Like a River Glorious (25 page)

My mattress jerks beneath me, and I sit up straight in bed.

Once I assure myself that I'm truly alone, and that no rats
or mice or stray cats or people have invaded my bedroom, I reach out with my gold sense again, gently this time.

Gradually a pressure makes itself known against the back of my leg. It's the bag of gold, poking up through the mattress, trying to come as I call.

Is such a thing possible? Can I call the gold to myself? It seems outrageous, but so does the idea of a witchy girl who can divine the stuff in the first place. Why did I never discover this trick back in Georgia? Maybe it's the sheer amount of gold here in California. I've suspected for a while that my sense was growing, changing.

I practice for hours. Calling the gold, releasing it. Calling it again. Gradually I drift off to sleep, a hard, uncomfortable but not unwelcome lump pressing into my spine.

Hiram and I are taking breakfast and Mary is cleaning up when someone pounds on the door.

I glance at my uncle, alarmed, and he gives me a quick shrug before rising to open it.

Cold air rushes in as a shadow fills the doorway. It's Frank Dilley. “There's been an incident,” he says.

“Oh?” my uncle says, reaching for his hat.

“Jonas Waters is dead,” Dilley says.

I gasp.

“What happened?” Hiram asks.

“He was killed in the stockade.”

“The Indians?”

“Maybe. He fell off the guard tower and broke his neck. My
men are grumbling about foul play, and I admit it's awfully suspicious.”

“It's not suspicious at all,” I say, skidding my chair back and gaining my feet.

“Leah,” Hiram warns, but I pay him no mind.

“Jonas loved his moonshine,” I insist, “and he never saw a watch shift that couldn't be improved by the liberal application of rotgut.”

“That's enough, Leah.”

“You know it's true, Dilley. Tell him.”

Dilley's hat is in his hand, and his eyes are stricken. I suppose even a man like Dilley has friends, people he cares about, and Jonas's death is hard for him to take. He considers my words a few moments, but I see the exact moment his grief hardens into something else.

“Indians did this,” Dilley spits out. “Mark my words.”

Hiram dons his hat. “We must deal with this at once,” he says, and he steps toward the door.

I grab the fabric at his elbow. “Wait. What are you going to do?”

He yanks his arm away. “Practice your penmanship while I'm gone,” he says, and he shuts the door in my face.

“It wasn't the Indians,” Mary whispers, her voice tremulous. A dishrag dangles uselessly from her hands.

“I know.”

“They all know Muskrat's plan. They wouldn't risk it. Not now.”

“I know.”

“What will your uncle do?”

“I don't know.”

“Leah,” she says to the wall. “I'm worried.”

Something about her voice, as unguarded as I've ever heard it, makes me reach up with my hand and grab hers. “Me too,” I whisper.

She squeezes my hand back, but then she shakes it off and brusquely resumes her work with the dishes.

A few minutes later, she leaves me to stew in my own worries. No one returns to tell me what's happening, so I determine to find out for myself. But when it's time to make my daily visit to the mine, Wilhelm blocks the doorway, shaking his head.

“I have to go to the mine,” I insist. “Every day. My uncle's orders.”

Again he shakes his head.

I frown. “Not today, huh?”

He nods, once.

In the distance, a single rifle shot rips the air. Wilhelm winces.

I go back inside.

To make the time pass more quickly, I practice my penmanship and think of all the things I could write that would destroy Hiram's reputation. I pace. I sweep the entire cabin, save for my uncle's bedroom, and shake out all the rugs.

It's hours later when my uncle returns.

“What happened?” I ask. “What did you do?”

He hangs his hat on its peg. “I dealt with it.”

“How?”

He collapses into his rocking chair and lifts one foot toward me. “Help me with my boots?”

I swallow against nausea as I approach and kneel before him. My fingers squelch in muck as I grab the bottom of his boot. “How?” I repeat.

“Dilley shot an Indian as reparation for his friend.”

My hands on his boot freeze. “Even though the Indians are innocent?”

“That's your opinion.”

I pull off the boot and set it beside me on the floor. “Which one?”

“What do you mean?”

“Which man did Dilley kill?”

“How should I know? A younger fellow. I'm letting Dilley turn in the head for the bounty. Hopefully that will help keep him cooled off.”

He stares down at me as I pull off the other boot, and it feels like spiders are crawling all over my skin.

“Leah, I want you to stay inside this cabin for a few days. Just until everyone's settled down. No visits to the mines.”

“Please—”

“You will obey me in this, Leah. No arguments. I couldn't stand it if something happened to you.”

But I need to keep fetching gunpowder. The plan depends on me. Or maybe I've smuggled out enough by now. I just don't know, and I hate not knowing.

“Surely by tomorrow—”

“You will spend the days practicing your penmanship. If your slop bucket fills, Mary or Wilhelm will dispose of it. You are not to leave the cabin for any reason. Do you understand?”

My hands are shaking now, my heart pounding. I blink fast to keep tears from pooling. I hate feeling so helpless. I hate that he controls every hour of my every day. I hate him.

“I can take care of myself!” I say. “You said you want me to familiarize myself with—”

The backhand is so sudden it's like a thunderclap to my face. I fall back onto the floor as my vision blurs and tears pour down my face. My cheek starts to sting and then throb in earnest. I put my fingers to my cheekbone. I'm going to have a mean bruise, for sure and certain.

“I don't want to tie you up during the day,” he says, almost kindly. “But I will if I have to.”

I don't trust myself to say anything. Still cupping my cheek with my hand, I just nod.

T
hat night he ties me up again, tighter than ever, and my illusions of freedom are over. I hardly sleep for the ache in my shoulders and the gnawing pain in my wrists. It's a relief when morning comes. When Hiram unties me, he bends to press his lips to my forehead and says, “I hope you slept well, sweet pea.”

We eat breakfast in silence. Only once does my uncle speak, and only to say, “Remember, you are not to leave the cabin. Wilhelm will be keeping guard outside the door. For your protection.”

I shove a biscuit in my mouth to excuse my lack of response.

After he leaves, I open the door to find Wilhelm on alert, his hand on his holster. He fills the space with his huge body, a barrier to the outside world.

“Don't worry. I won't try to leave. I just wanted to give you this.” I hand him a basket full of biscuits.

Slowly he takes it from me, his eyes lingering on my face.
No, it's my cheek that's caught his attention, and the huge bruise pillowing there. Wilhelm frowns.

“Knock on the door if you get thirsty,” I say. “We have plenty of leftover coffee, still warm on the stove.”

He just stares at my cheek.

I'm cooped up in the cabin for days. I have no idea what's going on, but I can make some guesses. The laudanum could be added to the sugar-water barrels, or someone's canteen. The gunpowder could create a thunderstorm of chaos. Maybe the plan is to blow up the fort wall, so Muskrat's people can escape. Or blow up the foremen's shack and destroy all the weapons. Or just blow up the thanksgiving dinner itself and get rid of the whole Missouri gang. In that case, the laudanum would be used to drug the poor saps stuck with guard duty, and that's how Muskrat's people will escape the fort.

Several possibilities. Any of them might work.

But is Muskrat's plan going forward? Did we get enough gunpowder out of the mine? Are Jeff and Tom all right? I've lost track of the days, but surely the celebration of thanksgiving is fast approaching.

Mary ignores me when she comes to cook, won't even meet my eye. I spend the days listening through the walls for any sound, any clues. I practice my penmanship endlessly. It's a strange thing, being bored and scared all at once. I think I might die of it.

One morning, as we sit down to breakfast, Uncle Hiram says, “I want you to bathe today. Mary will help you fill the
tub. Press your dress. The new one. I want you looking your best tonight.” His voice is stern, almost angry, though I'm not sure why.

“Why?” I'm breathless with hope. Maybe he means to let me out.

“Reverend Lowrey is here. There's to be a tent meeting, and you shall attend. Fitting, don't you think, to have some church the night before our Thanksgiving? It will get everyone into the proper state of somber gratitude.” He frowns as he says it, staring off at nothing.

“Sure. If you say so.”

“These oats are runny,” he growls in Mary's direction.

Mary doesn't even flinch. She just keeps toweling the dishes dry.

“They seem delicious to me,” I say.

“Don't contradict,” he snaps.

“You're in a foul mood,” I say. “Even for you.”

He starts to protest but changes his mind, his shoulders slumping over his bowl. “You're right. I am. And I've no right to take it out on you.”

The apology startles me nearly as much as his backhand a few mornings ago.

“What's wrong?” I say, in as gentle a voice as I can muster.

He sighs. “It's the Chinese,” he says.

Mary has started a new batch of biscuits, and her stirring hitches before continuing on, faster and more determined than before.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“The headman is demanding higher pay for everyone. He insists they could make more if they went elsewhere and kept the gold they panned, instead of handing it over. Doesn't seem to matter to him that they're panning ore brought out of
my
mine.”

“You pay them a flat rate?”

He nods. “The blacksmith raised his prices, too. And the other day, Dilley tried to buy a barrel of salt pork from the headman and was charged double what he'd paid before.”

I shrug. “Everything is expensive in California, and it's only getting more so.”

“The Chinese are greedy,” Hiram insists. “Here they have steady pay, a place to do business, and my personal protection. I'm glad tomorrow is Thanksgiving. If anyone needs to learn a little gratitude, it's the Chinese.”

The air sizzles as Mary drops biscuits onto a hot griddle.

“Seems to me the Chinese work plenty hard,” I say. “I can't remember seeing even one of them idle.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Hiram says.

Well, that's for sure. Hiram, for instance, appears to be a rich man and a fine gentleman.

“My foremen are feeling the injustice of it,” my uncle continues. “They work so hard all day, but here come the Chinese, set to steal California right out from underneath them.”

I'm not sure how you can have something stolen that didn't belong to you in the first place, but I'm afraid if I say as much, Hiram won't let me out for the camp meeting tonight.

“I'm sure you'll handle everything appropriately,” is what I
say, and even though I feel dirty and deceitful, Hiram gives me a fond smile.

“Yes, I suspect I will,” he says.

The sun is long gone when we finally step out into the cold autumn air. Even though my arm is firmly lodged in the crook of Hiram's elbow, I breathe deep of this tiny taste of freedom.

Our camp looks like it's ready for a dance. Lanterns hang from every shanty and post, and candles surround a wagon turned into a makeshift stage. All this light is an enormous expense, but my uncle's face shines like he's a man with no regrets.

I think about the regrets he'll have when James Henry Hardwick discovers that he can't pay on time. Every additional extravagance is my uncle shooting himself in the foot again.

Chairs and stools surround the wagon. One log lies across two stumps in a fair approximation of a church pew. Even though the pew is empty, several Indians sit in the mud in front of it, their backs straight, eyes wary. They're dressed in threadbare shirts and pants, and my step hitches a little. It's the first time I've seen them allowed to wear clothes.

“You made the Indians come,” I observe.

“Muskrat advised against it, but Reverend Lowrey suggested that a sermon about gratitude might go some way toward correcting their poor behavior lately,” he says. “It's the same reason we sent slaves to church in Georgia.”

“They're wearing clothes. You're not afraid they'll steal from the collection plate?” If Hiram detects the sourness in my voice, he doesn't let on.

“I'm paying Lowrey a generous fee tonight, to support his missionary work among the miners and the Indians, so there won't be a collection plate,” he says. “And a church meeting demands modesty.”

He guides me to a pair of chairs and we settle down, side by side. Everyone else is trickling in, too—Chinese, foremen, and several more Indians, herded by watchful guards. I'm delighted to glimpse Jefferson, who gives me a quick tip of his chin. Beside him is Tom, who seems awful thin to me, but his eyes are bright, and when he sees me, he gives me a forced smile.

I twist in my chair and spot Mary. Beside her is Muskrat, dressed in someone's threadbare long johns. My first feeling is relief—Muskrat is alive!—followed by hope. He and Mary exchange a quick word, and then they look up, as if sensing my gaze. Muskrat meets my eye with a confident, determined gaze and a slight nod of his head. I hope that means the plan is moving forward, that tomorrow will be the day.

Muskrat moves past Mary and joins his own people. They settle on the ground together and talk among themselves. Something makes Muskrat laugh.

Behind everyone stand several other foremen, including Frank Dilley and Wilhelm. All have rifles or revolvers held at the ready. Abel Topper carries his whip.

“Why all the guns?” I ask. Another expense. The night is damp, and most of those guns will have to be discharged of their gunpowder after Lowrey's sermon.

“A precaution. Topper got word the Indians might be planning something.”

My breath is suddenly icy in my chest. “Then why allow them to attend at all?”

“For the sake of their immortal souls, of course,” Hiram says. “We cannot neglect God's work even as we seek after industry.”

“How decent of you.”

Hiram gives me a warning look, and his grip on my arm tightens, but I'm spared any scolding because Reverend Lowrey climbs up into the wagon, straightens and smoothens his suit, and opens his huge Bible.

A hush descends, and Lowrey says, “As we prepare to celebrate Thanksgiving, there is one thing we ought to be thankful for above all things: God's saving grace.” And he launches into a sermon about the most fiery, awful, painful fate imaginable, and how we can avoid it by simply putting our faith and trust in the savior of man.

Lowrey isn't remarkable as preachers go; I've seen better. But his hand-waving tirade about fire and brimstone is the most entertaining thing to happen to this camp since I arrived, and everyone sits rapt as Lowrey works himself into a lather.

The whip cracks behind me.

I launch from my chair and turn, just quick enough to see one of the Indians, eyes glazed with golden lantern light, as he topples face-first into the mud. Abel Topper stands behind him, whip hanging limp.

Everyone is as silent as rabbits in their burrows.

Finally Lowrey hollers, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Beg your pardon, Reverend,” Topper says. “But this man was disrespecting the word of God.”

No one says anything. The Indians beside the toppled man are frozen like statues.

“He was muttering some heathen nonsense to himself,” he insists. “Swaying back and forth. I told him to shut it, but he didn't listen.”

“Let's have no more interruptions, yes?” Hiram says.

My uncle grabs my arm and pulls me back down into my chair. I give one last glance to the fallen man. He remains crumpled in the mud, as still as the grave.

Muskrat catches my eye, and I shake my head slightly.
Please don't do anything,
I warn silently. Not here, not now, not with all the guns and the foremen wary. Everything inside me tenses up, like I'm bracing to take a beating, as Lowrey picks right up where he left off.

Will no one tend to the fallen man? To my right, Jefferson leans over and whispers something to Tom, who nods. Then they turn to find me, and the look on Jefferson's face makes my throat tighten. He's angry and worried sick that something awful's going to happen, or I don't know him at all.

Lowrey drones on, with considerably less fire than he started with. He quotes Scripture from the Apostle Paul, enjoining slaves to be obedient and to please their masters in all things.

Gradually I become aware of a hubbub growing around the fallen man. I risk Hiram's wrath to twist in my seat and take a look.

His companions are whispering and gesturing among
themselves. One shakes the fallen man's shoulders, but he doesn't respond.

Hiram's hand goes to the Colt at his hip. Lowrey's singsong sermon dribbles away. One of the Indians begins to keen, high and loud.

Topper's whips snaps toward the keening man.

But he misses, snagging the cheek of a Chinese man sitting nearby, opening a line of bright crimson across his cheek.

So Topper tries again, and this time his whip lances across the Indian's shoulder.

Everyone starts yelling. The Chinese are yelling at the foremen, and the foremen are yelling at Topper, and Muskrat is suddenly beside the other Indians, talking low and fast.

The man who was whipped shakes his head at Muskrat, yelling something back. Muskrat pleads with him.

The mood is like water twitching toward a rolling boil. Everyone has a breaking point. You think you can endure anything, you can take just one more day, and then suddenly you can't. The smooth surface bubbles over all at once, and fear makes you do something desperate just to escape.

“We need to get you back to the cabin,” my uncle says in my ear.

“They're scared!” I say. Take the kettle off the fire and the water doesn't boil. “They want a way out, they don't want to get hurt. If we just back off, it'll settle—”

A gunshot pierces the night.

Everyone freezes. Frank Dilley stands there, Colt pointed toward the sky. A warning shot only.

Suddenly a man lurches up, hands aiming for Frank Dilley's throat. A foreman jumps to Dilley's defense, knife raised. He stabs the man in the back.

A cry of rage and grief tears into my soul as more leap toward Dilley and the foreman, who disappear beneath a blur of flailing limbs. I can't tell whether people are attacking, or just trying to climb over to escape.

Everyone is out of their chairs now, the Chinese fleeing in all directions. Hiram yanks at my elbow. “Let's go,” he commands.

I am sick with fear, with rage, with disgust, but I recognize an opportunity. “You have to stop this!” I yell. Muskrat's people don't have a chance if Hiram doesn't intervene. He hesitates. “Please, Father!”

It's the “Father” that does it.

“Get to the cabin and lock yourself inside,” Hiram says. He yanks his gun from his holster and rushes forward. He's a big coward, though, because he stops short of the fray, refusing to get into the thick of things.

Slowly I begin to back away, glancing around for Jefferson or Tom, Mary or Muskrat, anyone who can give me an indication of what I should do.

Another gun goes off. Someone screams. A ragged thunder of gunshots follows.

I stand frozen, covering my ears.

This was not the plan.