UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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I’ve spent the last two days being agreeable to my uncle. Not friendly, mind you. Just blankly pleasant enough not to arouse suspicion. I made him breakfast both mornings, helped him take off his boots each night, and let him sleep in my parents’ bed without batting an eye. I’ve also been altering some of Daddy’s clothes to fit me, and I’m exhausted from staying awake so late, peering at blurry stiches by the light of a single candle.
It’s the third morning after the funeral. I’m leaving today. I still don’t have any money, but I’ve scrounged up a few things to sell. I’m trying to decide whether to sell them to Free Jim’s store or head out of town first.
Uncle Hiram sits across from me, eating the breakfast I made. He’s mopping up egg yolk with a biscuit when he raises his head and says, “I’m sending you to finishing school in the spring.”
I sit quietly, hands in my lap, gaze cast down so my eyes don’t give me away. It shouldn’t matter what he says, now that I’m running off, but his declaration makes me feel like a cat with fur being rubbed the wrong way. “The school in town is just fine. Everyone likes Mr. Anders.”
“It was a place to start,” he says around a mouthful of biscuit. “But it’s no place to finish. I suppose letters and sums will be useful to us, but you need to learn style and comportment.”
I’m not sure what he means by “useful to us,” but I nod and say, “If you think it’s best.”
“Which isn’t to say you won’t be busy here when you’re home. I’m sure there’s plenty of gold still to be found.”
He wipes his hands on a dishcloth, then puts them into the pockets of his vest. When he pulls them out, they’re both fisted. He reaches them toward me and says, “I have a gold half eagle in one hand. Which is it?” There’s a twinkle in his eye that reminds me so much of Daddy that my chest hurts.
The coin sings to me clear as spring runoff from his left fist. I point to the right.
He smiles. “You can’t keep secrets from me, Leah.”
I sigh and point to the left.
“That’s my girl.” He opens his fist, and there it is, shining yellow-bright. “Here. You can have it.”
I snatch the coin from his palm.
In the next instant, I almost give it back. Hiram just made me divine gold. He asked me to do it, and I did. Without question. But I can’t say no to five whole dollars right now, even if they come from the devil himself.
A horrid thought occurs to me. “You thinking of taking us west?” I ask. That’s the last thing I need—to go where he intended all along.
“Yes,” he says. “Though not for at least a year. Everyone else can help themselves to the surface and placer gold. I have bigger plans in mind for us, but we’ll need to put some polish on you first.”
I can’t imagine what that means. Maybe I’d rather never know. Unable to make nice a moment more, I rise from the table. “I have chores need doing.”
“And I have some errands to attend to today.” He pulls his silver watch from his breast pocket, flicks it open for a look, then closes it and shoves it back in. “My boy will be here with my things by the end of the week, and I’ll need room in the barn. I want you to sell two of the horses.”
I gape at him, marveling at my luck.
He misunderstands. “I know you’re fond of them,” he says gently. “But I don’t want to pay to feed more horses than we need, and my own are much better stock.”
“Not Peony,” I say.
“I might sell that one later. Abel Topper was asking about her. Thought he might get a deal, since Reuben passed.”
My fingernails dig into my palms.
Maybe I imagine the sympathy that flits across his face. “Take two of the others for now. With so many people heading west, Free Jim can turn them around for a quick profit. I’ve already talked to him. He’s expecting you.”
Uncle Hiram has just unwittingly paid my way to California. “Yes, sir.” My mutinous lips want to smile more than anything, but I won’t let them.
“Bring me whatever you get. It will help pay your tuition.”
“Yes, sir.”
I busy myself with cleaning as he rises from the table, and I refuse to look up as he buckles his holster and dons his overcoat and hat. Go, go, go, I say in my own mind, like a prayer, but Lord Almighty, does he take his sweet time about it. Finally, the door closes, and I allow that grin to go slipping all over my face.
I whip off my apron and hang it by the washtub. I run upstairs to my dormer, where I grab Daddy’s castoff boots from under the bed—the ones I wear for hunting and mucking stalls. I’ve already stuffed extra stockings into the toes, but I won’t put them on for good until after I’ve sold the horses. After lacing my own boots tight, I pull the leaflet from where I hid it under my straw mattress. It’s wrinkled and damp, and the upper right edge has a tear because I’ve handled it so many times. Mama used to say the water of the Atlantic goes on and on—to the edge of the world. I want to see that someday; I surely do. But Jefferson is heading toward Independence, so that’s the way I’ll go too.
I lay the leaflet on the floor. With the toe of my boot, I edge it slightly under the bed. I want it to look natural. Like I left it there on accident. Hopefully, Hiram will find it and think I’m heading to California by sea.
For the last two days I’ve been silently saying good-bye to everything in the house—the box stove, the worn table where we ate so many meals together, the porch where Mama and I used to sit on summer evenings, and especially my bedroom with its beautiful window. The patchwork quilt, though, I’m taking with me. It’s already wound tight in a saddlebag, hidden in the hayloft.
My new-to-me shirt and trousers are in the barn too, along with some supplies and Mama’s sewing shears. It all has to wait a few hours more.
The town square is packed with people when I arrive with the colts, Chestnut and Hemlock, pulling my wagon. There’s no way I’m getting through this noisy crowd, especially without Peony to keep the colts in line, so I steer around behind the courthouse and the general store. It’s muddy back here, but quieter. I throw the brake lever, grab my skirts, and jump from the wagon.
I give Hemlock a pat on the nose, tie the colts’ reins to the store’s back porch rail, and walk through the gloomy alley between courthouse and store and toward the square. Hundreds are gathered on the green—all miners by the wiry, sunless look of them, a few of them slaves. They’re listening to someone lecture from the steps of the courthouse, and as I approach, the speaker’s words ring out: “Why go to California? In that ridge lies more gold than man ever dreamt of. There’s millions in it!”
I almost laugh aloud. It’s Dr. Stephenson’s voice; I know it well. He’s from the mint, and he’s assayed our gold plenty of times.
Everyone in the crowd mutters. Some are nodding. But others, like me, are tickled by the fact Dr. Stephenson considers this a compelling argument. Sure, there’s plenty of gold in Findley Ridge; you don’t need to divine it like me to know that. But it all belongs to the mine, and Dr. Stephenson is wasting his breath. These men are going west, for sure and certain. There, they’ll work just as hard as they do now, and at the end of the day, they’ll have sore backs and blistered hands and coughs that won’t quit—but they’ll get to keep their gold.
Good thing I’m leaving today. Most of these folks will be a few months saving money and selling their belongings, but soon enough, there won’t be anything left of this town. I edge away from the crowd and mount the steps to Free Jim’s store.
“Leah Westfall,” he says as I enter. He stands behind a counter painted bright white. Beside him is a glass jar full of hard candy, a large scale for weighing dry goods, a smaller scale for weighing gold, and—new to my eye—a half-dozen large pickaxes. The shelves behind him are filled with pairs of boots; some new, some not. “What can I help you with?” he asks.
Gold pricks at my throat. He’s got dust lying around somewhere, in addition to coins from the mint. “Hello, Free Jim. Uncle Hiram wants me to sell two of our horses. A matched pair. Know anyone in the market?”
“The colts, right? The ones Reuben broke?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now your uncle wants them gone.”
“Yes, sir.”
He studies me close, rubbing at his jaw. Softly, he says, “That Hiram Westfall owns you right proper now, doesn’t he?”
His words give my belly a squirm. Too loudly, I say, “Seems like everyone around here is making plans to head west.”
“Indeed. The sooner you get to a gold field, the better you’ll do. Folks in this town remember that.”
Free Jim glances around the store, but we’re alone. Everyone is outside listening to the speech. He says, “McCauley was asking around town after his boy. Seems to think his son ran off to Savannah, hoping to catch a boat and sail halfway round the world. Don’t suppose you know anything about that.”
I pretend to misunderstand. “Mr. McCauley spoke to me at the funeral, said the same thing.”
“Might have been a mistake for Jefferson to go.”
I step toward the counter, getting right in his face. “You know he has reasons to strike out for himself.”
He holds up his hands. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what?”
He considers me, as if deciding something.
Free Jim reaches beneath the counter and pulls out an old farmer’s almanac, the kind Daddy always kept lying around for easy reference. He opens the cover, revealing a square of thick folded paper tucked inside. He unfolds the square and spreads it out. “This is Mitchell’s Reference and Distance Map, the 1846 edition, with an inset for Texas, California, and Oregon.”
I peer at it. “Oh?”
“We’re right here.” A large blunt finger drops onto the section labeled “Georgia.” The states are marked in bold outline, each one filled with brightly colored counties. His voice drops to a whisper. “Now, when someone leaves Georgia, and they don’t want anyone finding them . . .”
His voice trails off. I swallow a lump in my throat. “Like Jefferson, you mean.”
“Sure, like Jefferson.” His fingertip traces across Georgia to the ocean. “Say the rumors are true and Jefferson is going to Savannah. That’s trying to get to California all in one jump. A temptation, to be sure. But he’ll have to wait there to find passage, and waiting somewhere is asking to get caught. Even if he does find passage, the ships will have records. Passenger manifests that anyone could look at.”
“How should he do it?” My next words are timid. “Head for Independence?”
“Sure.” The map keeps trying to fold back up. Free Jim grabs a boot from the shelf behind him and plunks it on the counter to hold down the edge. “If Jefferson is smart, and I reckon he is, then he should consider his journey in stages. The first thing is to get to Chattanooga. There’s only one road across the mountains. Now, let’s say somebody’s looking for him.”
“Like . . . his da.”
“Like his da. Any store or tavern or farm he stops in, people might recognize him. So he’s got to camp out. But the local pattyrollers know all the places to hide. So the faster he gets away from here, the better.” He pauses, leans forward. “The most dangerous part of the journey is close to home.”
Daddy always said the slave patrols were little better than bandits. For the right price, they’re happy to go after just about anybody, and Uncle Hiram wouldn’t think twice about sending them after me. I bend over the map, memorizing the towns on the way to Chattanooga—Prince Edward, Ellijay, Dalton.
Jim slides his finger westward over the mountains. “Let’s say Jefferson makes it to Chattanooga. From there he’s got two choices: He can go overland, through Kentucky and to the Ohio River. Or he can get on a flatboat or steamer and ride down the Tennessee River.”
“Which is better?”
“He should go by land. He can keep moving, not get tied down where someone might catch him. It’s hard to run when you’re on a boat, unless you can walk on water like our Lord.”
I choke on a laugh.
Free Jim’s return smile quickly fades as he indicates a twisting blue line that cuts the map in half.
“The Mississippi River?” I ask. It looks huge. Even on paper.
“Yep. Everyone going west must cross the Mississippi eventually. By ferry or steamer.”
“Is that . . . expensive?”
He nods. “The steamer surely is. And bound to get more expensive every month. By this time next year, fares will be double, at least. But once crossed, Independence is just a state away.”
I study the roads that lead from Chattanooga, but there are too many places to remember. As long as I go north and west, I’ll get there.
Jim spreads his hands on the map, one thumb on Dahlonega and the other on Independence. “If Jefferson’s all alone for this part of the journey, he’ll need to be full of care. You understand me?”
“I understand.”
“But if he reaches Independence and joins a wagon train, the guides will take him the rest of way.”
“So, the wagon journey is the easy part,” I say.
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say that.”
I fall back on my heels, shoulders slumping. The country is bigger than I thought it was, and I’m going to need more money than I realized.