by Avi
He continued on at the same pace until he stopped abruptly and turned around. I could see his eyes shifting as if checking to see if we were alone. Apparently satisfied that we were, he said, “That man you were asking about, the one who said he hadn’t seen your brother, his name is Kassel. Mr. John Kassel.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
“My father’s fearful of him. And I’m not going to pretend I’m not too.”
“Fearful? But . . . why? Who is he?”
“Mr. Kassel runs the Mercury. Our boss. If we say anything bad about him and he hears about it, no telling what he’ll do. A lot of the people around here don’t like us.”
“I don’t understand.”
Momentarily, his eyes shifted away from me, then he looked right at me. “I’m guessing you know that some people don’t like Negroes.” I wanted to say that wasn’t me, but his severe tone and bluntness tied my tongue. I stared at him, hoping to hear more.
“I told you this morning,” he went on, “we’re from New York State. Town of Sag Harbor. Nothing like San Francisco. Small whaling town. There’s no slavery in New York. We’re free men. My brother and I and other kids went to school, church. Best of all, we’d roam around, swim, fish. Just live.
“Then my father wanted to try for the gold here. Thought he could get rich.”
“Like my father,” I said.
“There was a converted whaling ship,” continued Sam. “The General Parsons, coming out from Sag Harbor. One of the early ones. I’d already sailed on her. We hired on as shipmen and musicians. Soon as we got here — this past July — the whole crew rushed to the diggings. We went too. But we were run out. Not just us. Mexicans. People from Chile. We had to come back to town. With almost no money.
“Nothing we could do,” Sam went on, “but stay here, work as musicians until we save enough money to buy our way back to New York — but direct to New York, see? — safe and sure.
“No slavery in California, but the problem is, we can’t go back east just anywhere. Has to be New York. Or Massachusetts. Free states. If we go to the Carolinas, states like that, they might turn us into slaves.”
I nodded, even as I tried to make sense of it all.
“Which is why we work for that Mr. Kassel. It’s what we have to do to make money. Can you understand all that?”
“I think so,” I said, unnerved by his tale. Then I found the voice to say, “I’m sorry for your troubles.” The words sounded weak to my own ears.
I stood there, feeling stupid, not knowing what else to say, all too aware that Sam was watching me closely. But then I said, “Do you think this Mr. Kassel knows something about my brother?”
“No idea. But I’d trust him like I’d trust a snake with fangs at both ends. Let me tell you something, girl.” He paused as if needing to decide to go on. “This morning,” he continued, “after you left, Kassel came back and asked me if I’d spoken to a white girl. Said I wasn’t allowed to do that.”
“He did?”
“I knew it was you he was talking about. But no telling what Kassel might do, so I lied. Said I hadn’t. I hope you can understand that. Just trying to protect ourselves. Now I’ve spoken too much. My father didn’t want me to say anything.”
“Why?”
“I just told you,” he said, this time with anger, then he turned about and said, “Let’s go,” and once more he began to lead the way.
But he didn’t take five steps when he once again stopped and faced me. “I’m guessing you have no idea what a . . . a crimp is, do you?”
I remembered that Jacob had used that word: something about kidnapping. Not being sure, I shook my head.
“All these ships that come here, like ours, like the General Parsons, soon as they arrive, they lose their crews. Head for the gold. So the ships can’t go anywhere.”
Remembering what had happened when the Stephanie K. reached San Francisco and the whole crew went off, I said, “Rotten Row.”
“Exactly. Rotten Row. Ships just sitting in the cove. Or, like the Mercury, turned into a saloon. Which means captains get desperate for sailors so they can sail back home. Get frantic enough, they come to Kassel. He’s a crimp. He feeds drink or drugs to people who are in the Mercury. When they pass out, Kassel sells them to the captains for crew. Gets good money for each one he hands over. The Mercury being right on the water, it’s easy to deliver them. When they wake up, they’re at sea.”
“Drugs them!” I cried, my heart lurching. “Sells them?”
“You never heard it from me.”
“But . . . but that’s . . . slavery.”
“Don’t even try to tell me anything about slavery. White folks think slavery is just about black people. Don’t you believe it.
“But I’ll tell you something, Miss Tory. My father and I, we never eat or drink anything in the Mercury. Too risky. That Mr. Kassel, he suits up fine, but he’s as savage as a meat ax. He’d mince his mother for money. That’s why my father told me to say nothing to you. Not to protect you, but us. Now that you know, do us a big favor: keep away.”
Shocked, I just stood there.
Sam, if he noticed my reaction, said nothing, only turned about and started walking again. I hurried after him.
But once again, he stopped. “I’ll tell you another thing,” he said. “If Kassel took your brother, that means it’s for a ship that’s sailing soon.”
“Soon?” I cried. “How soon?”
“No idea. Quick.”
“Why?”
“Because the sooner that crimped person gets sailed off, the better. Makes sense, doesn’t it? He’s gone. No body. No crime. Vanished. You won’t see him again. Ever. That’s the way Kassel works.”
I think I may have actually gulped. “Are you saying Jacob might . . . already be gone?”
Not answering, Sam resumed walking, as if trying to get away from what he had already revealed. Over his shoulder he said, “You said you know about the Rotten Row ships, right?”
I nodded, all but running to keep as close to him as possible.
He said, “What I’ve heard — and I believe it — is the crimps hide the ones they kidnap on one of those empty ships. Who’s going to be able to find them there? Can’t search all of them, can you? Too many. Impossible. Kassel hides the ones he’s sold on an empty ship till the last minute, before a departing boat sails off. That makes it safe for him. Safe for the captain on that ship. Understand now?”
“Is . . . is there anything to do against . . . against this Mr. Kassel?”
“You can be sure I’m always trying to think of that. Sometimes when we’re playing he comes back and says, ‘Play such and such for a particular customer.’ You know what I do? I play it badly. Maybe he’ll lose that customer and he’ll go off. I know, it’s not much, but it’s something because Kassel holds all the power. Here you go,” he said, turning around. “You’re out of Happy Valley.”
I couldn’t move. “But . . . you’re telling me my brother might be on one of those rotten ships and is . . . is about to be . . . stolen away.”
“I’m not telling you anything. All I know is that’s what Kassel does.”
Altogether stunned, I said, “If Jacob is on some . . . Rotten Row ship . . . There are so many out there . . . How will I ever find him?”
Sam held out an open hand. “That’s just what I’m saying. You probably can’t. But if you do go looking, you’d better work fast, or you can say goodbye to Brother Jacob because you’ll never find him. But I’ll thank you, Miss Tory, not to say one word that it was me who told you all this. ’Cause if you do, I’ll put my hand on twelve Bibles and swear you’re lying. Understand? Good luck. And do me a favor: don’t come back into the Mercury. And don’t come back here to us either.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled as Sam turned around and took a step away.
“Sam,” I called after him again. “Thank you.”
He stopped.
I said, “Why . . . why did you te
ll me all this?”
He looked at me. “It’s not for you. I hate Kassel. He’s the devil in a tall hat. He stole my brother. Gone, just like I told you. No idea where he is. I’d do anything to work something against Kassel. Sometimes it feels like he has a whole army, and there is just me and my pa and we’re a long way from home. Which,” he added fiercely, “is why I keep playing that song. Wish I were home.”
Before I could say any more, Sam disappeared into the jumble that was called Happy Valley. Which was not a valley and not happy.
JACOB KIDNAPPED. CRIMPED. STOLEN AWAY. TO say that I was shocked is too mild. I might as well use other words such as dumbstruck, appalled, and finally helpless. Never had I been so frightened. Except, the bigger truth was, I did not know what to do. Numb.
Some part of me did not even want to believe what Sam had suggested. It was too horrific. Or maybe he was just trying to get me to go away. Scare me off.
Next moment, I realized how much he had helped me. After all, he had been told not to speak to me by his father and by Mr. Kassel. But although Sam didn’t owe me or Jacob anything, he had told me a great deal. At real risk. I was touched. Grateful.
There was something else: if I didn’t want to believe it, the only way to prove Sam wrong was to find Jacob. Or have Jacob show up on his own. Otherwise, I had to believe Sam, didn’t I? But if what Sam said was true? I must find Jacob . . . fast. Or . . . he’d disappear forever.
Wobbly, struggling for breath, trying desperately to think what I could do, I cannot say which hurt more: my head, stomach, or heart.
Somehow I made my way back into town. Once there, I went to Montgomery Street and stood on the edge of the cove. From that vantage point, I gazed out at the forsaken ships, which is to say Rotten Row.
The truth is, I had not spent much time thinking about the ships. Yes, they were there when our ship landed, and I had been curious about them, noticing that their numbers had much increased since we arrived. There were many hundreds now. But as far as I had been concerned, they were simply part of the madness that was San Francisco. Yes, odd. Truly strange. But not for a moment did I consider that they might have anything to do with me. Or Jacob.
But as I stood on the beach that moment and observed the empty ships, I saw the bulky, rotting hulks with altogether different eyes. It may seem fantastical, but crowded together as they were — some wedged so tightly I could have walked from one to another — they seemed alive, distressingly alive. Since the cove waters rippled some, the unoccupied ships shifted slightly, chafing and bumping one against another, making squeaking, grinding, and rasping sounds that reached the beach. It was almost as if the entire desolate fleet were some kind of wounded beast, masts, spars, and yards poking out in a million different ways, a bristled fiend-scathe or a gigantic multihorned and spiked but dying monster.
The idea that Jacob had been hidden away on one of those many ships — swallowed Jonah-like — was beyond horrifying. Because if it was true, how might I ever be able to find him?
Never in my life had I been so unnerved. I was absolutely sick. With my insides feeling like they were stuffed with stones, I stood there, more dead than alive. The more I stood there, trying to make up my mind (and control my feelings), the more I felt it was my fault that Jacob was gone. Knowing he had been unhappy, I should never, as Señor Rosales had gently hinted, have left him behind when I’d gone down the bay with Thad.
Let it be admitted: just the day before, I had pictured myself a grand independent adult. It had been wonderful to think I was free and liberated. Now I rued the moment. In truth, I’d grossly neglected my responsibilities. I had been arrogant. Do you wish to feel young? Be humiliated.
And what if Mother or Father returned and I could not tell them where Jacob was? The thought made me nauseous.
I must find Jacob.
Yet how?
I had no idea. Beyond all else, I felt terribly alone.
Next moment, I was overcome by an urgent need to speak to someone — as if to get away from my own frights. Yet understand: in San Francisco, other than in Happy Valley, there was no such thing as a neighborhood. It was not like Providence, where I knew everyone who lived on Sheldon Street as they knew me. Yes, the tents near us were occupied, but the young men who lived in them came and went like so many wispy clouds in the sky. As for women, there were so few, and if they were not at saloons, they ran boardinghouses or helped with a husband’s business. I knew none. There was Señor Rosales, but he was overworked with his café. Who was I to turn to?
As you might have guessed, it was Thad.
I ran to the store where he worked and found him quick enough. He was clerking behind one of the counters, offering shovels and picks to a boisterous line of new arrivals.
Soon as he saw me, he called out, “Find him?”
Too agitated to talk, I merely shook my head.
He must have seen how troubled I was, because he said, “What happened?”
I wasn’t going to repeat aloud what Sam had told me. I only said, “Come to my tent. Soon as you can.”
“Will do.”
I turned and fairly fled from the store, pushing my way through crowds of miners, who jeered and rebuked me for my belligerence. I did not care. I ran back uphill to our tent as fast as possible, forcing my way through the usual mobs. As I went, I kept repeating the same prayer in my head: Be there. Be there. Oh, dear God, please let Jacob be there.
I reached the tent and fairly well leaped inside.
Jacob was not there.
Whatever strength remained in me shrank to nothing. Dissolved. I flung myself onto Jacob’s bed and burst into tears.
I beg you to understand; crying was something I loathed. But at that moment I could not help myself. I sobbed. My whole body trembled. My chest hurt. I could barely breathe. “What am I going to do?” I wailed aloud. “What am I going to do?”
I found Mother’s shawl and wrapped it around me. How I missed her.
From across the way, I heard Señor Rosales call out. “Corderita, did you find him?” He must have seen me rush into the tent. Perhaps he’d heard my cries.
I sat up, worked to suppress my gulps of grief, and pawed at my wet face.
“Corderita,” he called again, “what is it? What’s the matter?”
Next moment, Señor Rosales did something he had never done before: he stuck his head into our tent.
“¿Que pasó? What did you learn about Jacob? What has happened?”
I looked up at him. My unhappy face must have revealed my ghastly feelings and frightened thoughts, because he came all the way in. More, he squatted down before me and put out a kind hand, which I clutched eagerly with both of mine, even as I wetted it with tears.
His gaze was full of sympathy. “Corderita, por favor, you must tell me. What’s happened?”
Haltingly, now and again snuffling, struggling to keep from crumbling anew into sobs and tears, I told Señor Rosales all that Sam had told me and what I feared had happened to Jacob.
His face showed alarm and anger. “Santo Dios,” he murmured, and made the sign of the cross over his chest more than once. “I have heard rumors of such terrible things,” he said. “But . . . Jacob. Un niño. I warned your father. This place . . . Lobos. Sí. There are wolves here. Do you truly think that’s what happened to him?”
Tears flowed down my cheeks. “I don’t know,” I wailed. “I just have to find him.” It was hard for me to talk or breathe.
“Very well. On the square, the police chief — Señor Malachi Fallon — has his office in the old schoolhouse. There are police officers as well. Someone will help.”
“Do you think so?”
“Corderita, Señor Fallon is la policía. He must find Jacob. It’s his obligation. Come, I’ll go with you.”
“Will you?” I said, deeply grateful for his help.
“Corderita, I have told you many times: I think of you as my daughter. Jacob, my son. My daughter isn’t here because, as I told yo
ur esteemed padre, this city is not safe for young people. Forgive me. His leaving you was a mistake. This proves me right. But since you are my local daughter, well, then, I will help.”
I jumped up and hugged him. He hugged me back.
“Vamos,” he said. “Now we must find Señor Fallon. As that boy Sam told you, if all of this is true, we must act rápidamente.”
“Señor,” I said, “one thing. You cannot say anything about Sam.”
“Why?
“He’s worried that he will be blamed.”
“Fine. Whatever you say. Now we must hurry.”
WE SQUISHED THROUGH THE MUD TO Portsmouth Square, going right to the old schoolhouse, a small, single-story wooden building. When we reached it, I stood next to Señor Rosales at the front door, trying to catch my breath and unclutter my thoughts.
“What do you wish to do?” he asked me. “I can talk to whoever is here. But perhaps it’s better that you do. Jacob is your hermano.”
It may seem stupid to say, or even simple, but I was learning that being frightened while trying to decide the right thing to do is difficult. I struggled hard to control my distress. “I’ll talk,” I said, and forced myself to stand straight and wipe the tears from my face. “I’m ready,” I said, though I didn’t think I was.
“Bueno. Think for a moment what you will say.”
I took a deep breath. Then nodded.
Señor Rosales pushed the door open.
It was a large room, divided in half, front and back, with a door to the back part. Next to the door was a bench with a man sitting on it. He was bent over reading the Alta California, the newspaper for which Thad’s father worked.
When we came in, this man looked up. His weather-beaten face bore a large and crooked nose, as if it had been broken some while ago. The skin about his small eyes was puffy, his mouth set in a frown, his chin neither smooth nor bearded, while his thick hair was much disheveled. A large pistol was stuck in his belt.
In short: there was something altogether disagreeable about him.
Señor Rosales spoke first. “Señor, con respecto, where is the police chief?”
