in the shadows, either forgotten or ignored by Leland as he spoke with the unseen official in the next office. Within moments, their conversation told her what she should have realized from the start. The tea warehouse was a front for the opium trade.
She remembered wondering why opium traders would waste their time swindling someone like her. Because a thief was a thief, and an opportunist didn’t confine himself to one swindle only.
She fled the office empty-handed, though lucky to escape with her life. But Isabel was no ordinary gull. She refused to be outfoxed. Late that night, she raided one of the hundreds of laundries of Chinatown, disguised herself as a boy, loaded her guns and headed back to the Far East Tea Company to reclaim her fortune.
The last thing she’d expected was to find herself in the middle of a crime in progress. The last thing she wanted to witness was the shooting of a police officer. Yet that was where she’d found herself that night, to her everlasting regret. In nightmares, and even when she was wide-awake, she relived the horror of seeing a man gunned down—the powder flash and the sound of his body hitting the pavement, her instant impulse to draw fire away from him and, finally, the terror of knowing the gun was turned on her.
Tonight, she was determined to conclude her business in this darkly beautiful city. She had to leave before she lost her heart. Unlike her fortune, it could not be recouped or repaired. Or replaced.
She plucked a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed the wisp of fabric briefly to her nose to give herself some small relief from the stench of the waterfront. At the same time, she studied the crowd moving like ghostly swimmers in and out of the thick fog. Cutpurses darted past gamblers in dusters and frockcoats or sailors prowling for adventure. Molls of all ages, shapes and
sizes lingered in dimly lit doorways. A pair of men held a protesting boy by the arms; they were probably delivering him to an outbound ship. Chinese tong members strode about in their brocaded robes, and on every corner children begged for pennies. She thought about Blue as she waited. He cared so much about this city and its people; he dedicated himself to making this a better place. It seemed so noble to Isabel, who had never contributed to the betterment of any place or anyone other than herself. A part of her wished she had the courage to stay and learn to care like that.
A crew of strolling sailors caught her eye. In their wide-legged duck trousers and open-necked shirts, they swaggered across the plaza, laughing raucously and no doubt trolling for a lively bar or bawdy house. Like many sailors, they spoke in a foreign tongue and were regarded as trouble on the hoof. While most pedestrians gave the men a wide berth, Isabel tucked away her handkerchief and squared her shoulders, preparing to approach them.
It was risky, of course, particularly since the well-meaning but naive Blue Calhoun had relieved her of her weapons. She had no defenses other than her wits. But she intended to reclaim her fortune. This time, she would do so with half a dozen burly sailors in tow.
Their laughter and joshing settled into silent admiration as she stepped into their path. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said in her most refined manner.
They jostled each other as they greeted her, some attempting clumsy bows.
The eldest of the group, a man with a grizzled beard and a gnawed-off ear, pushed his way to the front of the group. “Fine lady like you ought not to be abroad in these parts,” he said.
“How kind of you to concern yourself, sir.” She smiled demurely. These men were ever so predictable. She’d counted on rousing their protective instincts. “And you are right, of course, but I’ve got pressing business in the area.” She took a quick breath, feeling a twinge in the region of her wound. She felt a flash of concern. Though no longer infected, the wound was still incompletely healed. But she had never shied from risk. Perhaps she would luck into a swift departure. The best ships and steamers all had surgeons on board. If need be, she would consult one of them.
Smiling despite her pain, she said, “Perhaps you gentlemen can help me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A younger man stepped up, this one distinguished by his towering height and terrible teeth. “What can we do for you?”
“I have an unfortunate dispute with the Far East Tea Company. Are you familiar with the firm?”
“I know of it,” said the man with one ear. “It’s down at the end of Mission Bay.”
Isabel explained her dilemma. Unlike the police, the sailors listened with utter credulity and dawning outrage. For good measure, she offered a generous reward in exchange for their help.
“What are we waiting for, lads?” said the old sailor. “Let’s carry on.”
They made their way past the jumbled crates and steam-powered lifts. Then they entered a maze of alleys filled with drunkards and whores. They passed deadfalls and dives, rickety boardinghouses and dimly-lit cribs. Isabel took a dread fascination in the scene and was glad to be in the company of several large men. The sailors, with their jutting jaws and rolling gaits, made an odd parade, but everyone in the vicinity was odd, so no one paid them undue notice. Outside a raucous dance hall, a burly Ranger stood on the boardwalk, fondling a blank-eyed nymphe du pave. Another man, reeking of rough whiskey, staggered toward Isabel, but one of the sailors thrust him aside with a brusque, “Shove off, mate.”
Concert saloons and gambling shacks gave way to even lower establishments—the whorehouses and opium dens of the Barbary Coast. No melodeon music or rowdy singing issued from the barred windows or closely-guarded doors. From the street, Isabel caught only glimpses of the blurred chaos within. The occasional sweet burn of Shanghai smoke or the dreamy stench of cigarritos made of tobacco and opium drifted from low doorways.
She had but a limited experience with opium. On long sea voyages, even the most strait-laced matron took it as a curative, and a good many mothers used it to quiet their fretful babes. Shipboard acquaintances who termed it a pleasant diversion had offered it to Isabel.
She’d accepted, of course, in her customary spirit of adventure. Its effect on her was remarkable. She fell into a strange, haunting lethargy, a waking dream. Even after the effects had abated, she’d felt sharp cravings she was hard-pressed to restrain even now. But Isabel’s keen instinct for self-preservation steered her away from opium. Her way of life depended on keeping control, not surrendering it to a mysterious substance.
On some of the boardwalks lay anonymous heaps of the drug’s drowsy victims, some of them possibly breathing their last. These were the people Blue Calhoun lived to save. She could not imagine taking on such an enormous, insurmountable task.
She knew by the thick tarry odor of the wharves that they were nearing the vicinity of the Far East Company. Tea, indeed. Only the most willfully blind idiot would believe that.
Her companions spoke to one another in a patois of English and Dutch as they traveled through the streets. They were large and awful-looking, but were they large and awful-looking enough to intimidate Leland into handing over her fortune?
Perhaps she’d get lucky. Perhaps Mr. Leland would simply concede defeat and she’d be on her way.
A shiver passed through her as they approached the finished section of the Embarcadero, where the wharves jutted out like teeth in a comb. Even at this hour, the area was cluttered with vehicles, crates, puncheons, shadowy warehouses, the occasional accounting office with lights still burning. She gestured the sailors toward the windowless brick edifice where so-called tea brokers conducted their affairs as though they were legitimate men of business rather than greedy opportunists building a fortune by spreading misery disguised as euphoria.
Outside the warehouse, a coach waited, its leather window blinds shut. As they crossed the apron of stone pavers leading from the wharves to the warehouses, a shout rang out, followed by a loud crack.
Isabel gasped and threw herself to the ground, barely aware of the filthy pavement beneath her.
“Here now.” A sailor’s strong hand gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet. “It was only a falling beam from one of the steam lifts. Did you hurt yourself, then?” As he helped her brush herself off, his hands roved unapologetically, outlining the curve of her hips, squeezing her breasts.
She stepped quickly away. “I must have tripped,” she said. She could feel an icy trickle of sweat on her brow and upper lip. Inside the borrowed gloves, the palms of her hands were damp. She kept hearing echoes of the snapping sound in her head. As though it were happening all over again, she felt the unholy burn of a bullet hitting her, felt the struggle to breathe after her lungs had been emptied by the impact.
Disoriented, she hugged herself and struggled to remain calm. “We should conclude our business,” she said, marshaling her courage. She had been doing this all her life, getting in and out of scrapes, dusting herself off, forging ahead. Why did it seem so impossible lately?
She headed for the brick building. Just as she reached the warehouse, the door burst open and Isabel fell back. The passageway was too narrow to accommodate more than one person at a time. Now she realized that this was no accident, but design.
“Mrs. Hatcher, please, I beg you,” called a nervous voice from within. “I promise you, the shipment—”
“Your promises are no better than the cheap wine you serve, Mr. Leland.” A tall woman in grand attire and a huge, veiled hat sailed past and approached the waiting coach. “Next week, no later.” The driver handed her up, shut the door with a definitive thud, then climbed up on the box and clicked his tongue.
Isabel watched the vehicle pull away and disappear up one of the streets leading away from the waterfront. She waited for Leland to retreat to the office, then motioned for her companions to follow her to the door. They opened it to reveal a narrow, unlit hallway with another door at the end. She led the sailors
in a line and rapped sharply at the door to get Leland’s attention.
He pulled it open and light spilled from the room. “Mrs. Hatcher, I—” The color drained from his face.
Isabel smiled, though she was cold inside with fear. “I see you remember me. Perhaps you also remember that you have something of mine.”
“I don’t recall anything of the sort,” he said, visibly gathering his wits about him.
“In that case, maybe my friends will refresh your memory.” She stepped aside to reveal a half-dozen snarling sailors, and they pushed into the doorway. Oh, they were adept at snarling, with drawn-back lips and balled fists and all the attendant threatening noises.
Leland made a little squeaking sound of surrender. “I want no trouble, now,” he said, scuttling to his desk.
“Keep your hands where we can see them,” Isabel said, and it struck her that she disliked playing this role sometimes.
Leland headed to the rear of the office, where a blocky safe was bolted to the floor. He appeared to be cooperating, but still, Isabel felt a nasty chill of suspicion. Leland took an inordinate amount of time fiddling with the dial on the safe. The sailors shifted and muttered with impatience.
At the back of the office, a second door burst open. Out of the shadows came a small army of men wielding cudgels and stout, shiny blackjacks. Isabel leaped toward the exit.
“Run,” she yelled at the sailors. “Get away while you can!”
She heard the sickening thud of a blackjack striking flesh, followed by a bellow of pain. The howling sailors surged out into the street. The tea company men started after them.
Isabel raced after them. “Stop,” she said sharply. “Let them go. They had nothing to do with this.” She turned to Leland, who had followed her out to the street. Along with a keen edge of panic, Isabel felt a flash of self-hatred. She was a danger to everyone she met, even seasoned sailors. No wonder she spent her life wandering alone. “I swear, they were just passing by, and I asked them for help.”