I reach out with both hands, close my eyes. Ten safes. Almost two million dollars in gold coins. More money than I ever imagined. All tied down around the heart of my mama’s final gift to me. And using that final gift as a focus, I pull my hands against my chest and squeeze, like I’m giving all that gold the fiercest bear hug of my life.
To anyone watching, I must appear to have taken leave of my sense, but I don’t care. I punch my fists out, like I’m trying to knock an attacker down to save my life.
Something moves.
My eyes shoot open. The ship is farther away, heading toward deep water.
I stretch out my arms again, and pull the gold toward me. I feel it skew, unevenly, as something breaks. I shove it away again, and the mass lurches hard.
The cargo is no longer tied down, and the ship rolls in the waves.
I remember what Melancthon told me about the capsized ship: the waves and the cargo together were what sank it. So I wait—just a moment—until the ship is listing toward my shore, and I pull with all my strength, working with the waves instead of against. I release it, and when the hull begins to tip back in the other direction, I push as hard as I can.
Now the loose cargo is doing half the work, sliding on its own as the ship tosses in the rough tide.
“Lee,” Jefferson whispers. “Your nose is bleeding.”
“Tell me if my eyes start bleeding,” I snap. But I lick my lips and taste raw copper on my tongue, thinking of the story Becky told me, about the man who moved the tree and caused his heart to burst.
But I can’t quit now, with the job half done. If I do, the crew will just go down into the hold and secure the cargo.
So I stand here, pushing and pulling, one way and then the other, as the ship rides off into the distance. My legs start to wobble. I’m vaguely aware when Jefferson closes the gap between our bodies, and suddenly I realize I’m no longer standing on my own strength, that his arm is wrapped around my waist.
The Argos is rolling so violently now that the masts nearly kiss the waves. Dark specks flee the tossing ship—the crew has managed to launch several of the lifeboats.
The ship is so far away now, I can barely sense the locket at all. It feels like a nugget, lost in a rushing creek, beneath gravel and ice. It’s going to get away.
My luck changes. The ship slows. The captain, either in a panic, or under orders from Hardwick, is trying to turn the ship back. To put to shore before all is lost.
It gives me a chance. A large wave hits it nearly broadside. I grab the gold and pull it as hard as I can. The ship rolls right over. The mast breaks as it hits the water. A split second after I see it, I hear the sharp snap of cracking wood.
I sink to my knees.
“Lee,” Jefferson says. “Lee . . . Lee, are you all right?”
I reach out one last time with both fists, and yank down as hard as I can, hurling that gold down to the bottom of the ocean. I hope the water is a mile deep. Or at least too deep for any divers to reach it.
“Lee!”
Bloods gushes out of my nose and runs down over my lips and chin.
“I . . .”
I don’t remember falling over, but I’m lying sideways, and my head hurts where it hit the ground. Gravel presses tiny dots of pain into my cheek.
“Lee!”
Jefferson’s hands grasp me, but they feel faraway, almost like they’re touching someone else. So tired. Hollowed out. Sun fading away.
“S’okay,” I tell him, from a distance. “Trust you . . . help me home?” Arms wrap me tight, bolster me. I’m barely conscious as he helps me into my saddle. Fortunately, riding Peony is something I can almost do in my sleep, and we start a slow, careful trek back toward the Charlotte.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I’m feeling better by the time we return, but I still fall into my cot and sleep like the dead. When I wake, morning shines bright through the window Melancthon made for me. I scratch my itchy upper lip and discover that more blood caked there overnight. The bleeding seems to have stopped for good, though, so I force myself out of bed, wash quickly, and fetch Jefferson, who is hugely relieved to see me awake and hale. Everyone else has left already; Jefferson convinced them to let me sleep.
Dawn chills the air as we return to the cemetery on Peony and Sorry, following the same road we galloped along just hours before. The horses are delighted to be out again so soon. Peony kicks up her heels and tosses her head at every bird and bug. I’m glad one of us has some spunk; I’m so tired I could die.
“I don’t think you should be up and about,” Jefferson says. “In fact, maybe you should stay in bed for a week. Possibly a month.”
“After the meeting,” I promise. “I’ll sleep then.”
To be fair to him and his concerns, my head is throbbing, like there’s an arrastra inside my skull, and a mule is dragging a grindstone around and around in a circle. My knees are weak, and my arms feel twisted and limp as a hen’s wry neck.
“If I’m this exhausted,” Jefferson says, “you must be about to faint.”
“I promise I won’t try to roll over any ships today,” I say.
Jefferson shakes his head. “If I hadn’t been there to see it, I wouldn’t believe it.”
“I hope everyone is all right.”
“Saw Melancthon at breakfast,” Jefferson says. “He said the crew got safely ashore. The ebb tide carried the smaller boats out to sea, but other ships were there to pick them up. Hardwick’s pinnace made it into shore this morning, right before we left.”
“But the Argos did sink, right?” I’d hate to hear it was all for naught, that the ship somehow survived.
“The officer said they expect some light wreckage to drift ashore, but I don’t reckon it will include any gold-filled safes. The water in that part of the bay is more than fifty fathoms deep.”
“Is fifty fathoms deep?”
“Deep enough to sink Hardwick’s fortune.”
Sorry shakes her ruddy head, jangling her bridle, as if putting an end to the matter. As the sun rises across the bay, I feel a little warmer and a lot more whole again.
“We really did it, didn’t we?” Jefferson says.
“Yep. Nobody in California will trust Hardwick again. And he’ll find it a lot harder to start rebuilding his fortune from scratch.”
“Looks like almost everyone is here already,” Jefferson says.
The Sailor’s Cemetery stretches before us, green as an emerald with all the recent rain. A small crowd gathers around Jim’s grave. A final chance to say good-bye. The wagon is here, and it looks like it’s carrying a full load of lumber—Becky’s house, if I don’t miss my guess. Breath rises like fog from the carthorses’ nostrils.
“There you are!” Becky says when she sees us.
“I needed a little extra sleep,” I admit.
“See, Wally?” Becky says to the Major. “Just a touch of lethargy. She’s always that way after using her gift.”
He reaches out and quietly squeezes her hand. She squeezes back like she has no intention of letting go.
Mary steps forward, wearing her traveling dress. I hope that means she’s planning to return with us.
I smile at her. “Thank you for coming. And for working so hard.”
“Glad to see you didn’t kill yourself,” she says.
Henry leans against the wagon. He’s wearing another new suit, this one a brown tweed, a little plainer and more practical than the one he wore to Hardwick’s party. “The news around the city this morning is that the Argos capsized on its way out of the bay last night. All of Hardwick’s gold sank to the bottom of the ocean.”
“We might have heard a thing or two about that,” Jefferson said.
Melancthon reaches up to calm one of the carthorses. “A shipwreck is a bad business,” he says. “And capsizing is one of the worst.”
I nod solemnly. “I was glad to learn the crew survived.”
“Still,” he says. “Makes a fellow glad he didn’t a
ccept that job.”
“Other ships will be headed east soon enough,” I tell him.
“True enough. But I might find a reason to stay.”
Two figures enter the cemetery and walk toward us through the fog. It’s Tom, along with Hampton.
Andy runs forward, arms outstretched. “Hampton! You’re back!”
Hampton lifts the boy into his arms. “I missed you too, my friend.” Hampton is thin and haggard, but he grins like it’s Christmas. Everyone rushes forward to clap him on the back or shake his hand.
“It does my heart good to see you safe,” Becky says.
“Here come the last of the stragglers,” I say.
Jasper approaches, hands in the pockets of his waistcoat, while his companion makes his way with the help of a crutch. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my whole life.
“Jim!” I say, running to greet him. At his warning look, I stop short of wrapping him in a hug.
“I’m still prone to toppling over,” Jim cautions.
I settle for grasping his shoulder and grinning like a fool.
“He’s lucky to be alive and walking at all,” Jasper says. “I’d hate to see him fall down and undo all the amazing surgery I did to save his life. My recommendation was that he stay in bed today.”
“I told her the same thing,” Jefferson said, jerking his thumb at me.
“Some folks make the worst patients,” Jasper says.
“All right, now that everybody’s here, let’s be quick,” I say. Henry is already grabbing shovels from the wagon and handing them out. I take one, eager to get started.
“Wait a second,” says Hampton. “Boisclair . . . you’re alive?” His eyes are as wide as saucers.
“Alive and kicking,” Jim says. “Well, I’ll be kicking in a few weeks, I’m sure.”
“Not that I’m complaining, but . . . could someone explain this, please?” Hampton says. Relief and anger do battle across his face. I hate that we caused him any more suffering, and I wouldn’t blame him one bit if he decided to be mad as a wet cat.
“I’m pretty sure none of us knows the whole story,” Jefferson says. He yanks the shovel out of my hand and gives me a stay-put-or-else look.
“Then this is a good time to put it together,” I say, and everyone nods agreement.
“First,” Becky says, “I want to know how Hardwick was able to set a trap for us that day at the Custom House. How did he know I’d try to reclaim my house? Was it that mind reader of his?”
Henry stops digging long enough to wipe sweat from his forehead. “I’ve wondered the same thing.”
“Wait,” Hampton says. “Mind reader?”
I nod. “Miss Helena Russell. When she sees people, she gets glimpses of the future, sometimes the thoughts in their heads. So when she met us in the law offices, she got a picture in her head of Becky returning with Henry in tow. She warned Hardwick, who sent his guards.”
“Is that what she told you at the party?” Becky asks.
“I asked her outright, and she admitted it. After our failed attempt to reclaim the house, Hardwick’s men kidnapped Hampton.” I nod toward my friend.
“That’s when we decided to ruin Hardwick,” Mary says smugly.
“I knew you were up to something big, something that involved Hardwick,” Melancthon says. “But . . . this is a lot for a fellow to swallow. A mind reader?”
I’m so glad we decided to trust the sailor. He ended up playing an important role. I say, “That was the hardest part—deciding how to act when Hardwick had someone who could pluck our thoughts right out of our heads. We had to divide the plan into parts, and give each person a single part to figure out on their own.”
Tom says, “I pretended to be at odds with everyone, and I went to work for Hardwick.”
“In the meantime,” I say, “we spied on the banks where he kept his money.”
“I loitered around the docks to spread word about how much money he had,” Jefferson says. He’s standing knee-deep in a hole, with his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows.
“I helped with that!” Henry says. “I spread the word at gambling houses throughout the city.”
“I even suggested that some people might be planning to steal it,” Jefferson adds. “The idea was to have the rumors get back to Hardwick, so we could see what protection measures he’d put in place. But that part backfired a little. When we went to the bank that night to check it out, a couple of ambitious knuckleheads got there first.”
“We did find out exactly how his money was guarded,” I say. “But I couldn’t let the robbers get away with the safe—we needed that safe intact.” The shadow of the gallows passes across my thoughts.
“In the meantime,” Tom says, “I learned everything I could about the sheriff’s auctions. Hardwick managed them, and Sheriff Purcell took a cut of the money. I soon discovered that Purcell felt he wasn’t getting his fair share.”
“So Jefferson sabotaged the auction,” I say. “All the prices were too low, only a fraction of what Hardwick wanted. And every single lot he had sold at the last auction was listed again. But, Jefferson . . .” I turn toward him. Sweat runs down his neck. “How did you do it?”
His self-satisfied grin is the best thing I’ve seen in days. “I paid a printer to run off phony auction sheets,” he says. “Billy, the pickpocket, was already working at the auctions, handing out price sheets every month. So Hardwick’s printer handed him the real price sheets, and then we replaced them with fake ones we commissioned, and Billy distributed them, just like always.”
“Custom House lot twenty-three!” Becky says.
“Huh?” I say.
“Custom House lot twenty-three, that was the other thing you changed. The original bid sheet said ‘one house, from Tennessee, complete with furnishings and ready for assembly.’ But the fake one said ‘one small load of wood, somewhat water damaged.’”
I grin. “That probably made it easier to buy.”
“We were the only bidders,” Henry says, looking up from the hole again, which is now almost waist-deep. “Imagine that!”
“My job was to create a distraction,” Jim says. “To keep the auctioneer from paying close attention to the false bid sheets, and to put the crowd on edge.” He winces. “That proved to be an even better distraction than anticipated.”
“You mean worse,” I say, glaring.
“After Jim was shot,” Becky says, “Henry and I stuck around for a while, sowing discord.”
“We put on a fine bit of theater, if you ask me,” Henry says. “We didn’t know what kind of shape Jim was in, but we soldiered on.”
“Ideally, the plan should have worked either way,” I say. “If they didn’t catch the substitution, then the sale proceeded and the sheriff would think Hardwick was trying to cheat him. If the auctioneer did notice something wrong and called off the auction, then both Hardwick and the sheriff would come up empty-handed.” I turn to Jim and say, “But neither one was worth your life. If Frank Dilley had killed you, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“I didn’t come all the way out to California just to die,” Jim says. He stretches out his crutch and taps the name on the grave marker. “But since everyone thinks I did, I might try being someone else for a while.”
“Well, you’re welcome in Glory, Mr. Boisclair,” says the Major.
“But why?” Hampton says. “Why let people go on thinking Jim was dead? I’m still so confused.”
“We’re getting to that,” Mary assures him.
Hampton’s frown deepens. I open my mouth to assure him, to explain, but he jumps into the muddy hole and takes Jefferson’s shovel. “I have no idea what’s going on here, but let me spell you a bit.”
“Thanks, Hampton.” Jeff wipes his forehead with his sleeve and climbs out.
Following Hampton’s lead, Jasper rolls up his sleeves and jumps in to spell Henry.
“The best thing about the auction,” Tom says, “is that it m
ade Sheriff Purcell steaming mad at Hardwick, even before he got called out to the party.”
“Party?” says Hampton. He pauses midshovel, and dirt clods topple back into the hole.
“I bet the sheriff expected to confiscate all the money Frank Dilley stole,” the Major says.
“Frank Dilley stole a bunch of money?” Jasper asks, exchanging a baffled look with Hampton.
“Don’t stop digging!” Mary says. “We have to get this done before anyone comes along.”
As they resume their attack on the hole, I say, “We stole the money. But we made it look like Frank Dilley did it.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all month,” Hampton says.
“Tell me how you did it,” Jasper demands.
“Well, we needed your help for that,” Henry says.
“Ah,” Jasper says. “That’s what all the fuss with Jim was about.”
“Yep,” I say. “After Jim was shot, Mary had the best idea.”
Mary grins. “It turned out pretty well, if I do say so myself. Once we had the keys for Hardwick’s safes—”
“Hold on, hold on, hold on,” Tom interrupts. “How did you get the keys to Hardwick’s safes? I’ve been dying to know how you managed it. They were never out of Ichabod’s hands.”
“Ichabod?” I ask.
“His accountant.”
“Mr. Keys!” Jefferson says. He’s leaning against the wagon now, taking a breather. “That was a tough one. He checked those keys every time he sat down and again the second he stood up. So I paid Sonia to help us. One day when Mr. Keys . . . Ichabod . . . stopped for lunch, she lifted his key ring. We had wax trays ready so she could make impressions of all the keys in just a few minutes.”
“Like the locksmith who worked on the Charlotte,” Melancthon says.
Jefferson nods. “By the time his food was served, the ring was back on his belt; he never noticed it was gone.”
“Once we had the keys for Hardwick’s safes,” the Major continues, “we needed a way to get the gold out quickly and efficiently, and then transport it without it being noticed.”