“What’s possible right now is that I might throw ye in this ocean, Hugh Fitzcairn. As I recall, ye can barely swim. It might be amusing to watch ye bob up and down a while.”
Fitz laughed heartily and clapped his friend on the arm. “Look now, MacLeod.” He pointed toward a faint star. “The North Star. We’re headed straight there. And I’m”—he began moving away—“headed belowdecks. Whether we’re changelings, pookahs, or the bastard sons of some distant god, we sleep as mortals do. And,” he added softly, “perchance we all do dream.”
“MacLeod!” Fitzcairn shouted. “Behind you—jackass!”
For a split second Duncan thought that Fitz was referring to the North American Trading and Transportation Company booking agent. They had been arguing with him for over a week about their reservations aboard the steamship
Portland.
It was due to leave for Alaska in four days’ time, bound for the port of St. Michael. There they were to take further passage on a boat that would travel down the Yukon River. Their final destination was the place the newspapers called “the Eldorado city of Dawson,” just over the Canadian border in the Yukon Territory.
If they had any hope of making it to the gold fields before autumn, they had to reach St. Michael before this month was out. Duncan had closely questioned those who sold them their supplies. From what they had said, he’d gotten some sense of how short a time the river was passable.
So far, however, the fact that they had documents guaranteeing their passage had not impressed the man. Their names, he insisted, were not on the passenger list.
The sound of cursing, screaming, and thundering hooves increased. Duncan’s instincts, honed by centuries of life-and-death confrontations, took over. He jumped to the right just as a thousand pounds of runaway mule swept by.
The beast was braying in terror, kicking out randomly as it ran. The wharf area was jammed with men and women. Some were bound for the gold fields. Some had come to see the adventurers off. And some were there to exploit them. Not everyone was as quick as Duncan. Bodies tumbled about in the mule’s wake.
A few yards away, Fitzcairn planted himself firmly. He dodged as the mule swept past, and grabbed for the frayed rope dangling from its halter.
He caught it all right, but Duncan saw at once that one man’s weight was not going to be equal to the task of halting the animal’s panicked flight.
“Hang on,” he hollered, sprinting toward man and beast.
Fitzcairn was leaning backward, hauling with all his strength. The mule circled him, kicking furiously.
“Have I a choice, Highlander?” he said through clenched teeth as he tightened his hold on the rope.
A vicious kick narrowly missed Duncan as he ran to Fitz’s side. He grabbed the rope above where Fitz held it, and joined his weight to his friend’s.
A crowd was beginning to surround them. Duncan heard shouts of encouragement, and advice. One voice, rising above the rest, cursed the mule with an astonishing variety of obscenities.
No doubt the owner,
Duncan thought.
Men and mule struggled mightily. Duncan heartily wished Danny was there. A third man would make the difference. But the young Immortal was back in their hotel, guarding their possessions. Though the Rainier Grand Hotel was a first-class establishment—that reservation at least had been honored—they had been warned by the desk clerk himself not to leave valuables unprotected even in a locked room. So until they could arrange an account at a local bank, one of them had to be watchman.
Still, even without Danny, he and Fitzcairn were winning the battle. The mule was tiring, its frenzy decreasing. Duncan’s arms ached. He would be glad to be done with this little adventure soon.
At that moment, the crowd around began to stir. Shouts rang out, and people milled about.
Another runaway?
Duncan wondered.
The crowd parted to reveal a well-proportioned closed carriage drawn by a matched pair of sleek white horses. While they were not at a gallop, they were definitely being driven at a pace faster than conditions on the crowded dock warranted.
Duncan, Fitzcairn, and the mule were directly in their path.
“Bloody hell!” Fitz shouted. They had no choice but to drop the rope and leap aside.
The coachman, seeing them, pulled up sharply. The white horses reared. The mule, loose once again, spooked anew. Rather than running off, it continued to move in a circle, braying furiously, kicking continuously.
Like a wooden pull toy with a mad child at the string, Duncan thought, as he scrambled out of range of the flying heels.
Fitzcairn had fallen backwards after letting loose the rope. As he rose to his knees, the iron-shod hooves caught him squarely on the rump. He was sent sprawling, headfirst, into several stacked crates of chickens, part of some gold seeker’s provisions.
Wood splintered. Chickens flapped free. One flew at the mule, sending it racing down the wharf, the owner in futile pursuit. The coachman had left his seat and stood at the side of his team, calming them with his voice and his hands.
After the chaos of the last few minutes, the wharf seemed almost silent. Duncan went to assess what damage had been done to Fitzcairn. As he helped his friend roll over and sit up, a chicken nestled gently on Fitzcairn’s head. Duncan tried to shoo it away.
Laughter, bright shiny laughter, sounded in the air.
Both Immortals looked up. A woman, framed by the carriage window, looked out at them. She had dark golden hair and a delicate, almost elfin face.
“Are y’all all right?” she asked. There was a touch of the South in her voice.
Duncan stepped forward, leaving Fitzcairn among the chickens.
“No harm done. Except to my friend’s dignity.” He smiled warmly. “I’m Duncan MacLeod.”
Fitzcairn scrambled to his feet. Picking feathers from his jacket, he jostled Duncan aside. “And I’m Hugh Fitzcairn. I do hope this little incident hasn’t spoiled the day for a lady as lovely as yourself.”
A feather wafted slowly past his nose as he spoke.
The woman stifled a giggle. She seemed about to respond when the coachman approached. He whispered something. She frowned, and nodded.
As he climbed up and took the reins in his hand, the woman gave a smile and a small wave to the two Immortals.
“Mr. MacLeod. Mr. Fitzcairn. ’Bye now. You two be careful, you hear?”
She sat back and the carriage pulled away.
Fitz sighed. Duncan turned, regarding him with a critical eye.
“You’ve more than just chicken feathers in your hair, I swear. I don’t think we’ll be impressing anyone at the Transportation Company this afternoon.”
“Oh, and it’s my fault the jackass got loose again, I suppose? Who let go of the rope first, Highlander?”
“And what was I to do? Stand there and have us be run down?”
“Well,” Fitz replied, “that would have gotten the lady’s attention.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “No doubt she would have wanted to nurse me back to health, tending to me personally, day and—”
Duncan pulled a feather from Fitzcairn’s hair. A strand or two came with it.
“Ow,” he protested. “Off with you now, Highlander.”
“Off with ye, ye endless lecher. Back to the hotel with us both.”
Fitz nodded. “We can clean up.” He brushed at his sleeve. “And give young Danny a chance to wander about if he wants.”
They began walking toward the steep streets that led away from the water.
“Should we have supper in the room tonight, do you think?” Duncan asked. “If Danny goes out, it might be best to eat in.”
“The room. The restaurant. It matters not to me.” Fitz grimaced as he ran a hand through his curls, combing out more feathers and bits of unidentifiable debris. “As long as supper does not involve, in any way, shape, or form, chicken.”
They were all alike then, Danny thought. All the places where the ships came and went. He remembered walking the levee at midnight, the Mississippi sparkling under a golden full moon. The air was so still and thick that you could near reach out and grab it. Yet the men were there, working. Black, white, and all the colors in between that New Orleans folk had a string of names for. They were loading and unloading the ships that came downriver from the North and upriver from the Gulf.
He stood at the end of Schwabacher’s Dock staring up at the huge bulk of the
Portland.
Though it was late in the day, the sun was only now setting. He could see the ship clearly. Supplies were already piled on deck, and the crew were making her ready to set forth.
At supper, Hugh and Mr. MacLeod had concluded that since all else had failed, they must needs try bribing the booking agent.
And if bribery did not work? Danny did not want to ask. He did not want to have it said that their adventure might end here. It was a fair city, surrounded by mountains on three sides and the ocean on the fourth. Earlier in the week, he had found the area where the fine big houses were, all built to face the sea. He wandered the streets for hours, looking through windows, drinking in details.
A fair city indeed. But not one that held the promise of riches.
Danny sighed and walked on. The docks were crowded still. He heard a splash, and thought of summer evenings, decades past. The Kellys had moved uptown by then. The area, far better than Five Points, was still bad enough to be known as Hell’s Kitchen. The boys of the street would swim the Hudson River, careful of the wakes of the big ships.
And the ships would pass by to dock at wharves like these. To be unloaded by the pas and uncles and brothers of the swimmers.
Big Tom had such a job. And one day when a half ton bale of cotton fell, it killed him.
Danny stopped for a minute and felt in his pocket for the scrap of white lace and linen that was always there. Once, there had been a gold coin wrapped in it, a coin given to him casually by the green-eyed girl, who’d mistook him for a beggar boy.
But, when Big Tom lay dead, Mother Kelly had no money to bury him. And it fell to Danny, her changeling child, to see to it that he had a proper wake. Money he’d put by from his job at the livery stable saw to that. The gold coin had gone then, to Father OMalley, to buy Big Tom a plot on holy ground.
When it was done, there was little left. Mother Kelly took in washing. Danny worked, and then worked more, sometimes eighteen hours a day. And, a time or two, stole from the produce wagons to put food on the table.
So no wonder Mother Kelly wept with joy when John Kelly offered her a place with him. She would come, she replied, and of course her Danny would come with.
The memory was a bitter taste on Danny’s tongue. A short distance away, he knew, were places where the men who worked these wharves could stop and have a pint or two when their workday was done. Not fancy establishments like the Queen of Spades. These were raw, rough saloons, more akin to John Kelly’s tavern.
He crossed the street, careful of the traffic. The sounds of cursing and tinny pianos beckoned him.
The door of the Golden Nugget swung open just as he reached the rough sidewalk. Was that not a sign, then? He started in—
But—he’d told Hugh that he’d not be long, that he’d just needed a breath of air. He and Mr. MacLeod would be wanting an early start, to be about their bribing. And he’d need to be in the room awake, to stand guard.
Danny shook his head. He’d go back to the room—and a grand room it was—and have a wee drop with Hugh, if he still felt the need. He’d walk, though. The night was clear and pleasant and he could, in truth, use the exercise.
The hills were steep, and he’d gone scarce three blocks when a sound in a narrow passage ahead stopped him short. He’d spent time enough in just such dark alleys to be immediately on guard. The danger was not from an Immortal. But it was real.
A scrape on the sidewalk behind—Danny threw himself forward. He felt a blow on his shoulder and his arm went numb. He hit the ground, and rolled over, kicking out and up. His bootheel struck bone. His assailant went down with an oath, clutching his knee.
Danny rolled again, trying to rise. But another man emerged from the alley. He swung a heavy cudgel in a vicious downward arc.
Training and experience took over. If the man held a sword, aimed at your head, you’d block with your own blade. Danny couldn’t get to his sword. So he raised his already numb arm and took the force of the blow. Ignoring the pain, he drove his other fist into the man’s groin with all his strength.
A third man appeared. Danny groaned. These odds were less and less to his liking.
But the newcomer was picking up the first assailant and booting him down the hill. The man from the alley had collapsed against the side of the building, clutching his privates, whimpering.
The newcomer helped Danny to his feet.
“Can you run, mate?” he asked. “These two might have friends about. Best to make ourselves scarce.”
Danny nodded. His arm ached, but the pain would soon pass. He’d had more than enough experience at street fights to know that.
They headed back down toward the waterfront, toward the sounds of cursing and tinny pianos.
They stopped in front of the Golden Nugget.
“That was some close call, mate,” the newcomer said. “Fighting always gives me a thirst. Join me?”
Well,
Danny thought,
it would be rude to say no. Hugh would agree, I’m fair certain.
They entered the Golden Nugget, shoving their way to the bar. Danny ordered whiskey with a beer chaser. His rescuer had whiskey straight.
They found a corner of the bar and huddled there.
“Jim Foster’s the name, mate,” the man said, extending his hand. “Most folks call me Slim Jim.”
And it’s no wonder why,
Danny thought. The man was some six feet tall, but rail-thin. He had brown, curly hair and a pleasant, open face. He reminded Danny of a scarecrow or two he’d seen while marching through Pennsylvania.
“Daniel Patrick O’Donal. I’ll be thanking you for your help, sir.”
Slim Jim sipped his whiskey. “Just luck I was there, mate. You need to be careful these days, you know? Careful where you walk and such. There’s thugs aplenty after a man’s stake.”