Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(35)

Before we take our leave of Isaac, Jim says, “You hear the news about Hampton Freeman?”

“Sure did,” Isaac says. “We’re praying for him.”

“We’ll be taking up a collection.”

“I’ve already told the fellows down at the foundry.”

“That’s good, that’s good.”

When we near the peak, Jim turns north. Outside a two-room shanty is a family of five—husband, wife, and three young children—just sitting there with a pile of belongings. Must be moving day.

But as we walk past, two white men carry a bed frame through the doorway and drop it carelessly to the ground.

The family is not moving by choice. They’re being evicted.

I glance up at Jim, who nods. “If we’d been on horses, you might’ve missed that,” he says.

After crossing a muddy street, we find ourselves in a whole new neighborhood. It’s similar to the first one we passed through—rows of shanties interspersed with the occasional house, lots of men and only a few families—but the faces here are mostly Chinese. They regard Jim and me with suspicion. No one wants to answer our questions.

We head farther north toward Goat Hill, where the semaphore tower raises flags to signal ships coming into harbor. Hammers sound in the quarry, breaking rock to use as ship ballast. Neighborhoods are forming here as well—mostly shacks and tents, though they’re laid out along regular streets. We stop and talk to a few people, and nearly all the accents are Irish.

We head downhill toward the bay. Jim pauses at the corner of Sansome and Vallejo. It’s a whole block of open land, without a single house or structure.

“It’s a cemetery,” I say. Crosses and gravestones stretch before us.

“They call it the Sailor’s Cemetery,” he says. “It’s where all the sailors used to be buried. Now it’s where all the outsiders are buried. People like me. Foreigners. Are you hungry?”

It’s past lunchtime. “Starved. And you’re not a foreigner.” But as soon as the words leave my lips, I know they’re not true. We’re all foreigners, everyone but the Indians, that is, who have made themselves scarce in this city, or more likely been forced to leave. Very few Indians remain in San Francisco, and almost all who stayed are at Mission Dolores.

“Anyway, I know a place,” Jim says. “Just found it a couple days ago.”

Thinking about how we treat the Indians is chasing away my appetite, but I say, “All right, sure.”

He leads me past the cemetery and down toward the choppy gray bay.

“Have I seen what you want me to see?” I say as we walk.

He shrugs. “Maybe.” Jim wants me to put the pieces together myself, but so far I can’t solve the puzzle. I see a lot of people working hard, improving the land, making something for themselves.

We duck into a building without any signs or special markings on it. Conversation trickles off the instant we come through the door.

The room is low ceilinged with exposed rafters, and it’s filled with the darkest-skinned men I’ve ever seen, all clustered around a series of small tables. Most wear something between a robe and a blanket, thrown over one shoulder, all in bright colors. The air bursts with the scents of coffee and spices.

I’m sure it’s a mistake to be here, but Jim takes a seat at an empty table and motions for me to join him. When I do, Jim looks to the proprietor and holds up two fingers.

After a moment’s hesitation, the proprietor nods. The men stop staring and resume their conversations. The room buzzes with unfamiliar words.

I glance around nervously. “Why’d you want to meet here?” I’m whispering.

“Makes you feel a bit uncomfortable being around faces that don’t look anything like yours,” Jim says. It’s not a question.

“No,” I say. A bit too quick and sharp, which gives life to the lie. “Maybe.”

“That’s right,” Jim says. “And it makes Hardwick and all the fellows who work for him uncomfortable, too. Hardwick has spies, maybe even spies close to you. Remember? He knew you were going to the bank that day to get that southern lady’s house back.”

“You’re thinking it was Tom,” I say darkly. “Tom wouldn’t do that.”

“If you say so.” He waves his hand around the room. “In any case, these fellows came all the way from Ethiopia to dig gold. They’re just waiting for spring to get sprung. I figure this is the one place in town we can talk privately, because a spy would stick out like a snowball in summer.”

The shop’s owner brings us two bowls of food, which is a stew with flatbread. The spices are unfamiliar, and I’m a little afraid to eat it. But I don’t want Jim to know that.

I wave at the proprietor. “Some silverware, please?”

Jim shakes his head. “Like this,” he says. “You break off bread to scoop up the stew. No, use your right hand only. You don’t want to be rude.”

I follow his example. The bread is spongy, like a pancake, but it has a sour tang.

Jim laughs at my expression. “You get used to it.” He scoops more stew and pushes the bread into his mouth. After he swallows, he says, “Tell me what you saw this morning.”

So I tell him what I’ve been thinking: the people of San Francisco work hard, improve property, build better lives for themselves.