The next morning I wander to the galley, drawn by the smell of coffee and the sizzle of bacon. That alone would leave me more than satisfied, but the big table also contains platters of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes. My mouth waters. Before I take the first bite, I know that Becky didn’t cook this meal. I pour some coffee, cup it in my hands, and hold it to my face, just breathing in the aroma.
The lanterns are lit, and a candle brightens the table. If we’re here for any length of time, maybe I should commission some windows. And it’s as though I summoned him with a thought, because Melancthon enters with a huge platter of flapjacks and thumps it down on the table.
“I hired you to be a carpenter, not a cook,” I tell him. “You’re under no obligation to feed us.”
“Who’s feeding you? All of this is my breakfast.” We both grin. “No, seriously, I just wanted to show my appreciation.”
“It’s no problem for you to stay here. There’s more space than we need.”
“It’s not just the room and board, and giving me honest work for honest pay, although I appreciate that. It’s my thanks for saving the Charlotte. This was my home for three years, and I’ve worked on every part of her—I know every beam and strake, every inch of timber. Thought I’d see her torn apart and used for lumber. But you saved her.”
“So you’ve forgiven me for wanting holes in her.”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
I sip the coffee. “Have you given any more thought to your long-term plans?”
He sits beside me and pours a cup of coffee for himself. “It’s been on my mind. This meal is a bit of a thank-you, yes, but it’s also a bid-thee-well. Word has it the Argos is setting sail for New York next week.”
The thought of losing Melancthon saddens me. I barely know him, but he’s already proved himself a decent fellow, and pleasant company besides. “Do you have enough to purchase passage?” We’ve paid him fairly for his work, but I have no idea how much it costs to sail from San Francisco to New York by way of the Panama Isthmus.
“That’s just it; I wouldn’t have to buy passage. The captain and I sailed together before, on a whaling ship out of Newport. He says the ship is privately chartered. Won’t say for who, but he did say that the customer is paying very well for his privacy. He wants to hire me as a carpenter—his last one caught gold fever.”
I am now fully awake and alert, and it has nothing to do with coffee. Well, maybe not everything to do with the coffee. “That’s . . . interesting.”
Melancthon stares into his cup. “He also says they have valuable cargo that might create some problems, and they’ll need a steady hand moving all of it once they get to Panama.”
This definitely sounds like Hardwick. “When exactly are they sailing?” I’m willing to bet the rest of my savings it’s not before Tuesday’s auctions.
“End of the week,” Melancthon says. “After the auctions.”
Time enough to collect all the money first. Sometimes you have to quit when you’re well and truly ahead, he told me.
“Do me a favor, Mr. Jones,” I say. My mind is churning, churning, churning. Hardwick leaving so soon could present an obstacle. Or maybe . . . an opportunity. “Wait a day or two before you accept that offer.”
He opens his mouth to ask why, but Jefferson wanders into the galley, whistling like a yellow warbler with a mouthful of spring. He pulls up a chair and sits beside me.
“You’re in a good mood this morning,” I say glumly. “Like every morning.” This is what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life: Jefferson’s morning cheer assaulting me like a bag of bricks.
“Yep.” He grabs a plate and helps himself to a large serving of everything.
Becky enters carrying the baby, who is most certainly not named Rosy. The Major follows behind, guiding Andy and Olive toward the table. He and the children eye the flapjacks with distrust. I reckon they’re not used to seeing such a fine, evenly cooked repast. Henry stumbles in a moment later.
“I’ll make myself scarce,” Melancthon says, gathering up his plate and coffee.
“You can stay,” I tell him, but I don’t enthuse too hard.
“I expect you all have things to talk about,” he says. “And I like to sit on deck in the morning.”
He leaves, and everyone starts eating. Once we all have a bit of food and coffee in us, I spring the bad news. “We have to move up our timetable.”
“We had a timetable?” the Major says around a mouth of flapjacks. He’s chewing them uncertainly, like a cat with a feather stuck in its mouth, and I get the strangest notion that he might prefer Becky’s.
“But we’ve barely started gathering information,” Becky says.
Jefferson nods. “I’m still trying to find an angle on Mr. Keys. I’ve never seen him alone, without at least two guards. And he doesn’t gamble or have any bad habits, as far as I can tell.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not our timetable; it’s Hardwick’s.” I tell them everything I’ve learned over the past few days. Hardwick selling off his other properties in the state, wringing every dollar out of his San Francisco interests, bragging to me about getting out while he was ahead. “And then there’s this news: according to Melancthon, someone’s chartered a ship called the Argos to take valuable cargo out of San Francisco to New York. It has to be Hardwick, leaving town with all his gold.”
“Why would he do that?” Jefferson asks.
“People sometimes make rash choices when they’re in love,” Becky says. “He’s got that new lady friend, right? We met her at the law offices. What’s her name?”
“Helena Russell,” I say. My voice squeaks a little.
“So maybe he’s ready to get married and settle down. Maybe they want to start a family.”
I shake my head. “They have a closeness, an . . . intimacy, I suppose,” I say, thinking of the way she hung on his arm, drank from his whiskey glass. “But I don’t think they have marriage in mind.”
“Why not?” Becky asks.
“He calls her his associate, and she goes with him to all his business meetings.”
“Like a secretary?” Becky says.
“Not exactly like,” I say. “She watches everything. She . . .” I hesitate. I should tell them about her eyes, about my suspicions, but the words lodge in my throat.
“Last night I learned that she used to be a fortune-teller,” Henry offers. “A few months ago she was running a scam, mostly on miners, pretending to tell their futures, if they’d find gold, that sort of thing.”
I give him a sharp look. “Who told you that?”
“That girl Sonia.”
“The pickpocket?”
“She and Billy and their mob of runaways were hanging around the Eldorado last night. Looking for easy takes, I suspect. She didn’t have any information about Mr. Keys. But she and Helena Russell targeted some of the same people.”
“Marks,” Becky says.
“Yes, they targeted some of the same marks. So she knew all about Russell’s scam.”
The air around me is suddenly hot and tight. I’m not sure I’d discount Russell’s fortune-telling as a scam.
“I asked about Hardwick,” Henry continues, “but Sonia said they avoid him—his guards kill anyone who crosses them. Or worse. When I told her he was back in the private room she and her crew made themselves scarce.”
“That explains what Helena wants with Hardwick,” the Major says. “She’s trying to run some kind of scam on him and take his money. But what does he want with her?”
Silence around the table. Beneath it, Jefferson grabs my hand and squeezes, as if to say, “Go ahead. Tell them.”
Before I can change my mind, I blurt the previous evening’s events, leaving nothing out.
Another silence follows.
“The second sight,” the Major says at last.
“Huh?” I ask.
He wipes his mouth with a napkin; before keeping company with Becky, he would have wiped it with his sleeve. “I mean, what if Hardwick keeps her around because her fortune-telling powers are real?”
That’s exactly what I was thinking.
“I knew some women like that, not on the Craven side of my family, but the O’Malleys. Something passed down from the old country. We called it the second sight. They could find lost items, tell a person’s future just by looking at him, dream about things far away. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
I lean forward. “Seen what?”
He takes a sip of coffee and considers his next words. “When we were small, my little brother fell out of a tree and broke his right arm. The same day it happened, my mother got a letter from Aunt Lizzy, her sister, warning that she had had a dream about my brother breaking his arm, and telling my mother to be careful. It’d been written days before.”
“That’s not exactly proof,” I say.
He shrugs. “No, but there were other things, too. Even now, for example, there’s this girl . . .” He gives me a knowing look. “Who can sniff out gold better than a bloodhound on the trail. When she does, her brown eyes turn the most mesmerizing shade of gold.”
“Really?” Becky says. “I never noticed that!”
Everyone is suddenly staring at me, as if expecting my eyes to shoot daggers. Like I’m dangerous.
Something inside me breaks just a tiny bit. Sniffing out gold is the most valuable, wondrous thing I can do. But even the people closest to me, the people I love with all my heart, sometimes view my power with suspicion. And maybe they’re right to do so.
Mama was the same way. She loved me, for sure and certain, but she never wanted to talk about what I could do, even when it was just me and her and Daddy all alone by the box stove. Magic makes mischief, she always said, and left it at that. If she’d had her way, I never would have used my powers, even if it meant holes in the roof and a bare cellar.
She changed her mind at the very end, but it was too late. She was murdered for my gift. So I don’t blame my friends one bit for being a little bit scared sometimes.
“It’s one of the prettiest things I ever saw,” Jefferson says, breaking the silence.
“A marvel, truly,” the Major agrees.
“Well, I’ve never noticed Lee’s eyes,” Becky says, “but her particular abilities have been an incredible blessing, and I’m grateful to be among the lucky few who benefit.”
Henry raises his coffee mug. “To Lee and her . . . second sight.”
Everyone grins, raising their own mugs, and I look around at them all, tears filling my eyes as it slowly dawns on me: I misread their stares. They’re not afraid of what I can do. They’re not like Mama at all.
“In any case,” the Major says, “I’m concerned about Miss Russell, but I’m even more concerned with how Hardwick is using her. Her fortune-telling is giving him an edge in all his dealings.”
Becky shakes her head. “I bet she can’t do anything at all. Not like our Lee. It’s a confidence game.” She’s feeding bits of scrambled egg to the baby, who tries to grab them from the spoon with her chubby hands. “She’s fishing for information,” she explains. “‘That thing with the gold?’ That’s just her way of getting you to reveal how you attained so much. I mean, you were in a gambling parlor owned by Hardwick, and she said that you aren’t going to get any of his money.” She waves the spoon in the air. “I could make that prediction.”
The Major says, “But the things my aunt Lizzy knew . . . of course, with her, it was only family members. Or people she was well acquainted with. I don’t think her sight ever worked on strangers.”
Becky reaches over and pats the Major’s hand. “Now, Wally, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to impugn the memory of your beloved aunt Lizzy. I just think there are good reasons to be skeptical.”
He covers her hand and smiles at her, and she smiles back. Maybe Jefferson and I aren’t the only ones who think they invented falling in love.
I grab the napkin and wipe my mouth to cover my smile.
Henry taps the table like he’s forming a message in Morse code. “I think we’re missing the point here. What is Hardwick’s goal?”
This is exactly my question. What’s the picture in his head? The perfect life he envisions for himself?
Henry’s eyes light up like a city on fire. “What if . . . ?” And then his mouth stops, to make room for his spinning brain.
“What if what?” I ask.
“What if he’s going back to New York to get into politics?”
“Then good riddance to him,” I say. “But why would he have to go to New York to get into politics? He already controls every politician in California.”
“No, think about it,” Henry says. “California isn’t even a state yet, not officially. And it’s way out on the far edge of the country. It takes weeks or months for news to reach us. Being governor here is like being a bullfrog in a washtub. It makes a big noise, but it’s still just a washtub. But New York is different! Just think about who ran for president in the last election.”
We all shake our heads until the Major says, “Well, Zachary Taylor ran—that’s how he ended up being our president.”
“But why did the Whigs put Millard Fillmore on the ballot with him? Because he’s from New York. Why did the Free Soil Party pick up ten percent of the vote with Martin Van Buren on their ticket? Because he’s from New York.”
This is the most passionate I’ve ever seen Henry on a topic. But I’m pretty sure everyone else is staring at him just as blankly as I am, because I don’t know what he’s getting at.
Seeing our confused expressions, he opens his hands, like he’s begging for understanding. “New York has thirty-six votes in the electoral college—no other state is even close. Didn’t any of you vote in the election of 1848?”
Becky folds her hands on the table and sits up primly. “Henry, dear, I’m not allowed to own my own property, much less vote.”
“I’m not old enough, but if I was, I’ve got the same problem,” I say.
“Well, of course,” Henry says, looking from us to Jefferson. “But . . .”
“Don’t look at me,” Jefferson says. “My mother was Cherokee. Government says I can’t be trusted to vote.”
Henry’s mouth drops open. Then he turns toward the Major. “What about you, Wally?”
The Major shrugs. “I never worried too much about politics—as long as the system works for me I’m happy. The system always seems to work for me.”
Henry throws up his hands in disgust.
“You’re awful worked up about this,” I observe.
“Think about it,” Henry says. “A self-made millionaire returns from California to New York—a man who is now rich beyond imagination. People will love that story. He decides to get into politics on his claims of being a successful businessman—because it was the frontier, it’s like being a war hero, only more glamorous. Meanwhile, nobody in New York knows his character, what he’s really like. Someone like that could get nominated to run for president. It doesn’t even matter which party.”
Jefferson leans forward. “You think that’s Hardwick’s plan? He’s going to take the millions of dollars he’s made and go back to New York to get elected president?”
“I’m not sure,” Henry says. “The timing is good. It’s three years to the next election. He goes back now, invests his money in a bunch of legitimate businesses, spends the rest to establish himself. He’d be in prime position.”
“I don’t know,” Becky says. “It seems far-fetched.”
“He mentioned something last night,” I say. All the faces turn toward me. “I accused him of not respecting the law. He told me he respected laws so much, he wanted to make them.”
Henry leans back in his chair and folds his arms, as if putting a period on his argument.
“This is a good thing, right?” the Major says. “He’ll be out of California and out of our hair. We can go back to living our normal life.”
“How can you think that?” I snap.
The Major looks at me, genuinely confused.
“He paid to exterminate Indians—whole tribes of them, all of their families, destroyed. Muskrat is probably dead, and it’s because of him. He ignores the rights of free men, and profits off buying and selling people’s lives. He takes advantage of the poor and people without legal protection, and gets rich by using the law to rob people of their hard-earned wages.” I point across the table at Becky and the kids. “He steals from widows and children. It’s bad enough that he does it out here, but what if he’s in charge of the whole country? Think about everyone he’ll hurt.”
By the end, I’m shouting. My face is hot with anger. The longest silence yet follows, broken only by the uncomfortable shifting of Becky’s children in their chairs.
“Ma, may I be excused?” Andy whispers.
“Olive, take your brother, and the two of you go play in our room for now,” Becky says.
Olive quickly gathers up her brother and flees.
“You’re right, Lee,” the Major says softly. “It was a thoughtless thing for me to say.”
I overreacted, and I’m fixing to apologize, but Jefferson says, “Once Hardwick leaves California, we can’t touch him. The minute he sets sail on the Argos, our chance to stop him is gone.”
“The auction is Tuesday,” the Major says. “How can we stop him before then?”
“I wish I knew.” I stand abruptly, gather my dirty dishes, and carry them to the washtub, where I stack them loudly.
Jefferson brings his dishes over. “Do you want to talk about it?” he whispers.
Guilt twinges in my chest. I’m being rude. “No, I want to think. But thank you.” I should scrape and wash my own dishes, but I leave them and flee down to the hold to see Peony.
It’s neat and tidy, with four separate stalls and space to store the wagon. The stalls have fresh straw, and somebody has mucked them out recently, so it smells familiar—like the clean barn my family always kept. The last time I set foot in that barn, I was hiding from Hiram, waiting for my chance to escape.
And once again, it only serves to remind me that this is not home. Not really. Not yet. No place can be home until we’re safe from Hardwick and people like him.
Peony snorts when she sees me, shuffling eagerly. I imagine she’s tired of being cooped up in here. I find a brush and groom her.
“Sorry I’m not taking you out for fresh air,” I say. “You deserve better. We all deserve better.” She nuzzles my hand for the treat I didn’t bring, so I spend extra time cleaning her coat, especially the little swirl of hair on her withers she likes brushed just so.
Thumps on the ramp signal someone stepping down into the hold, and I have the urge to hide, but within a split second I realize that hiding will not stop Hardwick or solve any of my problems.
Melancthon approaches with that peculiar rolling gait of his, like he’s compensating for waves that aren’t there anymore. He pauses when he sees me.
“You did a good job down here,” I tell him. “The horses seem as comfortable as can be expected.”
He nods. “Thank you. It’s been a long time since I was around any kind of creature that couldn’t swim.”
“Peony swims just fine. Most horses do.”
“Huh. Haven’t worked with horses since my canal-digging days. Would rather be on the water, though.”
“Weren’t you ever afraid?” I ask.
“Of horses?”
“No, of sinking, when you were sailing the ocean.” I touch the smooth, curved hull with my fingertips, thinking of the ship Hardwick will sail to New York. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he won’t make it that far. Which I recognize for a bit of meanness, considering all the other people aboard. “This doesn’t look like much to keep between you and the bottom of the sea.”
He grins, pounding the hull with his fist. “Those are three-inch planks, and the hull is double planked, so that’s six inches of solid oak between us and the water. We needed it, the one time we took her around Cape Horn.”
“So it’s hard to break the hull of a ship like this.”
He rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Not if you drive it onto rocks, or get rammed by another ship, I suppose. But that takes a particular kind of bad luck. Although I once had the misfortune to be aboard a ship that capsized, so I figure I’ve used up my bad luck for a spell.”
“Capsized?”
“Another whaling ship, the Salem—got caught in swells in the North Atlantic. It shouldn’t have been a problem, but we only had half a hold full of cargo, and a new cargo master who didn’t know better, and the barrels broke loose in the waves. Shifted from one side to the other, before we could stop them, making the ship roll more with every wave until it rolled right over.”
I stare at him in horror. “I hope all your crewmates survived.”
“We got safely into the ship’s boats, not a soul lost. But the ship and all the cargo sank to the bottom of the ocean. Lost everything except the clothes on our backs.”
I rub Peony’s nose, and she nuzzles my face. I lost everything once, everything except this horse and Mama’s locket. “That sounds awful. I’m so glad you—”
“Lee?” A familiar female voice shouts down into the hold. Peony’s ears flick with recognition. “Lee?”
I drop the brush and run to answer. “Mary?”