by Rae Carson
Before we take our leave of Isaac, Jim says, “You hear the news about Hampton Freeman?”
“Sure did,” Isaac says. “We’re praying for him.”
“We’ll be taking up a collection.”
“I’ve already told the fellows down at the foundry.”
“That’s good, that’s good.”
When we near the peak, Jim turns north. Outside a two-room shanty is a family of five—husband, wife, and three young children—just sitting there with a pile of belongings. Must be moving day.
But as we walk past, two white men carry a bed frame through the doorway and drop it carelessly to the ground.
The family is not moving by choice. They’re being evicted.
I glance up at Jim, who nods. “If we’d been on horses, you might’ve missed that,” he says.
After crossing a muddy street, we find ourselves in a whole new neighborhood. It’s similar to the first one we passed through—rows of shanties interspersed with the occasional house, lots of men and only a few families—but the faces here are mostly Chinese. They regard Jim and me with suspicion. No one wants to answer our questions.
We head farther north toward Goat Hill, where the semaphore tower raises flags to signal ships coming into harbor. Hammers sound in the quarry, breaking rock to use as ship ballast. Neighborhoods are forming here as well—mostly shacks and tents, though they’re laid out along regular streets. We stop and talk to a few people, and nearly all the accents are Irish.
We head downhill toward the bay. Jim pauses at the corner of Sansome and Vallejo. It’s a whole block of open land, without a single house or structure.
“It’s a cemetery,” I say. Crosses and gravestones stretch before us.
“They call it the Sailor’s Cemetery,” he says. “It’s where all the sailors used to be buried. Now it’s where all the outsiders are buried. People like me. Foreigners. Are you hungry?”
It’s past lunchtime. “Starved. And you’re not a foreigner.” But as soon as the words leave my lips, I know they’re not true. We’re all foreigners, everyone but the Indians, that is, who have made themselves scarce in this city, or more likely been forced to leave. Very few Indians remain in San Francisco, and almost all who stayed are at Mission Dolores.
“Anyway, I know a place,” Jim says. “Just found it a couple days ago.”
Thinking about how we treat the Indians is chasing away my appetite, but I say, “All right, sure.”
He leads me past the cemetery and down toward the choppy gray bay.
“Have I seen what you want me to see?” I say as we walk.
He shrugs. “Maybe.” Jim wants me to put the pieces together myself, but so far I can’t solve the puzzle. I see a lot of people working hard, improving the land, making something for themselves.
We duck into a building without any signs or special markings on it. Conversation trickles off the instant we come through the door.
The room is low ceilinged with exposed rafters, and it’s filled with the darkest-skinned men I’ve ever seen, all clustered around a series of small tables. Most wear something between a robe and a blanket, thrown over one shoulder, all in bright colors. The air bursts with the scents of coffee and spices.
I’m sure it’s a mistake to be here, but Jim takes a seat at an empty table and motions for me to join him. When I do, Jim looks to the proprietor and holds up two fingers.
After a moment’s hesitation, the proprietor nods. The men stop staring and resume their conversations. The room buzzes with unfamiliar words.
I glance around nervously. “Why’d you want to meet here?” I’m whispering.
“Makes you feel a bit uncomfortable being around faces that don’t look anything like yours,” Jim says. It’s not a question.
“No,” I say. A bit too quick and sharp, which gives life to the lie. “Maybe.”
“That’s right,” Jim says. “And it makes Hardwick and all the fellows who work for him uncomfortable, too. Hardwick has spies, maybe even spies close to you. Remember? He knew you were going to the bank that day to get that southern lady’s house back.”
“You’re thinking it was Tom,” I say darkly. “Tom wouldn’t do that.”
“If you say so.” He waves his hand around the room. “In any case, these fellows came all the way from Ethiopia to dig gold. They’re just waiting for spring to get sprung. I figure this is the one place in town we can talk privately, because a spy would stick out like a snowball in summer.”
The shop’s owner brings us two bowls of food, which is a stew with flatbread. The spices are unfamiliar, and I’m a little afraid to eat it. But I don’t want Jim to know that.
I wave at the proprietor. “Some silverware, please?”
Jim shakes his head. “Like this,” he says. “You break off bread to scoop up the stew. No, use your right hand only. You don’t want to be rude.”
I follow his example. The bread is spongy, like a pancake, but it has a sour tang.
Jim laughs at my expression. “You get used to it.” He scoops more stew and pushes the bread into his mouth. After he swallows, he says, “Tell me what you saw this morning.”
So I tell him what I’ve been thinking: the people of San Francisco work hard, improve property, build better lives for themselves.
“What I saw,” Jim says, “are a whole bunch of folks not protected by the law.”
I open my mouth to argue. Close it. Take another bite of food.
“You saw how Hampton’s not protected by the law, right? Well, neither am I, nor any other Negro man or woman,” he says. “Same goes for the Chinese, the Indians, and all the other immigrants. The Mexicans did all right at first, but that’s changing, and it will change even more when California’s statehood becomes official.”
“I see your point,” I say, thinking of the family being forced out of their home by Hardwick’s men.
“So Hardwick owns land in every neighborhood we walked through today. He doesn’t sell it outright. People jump at the opportunity to rent from him when they first arrive, expecting to pick up gold on every corner. They make outrageous payments, figuring the next month, the month after, they’ll be rich beyond their wildest dreams. Instead, they go broke, and Hardwick rents the land to some other newcomer with a nest egg.”
“And that’s how Hardwick made his fortune?”
Jim shakes his head. “We’re just getting started. Sometimes he sells property on an installment plan. A fellow with a lot of optimism buys a house lot for twelve thousand dollars. Only he doesn’t have twelve thousand dollars, so Hardwick promises to sell it to him for just a thousand dollars a month, plus interest and some handling fees. The man signs the contract, but the interest and fees bring the payment closer to fifteen hundred a month, and meanwhile he’s not getting rich like he planned. After a few months of hard work, during which he’s been improving the property, he’s broke. He can’t make payments. So Hardwick’s men kick him out.”
“That family sitting in the street . . . they’d been evicted.”
He nods approval. “Hardwick’s men reclaim the property—now worth more—and he resells it for a higher rate as improved land.”
“And not everyone lives long enough to go broke,” I say, thinking of that huge cemetery. “California is a dangerous place.”
“Exactly. Most people left their loved ones behind. They come alone, and they die alone. There’s no effort made to contact a family back in France or Australia or China.”
“Or even back east.”
“Or even back east. The property goes into probate, which means it goes to the court. Hardwick owns the court, so the property reverts to the previous owner, which is him, and he starts the process all over again.”
I take a bite, chew thoughtfully. This sour bread isn’t so bad. “So Hardwick is selling the same land over and over again.”
“Exactly.”
“You know, a while back I met a pickpocket. Sonia. She told me San Francisco was full of thiev
es. Real thieves. The kind who take everything from you, even the clothes off your back.”
Jim nods. “A lot of folks are on the streets these days because Hardwick put them there. It’s gotten worse in the past month or so, since that Frank Dilley showed up. When I found you and Jefferson at the law offices that day, it sounded like you all knew each other.”
“Wish we didn’t. He was master of our wagon train on the way out, once the Major got hurt. Left us to die in the desert, seemed disappointed when we didn’t. Ended up working for my uncle Hiram.”
Jim pauses midchew. “So Hiram did make it out to California,” he says around a mouthful of food.
“Yes, and I need to talk to you about Uncle Hiram when we’re done here. But Jim—be careful of Dilley. He’s . . . an unsavory fellow.”
“The world’s got plenty of those,” Jim says.
“Yeah, but Frank Dilley’s a special sort. He likes to hurt people, especially anyone different from him.”
“The world’s got plenty of those, too. There was an overseer who . . .” Something awful flits across his face, but it’s gone before I can put a name to it. “Well, I was lucky to buy my way out when I did.”
The proprietor brings two cups of the strongest coffee I’ve ever smelled. I look up to thank him, but he won’t make eye contact with me.
Jim continues, “Anyway, most of the land we saw today has been sold, and resold, four or five or six times, just in the past year.”
I give a low whistle. “Why do people keep doing business with Hardwick?”
Jim shrugs. “What other choice do they have? A couple years ago this was a town with a few hundred people. Now there are thirty thousand. Most of them spent everything they had to get here. They can’t exactly turn around and leave.”
The Hoffman family gave up and went back home after arriving in California. But they had a golden candlestick and a witchy friend to help them pay for return passage. If not for that, they would have been stuck here like everyone else.
“And the whole city almost burned to the ground just two months ago,” Jim continues. “Hardwick profited from that too—folks lost everything and couldn’t afford to rebuild, so he bought their land out from under them and then rented it back at twice the price.”
I’ve lost most of my appetite, but I force myself to sip the coffee. It’s sharp and bitter enough to penetrate the constant buzz of gold, which I appreciate. I take another sip and say, “If he’s investing all this money, how come he has so much of it locked up in banks?”
“You remember my general store, back home in Dahlonega?”
“I’ll never forget it.”
“When I wanted to buy supplies, I had to buy them with cash up front. Nobody would extend credit to a Negro. That’s not the deal Hardwick has.”
“Huh?” I clutch the coffee mug close; maybe I’m seeking comfort.
“Hardwick owns everything on paper, but that doesn’t mean he paid for it all. The banks extend him credit. So he takes the title on the property, and collects rents, and he gives everyone else their cut. He pays his gang more than they could make doing carpentry work or prospecting. He pays the sheriff to look the other way, and I guess the politicians and judges, too. Maybe even the bank. In the end, he has a nice chunk of money left over. And he never had to buy anything up front in order to get it.”
I think back, trying to remember if I saw Mr. Keys count out a portion of coins to the bank manager, but I wasn’t paying close enough attention.
“Don’t like the food?”
I glance down at my bowl. Most of it is uneaten. I’m pushing the remaining stew around with a piece of bread. “It’s just . . . you’ve given me a lot to think about.”
Chairs scrape as a handful of customers rises to leave. When they exit, light pours in through the door, and I have a brief but perfect view of the street. Two tall fellows stand there, peering inside and not even trying to be subtle about it. I recognize them as the polite gunmen in nice wool suits we met at the Custom House: Large and Larger.
“We were followed,” I tell Jim.
He nods. “As long as they don’t come inside. Just keep your voice low.”
I’m not sure Large and Larger can see me from where they stand, but just in case, I take a defiant sip of coffee and stare over the edge of the mug at them as if I’m not afraid at all.
“Anyway, I came to San Francisco planning to set up a new general store,” Jim says. “It’s like Dahlonega all over again. In two or three years, once the rush settles and regular business gets established, that’ll be the way to make a living. But every piece of property I look at costs too much. And your best business is regular customers, folks that come in month after month, year after year. There can be no regulars if your neighborhood changes every time the moon wanes. All because of the problems I’ve been describing to you.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m not going back to Georgia, that’s for damn sure. I hear parts of Canada are pretty nice.” He pushes back from the table.
I put a hand on his arm. “Wait.”
He sits back down, eyeing me warily. Gray hair grows at his temples now, which is new since I last saw him. The trip west was hard on us all. “That’s right. You wanted to ask me something about your uncle.”
If Jim thinks it’s safe to talk freely here, then I have to get my questions out now. “Well, him and Mama, actually. After I got to California, Uncle Hiram found me. He . . . kidnapped me.”
“Oh, Miss Leah, I’m so sorry.” He leans toward me, forearms on the table. “But you got away? You said Hiram wasn’t a problem anymore.”
“He held me captive. Dressed me up in clothes my mama used to wear. He had this mine going, worked by local Indians. It was awful. They were sick and starving and there was an uprising and . . .” My heart beats too fast, my breath comes in gasps, as memories pour in. I’m not over what happened yet. Not by a long shot.
“Take your time,” Jim says.
It’s a long moment before I trust my voice to obey. “Before I got away, he told me something. I thought maybe you’d know if it was true or not.”
“Oh?”
“He said I was his very own daughter. Not Reuben’s girl, but his. That he and Mama . . .”
“Ah,” Jim says. “I see.” He regards me with frank honesty. “I always suspected.”
“You did?”
“Your mama, Elizabeth, was all set to marry Hiram. They were sweethearts. But then one day she suddenly got herself hitched to his brother, Reuben, instead. No one was more surprised than Hiram. He carried a grudge ever since.”
I’m frowning. “But that was years before I came along.”
Jim nods. “Hiram carried a torch for Elizabeth for a long time. It was plain as day to anyone with eyes. But a man like that can’t truly love another person. He can only love selfishly, his heart full of his own needs. I think . . . I think maybe he . . .”
“You think he raped her.”
His lips press together into a firm line.
My next words are a whisper. “Did Daddy know?”
“I reckon so.” Jim’s gaze turns fierce. “Your daddy loved you more than life itself, don’t think he didn’t. You were his very own daughter in every way that mattered.”
“I know.”
“But you might have noticed that Hiram left Dahlonega. He wasn’t much welcome after that.”
“I hardly saw him or heard tell of him, growing up.”
“And when your parents were murdered, and you came to my store all forlorn but with the fire of determination in your eyes, I had a pretty good idea who had done it. I knew you had to get out of town as quick as possible.”
I reach for his hand and give it a squeeze. “I wouldn’t have made it without you.”
Another group stands and clears out. The proprietor is giving us the side-eye. Maybe we’ve overstayed our welcome. Maybe he’s a spy for Hardwick after all, no matter what Jim thinks.
&nbs
p; But there’s one more thing.
“Jim, I have to ask.” My voice is a deadly whisper now. I trust Jim, I do, but I can’t risk being overheard. “Did Daddy ever tell you anything about me? I mean . . . anything special that . . . I can do?”
His eyes sparkle. “You mean the way you can recite the presidents backward and forward?” he whispers back.
“Um, no. I mean—”
“Oh, I know. It’s the way you can hammer together a sluice in under twenty minutes.”
“Well, that too, but—”
“I’ve got it! Reuben once told me you could blow a spit wad through a piece of straw and hit something at four paces.”
“Six paces!” I glare at him, realizing he’s funning me. “So you do know.”
“Yep. Since before you could walk. It’s an amazing thing, Leah. An amazing thing.”
“It’s one reason Hiram chased me all the way across the continent.”
“I figured. He was the only person besides me who knew. If your mama had had her way, even I wouldn’t have known.”
“But the thing is . . .” I glance around. Lots of customers remain, and no doubt plenty of them understand English just fine. “Jim, do you have any idea where it came from? I mean, I know Mama left Boston in a hurry. She hated it whenever I said the word ‘witch’ or even just mentioned what I could do. She had a mighty fear. And I was wondering . . . did she have a gift too? Something special she could do?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “She did.”
“What?”
The proprietor turns, startled. My face flushes.
“What was it?” I repeat, back to a whisper.
“She could find lost things.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “I don’t remember anything like that. Not one single instance of . . .”
“She only used it once that I know of,” he says. “It was a few weeks after the Cherokee were forced out of Dahlonega by President Jackson. Old Man McCauley came bursting into the store, saying he couldn’t find his five-year-old boy.”