Chasing Secrets (17 page)

I run to the barn in my stocking feet. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.”

“Do you know when Papa will be back?”

“I think Jack Clemons took him up to San Rafael. His wife had a seizure. Be at least a day before we'll see him again.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Gus was talking about people burning down Chinatown. Have you heard anything about that?”

Billy's eyes shift slightly. He slips the bit into John Henry's mouth. “Why?”

“Why? Because it's important.”

“Is Jing here?”

“No.”

“Where is he?”

“I don't know.”

“When's he coming back?” Billy pulls the reins over John Henry's ears and then flaps them over the pommel.

“I don't know that, either,” I say. “Hey, wait. You know something.”

“No.” His voice falters. “You do.”

Billy places the toe of his boot in the stirrup. “I don't know anything!”

“Billy.” I hang on his arm like I used to when we were little and I wanted something. “Tell me.”

“Stop being annoying. Look.” He shakes me off, turns, and looks straight into my eyes for once. I see the old Billy then. He's there behind the new one. “I'm in a fight tonight. Got a big purse. I don't want to be worried about you. Stay out of this, all right?”

“
You
worry about
me
?”

“It happens,” he snorts. I let go of him, and he gets onto John Henry.

“Shakespeare's sisters died of the plague,” I tell him. “Bully for Shakespeare's sisters. You're not going to die of the plague. But you might stick your nose where it doesn't belong.”

“Uncle Karl said they aren't going to burn Chinatown down.”

“He's right, so go inside, Lizzie, like a good girl.” He whacks John Henry with his crop and the big horse trots forward.

“Can't I come with you?”

“No. Go in the house or I'll tell Aunt Hortense. I mean it!”

I
'll stay out of it once I've let Noah and Jing know to get out of Chinatown. I hope Uncle Karl is right, but there's no way I'm going to sit around the house. I need to warn them, even if it means lying to Aunt Hortense again. Billy would only say stay away if there were something going on.

Navigating Chinatown's narrow streets with a horse and buggy is too hard. Billy could barely manage. And if I took the wagon, who would watch it while I searched for Noah?

I could put on my overalls and ride Juliet bareback, but Aunt Hortense would kill me. She'd rather I rode in my birthday suit. She doesn't even approve of split skirts. If I ride past her window, she'll hear me.

My only hope is to go after she falls asleep. This time I
won't be so stupid as to use Uncle Karl's name. She doesn't know about Noah. She won't find out about this, either. I'll be back before she wakes up.

As I wait in my overalls, the big yellow moon high in the night sky, my hands shake and my knees wobble. Maggy is asleep. Jing isn't back yet.

The Sweeting bedroom is on the other side of their mansion, but what about the servants? The Irish sleep on the fourth floor, and the Chinese sleep in the basement. Will they hear? Two hunting dogs are kept in the stable at the far corner of their property. Will Aunt Hortense and Uncle Karl assume their dogs are barking at a skunk? Or send someone to investigate?

I tie my hair back, take Billy's old cap off the hat rack, and let myself out the back door. The sounds of the door shutting, my steps on the footpath, even my breathing, seem unnaturally loud. Someone is going to hear.

In our barn, Juliet is lying down in her straw bed. My presence startles her, and she gets up. She knows I shouldn't be here at this hour.

The windowless tack room is pitch-black. Light a gas lamp? No. If a maid or a stable boy looks out, they'll see a light and know something is amiss. I feel my way through the bridles to what I think is Juliet's, but when I get it out to the moonlight, I see it's an old one with a busted throatlatch.

Back I go, running my hands along each bit, until I find another round snaffle ring. This time I'm right.

In my overalls I've packed money, matches, and a cookie.
I'd like to ride with a light, but I can't gallop holding a lantern. There's a full moon out tonight. Juliet should be fine.

I stick my finger into the flat space behind Juliet's teeth; she opens her mouth for the bit, and I slip the headstall over her ears. Then I lead her to the mounting block, lace my hands through her dark mane, get a firm hold of the reins, and slide my leg over her warm back.

One horse is quieter than a horse and a buggy or a horse and a wagon, but hooves on the cobblestones make a racket. My plan is to ride on our grass until the last possible moment, then cut across to the cobblestones for the final ten feet.

Juliet knows me well. I don't have to kick her to get her to move. A slight squeeze will do. Sometimes I just think what I want and she does it.

I huddle over Juliet's mane as we trot along the grass. My heart pumps with the thrill of riding in the crisp night air. I steer her around the last tree and onto the driveway. Her hooves clatter as we trot through the gate. But when I turn back to look, nothing stirs.

The street is dark and quiet. A lamplighter tends to a gaslight; electric porch lights flicker. The wind cuts through my jacket; the night is colder than I expected.

In the distance I hear a horse snort, a drunken man's song, the clanking of metal.

I keep Juliet trotting down the center of the street, away from the dark alleys. Aunt Hortense's voice runs through my head.
This is no place for a young lady, Elizabeth.
For once, she's right. If I were to disappear right now, it would
be morning before anyone knew, and that might be too late.

The girls from Miss Barstow's talk about people getting “shanghaied.” Out of the darkness, someone grabs you and hits you over the head. When you wake up, you're on a ship sailing for Shanghai or some other place halfway around the world. Some eventually make it home. Most do not.

The road is flat on this block. I urge Juliet to gallop before the steep hills begin again and I have to pull her back to a jog. I pass a few buggies and men on foot coming home from the saloons, but no one pays any attention to me. In the dark, with my short hair, Billy's cap, and my overalls, I look like a boy.

Up and down the streets we go. When the street is level again, I squeeze Juliet's warm sides, and she breaks into a gallop. She's breathing hard.

Up ahead, an abandoned wagon blocks the road. I pull her up. Juliet prances, roots with her head. I wheel her back around the way I came, but when I turn, five men appear out of the darkness.

In front of me, the men. Behind me, the wagon.

“Purty horse,” a young man with a scruffy beard says.

They form a wall in front of me. Juliet senses my terror and spins. The short one with sweaty, shiny skin has brass knuckles.

I consider the wagon. It's too big to jump. Could we squeeze through? No.

“Why, she's a girl, ain't she?' says the tall one who is missing most of his teeth. He has a raspy laugh.

“A horse and a girl. Looks like we hit the jackpot.”

“You give us that horse, little girl, and maybe we'll let you go,” Scruffy Beard says.

“Or maybe we won't.” The short one smells of rum and urine.

A man with a bull chest has a knife. I see it glint.

They're closing in. I leap off, slip my fingers under the headstall, and pull Juliet's bridle off. I swing the bridle hard and hit Juliet on the butt with the bit; she bolts through the men. With no bridle on and no saddle, she's impossible to catch. In the commotion, as they chase her, I run for my life.

My feet fly over the street, footsteps right behind me. I pick up speed, glancing back. There's more room between us now, but just as I turn around, my foot twists and I fly through the air and slam hard into the street. Scruffy Beard leaps onto me before I can get up. I don't see his face. But I can feel his beard. Smell his sweat.

I yank free, but a cold arm like a metal pipe wraps around my chest. A second arm has me by the throat.

I scream. The arm tightens, cutting off the sound. Bull Chest knocks the back of my knees with a metal bar, and my legs cave. I collapse forward, his chest bearing down on me. I gasp in the smell of his rotting teeth, try to kick out. Try to shove him off.

Think, think, I tell myself, but my mind has gone dark. That's when Billy's voice comes to me.
There are points on a person, Lizzie, that will kill them. Temple, armpit, liver, groin. Behind the ear.

With a sudden shock of power, I bust my arm out of Bull Chest's lock and hit him as hard as I can behind his ear. He yelps and loosens his grasp for one second, and I pull free. Scruffy Beard catches my leg. I yank it loose; the denim rips. I run like fire.

M
y heart beats fast. My teeth chatter. I run past Chinatown, trying to figure out where to stop. The Chinatown streets are lively even this late. So different from how it was during the quarantine. A gambling parlor is lit up with gaslight. One of the shops is open, its window crammed with dried sea horses, snakes, birds, crabs, live ducks, and green frogs. I keep running, terrified that the men are still following, though when I look back—no one. I'm dripping sweat, but the wind chills me. I just want to go home, but I have to warn Noah.

I remember once he told me he lives in an alley off Kearny, but I have no idea where that is. All the street signs are in Chinese.

My cap is gone. My hair has fallen down around my shoulders. No mistaking me for a boy now.

I check my locket watch. Eleven-thirty. I only have a half hour! I need to ask someone for help. But who?

I hope for a white man. But I feel more comfortable asking someone like Jing. I trust him more than anyone else, even Uncle Karl. A wave of guilt comes over me. What a thought!

Still, it couldn't be a white man, because a white man won't be able to read the street signs. How many white men know Chinese?

An old man with a short beard walks by. But he has a sour face. I can't bring myself to ask him. A younger man watches from across the street. The way he looks at me makes me shudder.

I pass by three other men, but none seem right. Where are the women?

Then I spot a kid, maybe nine years old. He has a stick in his hand, and he's running it along an iron railing.
Rappity fump. Rappity fump.
What's he doing out so late?

“Hey? Can I ask you something?”

The boy turns. His eyes are watchful, but he doesn't run away.

“Look,” I say, “do you know a boy named Noah?”

He whacks his stick against his pantaloons. He doesn't answer, but I can tell he knows.

“Could you take me to him?” I lower my voice. “I'm a friend of Six of Six.”

A shock of surprise registers in his eyes. “Six of Six…
you?
”

“Yes.”

The boy frowns. “You look like a girl.”

I shrug.

“No girl could be a friend of Six of Six.”

“How would I know about it otherwise?”

He peers at me. “What's Noah's Chinese name?”

“Choy.”

The boy nods reluctantly. “Could go get him…maybe,” he mutters.

He's afraid to show a strange white girl where Noah lives. But we don't have time, and I can't stand out here by myself. What if those men come for me?

“I want to go with you.”

He shakes his head. I reach into my pocket and pull out a nickel.

The boy inspects the nickel in the moonlight. He tests the weight in his palm, then slips it into his pocket. I follow him down a shadowy alley, which gets darker and darker. I put my hand out, feeling my way. The wall is grimy. I can barely see the boy. Where is he leading me?

My panic rises as the dark presses in. In front of me a door squeaks, opening to a barely visible space. I grab the boy's shirt. I can hardly breathe.

And then—smoke. The smell is thick in my nostrils. Have they started? Are they burning Chinatown? Why did I come here?
I'll be burned alive.

But no. Cigarettes. Only cigarettes. Tiny red circles of fire in the night. We're walking by people smoking cigarettes. I let go of the boy's shirt.

We go left, down rickety metal stairs that creak from
our weight. The banister sways, and I yank my hand back. The sound echoes in the stairwell.

At the bottom, my feet hit hard dirt. I follow the boy behind a paper screen and through another doorway.

Behind me footsteps. My heart thumps. I grab his shirt again. “Someone's coming,” I whisper.

“It's next door.”

We walk across an underground room, this one darker than the last. Something smells awful. I hold my breath for as long as I can, then gasp. My stomach clenches; food shoots up my throat. I barely manage to keep it down. A sick taste in my mouth.

“What is that smell?” I whisper.

“Never mind.”

That's when I remember the matches in my pocket. I strike one. In a flash I see the tiny, cluttered room. Tables and chairs are shoved on top of each other, and barrels are piled high. Each barrel is closed, except one has shoes.

It's not just shoes.

It's feet.

A cry comes out of my throat before I can stop it.

A body is rolled in the barrel. Another is stuffed into a burlap sack, just the knees visible. The match goes out.

“They're dead,” I whisper, striking another match. The boy doesn't answer. My skin crawls. My mouth goes dry. “Are you sure this is the way to Noah?”

“Yes. The safe way.”

This
is the safe way? I try to light another match, but my hand is shaking too hard. I keep walking.

“I'm not supposed to be out. My father might see me if I take you the other way.”

I follow even closer.
Don't leave me here.

We're walking up two sets of stairs to a courtyard. The boy heads for a skinny door—half the width of a normal one, two thirds the height. He knocks.

No one answers.

He knocks again.
Please let this be Noah.

The door cracks open. I nearly wet my pants. And then Noah!

His eyes are wide. “Lizzie, what!”

I hug him. I don't want to let him go. The boy watches, his eyes flickering with fascination. Noah talks to him in Chinese. The boy answers back, his tone full of questions. Noah shakes his head, his voice definite. The boy disappears.

“Noah, I heard they're coming. They're going to burn down Chinatown. Tonight at midnight. We have to get out of here. You and Jing need to come home.”

Noah gasps. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he's breathing hard as if he's been running. He shakes his head. “I deserted them for the quarantine. I can't do that again.”

“But what's the sense of staying and getting hurt?”

“You warned me. Now go home, Lizzie. It isn't safe here.” I follow him into a small room. There's a barrel of rice with an abalone shell dipper, neat stacks of newspapers against one wall, and a rack of bright silk clothes against another.

“If you don't go, I won't, either,” I say, though I sound braver than I feel. Part of me wants to help Noah. The other part doesn't want to go back home alone.

“Is Jing here?” I pray he is. He'll keep me safe. He always has.
Please let him be here.

“He's on his way back to your house,” Noah tells me as a furry orange tail thrashes out from behind a bolt of cloth.

“Orange Tom!”

Noah nods. “I tried to get him to go back. He wouldn't.”

“He likes you.”

“Yes…” He takes my hand. “We've got to go.”

“Where is your uncle Han?”

“At a meeting of the Six Companies.”

We take a different way back up to the mouth of Chinatown. Noah stops and knocks on doors as we go. He warns them in fast Chinese, his hands gesturing wildly. “Honolulu” is the only word I recognize. Soon boys are scurrying after us.

“Noah,” I whisper, “why were there dead bodies in those barrels? That kid took me past them on the way to you.”

Noah does a double take. “Shhh,” he whispers. “We aren't allowed to talk about that.”

The boys following us are mostly Noah's age. Six of Six, I'm guessing, though there are more than six.

Word spreads through the streets. “Honolulu! Honolulu!” they all cry.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“They burned down Chinatown in Honolulu when
there was a plague outbreak. Everybody was afraid this would happen here.”

We're running now. There seems to be a plan. They were expecting this.

“Honolulu! Honolulu!”

Some hold paper lanterns, kerosene lamps, candles. Boys are dressed in bright Chinese pants and blouses. They are in short pants and dark jackets. Others are all in black.

In the distance we hear the sound of horses. The shouts of men. We see the flash of torches. There are hoots and hollers in the dark night, some twenty men on horseback and on foot.

Are the men who attacked me out there? I grab Noah's hand. Noah wraps his fingers around mine. He won't let go.

“Noah!” I shout, but he can't hear me over the roar of the approaching mob. My arms tremble. My hands shake. I squeeze Noah's hand as Papa's words float through my head.
Courage comes from your heart, not your fists.

Noah stands in the road. One boy, his hand raised. My throat feels frozen. I stand next to him, my hand in his. Together we raise our linked hands. Soon the others fall in…a line of silent boys, hands raised in the night.

The first of the mob sees us. Their torches are held high, burning bright.

“Get out of the way!” someone shouts. Some horses have stopped; others keep trotting toward us. There are men on foot. There are men with knives.

We are just a bunch of kids standing together in one wobbly line.

We can't fight them. We're outnumbered. We have to outthink them.

More men join the mob.

My heart beats loudly in my head.

“Hey, hey, excuse me. Move out of the way.” A brown horse gallops toward us. Juliet!

I gasp. Those men caught her! They've come to get me.

But the tall rider is Billy. Billy has Juliet!

“Lizzie, what are you doing? Get out of there! Didn't I tell you to stay home?” Billy shouts.

“Get her out of here!” a big man in fisherman's thigh-high boots shouts. Others join him.

But I'm not leaving Noah. “Billy, help us!” I shout.

Juliet is walking across the space between the Chinese and the mob. “Come on, Lizzie,” Billy says in the voice he uses to gentle a horse.

I don't move.

“Get her out of here. We're going to torch this place.”

“They're stealing our jobs.”

“Send 'em back to China.”

“Burn it! Burn it!” they shout.

My mind freezes. We can't stop them. I look at the glistening torches. And then suddenly in a rush it all makes sense. The monkey's death, the feet in barrels.

Papa and Uncle Karl are wrong. The plague is here. But everyone is hiding it. Is there a way to use that now?

“It's the plague,” I shout. “The monkey died. We know for sure. If you catch it, there'll be nobody to protect the city.”

“That ain't true,” someone yells.

“All the more reason to let it burn,” another man shouts.

“Keep it from spreading.”

“Burn it out!” they shout.

“Why you in there? Aren't you afraid you'll get sick?” somebody else shouts.

“If the plague's here, burn it out!” a voice bellows from back in the crowd.

“Burn it! Burn it!” Others take up the cry.

“Lizzie!” Billy again.

“You can't burn it.” My voice is strong. “Ask the rich people. Ask them if the monkey died. Ask them what that means. You go in there,
you'll
catch the plague. They won't.”

“Don't make no sense,” someone else says. “Why'd you go in there if the plague is there?”

“I've been immunized,” I say.

“Immu-what?” someone asks.

“It's medicine. A shot so I don't get the plague.”

“That true?”

“Yes!” I shout.

“Can I get me one?” someone else calls.

“How 'bout me?”

“Me! Me!” The voices call from all around.

The mob is breaking apart. Some want to be immunized. Others just want to see Chinatown burn. The men in the back hoot for burning, but some turn back.

“The monkey's dead. It means any of us could die. Don't go in there,” I shout.

“The monkey's dead. The monkey's dead.” We all pick up the call.

“Anybody can die. Go in there, you'll be next!” Billy's voice booms over the rest.