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OTHER YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY
BOSTON JANE: AN ADVENTURE
Jennifer L. Holm
BOSTON JANE: WILDERNESS DAYS
Jennifer L. Holm
PENNY FROM HEAVEN,
Jennifer L. Holm
HATTIE BIG SKY,
Kirby Larson
LIZZIE BRIGHT AND THE BUCKMINSTER BOY
Gary D. Schmidt
THE MISADVENTURES OF MAUDE MARCH
Audrey Couloumbis
BELLE PRATER’S BOY,
Ruth White
This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2004 by Jennifer L. Holm
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by HarperCollins Children’s Books, a division of HarperCollins Publishers, New York, in 2004.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Holm, Jennifer L.
Boston Jane: the claim / by Jennifer L. Holm.—1st pbk. ed.
p. cm.
Sequel to: Boston Jane: wilderness days.
Summary: The arrival from Philadelphia of her spiteful nemesis Sally Biddle and the return of her corrupt ex-fiance William Baldt spell trouble for seventeen-year-old Miss Jane Peck, who has survived on her own in Shoalwater Bay, a community of white settlers and Chinook Indians in 1850s Washington Territory.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89401-5
[1. Frontier and pioneer life—Washington (State)—Fiction. 2. Washington Territory—History—19th century—Fiction. 3. Orphans—Fiction. 4. Chinook Indians—Fiction. 5. Indians of North America—Washington (State)—Fiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.H732226Br 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2009005126
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
For my father, William Holm, M.D.,
and for my aunts, Elizabeth Holm and Louise Hunter.
Oysterman’s kids, every one.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Author’s Note
Resources
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, many thanks to all who have helped Jane Peck claim her place in the world.
For aiding me in my research, I would like to thank the usual suspects: Gary Johnson, Chairman of the Chinook Tribe; Bruce Weilepp of the Pacific County Historical Society; Joan Mann of the Ilwaco Heritage Museum; Paul and Ginny Merz; Elizabeth Holm, Matthew Holm and my father, William Holm, M.D. And, of course, the wonderful Janet Frick.
A special thanks to my own sewing circle: Jill Applebaum, Shana Corey, Wendy Wilson, and Mercury Schroeppel.
I owe a great debt to Willard Espy, who so wonderfully chronicled his family’s experiences on Shoalwater Bay. And also to a girl after Jane’s own heart, Louise Espy—a lady who went out to the wilderness and lived to tell about it.
Finally, a special thanks to the real Jehu Scudder for always making my coffee so perfectly.
In this privileged land, where we acknowledge no distinctions but what are founded on character and manners, she is a lady, who, to in-bred modesty and refinement, adds a scrupulous attention to the rights and feelings of others.
—THE YOUNG LADY’S FRIEND (1836), By a Lady
CHAPTER ONE
or,
Old Ghosts
I was standing on a high bluff looking out at the vast shimmering sweep of blue-green water that was Shoalwater Bay.
Spring was in bloom, with drizzly rains and soft nights, and occasionally, a glorious day such as this one—when the sun broke out from behind the clouds and brushed the lush green wilderness with a golden tint. A sweet, salty wind swept over the waves, sending my thick, curly red hair flying in all directions. Gulls swooped and cried like nosy neighbors, diving low to the water. I should have been strolling through town, enjoying this rare and dazzling May day. Unfortunately, I was not feeling very well.
As a matter of fact, I was puking.
I had thought she was a ghost, perched behind Jehu in the back of a rowboat heading toward shore. I wished she were a ghost.
I retched again, but there was nothing left in my stomach.
Sally Biddle. With her wealthy family and faultless manners, she had been the belle of Philadelphia society when I lived there. But beneath her blond ringlets and fashionable gowns, she was a perfect monster, one whose chief amusement was tormenting other girls. Or at least one girl. Me. She had contrived to make my childhood a misery. And whenever I had earned small victories, Sally had always made me pay for them tenfold.
Trust me, you would puke, too.
Sally was one of the reasons I had been so eager to leave Philadelphia to put an entire continent between us. And now, here she was. What possible reason could my childhood tormentor have for following me to the farthest reaches of the Washington Territory? It made no sense. Had she traveled all this way just to torture me?
But there was no denying it. She was real. No ghost would wear such an elegant dress with a matching cape and smart bonnet. Why, Sally looked as if she were on her way to tea, and not arriving from a sea voyage of several months. She looked perfect, as usual, not at all like the sad sack I had been upon my arrival more than a year earlier.
When Jehu’s rowboat had hit the sandy beach, the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach exploded, and a single thought thrummed in my head:
Sally Biddle is here!
Sally had stood up and held out a hand to Jehu, and the sight of that gloved hand resting on Jehu’s strong arm as he helped her to shore had shaken me like nothing else could. I had done the only thing a lady could do in such a situation. I had picked up my skirts and run all the way up here to the high bluff to be sick in private.
Now, with each breath of crisp air, I felt my stomach settle and a measure
of calm return to me. I was on my claim, I told myself over and over, like a litany. Behind me was the beginning of the beautiful new home my sweet Jehu was building me. Nothing bad could happen to me here.
Something in the distance caught my eye. A blond-haired figure was slowly strolling through the woods, pausing here and there. At first glance I feared Sally Biddle had followed me, but then I saw that it was clearly a man, and not a lady.
“Boston Jane!” a voice cried from the other direction.
I turned to see little Sootie and her cousin Katy barreling toward me, dolls in tow. When I looked back to where the figure had been, he was gone, vanished into the thick dark woods.
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Sootie exclaimed in a rush.
Sootie was a whirligig of energy. With her thick black hair, copper skin, and bright, excited eyes, the daughter of Chief Toke of the Chinook tribe took after her mother, my friend Suis, who had died in the smallpox epidemic the previous year.
“Star’s has new fabric! It just arrived on the schooner!” she exclaimed in a rush, waving her rag doll at me.
Sootie, like her mother before her, was a skilled trader, and she had amassed a small collection of dolls from other children of the settlement through her skillful dealings. I had promised her that I would make a dress for this latest doll.
“Why are you all the way out here?” Katy asked curiously.
Katy, the eleven-year-old daughter of a local pioneer and his Chinook wife, had inherited the fair skin of her father and the brown eyes and lustrous black hair of her mother. She was an uncommonly beautiful little girl with a gentle disposition that I found charming.
“I’m hiding from a memelose,” I said lightly.
“A memelose?” Katy asked in hushed tones, looking around nervously. “Really?”
Memelose was the Chinook word for spirit.
“You should change your name, Boston Jane,” Sootie said, all seriousness. “Then the memelose won’t be able to find you.”
The Chinook believed that if you changed your name, you could outwit a memelose who wanted to lure you to the other side. And in a manner of speaking, I had done just that. I was now known to many here on the bay as Boston Jane, a name bestowed upon me by my Chinook friends and dear to me for what it implied. Boston Jane was a woman of courage. She had survived and endured in the wilderness, carving a place for herself in this fragile settlement at the edge of the frontier. But I knew that I could change my name a thousand times and it would not alter the fact that Sally Biddle was here on Shoalwater Bay.
“The memelose has already found me,” I said.
Sootie considered this for a moment, then declared bravely, “I’m not afraid of memeloses!”
I wanted to tell her that Sally Biddle was one memelose she should fear.
“Don’t worry, Boston Jane,” Katy said. “We’ll protect you!”
“She’s not really a memelose,” I admitted. “She’s just a girl.” A rather disagreeable girl, I wanted to add.
“You can tell us the truth, Boston Jane. We’re not afraid,” Katy said.
“I wish she weren’t real,” I murmured.
They nodded.
“Now come to town,” Sootie said, tugging at my arm. “Before all the fabric is gone!”
I looked out at the sparkling bay and sighed. I couldn’t very well hide forever, could I? I brushed off my hands on my skirt, tugged my bonnet over my wild red curls, and stood up.
“Very well,” I agreed, and then gave them a small wink. “But if Sally Biddle comes to haunt me, I’m sending her after you!”
Mr. Russell’s raggedy little cabin marked the far edge of our burgeoning settlement.
Pioneers came to Shoalwater Bay lured by stories of oyster farming, and land for homesteading. Our town was growing right along the shore, making it most convenient for the hardworking oystermen who toiled on the bay. Many of the homes were built on pilings and floats to survive the sometimes perilously high tides. In some places the cabins were scarcely more than shacks, and tents were visible as well. While there were several families in residence now, most of our inhabitants were unmarried men, which was why, I supposed, we had three taverns and a coffin shop but no schools.
Mr. Russell’s cabin, though, was sensibly placed far above the high-water mark, in a clearing in the woods. When I’d first arrived, this ramshackle cabin was the only true house the settlement had to offer. It was my first home here. Unfortunately, it had also been home to every filthy, flea-bitten prospecting man who happened to be passing through. Mr. Russell was not generally given to cleanliness, and his cabin usually reflected this personal trait. At the moment, the bewhiskered, buckskin-clad mountain man was sitting on the porch.
“Hello, Mr. Russell,” I called, and waved.
He spit a wad of tobacco in my general direction and waved back to us.
Mr. Russell and I had been through a lot together, and I felt a tremendous fondness for the man. I’ll admit I even felt a bit homesick for that wretched dirt-floor shack of his.
The girls and I passed the cabin and set off along the main road that led down to the center of town. I was immediately barraged by the familiar scents and sounds that characterized Front Street—raucous shouts emanating from one of the taverns, the tangy smell of manure mixed with mud, the sharp salty breeze off the bay, oystermen dickering over prices, the murmurs of men discussing whether or not it would rain.
Front Street, which ran parallel to shore, was a rather grand title for a path that was usually little more than a swath of thick, boot-sticking mud. A ramshackle, narrow walkway, constructed of spare planks salvaged from shipwrecks and packing crates, ran alongside this muddy route. My young companions ran nimbly along the walkway, dancing ahead of me.
“Hurry, Boston Jane,” Sootie shouted over her shoulder. “All the fabric will be gone!”
Front Street was crowded with all manner of men. There were Indians from local tribes, pioneers from back east, miners who had not struck gold in California and wanted to try their chances on oysters, and men who were fleeing the law. In short, our citizens consisted mainly of rough-and-tumble men who could not be bothered to build proper houses or bathe but happily drank their earnings. It was altogether a wild community, especially after dark.
Wagons full of freshly harvested oysters hauled their cargo up and down the muddy thoroughfare. Here and there, men were holding friendly wagers by tossing gold coins in the sand. Oysters were making men rich. The native bivalves were in such demand in San Francisco that men thought nothing of paying a silver dollar for a fresh-shucked oyster.
Even I was part of the oyster rush. I owned a canoe and oyster beds with my friend Mr. Swan, although our business had not been too successful of late. My partner had gambled away the profits from the last harvest. As I was increasingly busy with my duties at the hotel where I worked, I was considering renting out the beds to another oysterman for a share of the profits.
Ahead of me a man stood lounging on the narrow walkway, making it impossible for me to pass.
“Excuse me,” I said.
But the man, who had clearly been spending his oyster money on whiskey, simply leered at me.
I was forced to step onto the road, where I soon found myself ankle-deep in mud. After several bootclogging steps, I passed the man and climbed back onto the walkway.
Farther down the muddy thoroughfare, I spied the gay bunting of Star’s Dry Goods, and beyond that the outline of the Frink Hotel.
Sootie bounded up the steps of Star’s in front of me, while Katy hovered behind.
“Boston Jane, what if the memelose girl is here?” Katy asked in a whisper. “Memeloses are very dangerous! They can hurt you because no one can see them.”
“We’ll be fine,” I assured her with more courage than I felt.
She eyed me warily.
A small brass bell attached to the door rang as we entered.
Star’s Dry Goods was a jumble of goods stacked flo
or to ceiling. There were harness fittings, bird seed, molasses, nails, flour, tea, coffee, and even umbrellas—the most practical item in the store considering the amount of rain Shoalwater Bay received. The huge barrel of molasses sat alongside a barrel of hard cider and one of vinegar. Glass jars filled with candy waited hopefully for small children to sample their wares. In addition to the standard store items, Mr. Staroselsky’s wife ordered goods that were appreciated by the ladies. There was a very nice assortment of fabrics, as well as sewing needles, ribbon, buttons, hosiery, cotton yarns, and combs. It was all arranged in a haphazard fashion that only Mr. Staroselsky seemed to know how to navigate.
In the back of the room, several men sat in captain’s chairs around the small potbellied stove. It was a favorite place to exchange gossip.
“Hello, Jane,” Mrs. Staroselsky called from behind the counter.
Mrs. Staroselsky, a vibrant young woman with a tumble of thick, black curly hair, could often be seen making deliveries around town for her husband. She had a brand-new baby named Rose, who was presently in her arms and making quite a fuss.
Sootie pushed in front of me to the counter. “Boston Jane is going to buy us some of the new fabric for our dolls!”
“For new dresses!” Katy added.
“Well, aren’t you girls lucky,” Mrs. Staroselsky said, smiling at me over Sootie’s head. “I saw Jehu with an enormous wagon of luggage. New arrivals?”
Jehu acted as the pilot for the bay, guiding ships in through the shoals and helping them unload their goods.
“Yes,” I said. “From Philadelphia.”
“How wonderful for you to have folks here from back home,” Mrs. Staroselsky said.
I bit my lip.
“Can I hold the baby?” Sootie asked, scrambling up to peer at the whimpering baby in Mrs. Staroselsky’s arms.
“You may,” Mrs. Staroselsky said, passing her the restless bundle. “Perhaps you can calm her down. She’s been crying for days.”
I nodded sympathetically.
“Look, she’s not crying anymore!” Sootie said in a hushed voice as she carefully rocked the baby. “She likes me!”
The Claim Page 1
