These Shallow Graves

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “Smith could have survived,” Jo ventured.

  Eddie gave her a skeptical look. “It’s a real long shot. No other crew members survived.”

  “Maybe they did.”

  “Where did they go? They didn’t come back to Zanzibar. None of them was seen again. Neither was their ship.”

  “They could have made it to one of the islands,” Jo persisted.

  “If they made it to a big island, other people would have seen them. The smaller islands are uninhabited. How would they have survived on one?”

  “By fishing,” Jo said. “Or … or eating coconuts.”

  Eddie snorted. “For seventeen years?”

  Jo racked her brain, trying to come up with an answer. There was one, she was sure of it. Kinch was Stephen Smith. He had to be. She thought back to Van Houten’s and the conversation between Kinch and Scully, sifting through every word. And suddenly she had it.

  “Pirates, Eddie!” she exclaimed. “He said so himself! Remember? Maybe they found him on an island and took him aboard their ship.”

  “Ships can’t even get near a lot of those islands.”

  “They could’ve found him after the storm, then, floating on some wreckage. Maybe he floated to an island and sent up smoke signals. Maybe he made a raft and got off the island and the pirates spotted him in the ocean.”

  Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Maybe someone’s been reading Robinson Crusoe.”

  “I’m right about this,” Jo insisted. “I just know it.”

  “Knowing is not enough. We need proof. I can’t write my story without it and you can’t go to the police without it, and we don’t have it.”

  “Yet,” Jo said stubbornly.

  She and Eddie were now well down Mulberry Street. Jo, determined to see the infamous slums of the city’s Sixth Ward, disregarded Eddie’s order to keep her eyes down and looked around.

  She saw squat wooden houses, soot-stained tenements, pawnshops, and a one-cent coffee shack. She dodged a small child carrying a jug of beer, a dead dog lying across the sidewalk, and a tramp asleep on a warm grate. Sounds rose all around her—shouts, a baby’s wail, the jingling bells on a ragpicker’s cart. As they turned onto Bayard, a stench rose, too—a stench so strong, that walking into it was like walking into brick wall.

  “Eddie! Oh my God,” Jo said, gasping. “What is that?” The foul smell was in her nose and throat, gagging her. Her eyes were tearing from it.

  “Outhouses. Hold the apron over your face.”

  Jo did so. The turpentine smelled like perfume in comparison. She wondered how the poor people who lived here could breathe. They walked another half block, and then Eddie stopped.

  “Here we are,” he said, pointing at a steep set of steps that led from the sidewalk to the basement of a pawnshop. They ended at a narrow doorway. A faint yellow glow emanated from it. Snatches of a bawdy song drifted up. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to go home now, can I?”

  Jo shook her head. Eddie started down the steps. She followed him, and a minute later, she found herself inside a room with an earthen floor and a low ceiling blackened by cigar smoke. The air reeked of sweat, mildew, and gin, and the walls oozed dampness. Men, dirty and ragged, smoked and drank, and Jo made out two women sitting on the floor, their backs against the wall. One was passed out with a sleeping baby in her lap. The other stared at her drink as if it were the only thing in the entire world.

  Jo understood now why places like this were called dives: because the ruined souls in them had descended to the lowest possible depths.

  Rickety tables and chairs were strewn around the room. A plank stretched across two barrels served as a bar. The two men who stood at it eyed Jo boldly as she and Eddie approached. One said something under his breath; his companion laughed. Jo nervously looked around for another way out. Just in case. But there wasn’t one that she could see.

  The bartender glanced at them. “No rooms for rent here,” he said.

  Eddie colored. “We don’t want a room, Mick.”

  The bartender gave him a closer look and grinned. “Eddie Gallagher, as I live and breathe! It’s been ages. How are you, boy?”

  “Well. Yourself?”

  “Never better. What can I do for you?”

  Eddie pushed one of Jo’s dollars across the bar. “We’re looking for someone,” he said quietly. “Man by the name of Jackie Shaw.”

  The bartender pocketed the dollar and nodded at a man hunched over a table in a corner.

  Eddie thanked him; then he and Jo crossed the room. Jo wondered how Eddie knew the bartender but didn’t have long to dwell on the question as a fight broke out only a few feet away from her. Words were exchanged; then one of the combatants grabbed the other’s head, pulled it down, and rammed a knee into his face. Jo heard a sickening crack, and blood gushed from a broken nose. She stifled a cry and clutched Eddie’s arm.

  Mick picked up a baseball bat, slammed it on the bar, and loudly threatened to bash both men’s heads in if they didn’t take it outside. His violent threats made Jo feel oddly safe. She doubted any of the dive’s patrons would bother her or Eddie after Mick’s warning.

  “Jackie Shaw?” Eddie said as he and Jo reached the corner table.

  The man sitting there picked his head up. “Who wants to know?” he asked blearily. He looked to be in his fifties. One eye was clouded by a cataract. His teeth were rotten.

  Eddie pulled up two chairs and sat down in one. Jo took the other. He had a story prepared. “My name’s Eddie Gallagher. I’m a reporter. I’m working on a story about the Montforts and New York’s shipping industry. And I was wondering if—”

  “Piss off,” Shaw said in a surly voice.

  “Eddie, I think he’s drunk,” Jo whispered.

  “I might be, sister, but I’m not deaf,” Shaw snarled. “And I’d have to be blind drunk to talk about the Montforts. To you or anyone else.” He gripped his glass tightly as he spoke.

  Hearing the man say her family’s name made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. He knew something, Jo was sure of it. She looked at Eddie and could see by his expression that he felt the same way. They couldn’t let this chance get away. She decided to take a risk. “Mr. Shaw, my name is Josie Jones. I’m also a reporter.”

  “I don’t give a fiddler’s fart who you are,” Shaw said.

  Jo pressed on. “Allow me to be candid. My colleague and I are not working on a story about shipping. We’re investigating the death of Charles Montfort. We think he was murdered. We’re trying to find out why,” she said.

  “Murdered, eh?” His clear eye took on a haunted look. “If you’re going to bury the past, bury it deep, girl. Shallow graves always give up their dead.” He touched the note of his cap. “Good night, all.”

  Shaw moved to get up, and Jo traded frantic glances with Eddie. “Mr. Shaw, can I buy you a drink?” Eddie asked.

  Shaw shook his head. “It’d take more than one, son,” he said, making to leave once more.

  “How about the whole bottle?” Jo offered, desperate to keep him there. “Plus this,” she placed one of her five-dollar notes on the table, keeping it half hidden under her hand. Five dollars would be a small fortune to Shaw—and to everyone else in the room.

  Shaw turned and looked at her, and she could tell he was battling with himself. She wasn’t sure what would win—his fear or his need for gin. “Where the hell’d you come from, sister? You for real?” he finally said.

  “Yes. I am, in fact, very much for real,” Jo said, hoping he’d change his mind and sit back down.

  He did. Jo slid the money to him while Eddie quickly went to the bar. He returned a minute later with two more glasses and a dirty brown bottle. After pouring three shots, he held up his glass. “Cheers,” he said, taking a sip—and wincing.

  Jo only pretended to sip hers. It smelled like kerose
ne.

  “That mine when we’re done talking?” Shaw asked, nodding at the bottle.

  Eddie assured him that it was, as long as he answered their questions. “Do you know of a ship called Bonaventure?” he asked.

  Shaw looked as if Eddie had just doused him with cold water. He downed two more shots, and then, when Eddie threatened to take the bottle away, he started to talk.

  “The Bonaventure sometimes docked in Zanzibar. She had Portuguese papers and a Portuguese crew. Cutthroats, every one. Kill you as soon as look at you. They were only there for the money, and the Bonaventure’s cargo brought cash. A lot of it.”

  “Tea? Spices?” Eddie said, shooting Jo an excited glance. She could barely hold back an excited smile.

  Shaw stared at his glass. It was as if he hadn’t even heard Eddie. Jo silently urged him to speak, to tell them what he knew.

  “There were rumors about the Bonaventure. Some said it wasn’t Portuguese at all, but a Van Houten ship. Of course, no one ever proved it. And you’d have to be crazy to try. The Montforts, Charlie and Phillip … they weren’t men you wanted to cross,” he said.

  Jo knew her father and uncle could be tough negotiators and stern taskmasters. She knew, too, that in a commercial enterprise, one’s partners and employees were not always happy with the terms of every deal. Sailors and captains often complained they hadn’t been paid enough. Listening to Shaw now, Jo assumed the dig he’d made at her father and uncle was simply more such sniping.

  Eddie poured more gin. Shaw watched the alcohol flow into his glass. “All the gin in New York couldn’t drown the memory of the sounds that came from the ship,” he said.

  “Sounds? What sounds?” Jo asked, puzzled. Tea and spices didn’t make noise.

  “I was aboard the Albion, a tea clipper,” Shaw continued. “This was nearly twenty years ago. We were off the coast of Mozambique. It was night, and a thick fog had come down. Out of nowhere, the Bonaventure came at us. Our captain was mad as hell. He hailed her but she didn’t answer. She passed within yards of us, as quiet as a ghost ship. I heard it then. We all did. Some nights, I still hear it.” He passed a trembling hand over his face. “The fog closed around her again and we kept going. What else could we do?”

  “Mr. Shaw, what was on that ship?” Jo pressed, anxious for an answer.

  Shaw didn’t reply. He looked past Jo, toward the bar, and it seemed to her as if he was working up his courage. Then suddenly his eyes widened; he jumped to his feet, startling her.

  “Hey! Where are you going? We had a deal!” Eddie said.

  “Sorry, son. A bottle of gin’s not worth my life.”

  “Mr. Shaw, please don’t go,” Jo begged.

  Shaw was about to bolt, but the desperation in Jo’s voice stopped him. “Follow the Nausett,” he said tersely. “Follow the Nausett and you’ll find the Bonaventure. God help you if you do.”

  He stumbled across the room, climbed the steps to the sidewalk, and was gone. Jo, bitterly disappointed, looked toward the bar to see what had spooked him. A man was hurrying out of Walsh’s, close on Shaw’s heels. He shielded his face with his hat, but Jo still managed to glimpse close-cropped hair, hard eyes …

  … and a cheek puckered by a long, livid scar.

  “It was him, Eddie, I know it was!” Jo said. She was turning in a frantic circle out on the sidewalk, looking for the scar-faced man, but he was gone.

  “Who? What are you talking about?” Eddie asked, catching up to her. She’d run out of the dive as if she were on fire.

  “The man who just left Walsh’s! He’s the same man we saw at the museum. The one who followed us into the sculpture gallery.”

  “Are you sure, Jo?”

  “I’m positive. Is he following us? Who is he?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Eddie replied. “But he sure spooked Shaw.”

  Eddie started back to Mulberry Street; Jo fell into step beside him.

  “What was on that ship?” Eddie asked, frustration in his voice. “What did Van Houten trade besides tea and spices?”

  “Coffee, quinine, and cocoa. But we’re not even sure it was a Van Houten ship. Shaw himself wasn’t sure,” Jo said.

  Eddie gave her a sidelong glance. “You still believe no one at Van Houten is involved in any wrongdoing? Your father is murdered. A strange man shakes down Scully. A weird ghost ship carries suspicious cargo. Oh, and I almost forgot—some scar-faced tough might be following us.”

  His sarcastic tone stung, and Jo—smarting from it—didn’t immediately answer him. Shaw’s words echoed in her mind: If you’re going to bury the past, bury it deep, girl. Shallow graves always give up their dead. An uneasiness had descended on her, as cold and ominous as a winter night.

  “I don’t know what to believe,” she admitted.

  Eddie applauded. “Finally!” he said.

  “Must you be so condescending?” Jo asked, annoyed.

  “Do forgive me,” Eddie said, with mock contrition. “I meant to goad, not condescend.”

  Jo glared at him. Was it only a few hours ago that she so desperately wanted to kiss him? Now she felt like throttling him. She was used to polite deference from young men and kept forgetting that Eddie was not terribly polite or deferential. They started to argue more heatedly, but the sound of another voice stopped them.

  “Eddie. Eddie Gallagher.”

  Eddie came to a standstill. He held a hand out, staying Jo.

  A girl stood on the sidewalk just ahead of them, at the corner of Bayard and Mulberry. She was wearing a striped silk dress, a velvet cape, and a plumed hat. It was an ensemble Jo herself would have been pleased to own, and the girl wore it well, but her sudden appearance had a disorienting effect on Jo. She was beautiful and so incredibly out of place, but no one seemed to notice. People passed her by without a second glance. Jo felt as if someone had dropped a magnificent jewel on the dirty street and no one could be bothered to pick it up.

  “Fay,” Eddie said, looking at the girl. He didn’t sound happy.

  The girl nodded and Jo suddenly recognized her. She’d seen her at the waterfront with Tumbler, but the girl looked very different tonight. Not only were her clothes far better than what she’d been wearing then, her face was rouged, and her hair was auburn, not blond.

  “He wants you, Newsie,” she said.

  Eddie quickly glanced up Mulberry. As he did, Tumbler emerged from the shadows. Two other boys stepped out of doorways; two girls sitting on a stoop stood up. They were all beautifully dressed, just like Fay. With their pale, expressionless faces, they reminded Jo of sinister porcelain dolls, suddenly come to life.

  “I wouldn’t run if I were you,” Fay advised. “Tumbler and Ashcan have knives.”

  Eddie swore. His hand tightened on Jo’s arm. For the first time that night, Jo was not just nervous or anxious, but genuinely afraid.

  “Just me, Fay,” Eddie said. “Not her. I’ll go with you, but she goes home in a cab.”

  Fay shook her head. “Sorry, Newsie,” she said with a regretful smile. “He wants you both.”

  The alley Eddie led her down was so narrow and so dark that Jo could hardly see where she was going, but she had seen its name as she’d entered it. Someone had scrawled it on a wall: Bandits Roost.

  Eddie held her hand tightly as they walked. His steps were quick and sure; he knew his way. Fay, Tumbler, and the four other children trailed them.

  “Where are we going?” Jo whispered.

  “To see the Tailor. We’ve been summoned,” Eddie replied.

  “He’s the man for whom Fay works, isn’t he? New York’s very own Fagin?”

  “The one and only,” Eddie said grimly.

  “Should I be scared?”

  “You should be home. Why did I let you come here? If we get out of this, I’m never taking you with me anywhere again. Ever. I swea
r to God.”

  The if worried Jo. “What does he want with us?”

  “To talk. At least, I hope that’s what he wants.”

  The alley opened into a rectangular yard bordered by eight rickety wooden buildings, each three stories high. Thin, hollow-cheeked men wearing little more than rags sat around the yard smoking pipes or drinking from cracked mugs. Jo glimpsed a room through an open door. Women and children lay sprawled on the floor of the small space.

  “Almost there,” Eddie said, leading her toward the most decrepit house in the yard. Its ground-level windows were dark and its door was shut tight, but its second floor boasted a balcony. Eddie looked up at it. As he did, a young man who was loitering in the yard walked up to him.

  “Why, if it isn’t Eddie Gallagher,” he said. “Slumming tonight, are we, Newsie? Who’s yer fancy lady?”

  Jo stiffened. The man seemed to know Eddie, just as Mick Walsh had, but there was a menacing tone to his voice. Like the other men in the yard, he wore an old bowler hat pulled low across his brow. His left eye was covered by a patch.

  “Pretty Will,” Eddie said. “It’s been a long time. Sorry I can’t chat, but I’ve got business with the Tailor.”

  The young man stepped directly in front of him.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” said Eddie, holding his hands up.

  “Doesn’t mean you won’t get none,” Will said. “I’ll have them cuff links off you, for starters. That jacket, too. Plus whatever’s in your pockets.” He looked at Jo leeringly. “And then I’ll have her.”

  Eddie pushed Jo behind him. He raised his fists.

  “Whatcha gonna do, Newsie? There’s one of you and ten of us,” Will said, gesturing to the men in the yard.

  “Never mind what he’s going to do,” Fay said. She’d pushed past Jo and Eddie and was now in Will’s face. “It’s what I’m going to do that should worry you.” She pointed at the balcony. “I’ll tell him. When he hears you’ve interfered with his guests, he’ll come down here with his scissors. He sharpens them every night.” She touched Will’s eye patch with a gloved finger. “But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”