This is all going terribly off track. “Maybe I can just tell you what I want, and you can tell me if it can be done, and, if so, how fast you can do it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Melancthon says.
“I’d like separate rooms for us to sleep in, and a larger room where we can meet.”
“We already did the first part, turning the crew deck into cabins, before we picked up the passengers in Panama. I can take you down the main hatchway and show you. And the galley, where we serve meals, that’s already as good a room as any to meet in.”
This may turn out easier than I’d hoped. “What about storage? Is there room enough to stable our horses and store our wagon?”
He points to a hatchway at the center of the ship, currently covered by a tarp. “For certain. We transported some cattle in the hold, at least until it was time to eat them.”
Even better. “What about putting a door in the side of the ship, so we can take the horses in and out just like a stable?”
Melancthon goes pale and takes a step backward. “You want to put a . . . hole in the side of the Charlotte?”
“Two holes,” I clarify. “One that would lead to the cargo hold, where we could stable the horses and store the wagon, but move them in and out easily. And then another one right here at the front of the ship, so we can walk in and out without climbing up the gangplank.”
“But . . . my ship . . .”
“Is never going to sail again. I’ll pay you to do the work, daily wages, whatever a carpenter makes in San Francisco right now. So if you can’t find a ship to hire you, by the time you’re done working for us, you can buy passage on one. This is your way out of California. In the meantime, you can stay aboard for as long as we’re on the ship. Rent free.”
The light comes back into his eyes. “So you’re going to settle here in San Francisco?” he asks.
It’s a reasonable deduction, but I’m not eager to explain our plans to a stranger. “That remains to be seen. But look, no hard feelings if you don’t want to do the work. I’ll just hire a different carpenter, and you can find somewhere else to stay.”
He shrugs. “I guess I’ll get started.”
“Stable for the horses is the highest priority,” I tell him. I’m nervous about leaving them tied up outside, especially Peony, who’s been stolen once already.
“That’s smart, ma’am,” Melancthon says. “Every horse thief in San Francisco will take notice of that pretty palomino of yours.”
“It’s settled, then. Can you show us to the cabins below? And the meeting room?”
“Cabins and galley. Yes, ma’am. If you’ll all follow me this way.”
As we crowd together toward a ladder, Becky leans over and whispers, “You handled that very well.”
“I did?”
“Once you started giving orders, he never once looked to any of the men for confirmation.” She squeezes my arm.
Jefferson comes up on the other side. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Huh?”
He nods at my right hand. “You’re the only one holding a gun, which kinda demands attention. And you tend to jab with it emphatically whenever you’re making a point.”
“I do not jab.”
“You jab.”
He points again. My arm is tensed and I’m thrusting the barrel of the gun at his feet while I talk.
“Huh. I never noticed that before.”
Melancthon has been a good caretaker, and the area below decks is spick-and-span. Our steps have a hollow sound that will take some getting used to. Thin wooden walls divide the lower deck into eight smaller cabins, most outfitted with cots or beds. It’s not the same as private rooms, but they’re semiprivate. Tom and Henry take one together. Becky takes a larger one for herself and the children. She invites me to join them, but there’s plenty of room, and Jasper, Jefferson, the Major, and I each take cabins for ourselves. Four empty cots make mine feel a little lonely, especially after we’ve all been piled on top of each other for days.
Henry sticks his head in the door. “This was a really good idea,” he says. “A perfect base of operations for going after Hardwick.”
I grin. “We are going to destroy him. Get everyone together in the galley—I’ll be there in a minute.”
I pick one of the cots and shove the saddlebags underneath it. The blanket from another cot becomes a wrap for Daddy’s rifle. I slide it underneath, beside the saddlebags. It’s not much in terms of worldly possessions.
But I have friends. And a purpose. And now a ship.
I find all the adults gathered in the galley, seated around a large wooden table that’s nailed to the floor. An oil lamp hangs from the ceiling, casting a warm glow. The seat at the head of the table is empty, so that’s the one I take.
Becky rocks the sleeping baby in her arms. “Where are Olive and Andrew?” I ask.
“They’re amusing themselves in the cabin for now. They’re glad to have a larger space.”
I waste no time. “It should be clear to everyone now that James Henry Hardwick is coming after us. He provided the money for my uncle’s scheme last fall.” I nod to Tom and Jefferson, who experienced worse in that ordeal than I did. “Since then, Hardwick has failed to live up to the terms of the contract we signed with him at Christmas.”
“But we can take that to court and make him enforce it,” Jasper says.
“Is that true, Tom?”
Tom shakes his head. “Right now, California barely has courts worthy of the name. Influence counts for more than the law. The courts do what Hardwick tells them, not the other way around.”
“And there’s the matter of Becky’s house,” I say.
Becky stops stroking the baby’s cheek and looks up.
“And the fact that Frank Dilley and those roughnecks held you and Henry at gunpoint in the Custom House,” I add.
The Major frowns at Becky. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for that.”
Becky absently puts a hand on his arm, even as she bounces the baby on one knee. “It turned out fine,” she says. The Major stares down at the hand covering his arm, color rising in his cheeks.
“And then we come to the matter of Hampton,” I say.
I’m met with nods and murmurs of agreement from around the table.
“There’s one more thing,” Tom says, his face grave.
“Oh?”
“I can’t be the only one who has noticed,” he says, glancing around the table. “But Hardwick seems to have taken a peculiar interest in Lee.”
“It’s true,” Becky says.
“Lee, I don’t like the way he looks at you,” Jefferson adds.
I don’t like it much either. He gives my belly the same wormy feeling I always got around my uncle Hiram.
“What makes you all say that?” Jasper says.
“Well, he keeps showing up everywhere we go,” Jefferson says.
“He’s going to ask for more money for Glory’s charter, remember?” Henry says.
“He called Lee ‘intriguing,’” Becky says. “Which gave me a shiver, I don’t mind saying.
“He knows we’ve all got more gold than we ought, although . . .” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I don’t think he knows about your particular . . . blessing.”
“In any case, his fascination with Lee is . . . unnatural,” Tom says.
They’re all looking at each other, more than they’re looking at me. Finally, Jefferson clears his throat. “The thing is, Lee, there’s always going to be men like that in the world.”
“And your point is?”
“We can’t make that problem go away forever.”
“When you’re hungry, and you eat, do you expect your hunger to go away forever? When you’re sick, and you go to a doctor”—I point to Jasper—“do you expect to stay well forever? Of course not. Hardwick is the problem in front of us right now. We can’t solve the problem forever, but we can solve him. That’s what we’re going to do.”
“Yo
u aren’t planning to shoot Hardwick, are you?” Tom asks. “With your daddy’s rifle?”
“No!”
“Because that would be wrong—”
“Because that would be ineffective.”
“And also wrong,” says Jefferson.
“Yes, but it wouldn’t get the job done,” I clarify. “Jeff, you remember our teacher back in Dahlonega? Mr. Anders?”
Jefferson is leaning forward, fingers steepled. “Yeah.”
“What was that monster he told us about? The one where you cut off its head and it grows two more?”
“The hydra?” he answers, as all three of the college men blurt out, “The hydra!”
“That’s the one,” I say. “Hardwick is the head of the monster, but the body that feeds him is the money and the businesses that are making him rich right now. If he died tomorrow, a bunch of other men would just divvy up his businesses and his money, and they’d all go on doing the same thing. It’s not enough to cut the head off the monster. We have to destroy the body too. We’re not just going to bring down James Henry Hardwick, we’re going to ruin his empire and take every penny he owns. Who’s in?”
Silence. Faintly, a burst of distant laughter filters through the hull; probably from one of the nearby saloons.
Jasper spreads his large, capable hands on the table. “I hear what you’re saying, and I admire your intent. But I came to San Francisco to learn. And there’s so much to learn. Malnourishment, diseases, every kind of wound and injury. But my time is limited. A year from now, when this is a more settled place, those problems won’t be here, not in the same degree. I can get a lifetime of experience in the next year if I want it, and that’s what I want.”
“You’re already the best doctor I’ve ever known,” I tell him.
He grins. “And I’m going to get even better.”
“That makes perfect sense,” I say, even though I’m disappointed. “I wish you well. You’re welcome to stay aboard the ship, even if you’re not part of our plan.”
Jasper stands. “I’d like to maintain a cabin here, if you don’t mind, Lee.”
“Of course I don’t mind!”
“It’s just the doctor I’m working with has invited me to board with him on weekdays, because there’s no telling what hour of the day an emergency will come knocking. He calls it ‘a residency.’ My home will always be here, with you.” He glances toward Henry and Tom, his face a little apologetic. “But I think I’ll take him up on that. Spend most of my nights there, come back to the Charlotte on weekends.”
Henry and Tom exchange a glance, part resignation, part relief, and suddenly I understand. Henry and Tom have always been especially attached to each other, and Jasper is leaving them be, giving them space of their own.
I swallow hard and force myself to say, “That doctor is lucky to have you.”
“Now, this doesn’t mean I won’t help. Hampton is my friend, and we’ve been through a lot together, and I’ll do just about anything to get him back. So, if you think of something I can do, you let me know, understand?”
“Count on it.”
He rises from the table. Becky says, “You’ll come around often, won’t you, Jasper?”
“Of course!”
The Major shakes Jasper’s hand. Jefferson puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
Henry crosses his arms and says emphatically, “See you soon.”
“See you soon,” Jasper echoes.
“See you soon,” Tom whispers.
With a final nod, Jasper leaves the room. I stare around the rest of the table. “Anybody else want to go? Now’s the time to do it.”
Nobody moves. The Major reaches down to rub the stump of his leg. “Just promise me there’s a chance to take down Frank Dilley too.”
“That’s definitely part of the plan,” I promise him.
“Then I’m in.”
Tom pushes his chair back from the table and rises. Before speaking, he straightens his collar and cuffs. “I think I need to go see a man about a job,” he says in a tight voice. “I’ll catch up with all of you later.”
I nod to him, not trusting my words enough to say anything.
“Tom . . . ,” Henry says.
Tom smiles the tiniest bit. “I’ll be back.”
When he’s gone, I lean forward. “All right then. Let’s get to work.”
Just below us, deep inside the ship, a hammer pounds on thick wood. A moment later comes the rasp of a saw.
Chapter Nine
The first thing we decide to do is find out how much money Hardwick has and where he keeps it.
The day we ran into Hardwick, his entourage included the fellow whom Henry has taken to calling “Mr. Keys,” real name unknown. All we do know about Mr. Keys is that he’s a small man with a narrow face and no chin, and—most importantly—he sticks close to Hardwick, carrying a large ring of keys and a heavy leather bag full of gold.
It’s a sure bet some of Hardwick’s money is at that bank. But it’s a surer bet that not all of it is. And if anyone is in charge of Hardwick’s money, it’s Mr. Keys.
Jefferson took off before dawn to make inquiries about Hardwick’s main business office and hopefully put an eye on the little fellow.
In the meantime, before the bank opens, Becky and I camp out in the parlor of a hotel kitty-corner to the Custom House building. We find two large armchairs and drag them from the fireplace to one of the windows. The window is dirty but large, and it gives us an unobstructed view of the bank. This is one of the establishments where miners, flush with gold, stay up all night to gamble, and are then late abed, so we have the downstairs mostly to ourselves.
Their gold sings to me, though. Several coin purses’ worth, mostly upstairs, but a larger stash hides away in the downstairs office.
The air is especially chilly. Nothing close to a frost, but still the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes you ache for a warm kitchen and bread right out the oven; even a chunk of half-burned, half-doughy bread from Becky’s restaurant would be just the thing. A light rain falls, so the plaza feels sleepier than usual. The men who come to open the bank have hunched shoulders and dripping hats. They pause beneath the veranda to kick mud off their boots before unlocking the doors.
For the next hour or so, a handful of brave but unfamiliar souls, similarly inured to the cold and wet, are the only ones to enter and leave.
“Excuse me, ladies?”
I’d been so intent on watching the bank that I hadn’t noticed anyone approach. The proprietor of the hotel, wearing a green velvet vest and an air of self-importance, looks down his blunt nose at us.
I’m not sure what to say, but Becky doesn’t hesitate.
“My dear sir,” she says smoothly. The baby kept her up half the night, and it’s a wonder she’s not dozing in her chair. “How may we be of service?”
“That’s just it,” he says, hooking his thumbs into his vest pockets. “You can’t.”
“I’m afraid we don’t understand your implication,” Becky says.
“That is, what I’m trying to say is, this is not the sort of establishment where we welcome women who provide services.”
My head whips back around. “What?”
Becky reaches out and taps her fingers on his hand. “Oh, sir, that’s such a relief to hear. You’ve put my heart at ease.”
“I have?” he says, thrown off-balance.
I’m torn. I need to watch the bank, but I’m equally captivated by Becky—I have no idea what she plans to say next. It never occurred to me that we’d be a problem sitting in a public parlor on a cold day.
“You have,” she says. “You see . . .” She whispers the last phrase conspiratorially, leaning forward. The proprietor bends down to listen closely.
“My dear, beloved husband,” she says, “brought our gold into San Francisco to invest it, but I’m very much afraid he’s been spending it instead. It’s one thing if he gambles a bit of it. Why, that’s natural, and any man
might do the same, whether for entertainment or in hopes of increasing his stake. But if he’s been spending it elsewise . . .”
She lets the last sentence trail off like an unspoken threat. Taking notice of my attention, she jerks her head to the window, and I oblige by turning my head around again to watch the bank, trusting her to take care of the proprietor.
“And you’re certain he’s a resident of our establishment?” he says.
“Not at all,” Becky says. “But he didn’t come home last night, and one of his usual companions said he was last seen in your gambling parlor, around midnight. So I’ve come to check. You say there are no women here who might keep the gentlemen company?”
“Ah,” the proprietor says.
In his silence, I hear a different story: that any such women here are discreet enough to avoid being seen in the front parlor in the morning.
“Perhaps he had a bit too much to drink and decided to sleep it off before coming home,” Becky suggests.
“That’s entirely possible,” admits the proprietor. “If you would like to give me a name, I could check our guest ledger.”
“Absolutely not!” Becky says. “If my suspicions are unfounded, I would certainly not wish to sully the reputation of our good name.”
A short man carrying something heavy walks toward the bank. I rub a circle clean on the window with my sleeve, then realize that Becky and the proprietor are both staring. I suppose that using my sleeve to clean a window is probably ill-mannered. “I apologize,” I say, hiding my sleeve under my arm. “I thought I saw . . . him.” Him being Mr. Keys, not Becky’s imaginary husband. “But I was mistaken.”
“Have all of your guests come downstairs yet this morning?” Becky asks the proprietor.
“No, ma’am,” he says. “No, they haven’t.”
“Then we’ll just wait here until they do. Thank you for allowing us to do that. Your thoughtfulness means everything.”
I take another glimpse, just to see his jaw working, trying to figure out how he ended up giving us permission. Finally he snaps it shut and takes a moment to gather himself. “I guess that will be satisfactory,” he says thoughtfully, perhaps considering how he can sneak upstairs and warn his customers that someone’s angry wife is lying in ambush in the parlor. He turns to go, saying, “If there will be nothing else, then?”