When we paid Hardwick four thousand dollars to settle my uncle’s debt, we thought it was a lot of money. But it was nothing.
Four thousand to settle a debt.
A few thousand to auction off the pieces of someone’s house.
A few thousand more for a man’s freedom.
These little bits and pieces add up. No doubt this is how Hardwick’s fortune started. But it’s clear that the big money in San Francisco is now being made in property, through land sales and rents. If Hardwick is filling safes in eleven banks, then this is how he’s doing it.
Jim Boisclair has been in San Francisco for months, and I figure if anyone can help me suss it all out, it’s him. So I arrange to meet Jim early the following morning at Portsmouth Square.
I spring out of bed and scarf down a quick breakfast, eager to see my friend. Even though it’s not raining, the air is so damp with fog, it might as well be. I don a wool coat over a flannel shirt and sturdy trousers, and I’m still cold.
Jim is already waiting for me, leaning against a lamppost. He tips his hat and grins.
After we exchange greetings, I say, “Are you sure we can’t ride? Peony could use the exercise.” She’s taken well to being stabled in the hull of a ship; it’s the not smallest or worst place I’ve had to keep her. But I know she likes to stretch her legs.
“You don’t see as much when you’re riding,” Jim says, pausing to blow on his fingers and rub them together for warmth. “You rush by, in too much of a hurry. Might as well hire a carriage with curtains on the window—that way you don’t have to see the truth or talk to anyone at all.”
I sigh, but I don’t disagree.
“But I’m real glad to hear that pretty mare of yours is all right,” he adds. “I remember the day she was foaled.”
“I couldn’t have made it here without her,” I say. “Which way are we going?”
“Up,” he says. “We’re going to tour some of the city’s most profitable areas, where Hardwick makes most of his money.” He leads the way west, up the city’s hills. The steep climb warms me quickly. “Pay attention as we go, and tell me what you see.”
“And what are you going to do?” I ask.
“I’m going to point out the things you’re not seeing.” It’s exactly the kind of thing my daddy would say, and it puts a lightness in my heart.
Everywhere we go, people are already up and working. Clearing land and roads. Loading wagons full of dirt, unloading wagons full of supplies.
“I see a lot of people working hard,” I tell Jim.
He smiles. “That’s a good start.”
Jim has always been one of the most sociable people I’ve ever known, and traveling across a whole continent has not changed him one bit. He stops and talks to everyone who will speak to us, and he isn’t shy with his questions. Do they own the land or rent it? Some rent it. More say they own it, but when Jim asks about prices, it sure seems like they’re paying installment plans at rates that sound a lot like rent. Why are they working so hard to improve it? So they can sell it for a profit once they’ve paid off the loan. A handful of the laborers are Negro, and they take plenty of time to answer Jim’s questions and give specific answers. We spend almost half an hour talking with an enthusiastic fellow named Isaac who hails from Cincinnati.
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 thieves. 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.
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.”
“You mean Jefferson!”
He nods. “Your daddy was with me that day. McCauley told us Jefferson had been missing for hours. He was afraid the boy had gone after his mama, who was halfway to Oklahoma Territory by then.”
I know this story. Well, part of it. Jefferson told me my daddy found him in a ditch by the road, several hours out of town.
“Daddy found him,” I said. “But you’re saying it was really Mama?”
Jim nods. “We looked for half a day. Finally Reuben went home to your mother, carrying Jefferson’s favorite blanket, and begged her to use her gift, just this once. And forgive me, Leah, I don’t know the details of how it all worked; your mama and daddy didn’t like to talk about that sort of thing, even with me. All I know is that blanket helped her somehow, and she sent Reuben off with specific directions on how to find the boy.”
“Well, I’ll be.” I knew. Somehow I had always known there was more to my mother than met the eye. Her final words make a lot more sense now. Trust someone. Not good to be alone as we’ve been. Your daddy and I were wrong. . . .
She wasn’t just talking about my gift; she was talking about hers, too. About feeling so alone with a certain bright, screaming knowledge you think you might die of it. About being so full of fear that you never dared trust anyone with that knowledge, not even your own daughter.
But I’ve dared. I’ve dared a lot. Even in my darkest days, hemmed in on all sides by awful people like Hiram and Hardwick, I’m surrounded by people I can trust.
That was Mama’s final wish for me.
I put my hand to her locket, dangling at my throat. I did it, Mama. Just like you hoped.
The proprietor clears his throat. It’s definitely time to go. I pull out some coins to pay for our meal, and Jim tells me when I’ve counted out enough. “Let’s go,” he says, rising from the table.
I squint at the light when we step from the building. The sky has cleared, and the air has warmed. Large and Larger are still keeping watch from across the street.
“It appears your caution in choosing our establishment for lunch was well founded,” I say.
“Friends of yours?” he asks.
“Friends of Hardwick. Or maybe just employees. I don’t think Hardwick has friends.”
“That’s as sure as heaven. Most of his friends would turn on him in a second if he couldn’t pay them. Let’s head to the waterfront.”
Eyes bore into my back as we amble along the shore. I know this part of the city better than any other. Ships on one side. Warehouses on the other. Streets turning into docks as they stretch out into the bay. We stroll down Battery as far as California Street, Large and Larger continuing to trail casually behind.
“Sorry to bring my troubles your way,” I say.
“What? Oh, you mean them. Negros are followed all the time, everywhere we go. White folks just assume we’re up to no good.”
How have I never noticed that before?
“You all right, Miss Leah?” he says. “That was an awful lot to take in back there.”
“I . . .” I reckon it was an awful lot. “I’m fine. Better than fine.” And it’s true. It almost feels like a weight has lifted from my shoulders. I make sure Large and Larger remain a safe distance behind us before adding, “I’m eager to get back to the business of figuring out Hardwick.”
He shrugs. “In that case, what are we standing on?”
I glance at my feet. “I don’t know. Land that used to be water?”
“Exactly. We’re standing on the most valuable property in all of San Francisco. This is where all the business happens. It’s flat and easy to build on. If I could open a store anywhere, I’d do it here.” A sweep of his arm indicates the water. “And all of that?”
“Future land.”
“Yep. And here’s the thing—Hardwick doesn’t have to wait for it to be land in order to sell it. The whole thing is marked out in a grid several blocks into the bay. There’s an auction every month—”
“Let me guess. Next Tuesday.”
“That’s right. A sheriff’s auction.”
We had made inquiries about the auctions when we were thinking about buying Becky’s house. “Cash only, paid in full up front.”
“In the morning, right before the auction starts, one of Hardwick’s men passes out maps showing available lots. Prices vary widely month to month, depending on how much cash he thinks people have.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I thought future land might be cheaper than real property, so I went to a couple auctions thinking maybe I’d buy a lot to build my general store. I had my eye on a particular corner at Market Street and Drumm.” He points to a spot on the water, which is, I’m guessing, the future intersection of Market and Drumm.
A man is rowing a small boat out in the bay. Jim waves at him, and the man waves back. Jim beckons him in our direction.
“That’s going to be the heart of the business district someday,” Jim says. “Now, if you were Hardwick, and you didn’t plan to stick around long, what might you do?”
It takes a few seconds for my mind to put the pieces together and find the answer. “Sell the same piece of future property to a bunch of different buyers.”
“Last two months, I watched the corner of Market Street and Drumm get auctioned off twice.”
“Cash in full, up front, both times.”
“You got it.”
I rub my forehead. “So Hardwick is planning to leave. He’s not going to wait around for the courts to settle this.”
“That’s my guess. You want to go visit Hampton?”
The man in the rowboat has pulled up to the edge of the dock. “Whoa. We can do that?” I say.
Jim grins, saying, “Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.” He helps me into the boat, which wobbles precariously as I settle onto the bench. The sailor pulls away from the shore, and I wave merrily to Large and Larger, who stand on the dock with their hands on their hips, watching us go.
Wind whips my hair, and salt spray stings my face and chills my fingers. Fortunately, it’s only a short paddle across choppy water to the sheriff’s floating jail. I assume we’ll climb up and go inside, but the sailor rows us around to the far side of the brig, out of sight of shore. The water is rougher out here, and our little rowboat rocks unsteadily as Jim raps hard on the side of the jail ship. A small round porthole opens just above, and a dirty white face peers down.
Jim calls out, “We’re looking for a fellow by the name of Hampton!” A moment later, Hampton’s face appears in the porthole, and I think, Surely this is the strangest visitor calling I’ve ever done.
I cup my hands to my mouth. “How’re you doing?”
His forced smile doesn’t fool me even a little bit. “The quarters are small and the meals are smaller, but at least nobody’s working me to death.”
“Hang in there,” Jim says. “We’re working on your situation.”
“Does my friend Tom know about this?” Hampton asks. “He could set it to rights.”
I hesitate, and the waves bump our rowboat against the side of the brig. I start to grab the edge of the boat, but think better of it. If we hit the side of the ship again, I could lose those fingers.
Finally I shout, “Tom had to a take a job in one of the law offices.”
“I trust Tom,” Hampton says. “He’ll help, regardless of where he’s working.”
“You need anything?” Jim calls up.
There’s shouting inside, and Hampton glances away from the porthole. “Gotta run,” he says. The porthole slams shut.
“Well, that visit didn’t last long,” I say.
“I’m not sure the prisoners are technically allowed to receive,” Jim says.
The sailor says nothing, just picks up the oars and rows us back to shore, taking us close to the Charlotte.
“Thank you, Jim,” I say as we reach our familiar dock. “For today. For everything.”
“Anything for Reuben’s girl,” he says. Then something in my face makes his eyes narrow. “What are you thinking, Leah?”
“I’m thinking I have one big advantage over Hardwick, but only if he never, ever learns what it is.”