These Shallow Graves

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Markham blanched. “Oh, there’s no need, Miss Montfort,” he said quickly. “Not on my account, I assure you.” He pushed his chair back a bit. “Now, about those ships …”

  Jo smiled, satisfied. “Yes, Mr. Markham. About those ships.”

  An hour later, Jo had the names and detailed descriptions of fifteen Van Houten vessels written down in her notebook, but the Bonaventure was not among them.

  Clarence’s grandfather arrived shortly after Jo put Clarence in his place, and Clarence quickly departed. The elder Markham looked to be in his seventies. He had bushy gray hair and muttonchop whiskers and wore a black suit fashionable at least two decades ago. He was courtly and well-mannered—in marked contrast to his grandson—and extremely long-winded.

  He was now telling her about the Emma May. As he held forth, Jo surreptitiously glanced at her watch. Van Houten owned close to a hundred ships. If she didn’t hurry him along, she’d be here until midnight. As she nodded and smiled and took notes, she tried to figure out how to ask for the information she actually wanted. Her purpose in coming here today was to dig up anything she could on the Bonaventure, but her instincts told her to tread cautiously. If that ship had been involved in some sort of dirty dealing and Markham knew of it, he might refuse to speak of her at all. Couching the question wouldn’t get it answered, though. She decided there was nothing to do but ask about the ship outright.

  “You’re giving me such a wealth of information, thank you,” she said as Mr. Markham recited the Emma May’s dimensions, “but there’s one ship you haven’t mentioned, and I’m particularly interested in her, as I heard one of the partners, I can’t remember who, speak of her—the Bonaventure.”

  Mr. Markham shook his head. “Never heard of her,” he said. “She definitely wasn’t one of Van Houten’s.”

  Jo’s was both relieved and disappointed. She was glad to learn that the suspicious ship had not been owned by Van Houten. How could the partners have been involved in shadowy dealings—as Kinch claimed—if they didn’t even own the ship said to have carried the suspicious cargo? But she was disappointed not to discover who had owned it. Neither Bill Hawkins nor her uncle had known anything about the Bonaventure, and they were two men who knew a great deal about ships. Markham was her last hope.

  As Jo sat listening to Mr. Markham tell her about the Peregrine, another ship she couldn’t have cared less about, Shaw’s advice flashed through her mind once again, just as it had when she’d asked her uncle about the Bonaventure. Follow the Nausett and you’ll find the Bonaventure. God help you if you do.

  “The Peregrine, a lovely ship,” she said, cutting Mr. Markham off as politely as she could. “I look forward to hearing more about her, but before I do, Mr. Markham, just to … um … keep things in alphabetical order, could you tell me about the Nausett?”

  Jo thought she might receive a guarded response, or perhaps a load of useless details. What she didn’t expect was the wistful look that crossed Markham’s face.

  “Goodness me,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I haven’t thought about that ship in years.”

  Jo felt her pulse quicken.

  “The Nausett was a Baltimore Clipper,” Markham explained.

  “I’m not familiar with the type,” Jo said, scribbling down his every word.

  “Most people your age aren’t,” Markham said. “There aren’t many around anymore. She was a slave ship. She plied the Atlantic before the Civil War. After the slave trade was outlawed, Van Houten bought her for a good price. She was sailed to Portugal, where labor is cheap, to be refitted for the spice trade.”

  Jo sat up a bit straighter at the mention of Portugal. She remembered Jackie Shaw saying that the Bonaventure had a Portuguese crew and papers.

  “Phillip told me he planned to have the chains and manacles removed,” Markham continued, “as well as the decking upon which slaves were held.”

  Jo shuddered at the words chains and manacles, horrified to think of what the poor souls on board that ship had endured.

  “Spices are a lucrative cargo, and lucrative cargo is always important, but it was especially so then because of the economic difficulties after the war,” Markham explained. “Currency was devalued, and many businesses suffered, including shipbuilding.” He paused. “Do you understand these terms, Miss Montfort? Finance, economics … they can be a bit overwhelming to the feminine mind.”

  “I will do my best to keep up, Mr. Markham,” Jo replied. The touch of sarcasm in her voice was lost on him.

  “Very well. Where were we, again?”

  “The postwar economic difficulties … ,” Jo answered.

  “Right you are.”

  “… caused, paradoxically, by inflation, the demonetization of silver, speculative investments, railroad bankruptcies, the Black Friday gold panic of 1869, and a rather large trade deficit,” Jo said.

  She’d received an A+ on her paper on the reconstruction of the South.

  Mr. Markham stared, his mouth slightly ajar. “Yes. Quite so,” he said. “Well, ahem, as I’m sure you also know, shipbuilding—rather than shipping—was your family’s business for well over a century.”

  Jo nodded. She remembered her father once pointing out a furniture factory on the west side of the city and telling her that the original Montfort shipyards had been located where the factory now stood.

  “After the war, your father and uncle saw the writing on the wall. They were young but shrewd and knew they had to get out of the shipyards and into trade,” Markham explained. “So they made a bold move—they sold the shipyards and bought a shipping firm from old Geert Van Houten. The business was nearly moribund, but Van Houten’s docks were spacious and underutilized—prime waterfront holdings.”

  Markham was telling Jo things she knew, but she didn’t interrupt him to point that out, fearing that if she cut him off, she might also cut off an important detail about the Nausett.

  “The sale of the shipyards didn’t bring as much as your father and uncle would have liked, though. They needed to raise more cash, so they brought other men into the firm as partners. These men were known to them, and trusted. They kept the business afloat, so to speak, but barely. They needed one final partner, and they found one—a Mr. Stephen Smith.”

  Jo’s excitement was building. She might be able to learn more about Stephen Smith, as well as the Nausett, from Markham.

  “Mr. Smith was lost at sea while he was working in Zanzibar, I believe,” she said.

  “Yes. It was a tragedy. Stephen Smith was an asset to Van Houten. He’d lived in India for several years and had an extensive knowledge of the spice trade.”

  “I’d be grateful for your impressions of him for my history,” Jo said, eager to keep Markham talking about Smith. “Did you know him?”

  “By reputation only. He was said to be honest in his dealings, but he was a Boston man originally, and divorced—which is barely acceptable today, never mind two decades ago. I doubt Charles and Phillip would have taken him on in fatter times, but they needed funds, and I believe it was Smith’s money that allowed the firm to purchase the Nausett. Her loss was quite a blow to the company, but of course she was insured.”

  Jo’s hopes started to fade. She forged ahead with one last question, trying for a smooth segue. “Do you know if Van Houten ever employed a Mr. Kinch as … as a captain on the Nausett? Or any of their ships?”

  Markham shook his head. “The name doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. “Then again, I wouldn’t know the names of all the firm’s employees. Now, about the Peregrine …”

  Jo’s heart sank. She’d run into another brick wall. Her entire trip to Brooklyn had been for nothing. Markham had told her nothing at all about the Bonaventure, and nothing useful about the Nausett, Stephen Smith, or Kinch. She gritted her teeth as he droned on, wondering how she could make a graceful exit, when the clock on the wall struck the
hour—half past twelve.

  “Oh, my! Is that time already? I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut our delightful visit short, Mr. Markham. My mother is expecting me home by one-thirty.”

  Mr. Markham’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “But I haven’t finished telling you about the rest of Van Houten’s ships!” he protested.

  “And I would love to hear about them,” Jo fibbed. “Might I return another time, if it’s not an inconvenience?”

  “Of course, Miss Montfort,” Mr. Markham said warmly. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Jo rose. Markham got her coat for her. “Shall I call for Clarence to escort you downstairs?” he asked. “I’m sure he’d like to say goodbye.”

  “I’m sure he would,” Jo said without thinking. “I—I mean, I’m sure I would,” she said, flustered. “Like to say goodbye. But I must catch a ferry. Now. Or I’ll be late for my … piano lesson. Good day, Mr. Markham.”

  She hurried out of the building, feeling dispirited. The Nausett didn’t lead to the Bonaventure; it led straight to the bottom of the sea. She’d write to Eddie when she got home to let him know she’d turned up nothing. Sighing deeply, she wondered what he would do next.

  As Jo made her way back down Fulton Street to the docks, turning questions over in her mind, deeply lost in thought, she had the sudden, unsettling feeling that someone was watching her. Unnerved, she whirled around. The crowd of people, some on their way to the ferry, others on their way to lunch, flowed around her. She scanned the faces rushing by, expecting to see the frightening man with the scarred cheek among them, but he wasn’t there.

  “You’re being silly,” she told herself, but her uneasiness remained. She turned around and quickened her steps to the docks

  “Oh, blast,” Jo said as she watched the ferry pull away from the slip.

  She was standing on the dock behind the wooden safety gate and would now have to wait until the ferry discharged its passengers on the Manhattan side and made its way back. She still felt spooked and didn’t relish spending a good hour on the rough-and-tumble waterfront.

  “Ferry leave without you, miss?” a kind voice called to her.

  A plump, smiling woman was standing on the deck of a small barge. It was moored just to the right of the ferry slip. Her face was weathered from wind and water. Her sleeves were rolled up. She was wiping her hands on a towel.

  “I’m afraid so!” Jo called back.

  “We can take you, me and my husband. We’ve got a load of sacking going to Peck Slip. We’ll let you out there. Come aboard. The dockside’s no place for a decent girl. My name’s Mrs. Rudge.”

  “Thank you!” Jo said, relieved. Just as she started toward the barge, she felt a hand close on her arm.

  “Don’t,” a voice warned.

  Startled, Jo turned to face a young woman. She had red hair and was wearing a fancy hat and a butterscotch-plaid suit. She looked like the young wife of a prosperous waterfront merchant.

  “Fay?” Jo said.

  “Don’t go with her,” Fay said, still gripping Jo’s arm.

  Jo glanced back at the barge. The kindly woman’s smile had curdled. “Let go of her, Fairy Fay,” she said. “You’ve no business on this side of the river.”

  “Piss off, Wilma,” said Fay.

  “You’re going to be sorry you said that, girl,” Mrs. Rudge hissed. She climbed over the side of the barge onto the dock.

  A razor blade appeared, as if from thin air, in Fay’s hand. She pushed Jo behind her. “Come on, then, Wilma,” she said, pinching the blade between her thumb and forefinger. “Let’s see if your ugly face looks any better without a nose.”

  Mrs. Rudge stopped dead. “Hank!” she bellowed, glaring hatefully at Fay. “Get up here! Now!”

  “What do you want, woman?” a voice bellowed from belowdecks.

  Fay didn’t wait for Wilma to tell him. She took Jo’s arm again and hustled her back up Fulton Street.

  “Where are we going?” Jo asked, breathless and more than a little worried to find herself arm in arm with a girl who’d once robbed her.

  “To Manhattan,” Fay said, hurrying her along.

  “But the docks are that way!” Jo protested, pointing behind them.

  “I know that. We’re hoofing it.” She glanced at the waterfront. “Hopefully, Wilma’s decided not to follow us. So you won’t get me killed as well as yourself.”

  “Killed? Fay, what are you talking about? I missed the ferry and Mrs. Rudge offered to take me across.”

  Fay smirked. “I’m sure she did. Wilma and Henry Rudge make a business out of getting unsuspecting people aboard their barge. They wait until they’re well out in the river, away from any other boats. Then they rob them and toss them overboard. Most make it back to shore. Some don’t.”

  Jo was shocked. She might’ve survived the ordeal, because she could swim, but then again, she might not have. Swimming in a sheltered cove at Newport in the summer was not the same thing as swimming in strong river currents, in a dress and coat, on a chilly autumn day.

  “Thank you,” she said gratefully. Fay had quite possibly saved her life.

  Fay waved her thanks away. “Keep moving. We’re not out of the woods yet,” she said, picking up the pace.

  “How do they get away with it? Don’t the victims go to the police?” asked Jo, trotting to keep up with her.

  “Sometimes, but it’s one person’s word against another’s,” Fay explained. “There aren’t many witnesses in the middle of the East River. And Wilma fences any swag right away, so if the cops come calling, they don’t find a thing.”

  “I’m glad you happened to be on Fulton Street,” Jo said. “I had the feeling someone was watching me. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Fay nodded. “I saw you come out of a building, looking all distracted. Someone else saw you, too. A pickpocket I know by sight but not by name. I followed you to make sure he didn’t get too close.”

  “Why are you so far afield?” Jo asked.

  “Things are a bit hot for me in Manhattan at the moment,” Fay said. “Got caught a couple of days ago. Spent a night in the clink. Cop who took me in warned me that the next time it’d be prison, not a station house cell.”

  As Fay spoke, Jo noticed a faded bruise under the powder on her face. “What happened to your cheek?” she asked.

  Fay shrugged. “Occupational hazard,” she said.

  “What does that mean?” Jo asked. Then she understood. “Did the police hit you?”

  “No, the mark did,” Fay replied. “The police know better than to hit anyone in the face. They go for the gut. You can’t see the bruises there. Bastard cop held my arms, though.”

  “Why?”

  “The mark was afraid to fight me fair.”

  Jo stopped dead. “Two men against a girl?”

  “I’m not sure I’d call them men,” Fay said, nudging her along.

  “We have to report this,” Jo said, outraged.

  “Good idea,” Fay said sarcastically. “Hey, let’s call the police.”

  Jo saw the difficulties Fay faced. The Tailor beat her if she didn’t steal for him, and the police beat her if she did. “I wish there were something I could do. I’m sorry that happened to you,” she said, uncomfortably aware of how good she had it compared to Fay.

  Fay smiled darkly. “Not as sorry as that mark’s going to be. I know where he lives. I heard the desk sergeant asking him for his name and address,” she said.

  She was still holding the razor blade she’d used to scare off Wilma Rudge. As Jo watched, she put it on her tongue and pressed it against the roof of her mouth.

  “Don’t! You’ll cut yourself!”

  “Not if you do it right. Got to use a single edge. And bend it a lot. Want to try?”

  Jo shook her head.

  “You’re hopeless, aren’t yo
u? As far as I can tell, you’ve no skills at all,” Fay said. “If you’re going to pay visits to Mulberry Bend and the docks, you should at least be able to defend yourself. Or the Wilma Rudges of the world will turn you inside out.”

  Jo liked the idea. The thought of being able to stand up for herself was appealing.

  “Can you show me how?” she asked. “But without any razor blades,” she added.

  Fay nodded. “I can show you a few basics. But not here. Up on the bridge. It’s quieter.”

  “The bridge?” Jo echoed.

  “Yes. That giant thing above us?” Fay said, pointing at the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “Of course, the bridge. Are we going to walk over it?” she asked eagerly.

  “What else would we do? Fly?” Fay gave her a sidelong glance. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

  “I’ve never walked over the Brooklyn Bridge, and I’ve always wanted to. Papa said it isn’t safe for young ladies to stroll across. This is exciting!” Jo said, her close call with Wilma Rudge forgotten in the anticipation of seeing the city from high up.

  It was Fay’s turn to stop dead. “How is a long walk across a boring old bridge exciting? Tell me, Jo Montfort, are all rich people insane?” she asked.

  “Walking anywhere on my own is exciting,” Jo said, looking up at the bridge’s soaring, graceful spans.

  For a moment, she forgot her companion was a notorious pickpocket, devious and dangerous, and that she herself was a proper young society lady. For a moment, they were just two girls heading off on an adventure.

  “Didn’t you say we had to keep moving? Hurry up, Fay. Let’s go!” she said.

  Fay laughed as Jo pulled her along. It was a low, rusty sound. As if she’d forgotten how.

  Or had never learned.

  “Okay, here’s a dip called the Pretty Girl. Pretend you’re a big fat man who’s just finished a five-course dinner at Rector’s lobster palace and now you’re off to the opera to ogle the soprano,” Fay said.