“So what do you think?” one of Baines group whispers to the others. Devlin realizes they’re again talking about the shipwreck of a few nights ago.
“I’m interested in learning more about those big crates. The ones with his test equipment. I think it’s possible that they floated free, but what are the chances of ever finding them?”
“They say the wreckage came ashore on the eastern edge of Cape Cod,” says a man in a brown bowler hat.
“Yes, but they probably broke apart before then, and whatever was left was hauled away by some scavenger. No one down there is about to tell us what they found.”
“So you don’t think it’s worth looking?”
“I don’t know. Worth making some inquiries, I guess. If we ever find his stuff, maybe we can buy it. I know some people we can hire to figure it out.”
“But what’s stuff like that really worth? Even if we could find it, how much could we sell it for and what’s the market?”
“I know, I know. But think about it. Isn’t it worth a little gamble?”
Baines quiets the group with a final comment. “I’ll telegraph an attorney friend down there and have him ask a few questions. We’ll at least get an idea of what was found. We’ll go from there.”
Devlin walks about 400 feet ahead of the group, then slips into a stand of trees. If his guess is correct, Baines will return to Boston this evening, and there’s only one way he can go.
Baines isn’t riding a horse. Devlin watches him say good-bye to his friends. He then walks up the street. Surprisingly, he zigzags up a few blocks, as if to see if anyone is following, then heads toward the narrows that lead into Boston. In a few hundred yards he enters a stretch of a quiet street, and Devlin hurries his pace and walks behind him.
“You there!” Devlin calls out.
Baines turns, hand entering the right pocket of his oversize coat. Distrust in his eyes.
Devlin Richards soothes with his voice. “Hey, thanks for getting that sailor to talk yesterday. I had been wondering what happened on the Gossamer. Sad thing that ….”
Baines nods, unimpressed. “You again! And what brings you out here tonight, sir?”
“Just heading home.” He does his best to mimic a Boston accent. “Looks like we’re headed the same way, friend. Not always safe around here. Better to walk in groups.”
To appear less threatening, he walks past Baines and continues up the sidewalk, like he’s continuing his journey. Gazing back over his shoulder, he says, “Your choice, of course.”
Baines relaxes a bit. “Where you heading?”
“I have a friend who lives but a few blocks from Faneuil Hall. We agreed to meet tonight, but I can never catch a cab on this side of the river. I shouldn’t have lingered so long at The Rose. But it’s always interesting, what’s happening there, eh?”
Baines nods. There’s an uneasy silence as they press onward.
“You travel overseas yourself?” Devlin asks. They’re walking side by side now across the narrowing causeway.
“Maybe once a year. I’m in the import business, but I prefer to work mostly from this end. Family and all. That makes it hard to be away for months at a time.”
Devlin watches quietly out of the corner of his eye. Baines seems to be about his same height. A little older, but fit from walking. Devlin could probably take him. But that pocket, large enough for a revolver, worries him.
“So what sort of things do you import?”
“Rugs,” Baines says. “Some from China. I can’t tolerate the damage though. Seems everything I get from there gets soaked along the way. They’re not much for packing things up the right way.”
Devlin wonders about this. He had heard Baines was a jeweler, not a rug merchant. “Oriental too?”
“Meaning Persia? Yes, usually via Cape Town, believe it or not. My man there finds what he needs coming in on the local steamers that ply the East African Coast. It’s cheaper to ship cargo out of Africa than from Persia. That’s my business trick. Same rugs, different point of departure for some decent savings.”
Devlin Richards’ eye widen. That would explain a lot. If he does business through South Africa, he could also be in the diamond business. This was a good pick for him—a merchant who deals in diamonds and rugs. A merchant who carries mostly coins. He hasn’t felt this much anticipation about a mark in years. As they enter a dark empty street, Devlin realizes it’s the best time to make his move. It has to be a surprise, given the possibility of a weapon.
“Hold on,” Devlin says, stooping to tie the lace on his shoe. Once kneeling, he tugs at the laces, but he also slips a long knife from a sheath tied to his ankle. Darkness covers his movements.
“Never been to Africa,” he says as he stands.
“Hell of a place,” Baines grunts as they turn to walk on. “Some of the people are wonderful. So friendly—smiling and laughing with you. Then you’ll turn around and see such ugliness. Leprosy. Slave trading. They say it doesn’t exist anymore, but oh, let me tell you, the slave trade is still there. Such terrible people.”
Devlin grits his teeth in anger.
“You can see it all in the Dark Continent. It’s a strange and wonderful land.”
With Baines a step ahead of him, Devlin has a clear shot. He raises his arm and brings the knife down hard, aiming for a space between Baines’ shoulder blades. The thrust is true and hard.
Chapter 16
Not Quietly
But because Baines is walking, or maybe because his coat is too thick, the knife doesn’t plunge deep enough for an instant kill. It goes in maybe two inches, and no further. The older man groans and gasps, falling forward.
Richards yanks the knife back out and drops to his knees beside his victim, who’s lying face-down. Blood spills onto the walkway near the man’s collar as Devlin raises the knife again.
“You bastard!” Baines spits. “I should have known.”
He squirms onto his side. “And I did know. I could see it in you! What a fool I was!” He tugs at his pocket. Finding the opening, he thrusts his hand in and doesn’t bother to pull out the gun. He finds the trigger and rolls slightly, trying to point the barrel up toward his attacker.
The gun makes a muffled pop as Richards brings the blade down again. Something hot grazes his thigh. The blast makes Devlin jump just enough to miss. The knife strikes the stones of the street with a sickening clank. Baines continues to twist away.
Panicked now, Devlin is concerned that the gunshot, even though muffled, will bring people to the street. He shifts his weight and brings his knee down directly on Baines’ coat pocket, forcing the gun hand to the side and away from him. He can feel the hand struggling to lift the gun and fire another round. Quickly, with practiced skill, Devlin thrusts the knife into Baines’ sternum and twists it upwards. The man’s eyes widen. The gun fires again, but in a random direction. In a moment, the struggling stops.
Eyes scanning the street. No one saw anything, did they? Not in this darkness. His hands work fast, finding pocket after pocket, collecting all he can. The vest holds the coveted watch and chain. The inside coat pocket holds five more gold coins. Devlin can’t tell their exact value in the dark, but at least two of them feel quite hefty. He also grabs a stick pin from Baines’ tie before turning the body over. There’s a thin leather fold in the back pocket, maybe five bills inside. One of them is a twenty.
Kicking the body back over, he checks for gold teeth and finds only one. It’s way in the back and he decides to leave it, rather than spending several precious moments trying to pry it out. It’s a shame that there’s blood on the coat. It might have fit him.
Hat and scarf back in place, Richards crams the stolen goods into his own pockets and steps over the body. He looks in all directions as he walks. No one in sight. He walks quickly. After two blocks, he starts to relax. Only then does he feel a trickle of blood along his leg. He touches the wound where the bullet grazed his leg and decides it’s not bad. But there’s enough blood
on his leg that it’s visible. He needs to get off the street.
It wasn’t enough.
Devlin can tell by the feel of the loot in his pocket. It’s a start, but the whole take won’t add up to even one hundred dollars. It won’t fill his bag and leave him satisfied enough for his trip back south. He needs more. Much more.
More time. More money. He’ll return to The Rose Point. Clayton Harkins was right about the place. It’s a good place to sit and watch. He needs another ship to come in. Another deal. He needs to be more than just a damned street thief.
As Devlin walks, he starts to wonder about that scientist the sailor mentioned, the one who did his experiments on the Gossamer. He mentioned his name at some point. Victor something. If what that fool sailor said was true, then the man’s apartment probably isn’t far away. And since he died recently, it probably hasn’t been cleaned out yet. He might be able to find it, especially since he knows the warehouse that was mentioned.
He turns around and heads back in the direction of Charlestown. He doesn’t know a single person who might buy stolen scientific equipment, but if he can find one, raiding the apartment and lab might give him another good score.
What he doesn’t see is a man lurking in a space between two houses, watching his every move.
Chapter 17
Return
“It’s a foolish stunt,” Elmer Quincy tells the women when he discovers what they’re plotting. “You’ll get yourself hurt. Or maybe arrested. And how are we going to explain that to the neighbors?”
But Amanda is determined to return to the barn to claim what’s hers. Agnes is supportive, even giddy, at the idea of helping. Instead of fighting it, Elmer realizes that he needs to help them with their planning. He talks direction and strategy, shaking his head now and then at the brashness of it all.
Two mornings later Amanda and Agnes rise before dawn. They choose to stay away from the steam wagon and instead hitch the family buckboard to two sturdy horses, a large chestnut bay and a slightly smaller brown Morgan. It’s still dark when they head back to Amanda’s place. Her “ex-home” she calls it now. Their goal is to avoid Wayne while gathering what’s hers.
At Amanda’s direction, Agnes pulls the wagon onto a narrow farm trail about a mile from the Malcolm farm. The trail stretches through a woods and around the back of the property. They should be able to draw within 200 yards of the house without being seen. As they near the edge of the woods, they stop the wagon and wait for a moment, listening.
Hearing nothing, save the fussing and calling of predawn birds, Amanda climbs down from the wagon and walks, crouched low, toward the clearing. She can see a light in the window of their bedroom. Inside, past the sheer curtain, she can see Wayne’s silhouette as he pulls on a work shirt. If his routine is typical, he’ll sit to tie his boots then head to the kitchen for toast, an apple, and some bacon.
It’s a Saturday. She and Agnes specifically chose this morning because there’s a small farmers’ market downtown. Wayne heads out early on market days. He’ll bring fruit from the trees near the house, or sometimes he’ll carry a crate of chickens if they have a healthy new batch of chicks to replace them. Market days are good quick money. Sometimes Wayne brought the profits home and sometimes he took them to a pub. But anytime he heads out on market day with things to sell, Amanda knows Wayne will be gone for several hours.
A match is struck in the kitchen, and a small lamp is lit. As the light comes up, she smiles to see several brown crates sitting on the kitchen table. It’s not like him to think so far ahead, but it looks like he packed up the fruit the night before. At least she and Agnes won’t have to wait while he visits the trees to pick the fruit.
Agnes appears at her side. “Get down. He’s coming out!” They crouch low and stare at the door as Wayne steps outside.
Amanda’s eyes widen. The crates don’t contain fruit at all. It looks like they’re full of glass jars with thick waxy tops. It’s her fruit preserves, and by the number of crates, it looks like he’s emptied her entire stock. Is that what he’s planning to sell at the market? She starts to stand, as if she plans to yell at him, but Agnes tugs her down.
“What are you doing?”
“Those are my preserves!” she whispers loudly. “What does he think he’s doing?”
“It doesn’t matter, dear. It’s not like you’re going to take them with you!”
“Well, no. But he doesn’t know that! I mean ….” She swallows hard. She’s not sure if this action represents his acceptance that she’s really gone, or if it’s some kind of revenge play that he’ll wave in her face, should she ever return.
“Ooooo,” she seethes aloud. “That … that ….”
Wayne sets several of the crates near the dirt drive, then stalks to the barn.
“Boy, you did stick him good, didn’t you?” Agnes points to the large bandages that are visible on both of Wayne’s hands.
Sounds of a wagon being rolled into place drift through the barn door, followed by the sound of a horse being backed into place and then the clink of the hitching. After he pulls the wagon out to the yard, it takes Wayne about eight trips into the house to haul out the rest of the preserves. Since Amanda stole away on Duncan, he’s forced to use their old plow horse to pull the wagon. As she watches the boxes, Amanda isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. It was hard work for her, doing all the slicing, boiling, and canning. Now he’s going to enjoy the benefit of her labor. But she realizes she has no use for the sweet fruit anymore.
“The devil with it,” she mutters. “Let him take the fruit and be gone.”
“That’s the spirit, dear.”
He finishes loading the crates, throws in a few of her handmade quilts for good measure, and then climbs aboard. It’s just after sunrise when the iron-rimmed wooden wheels rattle down the driveway. Amanda waits until the dust has settled, then waits five minutes more. Then she runs out of the woods and down the hill toward the farm.
Thankfully the silverware remains up in the loft, right where she left it. Amanda counts out the pieces she managed to save: five spoons, seven forks, and eight knives. She cleaned most of the tarnish off the day after she found them. They’re of excellent quality and should fetch a decent price if she can find the right place to sell them. She descends the ladder quickly, leaving her usual fear of heights behind. She pets each animal in the barn, bidding hasty good-byes and warning them not to make Wayne angry. She spends a special, quiet moment with Jessie. Noticing that she’s heavy with milk because Wayne didn’t take time for her this morning, she takes five minutes to empty the cow’s swollen udder, expert hands finding a good quick rhythm. She leaves the bucket of milk for the barn cats to enjoy.
In the house, she locates her tattered suitcase and silently raids her own closest, taking her Sunday best, a shawl, some shoes, and a fancy purse she’s never had occasion to use. She also stuffs in her best petticoats and then a few housedresses before heading to the dining room, squelching her desire to first rip Wayne’s clothes to shreds.
Ever since she entered the front door, a certain temptation has been very strong for her. There is house silver too. Technically it’s partly hers. It’s not as fancy as the things she found. Most of it is just plated, but it’s mildly desirable and certainly sellable. There are even a couple big serving spoons. She runs to the dining room and opens the small silver chest.
She looks at the gleaming set that she’s always kept well polished and protected. She stares for half a minute.
No. She is not a thief. There are other ways to be resourceful. And why give Wayne a reason to accuse her? She’ll come back later, with a lawyer if necessary, and argue about what rightfully belongs to her. For now, she’ll simply take the one large serving spoon in the chest, the one that belonged to her aunt, and a sharp butcher knife. The knife isn’t silver but it’s nice-looking and it came from the kitchen of her childhood home. She also takes two small cut-glass decanters that were owned by her grandmother. Just her own t
hings. That’s all she wants. She also raids the tin can where she had set aside some money from the sale of her preserves. Stuffing that little bit of money in her pocket is actually the thing that makes her feel the most guilty. But Wayne was taking money from her too by stealing her preserves, wasn’t he? She considers herself an honest woman. She’s simply trying to make an honest departure.
Stepping through the door, suitcase in hand, she surveys the house and barn for one last time. There are things here that she will miss greatly, especially the animals and the wonderful peace she found while working in the kitchen and her backyard vegetable garden. She’ll miss Wayne too, strangely. At least she’ll miss what he used to be. And, dare she say it? She’ll even miss the lovemaking. The way they stayed warm together in the winters. The slick sheen of sweat that formed between them in the summers. How does a proper lady ever put such a thought into words? And how does she ever find that again?
This part of her life, the time on the farm, is over. She blinks back tears.
“It isn’t the leaving that bothers me so much,” she tells the house and the grass. “It’s the loss.” She asks the yard a question that it can never answer. “What is it about me that I can’t find my proper place on this earth? It wasn’t in Boston, and I guess it’s not here either.”
What’s next? Apparently it’s returning to the place where she’s already failed. And now, no friends and no family are there anymore. Why can’t she find the right way to settle down? She can run away from Wayne, but she can’t run away from herself.
Then she recalls when she stood, just a few days ago, on the sand near the ocean. There was an endless sea in front of her and a great vast country behind her. She’s seen so little of this world. America, her own mysterious country, had grown so huge since she was a little girl. Somewhere in that enormity there must be a place for a women like her.
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