by Avi
The man looked at me and then at Señor Rosales. He appeared to be one of those people who take time to speak, not because he is thinking but to show you he’s in charge. When he did respond, he nodded toward the door, saying, “Don’t know if he’s there.”
“Why?” I said.
“He don’t answer to me.” With that, the man shook out the paper as if it contained crumbs that needed disposing of. Then he made a demonstration of resuming his reading.
Ignoring him, I went forward and knocked on the door. No one answered. I looked at Señor Rosales. He pursed his lips. I looked at the man with the newspaper. Though he kept his eyes fixed on the paper, I was sure he was not reading but waiting to see what I did.
Agitated, desperate to do something, I twisted the big doorknob and pushed the door open.
There was a big oaken desk in the middle of this smaller room, plus a few large chairs. On the wall hung a picture of James Polk, the former president of the United States, the one whose words had brought my father and thousands of others to California.
A man behind the desk was leaning forward, his head resting in his arms. Judging by his heavy, steady breathing, he was asleep.
I shoved the door farther in, went forward, and stood before the desk. “Sir,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
The man didn’t move. I looked at Señor Rosales. He shrugged.
“Captain Fallon,” I called, louder. When he didn’t stir, I leaned over the desk. “Captain Fallon, sir. Hello.”
Very slowly, the man sat up, revealing a square, fleshy face with bags under small, sleepy eyes. His mouth was thin-lipped, and he had a high, receding hairline topped with thin, curly hair. He looked first at Señor Rosales and then at me as if struggling to grasp that we were even there.
“Sir,” I said, “I need help.”
“Well, now,” he muttered, rubbing his face, “and what might be the kind of help you’re asking for?”
“Please, sir,” I said again. “Are you Captain Fallon? The police chief?”
“It’s what I’m called.”
“Please, I really need help.”
“Do you?” He took a deep breath, and his baleful eyes considered me with as much sympathy as if I were a stray dog.
I said, “I think my brother has been kidnapped.”
Captain Fallon barely reacted. He simply clasped his large hands before him and continued to sit there as if not interested, or perhaps not understanding. “And who is your brother?”
“Jacob Blaisdell.”
“Young, old?
“Ten.”
“Ah,” he said, and actually yawned. “Just a lad. Who are you and what’s your age?”
“I’m Victoria Blaisdell. I’m fourteen.”
“A girl.”
The way he said it was dismissive. “This man”— he nodded to Señor Rosales — “who is he?”
“A friend. He’s helping me. My father is at the diggings.”
“Where’s your ma?”
“She’ll be here any day now. From back east.”
“You’re alone, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Fallon studied his hands, then sighed as if bored. “Have you,” he said, without looking up, “any idea how many people, every day, go missing from this city?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“And ninety-nine out of a hundred have only taken themselves off to the gold fields.”
“Jacob wouldn’t do that.”
The man’s sleepy eyes lifted and studied me for a while. “All right, then,” he said, as if obliged, “tell me about your brother.”
As I repeated what Sam had told me, Mr. Fallon’s face screwed up into a scowl.
“Who told you all that?”
“A boy.”
“What boy?”
“A Negro boy who plays bugle at the Mercury,” I blurted out. “He lives in Happy Valley.”
“Colored boy, you say? At the Mercury? What makes you so sure he’s telling the truth?”
“Because I trust him and my brother is gone.”
Next moment, I realized what I’d done: exactly what Sam had asked me not to do, reveal him as the source of my information.
Captain Fallon frowned. “How long has your brother been missing?”
“A day.”
“One day . . .” He passed a hand over his face as if wiping away sleep or my remarks. “Look here. Listen to me. This brother of yours, he most likely went off to have a bit of fun. It’s what boys do. You needn’t worry none. If I were you, I’d go about your business. He’ll be coming back.”
“But, sir . . .”
“You said your father is at the diggings. Have you considered that your brother went looking for him?”
“I don’t think —”
“What’s your name again?”
“Victoria Blaisdell.”
He considered me with cloudy eyes. “Well, now, I’ll tell you what, Miss Victoria: if your brother don’t come back in a few days, you be sure to let me know.”
“But —”
“For now, no more.”
With that, Captain Fallon lowered his head back into his arms. In seconds, I heard his heavy, steady breathing. He was not just telling us to go; he had gone back to sleep. Or he was pretending to. Furious, I walked out of the office.
As we came out, the man on the bench glanced up at me from his newspaper. The door to Chief Fallon’s office having remained open, I wondered if this man had overheard my conversation. Not that he said anything to me, or I to him. He returned to his newspaper as if what he was reading was more interesting than me.
The moment Señor Rosales and I were out of the building, I cried, “Jacob did not go off for fun. And he didn’t go to the diggings. Not without telling me.”
“I don’t think so either,” Señor Rosales replied. As we started back toward the tent, he kept one hand on my shoulder, as if to steady me. We had to work our way through crowds.
After a while I said, “I have to search those ships.”
He halted. “What ships?”
“Rotten Row.”
“The abandoned ones?”
“Yes.”
He looked downhill, toward the cove. “Corderita, there are so many. Cientos. Hundreds. That isn’t smart. I don’t call you corderita — little lamb — for nothing. Lobos. Wolves. Don’t forget the lobos.”
“But . . . what else am I to do?” I cried, struggling yet again to keep back tears. Ashamed, I turned away. For a moment I thought I saw that man — the one in the police office. Was he following us? I trusted nothing. At that moment, Señor Rosales touched my shoulder. I swung around to face him.
“Maybe Jacob will come back on his own. After all, you broke your oar when you went down the bay, but you still managed to return.”
“Jacob doesn’t do things like that. He’s . . . he’s timid. And I told that man about Sam!” I cried. “I promised I wouldn’t.”
“I am not sure, corderita, the police chief listened to anything you said.”
I looked back to see if that man was behind us. If it had been him, he was no longer there. I decided I was just inventing more problems. Increasingly unnerved, I started up walking again. I did not speak. It was raining.
Señor Rosales said, “Muy bien. Search. But you can’t search those empty ships alone. It will be not safe. And the rain . . .”
“I have to.”
“I’m the adulto here. I’ll go with you.”
“You can’t leave your café. You don’t have doors.”
“Have faith, corderita. People will not steal. Besides, Jacob . . . and you are más importantes.”
“Gracias,” I returned, feeling it deeply. But I had no patience to listen. What I wanted to do was immediately go to those empty ships. Yes, there were hundreds, but I was convinced Jacob was in one of them.
We walked the rest of the way back in silence. The rain stopped and started again. Not that I cared. You must find
Jacob was the thought that repeated itself over and over again in my head. You must.
WHEN WE APPROACHED OUR TENT, I SAW THAD sitting on the ground, waiting. As soon as he saw us, he scrambled to his feet. “I’m here,” he called.
As we drew near, Señor Rosales realized he had customers waiting at his café. “Un momento. I’ll be back,” he said, and went off to serve them.
“Come out of the rain,” I said to Thad, and went into the tent. I sat down on our box table. Thad sat on Jacob’s bed. Facing him, holding my arms tightly about my chest, I poured out everything I knew, what Sam had said, how kind Señor Rosales was, but that the police offered nothing, at least not for a few days. “But by then,” I added, “it might be too late.” Once again, my tears were streaming.
Thad listened openmouthed. When I’d finished talking, he said, “You really think Jacob got crimped?”
“I do!” I cried. “I don’t know what else to believe. Jacob wouldn’t just go away. I know that. Someone stole him. And if Sam is right, I have to find him fast.”
“Nice that kid Sam told you.”
“It was. Except he asked me not to say anything about him. And I did.”
“Who to?”
“Señor Rosales. The police chief. You. Being upset makes me stupid. I hate being stupid,” I fairly shouted. “I should never have left Jacob alone.” I smeared the tears from my face.
Thad shifted about with discomfort. Then he said, “All right, then, what are we going to do about it?”
I heard that “we” and was ever grateful.
I said, “I have to go to the cove and search Rotten Row.”
“There are hundreds of ships.”
“Thad,” I cried, “I have to find him!” I think I was yelling at myself.
Thad looked at me, got up, and said, “OK. Let’s go.”
I was not going to argue. “Un momento,” I said, and hurried out of the tent and to the café. Señor Rosales was working, cooking and serving meals to a line of men.
“Lo siento,” he called to me.
“Thad said he’d go right now with me to the ships.”
“Excelente. I’ll join you when I can.”
By the time Thad and I headed downhill, it was late afternoon. He, as usual, said little, and I was spent of words. If anything, his impatient, long legs carried him faster. I was fine with hurrying, working hard to just breathe.
The rain had stopped, but the wind was astir, making the air cold. Would San Francisco ever be warm? As we rushed along, I kept my eyes on the cove ships and had to admit what everyone was cautioning: there were so many. And a fair number were huge. It truly was overwhelming. But it was also maddening to think that by gazing upon the rotten fleet, I was, in all probability, looking at where Jacob was being hidden, yet I couldn’t know which ship held him.
How, then, to begin? How to pick the first ship to search? I was reminded of something I once read: “If you look at everything, you see nothing.”
Then I told myself, I’m doing something, and struggled to soothe myself by thinking, It’s better doing than dithering. I was desperate to begin, my nerves as tight as fiddle strings, though there was no music coming from me.
When we reached the cove, Thad went right to the rowboat we had used to go down the bay. Happily, both oars were there. But I also saw that the tide was rising, which would hinder the rowing. We shoved the small boat into the water. The sound of it grating over the sand made me shiver. I scrambled onto the rowboat’s center seat and snatched up the oars.
“Where are we starting?” Thad asked as he gave us another shove farther out and climbed into the stern seat.
I looked over my shoulder at the mass of desolate ships and realized I wished that someone might just say, “Go to that brig, the one with the tattered flying jib hanging from its bowsprit.” Or “It’s that three-masted frigate with a broken angel figurehead.”
Needless to say, no one said anything of the kind. Instead, I sat motionless, overwhelmed by what I was wanting — needing — to do, while knowing that time was crucial and flowing fast, like the tide.
Thad came to my rescue. “Let’s try that small one.” He pointed. “See her? On the edge.”
I saw the boat he meant: a small vessel, not nearly as big as the others in the fleet. She had but one mainmast, plus what they call a mizzen at the stern.
Relieved to have a direction with which to begin the search, I began to row, though I was too fraught to labor well. Each time the oars hit the water, they splashed noisily, making us jerk forward so that my braid kept whipping around, bothering my face. I had to struggle to keep my hands under control. In fact, they were trembling. My eyes hurt with suppressed tears.
Thad, impatient, held out his hands, telling me he was willing to row. Annoyed, I snapped, “I can do it. Just tell me where to go. What kind of boat is it?” I asked, trying to ease the tension.
“It’s what they call a ketch,” he said as we moved along with greater ease. “Bet she came down from Oregon. The sails are only halfway lowered. Her crew — two, three? Ayuh. They couldn’t get off her fast enough.”
I looked around and saw the boat he meant. There was a sign tacked to her bow that read OFF FOR RICHES. HELP YOURSELF.
We drew close. I used one oar to swing our boat about until the stern bumped up against the ketch’s hull. Thad stood, reached up, found a grip hold, and pulled us closer.
“Jacob,” I shouted. “Jacob, it’s me, Tory. Jacob!”
There was no answer.
Thad grabbed a loose line and pulled. It proved long enough to tie to our rowboat so as to keep her from floating off.
“I’ll board her,” he said, and he reached for the bulwark rail and began to haul himself up.
“Wait! I’m coming too.” I shipped the oars.
As soon as Thad was on the deck, he turned around and held out his hand. Unsteady in the bobbing rowboat, I grabbed it, and he pulled. Although awkward, the next moment, I was standing next to him on the deck.
The ketch was small and open, with most of her deck before the main mast. Many lines lay about, some looking like birds’ nests, others coiled with care. A good number of tools, like a belaying pin and a mallet, were strewn about. An anchor line hung from her bow and kept her in place. I wondered why they’d bothered. She felt desolate and empty.
The boat was odd to see. Though we knew that she had no crew and had been left behind, she had her full rig of sails. They hung limply from her two masts. The lower edge of the mizzen sail dipped into the water and was stained with green scum.
There was a hatchway to some space below deck.
“She’s all here,” said Thad. “Sign says we could take her and sail around the world. We should do it.”
“That’s not why we’re here,” I said, frustrated by his bantering. I went to the hatchway and leaned over it. “Jacob!” I called.
There was no answer.
Dim though it was, I could see deep enough below to be sure no one was there.
I pulled myself up. “Not here,” I announced.
Thad said, “Let’s try another ship.”
WE SCAMPERED OFF THE KETCH AND BACK INTO the rowboat. I looked about, trying to decide where, among all those ships, to go next. Once again, the sheer number of them and their size fed my anguish, while the increasing dusk only added to my misery. It would be dark soon.
“I’m betting on that one,” said Thad, pointing to the nearest ship. She was a two-masted brig. Tattered gray sails sagged from her foremast, suggesting nothing so much as exhaustion.
I began to row. Once close, I backed against the brig, stern first. The ship made our rowboat feel tiny.
“Can we get on?” I asked, looking up. The top rail was quite some ways above us.
“I’m able,” said Thad. “She’s not that high. Just have to gaffle these ratlines.” He grabbed the dangling web of ropes — they were like loose ladders — and began to climb. In moments, he disappeared over the topgallan
t rail, gone briefly before his head popped up. “Not hard,” he called.
I tied our rowboat to the brig, and then followed him up to the deck. It worked my muscles, but I succeeded.
Like the ketch, the brig’s main deck was in complete disorder. She was not just derelict but looked as if she had just been ransacked. For a moment, my spirits lifted. If other people had been on her recently, maybe they had brought Jacob here and left him.
It was easy enough to see he was not on deck. We searched the deck structures too, a few small cabins which for the most part had been ripped open, some of the wood removed, I supposed, for building in town. It didn’t matter what these cabins had been used for; Jacob was not in them.
We came to the companionway steps that led to the ship’s lower decks. I lay on my stomach and stared into the blackness below. Cupping my mouth, I shouted, “Jacob! Jacob! Are you there? It’s me, Tory.”
No answer.
I went down, every step bringing me deeper into darkness.
“Jacob!”
I descended farther only to hold back. It wasn’t just murky; the smell was foul.
“Don’t get lost there,” Thad called.
I went on. The darkness grew deeper, the stink worse. I began to hear faint rustlings, plus some high-pitched squeaks. Something ran over my foot. “Oh,” I cried, and leaped up a step, my body shuddering.
“What?” Thad called.
“Rats, I think.”
“Maybe you don’t want to go anymore.”
“Jacob!” I yelled as loud as I could. “Are you here?”
Other than a faint echo, there was no response. I retreated to the main deck and took a deep breath.
Twilight had come. The city hills were glittery with points of candle, lantern, and cooking fires — as if stars had fallen and become stuck in its mud.
Thad said, “Should have brought a lantern.”
I stood in place, full of ache, breathing hard with distress. I didn’t know what to do.
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” said Thad.
Not answering, I went to the rail and stared out over Rotten Row. The multitude of ships — massive, mute, and dark — seemed positively evil to me.
