Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(66)

I’m probably imagining the way Peony and Sorry glare knives into my back as I fetch their neighbors and lead them up the ramp to the wagon and fresh air. They’ve made this trip a few times now, and they’re all business. Makes me miss the pair Daddy and I trained up back in Dahlonega.

The pair I sold to Jim Bosclair, who knew I had no right to sell them, but bought them anyway to help me out.

The rest of our group gathers outside—everyone but Mary, who insists that she shouldn’t be seen with us in the light of day in order for our plan to work. She’s right, of course, but I find myself wishing she was here anyway.

Jefferson wears his usual shirt and trousers, but everything is clean and pressed. Henry has donned yet another new suit—I think he must have traded the last one for it—this time in melancholy colors. The Major struggles with his tie, but Henry’s deft fingers soon fix it for him. Andy and Olive wear somber wool, their collars freshly pressed. Andy’s hair is combed, although nothing can keep a big cowlick from sticking up. Becky wears a deep blue that’s almost black, and has the baby wrapped in a navy blanket.

I’ve donned an ordinary gray dress and a warm sweater that’s a little too big. But I decide not to change them. This is how Jim always knew me.

Melancthon emerges from the ship with a wooden cross, which he holds up for us to examine. JAMES BOISCLAIR is carved into the crossbeam, along with yesterday’s date.

“It’s not much of an offering,” he says. “But he’s not being buried at sea, so the least he deserves is a decent grave marker.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. “It’s perfect.”

We form a sad procession through the streets. The residents of San Francisco are used to death and dying, so folks hardly glance at us twice. It saddens me, that a man’s life means so little to them, especially a man like Jim, someone given to helping out strangers.

A small group of four has already gathered in the cemetery. I recognize Jim’s friend Isaac, who I met the day Jim took me on his tour of the city. Beside him is the minister who has been raising money to help get Hampton out of jail. The cemetery caretakers, also Negros, stand by with shovels. They’ve dug a hole for us, and I pay them the amount we agreed on. It’s not six feet deep, but I reckon it’s deep enough for what we need.

“Is this everyone?” the minister asks.

“I guess so,” I say. “Jim didn’t have any family when he came west. . . .”

My words die away as several people crest the hill and approach—mostly Negroes, a couple Chinese, one white man with an eye patch.

Isaac moves to greet them all and exchange handshakes. It warms my heart to see folks turning out to pay their respects. Jim was only here a few months, but already he was putting down roots, acting as a leader in his community. Just like back home.

“Isaac tells me you knew Boisclair from Georgia,” the minister says to me.

“We both did,” I say, indicating Jefferson and myself. “He was good friends with my daddy, and always kind to me. Helped me out of trouble when I needed it most.”

“Amen,” Isaac says. “That’s the kind of man he was.”

“Amen,” the minister says. “Well, let’s get started. Who’s going to help lower the coffin?”

Jefferson and I both step forward. With help from Henry and Isaac and the two caretakers, we do a creditable job of lifting it off the wagon and lowering it with ropes into the hole.

“Whew!” says one of the attendants. “He was a heavy fellow.”

“He was solid gold,” I say, wiping sweat from my forehead. “The stone on which you set your foundation. Worked hard every day of his life.”

“Amen,” Isaac says.

“Amen,” echo the others.

The minister lifts a well-worn pocket Bible, its leather cover flaking at the edges, licks his finger, and opens to the right page without any help from a bookmark.

“Today’s word is from Matthew, chapter six, verses nineteen to twenty-one. ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal.’”

I suffer a brief pang of conscience, and I share a glance with Jefferson, who also lowers his face in what I assume is a fleeting twinge of shame.

“‘But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.’”

He delivers a short sermon about people coming to California in search of gold, when what they really need to find is a congregation of souls, a community of like-minded spirits. He says that when the gold fails and the money runs out, as it surely will, God will still be there to help us, and the way he helps us is by surrounding us with the right people.

Brother Jim, he points out, was one of the right people. Even though he’d only been in San Francisco a few months, he’d made it his business to look out for others, like Isaac here, who needed a hand finding a home, or Brother Hampton, who needed the community to lead him out of Babylon and rescue him from unjust imprisonment.

For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

I glance around at my own small community—Becky and the children, Henry, the Major, and most of all Jefferson. I have treasure richer than gold, if I have friends like these. And it’s true; they have my heart.