by Rae Carson
I’m probably imagining the way Peony and Sorry glare knives into my back as I fetch their neighbors and lead them up the ramp to the wagon and fresh air. They’ve made this trip a few times now, and they’re all business. Makes me miss the pair Daddy and I trained up back in Dahlonega.
The pair I sold to Jim Bosclair, who knew I had no right to sell them, but bought them anyway to help me out.
The rest of our group gathers outside—everyone but Mary, who insists that she shouldn’t be seen with us in the light of day in order for our plan to work. She’s right, of course, but I find myself wishing she was here anyway.
Jefferson wears his usual shirt and trousers, but everything is clean and pressed. Henry has donned yet another new suit—I think he must have traded the last one for it—this time in melancholy colors. The Major struggles with his tie, but Henry’s deft fingers soon fix it for him. Andy and Olive wear somber wool, their collars freshly pressed. Andy’s hair is combed, although nothing can keep a big cowlick from sticking up. Becky wears a deep blue that’s almost black, and has the baby wrapped in a navy blanket.
I’ve donned an ordinary gray dress and a warm sweater that’s a little too big. But I decide not to change them. This is how Jim always knew me.
Melancthon emerges from the ship with a wooden cross, which he holds up for us to examine. JAMES BOISCLAIR is carved into the crossbeam, along with yesterday’s date.
“It’s not much of an offering,” he says. “But he’s not being buried at sea, so the least he deserves is a decent grave marker.”
“Thank you,” I tell him. “It’s perfect.”
We form a sad procession through the streets. The residents of San Francisco are used to death and dying, so folks hardly glance at us twice. It saddens me, that a man’s life means so little to them, especially a man like Jim, someone given to helping out strangers.
A small group of four has already gathered in the cemetery. I recognize Jim’s friend Isaac, who I met the day Jim took me on his tour of the city. Beside him is the minister who has been raising money to help get Hampton out of jail. The cemetery caretakers, also Negros, stand by with shovels. They’ve dug a hole for us, and I pay them the amount we agreed on. It’s not six feet deep, but I reckon it’s deep enough for what we need.
“Is this everyone?” the minister asks.
“I guess so,” I say. “Jim didn’t have any family when he came west. . . .”
My words die away as several people crest the hill and approach—mostly Negroes, a couple Chinese, one white man with an eye patch.
Isaac moves to greet them all and exchange handshakes. It warms my heart to see folks turning out to pay their respects. Jim was only here a few months, but already he was putting down roots, acting as a leader in his community. Just like back home.
“Isaac tells me you knew Boisclair from Georgia,” the minister says to me.
“We both did,” I say, indicating Jefferson and myself. “He was good friends with my daddy, and always kind to me. Helped me out of trouble when I needed it most.”
“Amen,” Isaac says. “That’s the kind of man he was.”
“Amen,” the minister says. “Well, let’s get started. Who’s going to help lower the coffin?”
Jefferson and I both step forward. With help from Henry and Isaac and the two caretakers, we do a creditable job of lifting it off the wagon and lowering it with ropes into the hole.
“Whew!” says one of the attendants. “He was a heavy fellow.”
“He was solid gold,” I say, wiping sweat from my forehead. “The stone on which you set your foundation. Worked hard every day of his life.”
“Amen,” Isaac says.
“Amen,” echo the others.
The minister lifts a well-worn pocket Bible, its leather cover flaking at the edges, licks his finger, and opens to the right page without any help from a bookmark.
“Today’s word is from Matthew, chapter six, verses nineteen to twenty-one. ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal.’”
I suffer a brief pang of conscience, and I share a glance with Jefferson, who also lowers his face in what I assume is a fleeting twinge of shame.
“‘But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.’”
He delivers a short sermon about people coming to California in search of gold, when what they really need to find is a congregation of souls, a community of like-minded spirits. He says that when the gold fails and the money runs out, as it surely will, God will still be there to help us, and the way he helps us is by surrounding us with the right people.
Brother Jim, he points out, was one of the right people. Even though he’d only been in San Francisco a few months, he’d made it his business to look out for others, like Isaac here, who needed a hand finding a home, or Brother Hampton, who needed the community to lead him out of Babylon and rescue him from unjust imprisonment.
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
I glance around at my own small community—Becky and the children, Henry, the Major, and most of all Jefferson. I have treasure richer than gold, if I have friends like these. And it’s true; they have my heart.
The minister would say I’m laying up treasure in heaven, where thieves do not break through nor steal, but he’d be wrong. My treasure is still worldly, still vulnerable, and I’ve already lost too much of it. Theresa and Martin, my parents, and now Jim—all stolen from me.
Maybe I’m just as greedy as any ne’er-do-well taken by gold fever. It’s just that I’m greedy for friends. Greedy for a home.
The minister ends by leading us all in a hymn. It’s not one that I’ve ever heard, but I appreciate the sentiment.
“Steer well! The harbor just ahead
Aglow with glory’s ray,
Will on thee golden luster shed,
From out the gates of day,
And waiting there are longing hands
That thrill to clasp thine own,
And lead thee through the heav’nly land
Into the bright unknown.”
It’s fitting we sing this song as we view California’s Golden Gate to the bay, still strewn with morning fog, lit on fire by the sunrise. Jim would have loved it.
The minister bows his head and prays. Then we take turns tossing handfuls of dirt onto the casket. Andy enthusiastically throws fistful after fistful, until Becky guides him clear. The two cemetery attendants finish the job with their shovels; I imagine filling a grave goes a lot faster than digging one. When they’re done packing down dirt, a little mound remains. I lift Melancthon’s cross from the wagon and jab the long, pointed end into the ground, leaning hard until it’s firmly set.
I reach into my pocket for gold coins to hand out, two to the minister, and one each to the attendants and to Isaac.
“You don’t need to do this,” the minister says, but it seems like more of a formal protest than a genuine one. The other coins disappear quickly into their owners’ pockets.
“I do, for Jim’s sake,” I say. “Thank you for coming out today.”
“Thank you, and God bless all of you,” the minister says.
“When will you know about the fate of Hampton?”
“As soon as the sheriff has time to see me and sign the papers. Seems he’s busy at the moment, with the auction just yesterday.”
“And evicting people from their houses all week long,” Isaac adds.
“We mean to see Hampton free,” I say.
“We’re handling it,” the minister assures us firmly.
“We look out for our own,” Isaac adds.
There’s a lot of hand-shaking and farewelling, and after all of Jim’s friends have trickled away, our group finds itself standing in the cemetery at the foot of Jim’s grave. Jefferson just stares at
it, shaking his head, as if he can’t believe what’s just happened.
“So what’s next?” Becky asks me.
“We go into the lion’s den,” I say.
“Might be tricky,” Mary says. “The hardest part yet.”
Jefferson kicks a clod of dirt at the foot of the grave. “Let’s ruin him.”
The Major clasps Jefferson on the shoulder. “Even I’m willing to put on some frippery and attend a party, so long as there’s a chance to set Frank Dilley to rights. That son of a—”
Becky clears her throat abruptly, and the Major jumps.
“Beeswax. That son of a beeswax.”
“Ma, what do bees whack?” Andy whispers.
“Hush, darling,” Becky says.
Henry is the only one who seems delighted at the prospect. “This is going to be the biggest, most exclusive party in the history of San Francisco. Maybe in the history of California. You couldn’t drag me away with horses. And that’s before we get to any of the other business.”
I can’t help grinning at his enthusiasm. “And you, Becky? This all depends on you. I would never do anything to put your children in harm’s way, on purpose or by accident. If you have any doubts or reservations, just say the word and we’re done.”
Becky bites her lower lip, which is never a good sign. She pulls Olive close and gives her a tight hug, puzzling the girl. Then she reaches out for Andy, to tousle his imperfectly combed hair, but he dodges her and starts darting around everyone’s legs.
“Bees whack this,” he sings. “Bees whack that, bees whack the bear with the bowler hat!”
Becky gazes at her unruly son, her face full of warmth. Full of love. My mama used to look at me like that.
“Oh, of course I’m in,” she says at last. “That man’s so low he has to reach up to rub the belly of a snake. He should be stepped on like the vermin he is.”
“That’s what I hoped you’d say.” I grab Andy as he runs by and make as if to toss him into the back of the wagon. He squeals in delight. “Let’s get ready.”
Chapter Twenty
Henry offered to hire a coach for the evening, something to convey us to Hardwick’s soiree in style and comfort—at my expense, of course. But it turns out there are a limited number of carriages to be hired in San Francisco, and we were too late to schedule the lowliest driver with a dung cart.
“I could take all of you in the wagon,” Melancthon offers when Henry breaks the news to us.
“I would rather walk a hundred miles,” Becky says, “than be bumped around in a wagon like some poor country girl on a hay ride.”
She had enough wagon riding to last a lifetime.
I add, “Plus, it’s better if you aren’t seen with us.”
Melancthon presses his lips tight, making me wonder how much he has guessed. But then he nods, and that’s that.
So we’re going to walk.
As the night falls, we gather in the galley of the Charlotte, dressed in our best finery. For Becky and the Major, that means the same clothes they wore to Jim’s funeral, but brightened with a few decorative flourishes. Becky paces nervously, irritating Baby Girl Joyner. I don’t pretend to know much about babies, but from what I’ve seen, they must be like cats, sensitive to every fleeting emotion of the person who holds them. Before the tiny girl can get too upset, the Major offers to hold her, and both she and Becky calm right down.
Jefferson sidles up to me. “We might have one of those one day,” he whispers in my ear.
“We might have a whole mess of them,” I say. “I just hope we can bring them into a world a little safer than this one.”
“Becky seems to be doing all right with hers,” he points out. “And so will we.”
And that’s a good thing, because the only thing about children I know for certain is that they tend to follow a wedding the way light follows the sun. I reach out and squeeze Jefferson’s hand.
Mary rolls her eyes at us from her seat at the table. She is taking Jasper’s place tonight, since the invitation doesn’t specify names except to say “Leah Westfall and seven companions.” She wears a nondescript dress of brown muslin, and a heavy cloak with a cowl that will hide her face from Frank Dilley.
“You ready for this?” I ask.
She grins. “You know I am.”
Henry wears a suit of deep navy blue, with a bright yellow double-breasted waistcoat. He struts around, waiting for someone to notice. Mary has no patience for frippery, and Becky and the Major are too preoccupied—with the children and possibly each other—so I take pity.
“No peacock ever looked finer,” I tell him.
He straightens, head held high. “I look dashing, don’t I?”
“San Francisco agrees with you.”
“I just wish it would agree with me in a more financial capacity.” He sighs.
Jefferson is trying to fix the narrow tie that he’s added to his shirt.
“It looks like you’re tying a halter hitch,” I tell him. “You aren’t pulling a cow out of a ditch. Here, my daddy taught me. Just”—I slap his hands out of the way—“let me take care of that for you.”
He waits patiently while I undo the horrible knot. He says, “If my da owned a tie, I never saw him wear it.”
“Your da didn’t do a lot of things he ought to have done.”
He flinches.
“I mean, you’re twice the man he ever was.”
“Didn’t take it as a criticism. Sometimes it just feels like I’ll spend my whole life trying to catch up with all the things he didn’t do.”
“You’ve already caught up and run past him,” I say, earning a smile. “Here’s how my daddy taught me: the long end is a rabbit being chased by a fox, and the short end is a log. The rabbit goes over the log . . . under the log . . . around the log . . . and through the rabbit hole.” I make the motions as I talk, tying the knot for him. “Then you slide it up tight, and you’re done. Don’t pull on the rabbit; that’ll make it too tight. Just slide the knot up like this.”
“So the rabbit gets away?”
“Daddy was the type to always pity the frightened rabbit over the hungry fox.”
“Tonight we need to be a rabbit who thinks like a fox.”
“Or a fox who looks like a rabbit,” I say, standing back. “That looks . . .” Sudden shyness hitches my words. “You . . . Jefferson McCauley Kingfisher, I don’t mind saying you’re the finest-looking young man west of the Mississippi.”
He blinks, a little stunned. “And you’re beautiful.”
I shrug. “The best thing about this dress is it’s freshly washed.” It’s an unremarkable calico, blue to match Becky and Henry, the fabric a little faded. “But I don’t mind being a bit ordinary tonight.”
“Lee, there’s nothing ordinary about you,” Jefferson says.
Before I can reply, we’re interrupted by an overly dramatic sigh. Everyone is staring at us. Mary mimes a huge yawn.
“I offer my enthusiastic support for young love,” Becky says. “But can I beg you to hold off on your explorations until tomorrow?”
The Major sits on one of the benches, adjusting the straps that hold his wooden leg—a newer, bulkier design he just finished making. “I think the job that never gets started never gets finished. So let’s get started.”
Becky says, “Exactly my point. Do you have the invitation?”
I grab it from the table and hold in the air. My hand trembles. “Right here.”
The Major hefts Baby Girl Joyner. “Then off we go.”
We are solemn and silent as we exit the Charlotte and close the door behind us—as if we’re still at Jim’s funeral. So much hinges on tonight. There are so many things that must go exactly right.
My hand goes to the locket at my throat, but of course it’s gone. If all goes according to plan, I’ll never see it again, which puts a little ache in my chest. The locket will be nearby for a short while longer, and I reach out with my gold sense toward the Major and discover where he’s
hidden it. The steady step-thump of the Major’s gait feels like it could be my own heartbeat.
“I can carry the baby for a spell,” Mary says.
The Major gives her up gratefully. He puts on a brave face, but I reckon walking long distances is hard on him, especially with a new leg he’s not quite used to yet. I take the lead, with Jefferson walking beside me and everyone else at my back. At the very end of the line, I’m aware of Olive and Andy quietly tagging behind.
Even if I hadn’t been to Hardwick’s house once already, I’d know which direction to go. Hardwick must have the contents of nearly a dozen gold-filled safes at his house, because it’s like a toothache throbbing in my jaw. Blindfold me and bind my hands, and I could still find my way.
But even without my powers, there’s no mistaking our path.
First we follow carriages as they rattle past. Then the carriages stop, jamming together at an intersection, waiting in what is only the slightest semblance of a line. We maneuver through the traffic to the place where impatient guests disembark from their assorted rides and join small throngs flowing along the margins of the street. Lanterns light the street and the gardens beyond the wall. Music swells, a Mexican band playing waltzes in the son jalisciense style, with violins, harps, and guitars. Laughter and shouts of delight rise above the music and float toward us.
A line of people awaits entry at the garden gate. Becky takes the baby from Mary.
“I don’t mind holding her,” Mary says, maybe a little bit wistfully.
“I need something to do right now,” Becky replies, clutching the nameless girl to her chest like a shield.
Ahead of us, several people are turned away—first a group of drunken miners, and soon after, a white man and his Indian wife.
“What if they don’t let us in?” Becky whispers.
“Then we give up this life of crime and get a good night’s sleep?” the Major says.
I glare at him before realizing he’s joking.
“They’ll let us in,” Jefferson says confidently.
“I know the fellows at the gate,” I assure them, indicating Large and Larger. But the baby, sensing Becky’s anxiety, fusses in her arms, so the Major leans over and sings softly to her.