Gold Rush Girl

by Avi

  By the time I reached our tent, I had built up hopeful expectations that Jacob would be there. A quick look inside told me he had not returned.

  Dispirited, troubled anew, I sat on one of our beds. The more I thought about it, the more upset I became. It may have been bothersome to always look after Jacob, but it was quite another to have him disappear. I was — I reminded myself — in charge of him. Yes, a sibling can be annoying, but there is no one you love more.

  To ease my tension, I told myself this was just a small mystery, a mystery called Where was Jacob? Did I not like enigmas, the unknown? Was not the sky suitably gray and low? Like a description in a book, it fit the moment. That is to say, I told myself that this would be a modest puzzle: I should embrace it. Solve it quickly.

  “Jacob,” I said aloud, “please come back!”

  I went across to the café.

  “Do you find Jacob, corderita?” Señor Rosales called out as soon as he saw me.

  Two men dressed like miners were standing at his wood-plank counter, eating.

  I shook my head. “Have you seen him?”

  “No lo he visto. I haven’t seen him,” he said. “Can I offer you some comida — food — now?”

  “Gracias.”

  I stood at the serving counter as he gave me a cup of coffee and a slab of beef. I reached into my money belt.

  He held up his palm. “Más tarde. Later, corderita. When you find Jacob.”

  “Who’s Jacob?” asked one of the men who had been eating. In San Francisco strangers talked to strangers all the time.

  “My younger brother,” I said.

  “Where’s he at?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Probably went to the diggings,” said the man as he put a pinch of gold grains into Señor Rosales’s outstretched hand to pay for his meal.

  “He’s too young,” I said. But I had not thought it before: perhaps he had gone off to find Father. It was something I could almost see him, out of frustration, attempting.

  “Never too young to get rich,” said the man. “I heard tell yesterday of a nine-year-old boy digging alongside his old man up on the San Joaquin River. Pulled up a two-thousand-dollar nugget.”

  As the miners headed out, one of them paused and looked hard at me. “Excuse me, you a boy or a girl?”

  “A girl,” I said, holding my head high.

  “Nice to see one,” he said, touching his hat with civility. “Not all that many around here.” He started to leave, hesitated, and looked back. “Married, ma’am?” he said.

  “No wish to be,” I said, giving the answer I had learned to use.

  “Hope you don’t mind me asking,” said the miner with a shy smile. Then he touched his hat in politeness again and left.

  Señor Rosales stood behind his counter, arms folded over his chest. “You are distressed, corderita, aren’t you?”

  “Jacob has never gone like this,” I answered.

  “No idea where he would go?”

  “He talked of shipping out.”

  “Jacob? Nunca. Never.”

  “Or maybe he did go off to find Father.”

  Señor Rosales shook his head. “Not without telling you.”

  “At the Mercury, there was a musician, a boy. From what he told me, Jacob had been listening to the music there last night. He must have been there looking for me.”

  “Well, then, ask that niño.”

  “I did. He said he had no idea where Jacob went.”

  “Preguntale otra vez. Perhaps he’ll remember something else. People do.”

  “I suppose,” I admitted.

  When I finished eating, I went back to our tent and decided to wait until Jacob returned.

  I took off my hat and smoothed back my hair, feeling how quickly it had become dirty again. Telling myself I should buy some soap at Thad’s store, I pulled my hair around, braided it anew, and tried to be patient.

  Perhaps Señor Rosales was right: I should speak to that bugler boy again. Perhaps he had remembered something. Any hint as to where Jacob had gone would ease my worry. Then I reminded myself: Father was due back in three days. What if, by then, I could not find Jacob? The thought gave me a jolt of panic.

  Ignoring the rain and mud, I headed back toward the Mercury.

  THE SALOON WAS MUCH MORE CROWDED THAN before, the noise already full-mouthed. At the entryway, I looked first for that not-so-nice man, the one with the pelican feather on his coat lapel. Relieved not to see him, I went to the stage at the back of the hall, hoping the Negro boy was there. When I saw he wasn’t, my heart seemed to drop. The only one on the low stage was an old white man, sweeping. His full gray beard was unkempt, his head bald, his mouth collapsed, his eyes bleary red. With his ragged clothing, I judged him to be a failed miner. Such men were all over town.

  Not knowing what else to do, I stood waiting on him, but he paid no attention to me. Instead, he worked his broom in slow, ceaseless circles, now and again pausing to throw out a clogged cough.

  “Sir,” I called at last, “can you tell me where the musicians are?”

  The old man paused in his work and gazed at me as though waking from a dream. “Musicians?” he asked, and coughed as if his throat were full of phlegm.

  I said, “There was a black boy here, a bugler. He told me his name was Samuel. Sam.”

  The old man stared at me, but not as if he were seeing. He let forth a few more coughs, which shook his whole body. When he stopped, he drew his trembling hand over his mouth and wiped a gob of whatever it was he had spit up and smeared it on his trousers.

  “Sir,” I prompted, “I need to speak to that boy.”

  “One of the musicians?” he said, as much to himself as me. “The colored kid? Don’t know much ’bout him, save him and his father live over in Happy Valley. Used to have an older brother. Don’t know what happened to him, either.” He coughed, spat, turned away, and resumed his slow sweeping. It had hardly been a conversation, but when he turned his back on me, I knew it was over.

  “Thank you,” I muttered, and headed for the doors, making my way through the unruly gamblers. I again looked for the man I didn’t like but caught no sight of him. Dejected, I passed through the entryway. But once outside, it was clear that if I wished to speak to that bugler, I must go find him in Happy Valley.

  Happy Valley was a small area south of what people were calling Market Street, situated at the southern end of Yerba Buena Cove, near a place called Rincon Point. No ships came there, not even the abandoned ones. I suppose the name — Happy Valley — was meant as a jest because the men with whom I had worked had taken pains to tell me there was no valley and little happiness there, that it was not a place to picnic or sniff the air. Rather, it was an area full of sludge, sewage, and gross mud. That if one desired to define the word dreadful or nasty you might as well describe Happy Valley.

  Thad had spoken about it too, saying that Happy Valley was the most crowded, poorest part of the city. Crowded, he said, because people could live there without paying rent — squatters. Most of all, it was the section of the city where discarded people and things were shunted. The people living there, he said, had had the worst kind of luck, were sick, or poor. More often than not, they were a mix of all three. Once you lived there, he said, you tended to remain as if stuck in its mud. Thad also claimed that people who had committed crimes often took up residence there, since it was common knowledge that the city’s new, small police force refused to venture into the area.

  In other words, all agreed that Happy Valley was the last place I should visit. But though it might be the worst of San Francisco, if I wanted to speak to the boy Sam, that’s where I had to go.

  So it was that not long after I left the Mercury, I stood at the unhappy neighborhood’s edge, where I could see for myself much of what I had been told. The people I saw walking about appeared forsaken. Nary a cheerful face. Nor did I see any women. Or girls. As I remained there, seeking the courage to go forward, I remembered Fa
ther saying when he left, “Try and act a little ladylike.”

  No, going into Happy Valley was hardly ladylike. It might, I had been warned, even be perilous. Yet Father had also told me that I must be responsible for my brother. I couldn’t have it both ways. In any case my agitation had only grown. I had to find Jacob. Of course, there was nothing to suggest that the bugle boy — if I could even find him — knew anything more than he had already told me.

  But as Señor Rosales had suggested, Sam might have remembered something after I left. I, therefore, felt obliged to speak to him, the last to have seen Jacob, thus being the only thread I could clutch, my tiny clue as to my brother’s whereabouts. Except, as I stood there — before Happy Valley — I didn’t even know how to start looking for him.

  Then I heard a slow, sad weep of music which drifted over the dilapidated dwellings clear and clean. I knew it right away, the song I’d heard the bugle boy play: “I Often Think of Writing Home.”

  I told myself that it had to be Sam.

  Hoping the music would continue so I could follow it to the source, I reminded myself I must be careful not to get lost. From my money belt, I wiggled out my knife and kept it hidden in my hand. Only then did I step forward.

  You might think that trying to trace the source of the music would be easy. But there was no order to the place. Pathways were never straight. The people living there had used anything and everything that might give shelter and set it up at utter random: tents, slapdash shacks, lopsided packing-box homes, a cloth tied to four (or two) poles, sheets of old sailcloth used for making tents or spread upon the ground, under which people lay.

  As I walked, moving along the winding, pinching pathways that lay between tents, shacks, and sleeping spots, the music stopped or became soft. Which meant I too had to stop and pray it might resume. Each time it halted, I’d whisper, as if to that boy Samuel, “Keep playing. Keep playing.”

  As I continued on, men appeared from what seemed to be nowhere. Seeing me, they stopped, their looks poking at me, their raw gazes rude and rough, sometimes altogether alarming, as if daring me to go forward. At such moments, I felt the need to retreat and find another route. Never had I been so glad I was not in young woman’s dress.

  I kept wandering, constantly checking behind me in hopes I’d remember a way out. I was not sure I could. Fortunately, the music repeated itself, over and over again. Oh, how sad it sounded. Yet, oddly, it gave me hope.

  At length, the music guided me to a tent, a tent made of blue cloth, square and somewhat larger than ours. It was wedged between other tents, so there was not much space around it.

  With my knife concealed in hand, I stood and listened to the music. Though relieved I’d found where I thought the boy Samuel lived, I dithered, reminding myself that he might not know anything more about Jacob. Nor had he been friendly. I had no idea what he, a colored boy, might think of me, a white girl. He might resent my coming. I further admit, by then I was already wondering how I was ever going to find my way out of Happy Valley.

  Telling myself I had come this far, that I had to at least try to speak to the boy, I put my knife away, stood before the tent opening, and called, “Samuel Nichols. Samuel. Sam!”

  Instantly the music stopped.

  THERE WAS NO REPLY TO MY CALL.

  “Hello!” I tried again. “Is Samuel there? May I speak to him, please? It’s me, Victoria Blaisdell. Tory.”

  When there was still no response, I stepped back, trying to think what I should do. He won’t come, I told myself. He doesn’t want to speak to me. I was about to leave when someone poked his head out of the tent.

  It wasn’t Sam but an older Negro man, with touches of white in his hair. His dark, wrinkled face made me think he was old enough to be the boy’s grandfather. His look was solemn, suggesting he was not pleased to see me. For a long moment, he studied me as if trying to read me. Then he said, “What do you want, miss?”

  “Please, sir. I’m looking for a boy named Samuel,” I said, wishing to be as polite as I could.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “I’m trying to find my brother. He’s disappeared.”

  Alarm filled the man’s face. “Are you saying that Samuel had something to do with your brother going missing?”

  “Oh, no, sir. I’m just looking for help finding him.”

  “What’s Samuel got to do with it?”

  “He’s the last person I know to have seen him.”

  The man continued to consider me with distrustful eyes. “Where,” he said, “was that?”

  “Last night. At the Mercury.”

  “Was he gambling?”

  “Oh, no, sir. He’s only ten years old.”

  “Ten! What was he doing in the Mercury? At night?”

  “I think he was looking for me.”

  “Where were you?” His tone was severe.

  “I was fishing down-bay. With a friend. Only I was stuck there. When I finally got back, my brother was gone. I don’t know where. I’ve been looking for him.”

  “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Jacob. I spoke to Samuel this morning. He told me that he saw Jacob last night listening to him play at the Mercury.”

  “I’m Samuel’s father. Mr. Nichols. How’d you know Sam lived here?”

  “An old man at the Mercury told me. When I got here, I heard Sam playing that song, ‘I Often Think of Writing Home.’ I followed it.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen, sir.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “My father is at the diggings. My mother hasn’t come out yet.”

  “You telling me you and your brother are here in this city alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you said your name is . . . Victoria?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A girl, right?”

  I nodded.

  Mr. Nichols frowned, and his eyes never stopped appraising me. “I need to get this right: You and your brother are in San Francisco alone. Now he’s missing, but you’re not blaming Samuel?”

  “Oh, no, sir. I just need help finding him.”

  As if trying to make up his mind, Samuel’s father continued looking at me. At last, he said, “All right. You can step in. For a minute.”

  With one hand, he held the tent flap wide. With the other, he made a beckoning gesture. It was not a welcome but permission.

  I hesitated for a half second, but then I said, “Thank you, sir,” and went in.

  The dim tent was neater than Jacob and I kept ours. Three beds were laid out side by side. Two boxes stood in the back area. Sitting on one of the beds was Sam, the key bugle on his lap. When he glanced up at me, his face showed not the slightest recognition. All the same, I was sure he must have recognized me and heard the conversation.

  “Do you know this girl?” his father said to him. His eyes were severe but, I thought, protective.

  Sam considered me for a brief moment. “This morning,” he said to his father, not to me, “when I was practicing at the Mercury, she was asking about her brother being there.”

  “I think Jacob was looking for me,” I interjected.

  Still speaking to his father, Sam said, “I told her I don’t know anything about him.”

  “Did he tell you that?” Mr. Nichols demanded of me.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then what else do you want?” There was displeasure in his voice.

  “Please, sir,” I said, speaking fast because I was nervous, “I was hoping Samuel might have remembered something that could help me. I have to find my brother. And another thing: Jacob had a pelican feather in his hat. Our father gave it to him before he went to the mines. When I was in the Mercury this morning, after I spoke to you”— I nodded to Sam — “a man demanded to know what I was doing there. When I told him, he said Jacob hadn’t been in the Mercury. Told me to leave. But the thing is, he had a feather on his coat — a pelican feather — just like Jacob had.�
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  As I spoke, Mr. Nichols’s face filled with unease. “What man was that?”

  “Tall, narrow face, long nose. Trimmed beard. Black cravat and high hat.”

  Sam and his father exchanged looks of alarm. Their silent exchange made me think they knew the person I was talking about. Even so, Mr. Nichols said, “We know nothing about that man.”

  I waited for them to say more. When they didn’t, though I was disappointed, there was nothing for me to do but say “Thank you” and start to leave.

  “Hold on,” called Mr. Nichols.

  I stopped.

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Victoria, sir. Victoria Blaisdell. You can call me Tory.”

  “OK, Miss Tory. Can you find your way out of here? It can be a fuddle.”

  “I . . . hope I can.”

  Mr. Nichols made a gesture to Samuel. “You better show her the way.”

  Sam looked at his father with, I thought, a question in his eyes. I think I saw his father give a tiny shake of his head. A “no.” I had no idea what it meant.

  Regardless, Sam put his bugle down on the bed, stood up, and said to me, “Come on.”

  I went out of the tent first. Sam followed. I kept thinking, What did that no mean?

  WITHOUT SAYING A WORD, SAM PASSED ME AND, not so much as looking around, started walking fast. I had no choice but to trail after, hurrying to keep up. As I looked at him, I could see how tense his body was. It seemed as if he wanted to get away from something. Perhaps it was me. Was he angry?

  He picked his way through the disorder of tents and shacks as if leading me through a maze. Hoping I could get him to speak, I called out, “Why do you keep playing that song, ‘I Often Think of Writing Home’?”

  “Wish I were home,” he snapped without looking around.