“What is this?” I asked.
“The deed to the oyster bed. My dear, I am ashamed to say that I shall never be able to repay you for the money that I, well”—here he swallowed hard—“gambled away.”
I looked at Mr. Swan and remembered how his voice had shaken with fear when he’d defended me from Mr. Black.
“Mr. Swan,” I sighed, handing him back the deed. “I shall never find a partner as good as you.”
“But my dear, I ruined everything—”
“No,” I said firmly, patting his hand. “We are partners. I’m sure you can find some other way to pay back the money.”
“Are you sure, my dear?” he asked, a hopeful smile wreathing his face.
“A lady always knows her own mind, Mr. Swan.”
He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Although I believe that I shall hold the money from now on,” I added as an afterthought.
He had the good grace to look sheepish.
And then we both laughed.
“Where are you off to?” he asked finally.
“The beach. There’s a schooner arriving with some dishes we ordered from San Francisco.”
“Oh yes,” he said, his white beard shining in the sun. “And there are some passengers on the schooner, too, I believe.”
I smiled. “We’ll be a regular town in no time.”
“Yes, yes. I imagine we shall even have to have some elections soon.”
“Elections?”
“For mayor, judge, et cetera,” he said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.
“You’d make a wonderful mayor,” I said.
His eyes lit up at this suggestion. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes, I really do,” I said. “Now I must go. The boat will be arriving.”
As I walked away, I heard him murmur to himself in a bemused voice, “Mayor? What a capital idea.”
A light wind was whipping across the beach, bringing with it the scent of the sea. In the distance a schooner had weighed anchor, and cargo and passengers were being lowered into Jehu’s waiting rowboat.
Sootie was perched on a boulder, playing with a small grouping of dolls. In addition to my doll and Mrs. Frink’s doll, there were two new dolls—one fashioned from a clamshell and a rag doll most certainly acquired from one of the pioneer children.
“You sure have a lot of dolls there,” I said, taking in the small pile.
“Yes,” she said in a satisfied little voice. “I traded. I have more dolls than any other girl. I am very rich.”
“I see,” I said.
Sootie grinned up at me. “But I like yours best.”
Chief Toke came walking over to us, and I nodded in greeting. He ruffled his daughter’s silky hair.
Sootie had piled a bunch of small pebbles in front of one of the dolls and was elaborately giving pebbles to the other dolls.
“What are you playing?” I asked, curious.
“Potlatch.”
“What’s that?”
Chief Toke cleared his throat and said, “Potlatch is ceremony giving gifts. Give everything away to guests.”
“But why would you give everything away?” I asked confused. “Then you will have nothing.”
“You give things away, and new things will be given to you,” he said simply.
“Boston Jane,” Sootie said urgently, “will you make new dress for this doll?” She waved the new rag doll. “With buttons, too.”
I met Chief Toke’s eyes over Sootie’s head and smiled. Perhaps he was right. I might have lost everything, but I had found more than I ever expected.
“You come to lodge for supper,” Chief Toke said firmly.
“Of course,” I said.
“Come, Sootie,” he said, lifting her to the ground and helping her gather her dolls.
“I’ll help you with the dress tomorrow,” I promised Sootie.
As they walked away, Chief Toke paused and turned to me. “Boston Jane, will you make me shirt like Jehu?”
“The blue calico one?”
“It is good shirt.” And here he winked. “Jehu won’t trade it.”
I smiled at him and watched as father and daughter climbed over the dunes, heading home. I perched on Sootie’s boulder to wait, looking out at the bay, at the fast-moving clouds dancing across the sky. It seemed so strange to think that I was now a resident and landowner of this gentle stretch of wilderness.
A rowboat was winging its way to shore through the waves; at its head I spotted Jehu’s familiar black hair. The settlers in the boat waved and shouted to me. I went down to the edge of the water to greet them, recalling how months before I had stood on this very same stretch of beach with my trunk packed, prepared to return to Philadelphia.
When I was a child on Walnut Street, happiness had been the sound of Papa’s voice.
But here, a continent away, at the edge of the wilderness, happiness was Jehu’s gruff laugh, and Sootie’s excited shout, and even the sound of Mr. Russell spitting.
I was the luckiest girl in the world.
I heard everything now—the hum of the land, the soothing waves, and the excitement in the voices of the settlers with their hope for a new life. Yet one sound rang clear through above all others.
A voice screeched across the water, sharp as glass.
“Jane Peck!”
I swear, my heart stopped beating.
Standing in the middle of the rowboat, blond curls flying in the wind, head straining forward, was someone I truly thought I’d never see again in all my born days.
Miss Sally Biddle of Philadelphia.
The End
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I really got into the spirit of this book. In addition to the usual research, I actually made what James Swan describes as “a fisherman’s pudding,” and found it quite tasty (if a little sweet!).
Here are some other ways real life and research influenced Jane’s story:
The Stevens negotiations actually did take place, but later, in February of 1855. The Cowlitz, Chinook, Chehalis, and Shoalwater Bay tribes did not sign the Stevens treaty. James Swan attended the negotiations and described them in his book, The Northwest Coast, Or Three Years’ Residence in Washington Territory. Shoalwater Bay is known as Willapa Bay today.
The character of Mrs. Frink was inspired by, but not based on, an actual pioneer woman, Margaret Frink, who traveled from Indiana to California in 1850 for the Gold Rush. You can read an actual account of Mr. and Mrs. Frink’s difficult journey in her diary, published as Covered Wagon Women, Diaries & Letters from the Western Trails, 1850.
The fur trade, whose heyday ran from the early 1800s until the early 1840s, was driven by fashion. Gentlemen’s hats made of beaver fur were all the rage, but like all fashion fads, the hats eventually lost favor. However, the myth of the fur trapper, or mountain man, grew to heroic proportions. To learn more about the hardships and high adventures of mountain men, contact the Museum of the Fur Trade, 6321 Highway 20, Chadron, NE 69337.
RESOURCES
Chehalis Tribal Office, Oakville, Washington.
Chinook Tribal Office, Chinook, Washington.
Museum of the Fur Trade, Chadron, Nebraska.
Pacific County Historical Society and Museum, South Bend, Washington.
Covered Wagon Women: Diaries & Letters from the Western Trails, 1850, edited and compiled by Kenneth L. Holmes, University of Nebraska Press.
The Northwest Coast, Or Three Years’ Residence in Washington Territory, James G. Swan, University of Washington Press.
A Rendezvous Reader: Tall, Tangled, and True Tales of the Mountain Men 1805–1850, edited by James H. Maguire, Peter Wild, and Donald A. Barclay, University of Utah Press.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jennifer L. Holm is the author of two Newbery Honor books, Our Only May Amelia and Penny from Heaven. She is also the author of several other highly praised books, including the Boston Jane trilogy, Middle School Is Worse Than Meatloaf, and the Babymouse series,
which she collaborates on with her brother Matthew Holm. Jennifer lives in California with her husband and two children. You can visit her Web site at www.jenniferholm.com.
Don’t miss book three
in the Boston Jane trilogy
Coming from Yearling in September 2010!
Turn the page for a preview.
Excerpt copyright © 2004 by Jennifer L. Holm. Originally published in hardcover by HarperCollins Children’s Books, New York, in 2004. Yearling edition published by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
CHAPTER ONE
or,
Old Ghosts
I was standing on a high bluff looking out at the vast shimmering sweep of blue-green water that was Shoalwater Bay.
Spring was in bloom, with drizzly rains and soft nights, and occasionally, a glorious day such as this one—when the sun broke out from behind the clouds and brushed the lush green wilderness with a golden tint. A sweet, salty wind swept over the waves, sending my thick, curly red hair flying in all directions. Gulls swooped and cried like nosy neighbors, diving low to the water. I should have been strolling through town, enjoying this rare and dazzling May day. Unfortunately, I was not feeling very well.
As a matter of fact, I was puking.
I had thought she was a ghost, perched behind Jehu in the back of a rowboat heading toward shore. I wished she were a ghost.
I retched again, but there was nothing left in my stomach.
Sally Biddle. With her wealthy family and faultless manners, she had been the belle of Philadelphia society when I lived there. But beneath her blond ringlets and fashionable gowns, she was a perfect monster, one whose chief amusement was tormenting other girls. Or at least one girl. Me. She had contrived to make my childhood a misery. And whenever I had earned small victories, Sally had always made me pay for them tenfold.
Trust me, you would puke, too.
Sally was one of the reasons I had been so eager to leave Philadelphia to put an entire continent between us. And now, here she was. What possible reason could my childhood tormentor have for following me to the farthest reaches of the Washington Territory? It made no sense. Had she traveled all this way just to torture me?
But there was no denying it. She was real. No ghost would wear such an elegant dress with a matching cape and smart bonnet. Why, Sally looked as if she were on her way to tea, and not arriving from a sea voyage of several months. She looked perfect, as usual, not at all like the seasick mess I had been upon my arrival more than a year earlier.
When Jehu’s rowboat had hit the sandy beach, the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach exploded, and a single thought thrummed in my head: Sally Biddle is here!
Sally had stood up and held out a hand to Jehu, and the sight of that gloved hand resting on Jehu’s strong arm as he helped her to shore had shaken me like nothing else could. I had done the only thing a lady could do in such a situation. I had picked up my skirts and run all the way up here to the high bluff to be sick in private.
Now, with each breath of crisp air, I felt my stomach settle and a measure of calm return to me. I was on my claim, I told myself over and over, like a litany. Behind me was the beginning of the beautiful new home my sweet Jehu was building me. Nothing bad could happen to me here.
Something in the distance caught my eye. A blond-haired figure was slowly strolling through the woods, pausing here and there. At first glance I feared Sally Biddle had followed me, but then I saw that it was clearly a man, and not a lady.
“Boston Jane!” a voice cried from the other direction.
I turned to see little Sootie and her cousin Katy barreling toward me, dolls in tow. When I looked back to where the figure had been, he was gone, vanished into the thick dark woods.
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Sootie exclaimed in a rush.
Sootie was a whirligig of energy. With her thick black hair, copper skin, and bright, excited eyes, the daughter of Chief Toke of the Chinook tribe took after her mother, my friend Suis, who had died in the smallpox epidemic the previous year.
“Star’s has new fabric! It just arrived on the schooner!” she exclaimed in a rush, waving her rag doll at me.
Sootie, like her mother before her, was a skilled trader, and she had amassed a small collection of dolls from other children of the settlement through her skillful dealings. I had promised her that I would make a dress for this latest doll.
“Why are you all the way out here?” Katy asked curiously.
Katy, the eleven-year-old daughter of a local pioneer and his Chinook wife, had inherited the fair skin of her father and the brown eyes and lustrous black hair of her mother. She was an uncommonly beautiful little girl with a gentle disposition that I found charming.
“I’m hiding from a memelose,” I said lightly.
“A memelose?” Katy asked in hushed tones, looking around nervously. “Really?”
Memelose was the Chinook word for spirit.
“You should change your name, Boston Jane,” Sootie said, all seriousness. “Then the memelose won’t be able to find you.”
The Chinook believed that if you changed your name, you could outwit a memelose who wanted to lure you to the other side. And in a manner of speaking, I had done just that. I was now known to many here on the bay as Boston Jane, a name bestowed upon me by my Chinook friends and dear to me for what it implied. Boston Jane was a woman of courage. She had survived and endured in the wilderness, carving a place for herself in this fragile settlement at the edge of the frontier. But I knew that I could change my name a thousand times and it would not alter the fact that Sally Biddle was here on Shoalwater Bay.
“The memelose has already found me,” I said.
Sootie considered this for a moment, then declared bravely, “I’m not afraid of memeloses!”
I wanted to tell her that Sally Biddle was one memelose she should fear.
“Don’t worry, Boston Jane,” Katy said. “We’ll protect you!”
“She’s not really a memelose,” I admitted. “She’s just a girl.” A rather disagreeable girl, I wanted to add.
“You can tell us the truth, Boston Jane. We’re not afraid,” Katy said.
“I wish she weren’t real,” I murmured.
They nodded.
“Now come to town,” Sootie said, tugging at my arm. “Before all the fabric is gone!”
I looked out at the sparkling bay and sighed. I couldn’t very well hide forever, could I? I brushed off my hands on my skirt, tugged my bonnet over my wild red curls, and stood up.
“Very well,” I agreed, and then gave them a small wink. “But if Sally Biddle comes to haunt me, I’m sending her after you!”
Mr. Russell’s raggedy little cabin marked the far edge of our burgeoning settlement.
Pioneers came to Shoalwater Bay lured by stories of oyster farming, and land for homesteading. Our town was growing right along the shore, making it most convenient for the hardworking oystermen who toiled on the bay. Many of the homes were built on pilings and floats to survive the sometimes perilously high tides. In some places the cabins were scarcely more than shacks, and tents were visible as well. While there were several families in residence now, most of our inhabitants were unmarried men, which was why, I supposed, we had three taverns and a coffin shop but no schools.
Mr. Russell’s cabin, though, was sensibly placed far above the high-water mark, in a clearing in the woods. When I’d first arrived, this ramshackle cabin was the only true house the settlement had to offer. It was my first home here. Unfortunately, it had also been home to every filthy, flea-bitten prospecting man who happened to be passing through. Mr. Russell was not generally given to cleanliness, and his cabin usually reflected this personal trait. At the moment, the bewhiskered, buckskin-clad mountain man was sitting on the porch.
“Hello, Mr. Russell,” I called, and waved.
He spit a wad of tobacco in my general direction and waved back to us.
Mr. Russell and I had been through a lot together, and I felt a tremendous fondness for the man. I’ll admit I even felt a bit homesick for that wretched dirt-floor shack of his.
The girls and I passed the cabin and set off along the main road that led down to the center of town. I was immediately barraged by the familiar scents and sounds that characterized Front Street—raucous shouts emanating from one of the taverns, the tangy smell of manure mixed with mud, the sharp salty breeze off the bay, oystermen dickering over prices, the murmurs of men discussing whether or not it would rain.
Front Street, which ran parallel to shore, was a rather grand title for a path that was usually little more than a swath of thick, boot-sticking mud. A ramshackle, narrow walkway, constructed of spare planks salvaged from shipwrecks and packing crates, ran alongside this muddy route. My young companions ran nimbly along the walkway, dancing ahead of me.
“Hurry, Boston Jane,” Sootie shouted over her shoulder. “All the fabric will be gone!”
Front Street was crowded with all manner of men. There were Indians from local tribes, pioneers from back east, miners who had not struck gold in California and wanted to try their chances on oysters, and men who were fleeing the law. In short, our citizens consisted mainly of rough-and-tumble men who could not be bothered to build proper houses or bathe but happily drank their earnings. It was altogether a wild community, especially after dark.
Wagons full of freshly harvested oysters hauled their cargo up and down the muddy thoroughfare. Here and there, men were holding friendly wagers by tossing gold coins in the sand. Oysters were making men rich. The native bivalves were in such demand in San Francisco that men thought nothing of paying a silver dollar for a fresh-shucked oyster.
Even I was part of the oyster rush. I owned a canoe and oyster beds with my friend Mr. Swan, although our business had not been too successful of late. My partner had gambled away the profits from the last harvest. As I was increasingly busy with my duties at the hotel where I worked, I was considering renting out the beds to another oysterman for a share of the profits.
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