Into the Bright Unknown

  “Don’t tell me. That’s the whole point. I want to see if I can figure out where it is.”

  “If I took the locket, you’d find it, no trouble at all.”

  “Well, yes, but I want to get better at this.”

  “Then let’s give it a try,” he says. He bends down, kisses me quick on the lips, then closes the door on his way out. My cabin is suddenly empty and quiet without him.

  His footsteps fade down the hall, toward the hatch that leads to the lower deck with the horses. Listening to his footsteps feels like cheating, so I close my eyes and focus on the gold instead of Jefferson’s boots. It’s like a torch in my mind, descending to the lower deck, growing gradually fainter, then brighter again as it passes directly beneath me and up the other stairs. Clever Jefferson.

  The saddlebag finally comes to rest on the poop deck, where Jefferson and I watched the stars last night.

  It’s at the end of the ship farthest from me now, but the torch in my mind is still bright. I reach out my hand, close my fist, and try to pull the gold.

  It slips through my fingers like water.

  I squeeze my fist and try again.

  My arm shakes. Fingernails dig into my palm hard enough to hurt. My head pounds like a steam engine about to explode. I yank my fist toward my stomach.

  The gold moves.

  It slides across the deck, thumps down the wooden steps to the quarterdeck, and slams against a railing.

  I fall backward, panting, dizzy, partly because the use of power is heady and strange. But partly because I think I’ve figured out what we’re going to do with it.

  Jefferson’s boots pound down the steps and through the hallway. “Lee! Lee!”

  The baby starts crying, and Becky shouts, “Jefferson Kingfisher, I just got this child to sleep!”

  “Sorry, ma’am! Won’t happen again.”

  I stand up and fling open the door. Jefferson is wide-eyed and grinning as he comes down the hall, saddlebag over his shoulder. He fights hard to keep his voice a whisper: “Did you do that?”

  I grin back at him. “You know I did. I need to rest, then I need to practice again. I might have an idea.”

  He plants a quick kiss on my lips. “You are a wonder,” he says, with that almost smile I love so much.

  I want more than a little kiss. “All this practice. My shoulders hurt—do you want to come rub them for a bit?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’m the daftest girl who ever tried to flirt. My cheeks flame.

  But Jefferson grins. He slips the saddlebag off his shoulder and quietly shuts the door. “That’s a good idea.”

  He lifts my hair and kisses the back of my neck, sending tingles up and down my spine. “Jeff,” I say. Like it’s a warning. Or maybe an invitation.

  “Just a little kissing, right?” he says.

  “Right.”

  His strong fingers sink into my muscles, hurting and relieving hurt at the same time. The throbbing in my head starts to subside. I let myself sink down into the cot like it’s the most comfortable featherbed that ever existed. Doing something about Hardwick can wait for a while.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I allow myself one more day of thinking and practicing with my gold and plotting with my friends. It takes all of us together to figure out how to take Hardwick down. And it will take all of us together to do it, even Jim Boisclair and Melancthon, though the sailor will never know the particulars. By evening, after several meetings and a few errands, we have the skeleton of a plan. Tonight, we begin putting it into place.

  To blend into the night, I’m wearing dark trousers and an old black sweater that Henry found at a general store. A miner’s hat made of dark brown leather will hide my hair. For the first time in months, I’ve bound my breasts with a shawl.

  The goal is to go unnoticed. But if I am noticed, it’s best I be seen as a boy, which makes me a dime a dozen in this city, not unusual at all.

  “You sure you’re ready?” Jefferson says, as we walk together toward the galley. Like me, he’s dressed in dark trousers and a dark woolen shirt. “You’re about to take an awful risk.”

  He’s right. We could use several more days of planning. Weeks, even. “The auction is in two more days, and after that, Hardwick’s going to take his money and run. We have to do this now.”

  “We have to steal his money, his reputation, and his allies—that’s what you keep saying.”

  “I like how it sounds when you say it. We have to steal justice.”

  He grins. “Let’s start with his money. I asked Mary to—”

  “Stop right there,” I say. “I can’t know the details of your part of the plan.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of Helena Russell!”

  “You don’t believe in her second sight, do you?”

  “If someone told you about a poor orphan girl from Georgia who knew how to witch up gold, what would you say?”

  He rubs his chin. “That’s different.”

  “Only because you know me.” I grab his hand to steal some of his strength. “Did you know that I’m Irish, too? On my mother’s side? What if Miss Russell can tell the future? Or read my mind? Maybe the fact that I have powers of my own makes it easier for her to scry my footsteps. Or even my thoughts. So, I can’t know too many details, or maybe Hardwick will know them. And you have to stay away from her. We all do.”

  He squeezes my hand in reassurance. “I’m not sure about seeing futures or thoughts or whatever, but better safe than sorry, right?”

  “Right.”

  We’ve reached the galley. A cast-iron stove now rests on a tile platform in the corner, with a stovepipe running up and out the side of the ship. Poor Melancthon—another hole. A small fire inside has made the room toasty warm.

  Melancthon and the Major are at work on their own part of our plan—though Melancthon has no idea what he’s laboring on; he’s simply following the Major’s orders. They’re cleaning a hose that looks like it’s been salvaged from one of the ship’s pumps. An empty rain barrel stands nearby, and their tools are spread out over most of the table. I turn my gaze away. I don’t want a picture of it in my mind, lest Helena Russell susses it out.

  At the table’s corner, Olive sits beside Henry. She clutches her new rag doll while he reads to her quietly from Washington Irving’s Sketch Book, pointing to the words and sounding them out. Andy plays on the floor with his menagerie. Becky sits in a rocking chair with the sleeping baby. The chair rocks back and forth. Becky’s lids are half closed.

  “Where did you get a rocking chair?” I ask.

  “Wally and Melancthon put it together for me,” she says, smiling. “They’re exceedingly clever.”

  The Major looks up from his current work just long enough to wave off the compliment, but I can tell he’s proud of his work.

  “Becky,” I say, “Now that Mary’s here . . .”

  Becky pauses midrock, and then continues, rockers creaking on the floor. She pulls the baby’s blanket tighter, as though she’d been fussing. “I saw her this morning at breakfast. She left to run errands in town.”

  I bet she did. Where Becky is concerned, Mary prefers to make herself scarce. “I understand if you need to pack up and head back to Glory right away.”

  She sits up straighter. “Not until we’re done here and I’ve gotten my cottage back. No low-down, mean-spirited, pusillanimous, thieving scoundrel is going to keep me from collecting what’s mine.” There’s so much vehemence in her voice that the baby startles and fusses for real. “Now see what you did?”

  “Sorry,” I say in a lower voice. “So you’re not mad? About Mary?”

  Becky lifts her nose into the air. “I let her know she’s welcome here, and she always has a place to stay with us.” As if she’s a queen bestowing favors on the unworthy.

  “Well, I, for one, am awful glad to see her,” I say.

  “Are you and Jefferson going out soon?”

  “We are,” I say.

&n
bsp; “Please be careful. If something happened to you . . . well, the children would miss you a lot.”

  I glance over at Jefferson, who hides a small smile.

  “Will do, ma’am,” I tell her.

  Jefferson and I exit the Charlotte and step out into the street. It’s a quick walk to Portsmouth Square, which is busier at night than most places are during the day.

  One side of the square is formed by the long building that contains the Custom House, the law offices, and the bank. The other three sides are filled with hotels and gambling dens. The square is crowded with people, drunk, joyful, weeping, fighting people, alone and in groups, stumbling from one hotel to the next, abandoning one gambling parlor for another, climbing in and out of carriages as they arrive from private parties or prepare to return home. Light fills the square, thanks to lanterns hanging beside almost every stoop, even a few torches. It’s no wonder this place burned almost to the ground.

  It’s a perfect environment for Jefferson and me to blend in while we watch the Custom House building. Arm in arm, like two chums out for a stroll, we pretend we aren’t in the least bit nervous as we go from one hotel to the next, fall in or out of one group or another, and skirt the square as we watch the bank. A guard paces the veranda, or sits on a cane chair outside the door and smokes. From time to time, some of his friends come by to chat, but nobody draws him away.

  “That seems like hard duty,” I say to Jefferson as we stroll past.

  “I bet it gets harder a few hours after midnight, when the gambling dens close their doors and everyone goes home or finds a bed. That’s when we’ll have our chance.”

  “I’ve never broken the law before,” I say, speaking in a low whisper.

  “Me neither,” he says. “And I’m man enough to admit I’m a bit anxious.”

  A large, cold drop of water lands on the tip of my nose. When I look up, a few more patter on my face. Rain might make tonight’s task especially difficult and dangerous.

  The rain does us one favor, which is bring an earlier end to the evening’s festivities. By the time the ships’ bells in the harbor are ringing midnight, the streets are already clearing, and some of the parlors close their doors. Jefferson and I find a bench and sit. It’s chilly, and I’d love to burrow into his chest, let his warm arm wrap me tight. Instead, we sit shoulder to shoulder, barely touching.

  We’re in the dark, in the shade of an awning, unmoving, so I don’t think the guard can see us. But we can see him just fine in the light of his lantern. He sits alone for a long time, smoking, rolling one cigarette after another. I start to doze off.

  “There he goes,” whispers Jefferson.

  I snap to and sit up straight. The rain is still falling, a dismal curtain of cold droplets. The guard is standing, shaking out his empty tobacco pouch. He peers into the dark for a long minute. He paces to one end of the veranda and looks around, then heads back to the other. Having assured himself that no one is about, he runs across the street for the parlor of the hotel where Becky and I stood lookout a few days earlier.

  “What time is it?” I ask Jefferson.

  “The ships just rang five bells,” he says. “So, two thirty in the morning,”

  I stand from the bench. “Then I had better get moving. I might not have much time.”

  “He’ll probably want something hot to eat, something hard to drink, and take time to relieve himself. But if he comes back early, I’ll distract him.”

  “All right. Here I go—”

  A sharp whistle cuts through the night, slicing from one end of the square to another. A dark shadow slips around the far corner of the veranda, carrying a pry bar. The shadow sprints down the length of it, staying close to the wall, pausing only long enough to blow out the lantern.

  The rain muffles the sound, but there’s a soft, woody snap. The pry bar forcing the door open.

  “Whoa,” I whisper, my heart sinking. “I think the bank is getting robbed.”

  “Seems like we’re not the only ones up to no good tonight,” Jefferson says.

  “This is bad for us,” I say. “We can’t do this if they get there first.”

  “They won’t be successful,” he says. “Not going through the front door like that. We’ll just come back tomorrow night.”

  “Hardwick will double his security. We won’t be able to touch his gold.”

  “Do you want to go across the street and tell the guard?”

  I stand up and start moving toward the Custom House building. Jefferson follows me. Then I pause. “Won’t matter,” I say. “Whether the robbery is successful or not, Hardwick will double the guard. Let’s see how far they get.” I’m not sure it’s the right decision, but it’s my best guess.

  A metallic clang rings through the rain. The cage lock is broken.

  The clomp of hooves and the creak of wheels freeze me against the wall. A mule plods into view from a side street. Jefferson leans over, like he’s a drunkard and I’m helping him keep his feet, but both of us watch the mule cart.

  The driver glances our way, but he chooses to ignore us. He pulls the cart up to the front of the bank.

  Jefferson and I ease closer, all the way to the corner of the veranda.

  The first man pushes Hardwick’s safe through the bank door.

  “They put it on wheels,” Jefferson whispers.

  “That’s one way to do it,” I whisper back. But now I’m worried the robbers will get away with their theft, which could make our task impossible. Hardwick needs to feel confident. Overconfident, even.

  The driver stretches a plank from the back of the cart to the hard porch. The safe is heavy, but together the two of them muscle it up the ramp into the cart. The wheels sink several inches into the mud, and the mule snorts and fights against his traces.

  No movement from the hotel. The guard shows no sign of returning.

  They’re going to do it. The robbers are going to get away with Hardwick’s money.

  “What do we do?” Jefferson whispers.

  The thieves toss the plank on the back of the wagon and leap onto the seat. The driver lashes the mule, which lurches forward, straining against its harness. The traces rattle, and the shafts snap tight. The wagon doesn’t move, and for a second I think we might be saved by the mud.

  The driver lashes the mule again, harder, and the other man jumps down to push from behind. With a huge sucking sound, the wheels break free of the mud, and the wagon begins to slowly roll forward.

  “That poor mule,” I say.

  Jefferson says, “I’ll follow them, see where they go.”

  “Wait a second,” I say, grabbing his wrist.

  I can sense the gold in the safe, and for once, we’ve had a bit of luck. Because inside that safe are several gold bars, which have as large and regular a shape as a military marching song. All I have to do is beckon it.

  I concentrate hard, reaching with my mind.

  The driver whips the mule again, and the wagon starts to surge forward. The thief jumps onto the bench seat.

  I pull the gold harder than I’ve ever pulled.

  The safe slides backward off the cart and lands in the mud. It’s so heavy it sinks half a foot deep, maybe more.

  I drop to my knees, light-headed, gasping for air, like I just sprinted up a hill.

  “Lee,” Jefferson says, kneeling beside me. “Lee, are you all right? Did you just—”

  “I just,” I say.

  The thief leaps down from the wagon bench and tries to shove the safe, but it won’t budge. The door of the hotel slams open. The guard runs out, followed by several others. The driver whips the mule, and the cart clatters into the night. The other thief starts to chase after, shouting “Wait!” The mud trips him up. The guard and his friends fall on him, punching and kicking.

  Jefferson pulls me to my feet, but my knees are wobbly. “We have to get out of here, Lee, before someone sees us,” he whispers.

  “I can’t,” I tell him. If I try, I might lose my supper. He
aring the wet thunk of feet and fists against flesh isn’t helping. I should have let the poor man get away.

  “I’ll carry you,” Jeff says.

  Which he does. He puts an arm around me and lifts me like I’m passed-out drunk. We make our way back to the hotel awning. Carefully he lowers me to the bench to rest.

  “Lee! I can’t believe you moved that whole safe.”

  “Good thing I’ve been practicing,” I say. My head won’t stop spinning. I topple sideways, falling slowly, like the drizzle.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I wake up in my cabin in the Charlotte. Jefferson sits across from me, a worried look on his face. Dark hollows circle his eyes. Olive, bless her heart, sits on the floor beside my cot, holding my hand.

  “Ma,” she cries, with all the piercing volume of a child with important news. “Lee’s awake!”

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “Around noon,” Jefferson says.

  I start to rise, but Becky bursts through the door, sees me, and pushes me firmly back into the blankets. “Don’t even think about getting up, young lady.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll have absolutely no buts from you.”

  “No butts,” says Andy, following her into the room. “No butts on the poop deck!”

  “Andrew Junior,” Olive says, with all the imperiousness of her mother. “Lee’s sick. Be quiet.”

  “La poop, la poop, la poop,” he says, dissolving into giggles.

  “We have to be quiet,” Olive says, in the loudest whisper I’ve ever heard. “Lee, are you ready to drink some water? Jasper says sick people need to drink a lot of water. I brought a pitcher, just in case you woke up.” She indicates an old spouted bucket on the floor beside my cot.

  Before I can answer, Becky puts her hands on her hips, looks down her nose at me, and says, “What exactly did you think you were doing?”

  “I was trying to—”

  “That was a rhetorical question, Miss Westfall.” She wags her finger at me, and that’s when I know I’m in real trouble. “I once saw a man try to lift a fallen tree. It was after a June thunderstorm, and it was blocking the way of several carriages, including ours. Some of the men were hitching up a team of horses to drag it out of the way, but this fellow couldn’t wait and he wouldn’t ask for help. He strained and groaned and then, with a prodigious heave, much like Samson, he flung it aside. And do you know what happened then?”