by Rae Carson
The crowd is riled up, turning into a mob. The auctioneer bangs his gavel and shouts, but nobody listens. Frank Dilley hollers, “Pipe down! Pipe down! Hardwick ain’t robbing nobody! Shut up or clear out of the square! We’ve got an auction to run!”
Jim and I push all the way to the front of the crowd. “Hardwick is selling the same property three and four times!” I shout.
Frank Dilley sees us. Smiles.
“I demand an explanation,” Jim shouts.
“I got your explanation right here,” Frank Dilley says. And he draws his gun and aims.
I don’t know if Dilley is aiming at me or at Jim. All I know is Dilley is capable of killing in cold blood as easily as you can say boo.
I yank on Jim’s sleeve. “Jim, get d—”
The crack of gunfire. A puff of smoke. The sharp scent of gunpowder.
Jim drops to the ground like a sack of flour.
The crowd goes dead silent.
Everyone steps back, and I’m kneeling in a semicircle of aloneness while a scarlet flower blooms on Jim’s side. We lock gazes, and God help me, but I’ll remember this look on his face for the rest of my life. “Damn fool, he shot me,” he mumbles. “This . . . not part of our plan. . . .”
Frank Dilley holsters his Colt, yelling, “We’ve got an auction to run here! If you don’t want to buy anything, then clear out. If you got a problem with the items for sale, then go talk to the sheriff!”
Everyone stares, cowed. After a moment, the crowd begins to thin as several slip away, quiet but fast.
The auctioneer picks up his gavel and bangs it again. “Our first lot up for sale is . . .”
Why is no one helping us? A man lies bleeding on the ground and no one cares. It dawns on me: because he’s a Negro.
Jefferson and Mary appear at my side. Jefferson says, “Jim, are you . . . is he . . . ?”
“Alive,” Jim murmurs. Flecks of blood land on his lips. “Stings a fair bit.”
“We have to get him to Jasper,” I say. “Now.”
“I could fetch the wagon,” Jefferson says.
“No time,” Mary says.
“He didn’t shoot my legs,” Jim says. “Help me up.”
I’m terrified that letting Jim walk is an awful idea, but I’m not sure what else to do. Jefferson squats to put Jim’s arm around his shoulder. “Jasper’s office is in Happy Valley,” he says, lugging Jim to his feet. “Nearly ten blocks away.”
“Then we better get going,” Jim says, and he starts toward Kearney Street.
“Walking will just make him lose blood faster,” Mary says.
Becky and Henry rush over. “We’re coming with you,” Becky says.
“Here, let me help,” Henry offers, reaching for Jim’s other arm, but Jim shrugs him off.
“Someone needs to stay,” Jim says. “If we can’t shout the truth, we can still whisper it where people will hear. Stay here and finish what we started.”
“We can do that,” Becky says.
“You’re a born performer,” I tell Henry. “You stay with Becky and help her.”
He nods solemnly. Behind us, the first tentative bidders are shouting offers for a scrap of land that’s still ten feet underwater.
We move fast for the first four or five blocks, with me and Jefferson helping Jim along while Mary presses a handkerchief to his side. Maybe that bullet just grazed Jim, I tell myself, but there’s a hole in the front of his shirt and nothing in back. More worrisome is the way he’s coughing up blood.
By block six, Jim is flagging. Mary bolsters his armpit and grabs his belt in her fist. “Run and get Jasper,” she says to me. “As fast as you can.”
I sprint down the final blocks as fast as I’ve ever run in my life, through the courtyard and into the parlor of the house, where a variety of sick people are waiting to be seen. A clerk or secretary of some kind sees me. “The doctors are busy, but if you’ll have a seat—”
“Jasper!” I shout, running from room to room. In the second room, an older doctor with remarkable whiskers looks up from his examination of a red-faced businessman. I find Jasper in the third room, wrapping plaster around the arm of a little Mexican boy. He’s standing there in shirtsleeves, with his cuffs rolled to his elbows. “Jasper!”
“Lee?”
The clerk appears behind me. “I told her to wait!” he says.
“It’s Jim. Frank Dilley shot him,” I pant out.
Jasper beckons the clerk over and orders him to finish wrapping the boy’s arm. Jasper wipes his hands on a towel while he says, “Where is he?”
“In the street outside, a block or two away.” The words come out in tiny desperate gasps. “We couldn’t get him all the way here.”
He grabs his stethoscope and puts a hand on my shoulder, as calm as I am terrified. “Show me.”
As we dash through the parlor, Jasper calls out in broken Spanish to a couple of men, who grab a stretcher and follow. Together, we sprint up the block.
Jim has collapsed to the ground. A small group of neighbors has gathered around Jefferson, who is kneeling with Jim’s head propped up on his lap. Mary is still doggedly pressing her handkerchief to his wound, but it is now soaked with crimson.
Jasper bends down to check Jim’s pulse and listen through the stethoscope.
“You did a good job getting him this far,” he said. “He has a chance.”
Jasper beckons the workmen over with a wave of his hand, and they put the stretcher down and gently lift Jim onto it. “We’ll take him through the side door and directly to the operating room in the back of the house,” Jasper says. “Mary, keep pressure on that wound as we go. Lee, walk with me and fill me in on the details.”
Blood covers Mary’s hands. There’s even a bit of it matting her black hair, just above her ear.
The workmen rush Jim back to the office, the rest of us following behind. I babble the whole way, telling Jasper everything. I end with, “I think Dilley wanted him dead because he figured out Hardwick’s scam to rob people.”
The older doctor with remarkable whiskers meets us at the side door. He’s taken off his suit coat and is now wearing a clean white apron.
“I suppose this is another one of your charity cases, Clapp,” he says, not unkindly.
“No, sir,” I tell him. “We’ll pay whatever it costs.” Even if it’s the last of my gold.
Jasper blocks the door. “You can’t come in. You’ll have to wait in the parlor.”
“I . . .” I hate feeling so helpless. “You’ll do everything you can for him, right?”
“I always do everything I can for my patients,” he says, turning away.
The door closes. We stare at it a moment.
At last Mary says, “I know you’re worried about Mr. Boisclair, but this may have presented us with an opportunity.”
“What do you mean?” I say, still staring at that door. My oldest friend in the world besides Jefferson is behind that door, his life hanging in the balance.
“I mean, it depends on how things turn out, but—”
“What do you mean, Mary?” Jefferson repeats, more sternly.
Quickly she sketches out the beginnings of a plan. A plan within a plan. Another thing we can’t dwell too hard on, lest Helena Russell pluck it from our thoughts.
“So, what do you think?” she says.
“It’s a good idea,” Jefferson says.
“Better than what we had already come up with,” I concede. “It solves one of our remaining problems.”
Mary wipes her hands on her skirt, leaving bloody smears. “I guess I’ll go find the others. Let them know what we’re about.”
She turns to go, but I grab her arm. “Thank you, Mary,” I say.
“Of course.” She yanks her arm away and heads off at a jog, as if our recent exertions have not winded her even a little. Jefferson takes my hand and leads me back to the parlor, where we find seats. The red-faced businessman is leaving. The clerk escorts the little boy with the broken arm t
o his mother, and a short while later, he brings Jefferson and me some tea.
Jim is in surgery forever. People come and go while we wait. Gold changes hands, small amounts, unlike in the hotels and gambling dens. It’s a relief of sorts, not to have so much of it around.
The sun is low, shining through the parlor window, when the older doctor with remarkable whiskers appears at the end of the hall, wiping his bloody hands on a white towel. He glares at us and glances away, saying nothing.
“If Jim dies,” I whisper to Jefferson, “is it my fault?”
“Don’t be daft.”
I give him a sharp look.
“You’re scared,” he says. “You’re sad and you’re angry. Dilley shooting Jim is a reason to stay to the course, not doubt it.”
I feel numb, maybe too numb to take in what he’s saying, but a distant part of me knows he’s speaking the truth.
Jasper appears at the end of the hallway, blood on his shirt and pants, beads of sweat on his upper lip.
I jump up, and Jefferson follows. “Can we see him now? Is he going to be all right?”
Jasper’s expression conveys a world of bad news. “Come this way,” he says, gesturing. “We have some things to talk about.”
Chapter Eighteen
We spend a long time with Jasper, talking things through, making all the proper arrangements.
Before returning to the Charlotte, we hire a boat to row us out to the prison barge. The water is rough today, and the little boat can’t seem to keep its course, no matter how valiantly the boatman rows. But eventually we reach the sheriff’s floating jail. I bang on the hull, just like on my previous visit with Jim, and call out for Hampton.
When his face appears in the porthole, a lump lodges in my throat.
“How are you doing?” I manage to shout.
“If it weren’t for the rats and the lousy food, it’d be just like the county fair,” he says. The false cheerfulness in his voice doesn’t hide the strain. “Come to think of it, the county fair also has rats and lousy food.”
“Need anything?” Jefferson calls up, and I give him a sharp look, because that’s not like Jefferson at all. It’s one of those things that feels good to say, I guess, but I don’t know how we’d get Hampton anything he needed.
“I need out! Won’t be much longer. Yesterday Jim said they raised enough money to get me free. They just need to take it to the sheriff and sign the papers.”
“That’s why we came to talk to you,” I say. “It’s about Jim. I’m afraid we have bad news.”
Hampton’s face in the porthole is an unreadable mask, like a man so accustomed to bad news it doesn’t even land.
“Frank Dilley shot him. It turned out bad.”
Anger flashes across his face. Then he pulls away from the porthole. He returns a moment later, wearing the same mask as before. “Shouldn’t make a difference. Jim said one of the preachers is handling the money. He has standing in the community, even with the sheriff.”
Jefferson and I exchange a look. “That’s . . . good news,” I say.
“Have you talked to Tom?” Hampton asks.
After too long a pause, Jefferson says, “We haven’t seen much of Tom lately.”
“He’s been working,” I add. “We see him at supper and sometimes breakfast.”
“You ask him about my Adelaide.”
“We’ll do that,” Jefferson says.
The waves are growing more violent, knocking our boat against the side of the ship. I grip the bench to keep from losing my seat.
“We gotta go,” Jefferson says.
Hampton nods once, and his face disappears from the porthole.
We reach shore, pay the oarsman, and trudge home toward the Charlotte. The daylight fades early this time of year, especially with the sky so overcast. It’s almost dusk by the time we make it home. The wagon is parked outside the ship. Inside the wagon is a huge barrel.
Everyone is gathered in the galley, including Mary. The table is cleared of the Major’s and Melancthon’s latest project, and fixings for dinner are spread. The Major bounces the baby on his knee, the end of his wooden leg tapping on the floor.
Becky’s eyes go straight to the bloodstains on Jefferson’s clothes and mine. “How is Mr. Boisclair?”
“He’s . . .” I glance at Mary, who nods quietly. Yes, she arranged everything after she left the doctor’s office, just as she promised. Even though Helena Russell is nowhere near, I’m afraid to say or even think too much.
“There’s going to be a funeral for him tomorrow,” Mary says finally. “In the Sailor’s Cemetery at the corner of Sansome and Vallejo.”
“Oh, Lee, I’m so sorry,” Becky says. “I know he was a longtime family friend.”
I just nod, unable to form words.
“The view from that spot is positively poetic,” Henry says. “I think your friend Jim will approve.”
“But . . . Sailor’s Cemetery?” Becky says. “He was never a sailor, was he? I thought he was from Dahlonega, like Jefferson and Lee.”
“A lot of folks buried there,” Mary says. “Indians and Negros. Chinese. The funeral is going to be a small affair. Henry and I made all the arrangements today.”
“Mary is a marvel,” Henry says. “Did you know she speaks English, Chinese, and Spanish?”
Mary glares at Henry, as if complimenting her is the worst thing ever.
But Becky says, “Of course.” As if it’s nothing. “She interprets for me all the time at the tavern.”
“In any case,” I say, “I’d sure appreciate it if everyone could be there tomorrow. Jim is . . . was one of my oldest friends.”
“Which reminds me,” Jefferson adds, looking to the Major. “We’ll need to take that barrel off the wagon to make room for a casket. I told Jasper we’d come pick it up tonight. He promised to have it ready.”
The Major and Melancthon exchange a glance and a nod. “We can do that right after supper.”
“I’d be grateful,” I say.
Jefferson and I grab plates. I serve myself a helping of everything on the table—smashed potatoes, green beans with bits of bacon, and a slice of salted ham—but I don’t have much of an appetite. I sit beside Mary. She puts her arm around me and gives me a quick squeeze—a rare gesture from her.
“How’d the auction go?” Jefferson asks around a mouthful of food. Nothing affects his appetite.
“Nothing we said, in shouts or whispers, did anything to slow it down,” Henry says.
“The starting prices were too good to pass up,” Becky explains. “I think even people who thought Hardwick had robbed them in the past wanted to get a piece of things.”
“But did you get your house?” I ask.
Becky brightens. “I think so! I have to pick it up in the next few days. We’ll see if the auction . . . holds.”
“I’m so relieved to hear it,” I say. We needed something to go right for us. “I can’t wait to set it up in Glory.”
“So Dilley collected all the money and took the strongbox to the bank?” Jefferson asks.
“They were done before noon,” Becky says.
“Sold off everything and closed up shop,” Henry adds. “I was able to spend the whole afternoon helping Mary arrange things.”
I stop playing with my food and put down my knife and fork. “Which means that tonight, a huge portion of his fortune is going to be at Owen and Son, Bankers, right on Portsmouth Square.”
“We may have some news about that,” Mary says, with a nod toward Henry. “When we were out making funeral arrangements, we had a little trouble finding the help we needed.”
Henry adds, “The first two people we asked had already been hired out by Hardwick. To fetch all his safes from various banks around the city.”
“Whoa,” says Jefferson.
“When?” the Major asks. Melanchthon is looking back and forth between us all, obviously curious about why these details are important, but not butting in. He knows we’re up to some
thing, but he hasn’t once pestered us with questions. I hope he’s trustworthy. The Major assures me that he is.
“Tomorrow,” says Mary. “They’ll start first thing in the morning, and deliver all of them to Hardwick’s house before a big party tomorrow night.”
“A party, huh?” I say, and Jefferson draws in a small breath. A party would be perfect. Exactly what we need for the last part of our plan. We’ll have to work fast, though, to put everything into place.
Maybe all those safes will . . . I shut my thoughts down as quick as I can. I need to practice not thinking about the plan. Then again, it’s not like Helena is standing outside the door, hoping to eavesdrop on our thoughts.
“Can you do me a favor?” I ask Mary.
“Of course.”
“Any chance you can find the folks Hardwick hired and give them a message?”
“Probably.”
“They’ll be watched by Hardwick’s men every step of the way. They should be warned that the safe at Owen and Son will be the heaviest safe and the hardest to move.”
Mary tugs her earlobe. “That is a very good thing for them to know. Thank you.”
Jefferson eyes me, but he doesn’t say a word. Melanchthon looks at Mary, then me, then back again.
Mary rises. “I need to go. I got myself a job serving drinks in a gambling den tonight.”
“Serving drinks?” Becky asks with a raised brow.
Mary has the grace to smile. “Just serving drinks.”
“I suppose it’s good not to be idle while you’re here,” Becky says, which I think is a callous and uppity thing to say, as Mary has never been idle a day in her life. But my thoughts toward Becky soften when she adds, “Will you be coming back with me to Glory? After we’ve finished here? I . . . I’ve gotten used to having you around the tavern.”
Mary looks at her a long moment. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
Becky opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
To me, Mary says, “Be careful.”
“You too. Mary . . . I know you volunteered for these assignments, but I’m not sure it’s safe.”
Mary shrugs. “I’m the only one who speaks Chinese and Spanish. It has to be me.”
Melancthon stands. “I’d be happy to accompany you, ma’am, and see to your safety.”