Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(61)

“I need out! Won’t be much longer. Yesterday Jim said they raised enough money to get me free. They just need to take it to the sheriff and sign the papers.”

“That’s why we came to talk to you,” I say. “It’s about Jim. I’m afraid we have bad news.”

Hampton’s face in the porthole is an unreadable mask, like a man so accustomed to bad news it doesn’t even land.

“Frank Dilley shot him. It turned out bad.”

Anger flashes across his face. Then he pulls away from the porthole. He returns a moment later, wearing the same mask as before. “Shouldn’t make a difference. Jim said one of the preachers is handling the money. He has standing in the community, even with the sheriff.”

Jefferson and I exchange a look. “That’s . . . good news,” I say.

“Have you talked to Tom?” Hampton asks.

After too long a pause, Jefferson says, “We haven’t seen much of Tom lately.”

“He’s been working,” I add. “We see him at supper and sometimes breakfast.”

“You ask him about my Adelaide.”

“We’ll do that,” Jefferson says.

The waves are growing more violent, knocking our boat against the side of the ship. I grip the bench to keep from losing my seat.

“We gotta go,” Jefferson says.

Hampton nods once, and his face disappears from the porthole.

We reach shore, pay the oarsman, and trudge home toward the Charlotte. The daylight fades early this time of year, especially with the sky so overcast. It’s almost dusk by the time we make it home. The wagon is parked outside the ship. Inside the wagon is a huge barrel.

Everyone is gathered in the galley, including Mary. The table is cleared of the Major’s and Melancthon’s latest project, and fixings for dinner are spread. The Major bounces the baby on his knee, the end of his wooden leg tapping on the floor.

Becky’s eyes go straight to the bloodstains on Jefferson’s clothes and mine. “How is Mr. Boisclair?”

“He’s . . .” I glance at Mary, who nods quietly. Yes, she arranged everything after she left the doctor’s office, just as she promised. Even though Helena Russell is nowhere near, I’m afraid to say or even think too much.

“There’s going to be a funeral for him tomorrow,” Mary says finally. “In the Sailor’s Cemetery at the corner of Sansome and Vallejo.”

“Oh, Lee, I’m so sorry,” Becky says. “I know he was a longtime family friend.”

I just nod, unable to form words.

“The view from that spot is positively poetic,” Henry says. “I think your friend Jim will approve.”

“But . . . Sailor’s Cemetery?” Becky says. “He was never a sailor, was he? I thought he was from Dahlonega, like Jefferson and Lee.”

“A lot of folks buried there,” Mary says. “Indians and Negros. Chinese. The funeral is going to be a small affair. Henry and I made all the arrangements today.”

“Mary is a marvel,” Henry says. “Did you know she speaks English, Chinese, and Spanish?”

Mary glares at Henry, as if complimenting her is the worst thing ever.

But Becky says, “Of course.” As if it’s nothing. “She interprets for me all the time at the tavern.”

“In any case,” I say, “I’d sure appreciate it if everyone could be there tomorrow. Jim is . . . was one of my oldest friends.”

“Which reminds me,” Jefferson adds, looking to the Major. “We’ll need to take that barrel off the wagon to make room for a casket. I told Jasper we’d come pick it up tonight. He promised to have it ready.”

The Major and Melancthon exchange a glance and a nod. “We can do that right after supper.”

“I’d be grateful,” I say.

Jefferson and I grab plates. I serve myself a helping of everything on the table—smashed potatoes, green beans with bits of bacon, and a slice of salted ham—but I don’t have much of an appetite. I sit beside Mary. She puts her arm around me and gives me a quick squeeze—a rare gesture from her.

“How’d the auction go?” Jefferson asks around a mouthful of food. Nothing affects his appetite.

“Nothing we said, in shouts or whispers, did anything to slow it down,” Henry says.

“The starting prices were too good to pass up,” Becky explains. “I think even people who thought Hardwick had robbed them in the past wanted to get a piece of things.”

“But did you get your house?” I ask.

Becky brightens. “I think so! I have to pick it up in the next few days. We’ll see if the auction . . . holds.”

“I’m so relieved to hear it,” I say. We needed something to go right for us. “I can’t wait to set it up in Glory.”

“So Dilley collected all the money and took the strongbox to the bank?” Jefferson asks.

“They were done before noon,” Becky says.

“Sold off everything and closed up shop,” Henry adds. “I was able to spend the whole afternoon helping Mary arrange things.”

I stop playing with my food and put down my knife and fork. “Which means that tonight, a huge portion of his fortune is going to be at Owen and Son, Bankers, right on Portsmouth Square.”