Son of Fortune

by Victoria McKernan

  “I work at the Gold Nugget,” she said brusquely. “Not the street! And then not till five!” She looked him harshly up and down. “And I cost more than the likes of you can afford anyway!” She disappeared into the fog with a swish of her skirts.

  Aiden had never been in a place like this, but he sensed the joyless mood of this grim hour, when all were steeling for the night ahead. It was the bit of time between hoping for happiness and settling for lack of hurt. He took out the paper with the address of the boardinghouse and asked a lamplighter, but the man did not appear to speak English. He tried one of the saloon doormen, who simply shrugged.

  “It’s where the Swedish sailors live,” Aiden tried.

  “Why would I care where the Swedes live?” the man said. “I can send you to Italian Town—there’s some fine black-haired beauties there. Or set you up with a guide for Chinatown, eh? Two bits for a cellar girl—fifty cents for a beauty. He’ll bring you back alive, I guarantee!” Aiden walked on and asked at another saloon.

  “Don’t know the street,” the doorman offered. “But there’s lots of boardinghouses down by Fremont Street.” He gave some more vague directions, and Aiden set out again into the darkening mist. He turned the first corner as directed and was relieved to see the tavern sign the man had mentioned, but shortly past it Aiden’s senses pricked. Was it just nerves or real danger? And what sort of danger was there? He was pretty sure he had stumbled into the Barbary Coast, the place that Fish was eager to visit and that his brother had warned against. Aiden was feeling wary, but it seemed a bit early for murder.

  But not for robbery.

  “Apple just a penny, sir?” A small boy suddenly appeared in front of him, holding out a glossy red fruit. Aiden stepped back, startled. Before he could even begin to wonder what a boy was doing out selling apples in the twilight and fog on a nearly empty side street, he heard the rough scamper of boot soles behind him, then he felt the whack of a club across the back of his knees. As he crashed to the ground, he felt a blow between his shoulder blades and a rough yank on the strap of his canvas bag.

  Instinctively, Aiden twisted away and sprang to his feet. He saw, or sensed, the man swing something at his head. He ducked, but the truncheon blow still connected with enough of his skull to jar him. As Aiden staggered for balance, he saw five or six shapes pouring out of the shadows. He knew how to fight. He had once had three brothers. He had learned Indian fighting from his friend Tupic. He had fought for money every Saturday in the logging camp and usually walked away with his pockets full. But this was like no fight he had ever been in. Hands grabbed at him everywhere. He punched and kicked and was startled to hear a yelp of pain that sounded like it came from a boy. Aiden grabbed a twiggy arm. He was fighting off a mob of boys! Wiry bodies wrapped themselves around his legs and pulled them out from under him. Little spider bodies fell over him, pinning him to the ground. His bag was torn away and his coat yanked down off his shoulders. He felt his boots being pulled off. Another yank tore his jacket free. He punched and smacked, but every time he hit something, it was so small and fragile he pulled back. The boys didn’t seem to mind causing him pain, however. Little fingers clutched big handfuls of his hair and bounced his head off the ground. Boys or not, the five or six of them were enough to keep him down.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his first attacker, the grown man, rushing at him. The little boys jumped back out of the way just as a hard boot kicked viciously at his ribs. Aiden gasped for breath. He saw one small boy’s face flinch and turn away. It was the same boy who had offered the apple—a pale, flinty face, with wide blue eyes and sharp, dirty bones.

  “Brace,” the boy whispered urgently. “Don’ fight—they’ll do you worse!”

  Aiden had heard that advice before. “Sometimes you’re just plain down,” Powhee, the fight manager in the camp, had advised. “All you can do then is not get broken more than necessary.” But Aiden wasn’t ready to curl up and endure. He was angry. When the next kick landed, he slammed the heel of one hand into the side of the man’s knee, then grabbed the ankle and twisted. The man tumbled to the ground. Aiden jumped on top of him and landed a few quick punches before the man threw him off.

  Then a gunshot cracked. Aiden felt the dirt kick up on his face. Another shot rang out, sounding close enough to be a cannon. The mob of boys scampered away into the shadows. The man cursed and backed away, then shuffled off after them. Aiden sat up slowly. Standing not more than ten feet away was some sort of gnome in a gaudy military jacket, with a pistol in one hand and a leash in the other. Attached to the leash was a great hairy brown animal, probably a dog but tall as an antelope, with four-inch teeth and a snarling lust for limbs. Aiden froze. He was familiar with the ways of death, and by dog was not his first pick.

  “Quiet, The Moon!” a scratchy voice commanded.

  The huge dog immediately folded itself up into a silent, attentive sit.

  “Do you live?” It was a woman’s voice, high-pitched and cracked with age, though still resonant.

  “Yes.” Aiden drew a deep breath. “So far.”

  “Well, know I charge the cost for the bullets,” the woman snapped. “And double for those what live! Though not likely you have any money left. Did they get it all?”

  “I don’t know.” Aiden got to his feet, bruised but unbroken. He felt his pants pockets and found the fabric torn and flapping. He thought he had been smart. He knew about thieves. He had hidden part of his money in each boot, part in the lining of his coat, a little in each pocket, some in his bag. Apparently, it wasn’t such a clever strategy after all. The swarm of boy thieves had simply scavenged every possible hiding place, tearing everything apart and stealing his boots and coat entirely. His canvas bag with the few spare clothes was gone. He grabbed at his neck and was relieved to find Tupic’s pouch. There were a few coins in it, but it was the other treasures, and the pouch itself, that would have been worse to lose.

  “How much do the bullets cost?” he said dumbly. His head throbbed. Damp from the street was oozing up through his socks. The gnome woman let out a scratchy laugh.

  “Are you just come off the boat, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, well, I thought as much. There’s some bad hang down the docks like that, see? Follow a fresh new man as you are. A sailor just paid off, or an Eastern man, or a foreign man, though clear to me you’re none of those. What are you—miner?” She suddenly sprang close and thrust her face up to his, squinting so hard her small eyes almost disappeared into the wrinkled face. Her bony hand darted out and wrapped around the side of his neck, then felt its way over the knob of his shoulder and down along his arm, as if examining a horse. Aiden stood still, too surprised to pull away. She grabbed his right hand and spiraled her fingertips over the palm.

  “Ah! I say lumberjack!”

  “Yes,” Aiden said, startled. “How did you know?”

  “You haven’t a miner’s neck—but there is shape of you from work. And the calluses. And the cloth.” She rubbed the fabric of his shirt between her fingers. “I know the cloth. So, that’s sense, then. They would’ve seen as much the same. That’s why they didn’t just rob you straight off, eh, down the docks, but followed all along and got up the whole pack to swarm so as they did. They saw you wouldn’t be a daisy man.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “Not by person. Only the sort what do this. Boys make a little gang all their own, or some might just be standing around this day and idle when the robber man needed hands.”

  She spoke in a strange accent, like an Italian or Russian who had learned English from an Irish and then just plain gone loopy.

  “But even if they was known and found and hanged, there’d be more tomorrow. Always more boys.”

  “Thank you for helping me.” He held out his hand to shake hers, but she made no move to take it. The giant dog lifted his now-placid head and sniffed it. “My name is Aiden—um—Madison, ma’am.”

  “I’m Blind Sally.�
��

  “Blind Sally?”

  “Aye.”

  Aiden recalled the sound of her bullet thwunking into the dirt by his ear.

  “Are you really blind?”

  “Did I not just say so?”

  “But you—you shot at us!”

  “I wasn’t about to go in swinging my fists, now was I?”

  “They let you have a gun?”

  “They who? Who’s they who ought to let or not? And who needs a gun more than a poor old blind woman, eh?” she snapped. “They do nothing little else ever much good to help one what needs help, now, eh? Of course I have a gun!” She tucked the pistol into a pocket of the tattered uniform coat. Frayed ropes of gold braid swished across the lapels as she moved. “Come. We may find your boots before the full dark. Your coat maybe too. Was it shabby as the rest of you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, likely gone if it was any good. Was it any good?”

  Aiden prickled. He didn’t need to add insult to his already considerable injury.

  “It had bloodstains on it,” he said. “Will that help or hurt?”

  She shrugged. “Can’t tell blood from gravy, I’ve found. But coats are easy to sell along. Not so boots. The fit is easier for a coat. And some decency part of it too. The worst thief won’t steal a live man’s boots. Not usually. Or cut his fingers off. Not usually. And more so if they’re happy with the glint. Did you have coin or greenbacks?” she asked.

  “Some of both,” he said. “And some gold certificates.”

  “Happy, then. Maybe they will leave you a packet of sweets besides! Come on, The Moon.” The huge dog ambled to its feet, stretched lazily, then fell into place beside her, his shaggy side lightly touching her hip. Aiden had given up trying to understand anything at this point. He simply followed the old blind woman in her ancient soldier’s jacket, with her cannon-sized pistol and her ambling dog called The Moon. She and the dog led him down to the end of the small street and around the corner into an even smaller lane. Aiden shivered. The January evening was now cold, and his torn pockets flapped as he walked. His wool socks were soon soaked through and sagged heavily. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought as he scanned the edges of the narrow street.

  Blind Sally and The Moon navigated the streets without hesitation. She did not speak as they walked, but sometimes she clicked her tongue against her teeth or muttered to the dog. Around the second corner, in the middle of the road, in the faint pool of light from a single gaslight, were his boots, standing upright and together as if by the side of his bed. People walked by with no notice, like it was a normal thing to have empty boots in the middle of the way. Aiden wriggled the soggy socks into the boots and tied the laces. He felt marginally less ridiculous.

  “Thank you, Miss—Blind Sally,” he said. “I’ll give you something for your trouble when I have something, if you tell me where to bring it.”

  “Bring it here. I’m always here.”

  “I don’t exactly know where here is,” Aiden confessed. To his surprise, and horror, he suddenly felt his voice starting to shake and hot tears pooling in his eyes. He hadn’t cried in over a year, not since his mother died. There had been plenty of sorrow in the time between, but he’d felt only rage or cold, dead-hearted nothing. Why schoolboy tears just now? He hadn’t cried over murder or banishment; he hadn’t cried over leaving his only friend behind, or the fate of an entire Indian tribe who might die of smallpox, or the cold-river death of his beloved sister. Why tears now? Why only for wet socks, mild lostness and a bit of a knocking? The physical pain wasn’t that bad. The lost money hurt, but it had never seemed real anyway. Was he turning stupid? He coughed to squelch his sobs and thanked the heavens that the old woman was blind.

  “Could you point me toward Swedish Town?” he asked.

  “You’re crying salty tears.” The softer tone of her voice told Aiden that he had not disguised himself quite well enough. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.” He rubbed his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

  “Ah. Well.” She stroked the gigantic dog’s head and fingered the braid on her decrepit uniform. “Cheer up—this won’t be the worst of things for you, then, will it? Plenty more bad times ahead. Come on, I’ll set you on the way.”

  iden arrived at Mrs. Neils’s boardinghouse just a few minutes after Fish and Magnus, who had not yet even begun to worry.

  “We figured you stopped off for a drink or three along the way,” Fish said. “It’s what I would have done. Have done, actually, many times—including today!” His cheeks were rosy.

  “No,” Aiden said. “I was just, ah, seeing a bit of the city.” He had brushed most of the dirt off his pants, and they didn’t seem to notice he was coatless.

  “Then clearly you need to catch up!” Fish picked up the bottle of aquavit and waved Aiden to a seat on the bench nearby. Aiden gladly took the drink from his friend’s unsteady hand. He tossed it down and Fish refilled his glass. The small room was bright with oil lamps and crowded with men. It smelled of tobacco, tar, damp wool and beer. A small fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth. The door opened, and a woman poked her head in the room and shouted something in Swedish that, even in the foreign language, sounded clearly like a command.

  “That’s my mother—supper’s ready.” The men quickly began to assemble at the three long tables, tucking their shirts in and removing their caps first.

  “We haven’t told her quite everything about the last trip,” Fish whispered to Aiden. “The shark events and such. It’s bound to get round to her sooner or later, but we thought she might have a night or so with just her usual worries. Which, far as I know, don’t yet include me being eaten alive.”

  “Fine by me,” Aiden said. The food was plain but plentiful. Boiled meat and pickled vegetables with a sort of dumpling. After supper, the men smoked pipes and talked a lot of ship talk, while Sven the Ancient played music on a strange instrument. It looked a bit like a fiddle and was played with a bow, but the neck was much wider and there was a row of levers that pressed the strings. It sounded something like a hurdy-gurdy.

  “It’s called the nyckelharpa,” Fish explained. “It is too old and fragile to take on the boat, so Sven must come home to his lover!” The other sailors laughed. Aiden hadn’t heard the old man speak twenty words on the ship, but his music told a thousand stories now. The night wore on in a warm, dull, lovely way, with the sweet music playing gentle background to nothing much happening at all. He could see why Fish was crazy to escape it, but after this particular day Aiden was quite glad for the utter boredom.

  Whether it was simple tiredness catching up to him or his brother’s heavy hand with the liquor bottle, Fish also sat drowsy and contented by the stove with the others and did not mention his earlier plans for a night out on the Barbary Coast. By ten o’clock, almost everyone had gone to bed or down to the local Swedish tavern. Magnus slung Fish’s arm across his shoulders and helped steer his little brother to their room, while Mrs. Neils took a lamp and led Aiden to the bunk room, already noisy with snoring sailors. After just four days at sea, he had grown used to the feeling of the bed moving and the sound of the wind. It was strange to have everything so still. Though he was very tired, and aching from the fight, he could not fall asleep. It felt like his entire life was stampeding through his head like a herd of buffalo. He had no family, no home, no possessions and now no money. Aiden tossed and sweated in the narrow bunk as weary sailors snored all around him. The world was full of gorgeous things and awful things—things that made no sense and things like the temples of Greece. How would he find his way through it all?

  He knew he had finally fallen asleep only because he was awakened suddenly. It was barely dawn, but the entire boardinghouse was noisy with activity. Men were hurriedly stuffing clothes in their bags and downing plates of fried potatoes and onions as fast as Mrs. Neils could cook them.

  “The weather is coming in,” Fish explained groggily as he finished off a large mug of coffee. �
�If we don’t get out of the harbor, we might be stuck in for a couple of days.” He grabbed his cap and kissed his mother on the cheek. She dropped her wooden spoon and yanked him into a real hug instead. No one, Aiden knew, ever went to sea without thinking it might be the last goodbye.

  “I’ll see you in two weeks or so.” Fish tipped his cap at Aiden. “And we will have a grand night then! Good luck.”

  Then, just like that, the place was empty.

  o work, sorry.”

  “Got nothing. Go on.”

  “Who sent you?”

  After an entire week spent looking for a steady job, Aiden was starting to get worried. He had figured that in a city this big, there would be plenty of work, but every place he went there were lines of men and always the same answer. Not today. Go away. Nothing here. In the East, the machines of war had shut down. There were foundry workers laid off from the cannon works, tinsmiths no longer needed for pails and canteens, engineers with no barricades to build. Men were fleeing west: soldiers and bankers, blacksmiths and drovers, shopkeepers and organ-grinders, paperhangers and butchers. There were embalmers, with their satchels full of potions. The profession had barely even existed before the war, but there was not enough ice in the world to carry all the bodies home, so men had learned to plump the dead with arsenic instead. Embalming was now becoming cautiously fashionable in the cities. One undertaker on Montgomery Street proudly displayed a real body in his front window.

  The world had changed and no one really understood how, but they all needed to make a living. The East was scorched and tired and so they came west. California had always been the promised land, but the promise was stretched thin here as well. The gold rush was long over. The transcontinental railroad was more than halfway finished, and lots of skilled men were being laid off. There were still places for architects and engineers, for bankers, of course, and for the interior decorators they needed for their sumptuous mansions. But the plain labor that most men had counted on—the digging and hammering and hauling, the factory work that could build a simple but secure life for a family—was getting more difficult to find.