“That’s good. Most people get skittish when they see it.”
The faster he could get down the trail, out of this dreadful place, the better.
The rower pointed out a cluster of primitive huts on the side of the river, each one sewn together with dried grass and bamboo, the roofs thatched with palm leaves. Perched on one was a black vulture. “We stop here.”
Levi called out to the man. “We paid to travel six miles today.”
The native shrugged. “Someone else paid us more to return to the last village.”
“But we had an agreement—”
“We will send someone for you.”
The native directed the bungo closer to the bank, and they had no choice but to disembark. The men rolled up their trousers and waded through the mud. One of the natives carried the woman passenger and then all the luggage to shore.
Victor turned toward Levi. “Can we walk to the trail?”
“You can try, but I doubt you’ll make it.” Levi set his bag on the grass. “We’ll hire another bungo in the morning.”
The aroma of fish stew seeped out from a hut as one of the villagers came forward, welcoming them. They would host the visitors here—and feed them—for a preposterous fee. Victor rented a hammock inside a hut and then sat down under a palm tree by himself, a temporary relief from the infliction of sun.
Once he got to Sacramento, he would book a room in a nice hotel. One that would cater to a gentleman. The natives here might not have an appreciation for Americans, but California would be civilized. No more sleeping in huts or traveling through the jungle. No more eating half-cooked fish or beans.
He pulled out a sketchpad from his bag and began to draw a picture of Isaac so he could show people when he arrived in Sacramento. He outlined the boy’s face and shaded in part of his skin. Then he pulled out the picture he’d drawn of Mallie long ago. Isaac had his mother’s eyes. Her smile. Isaac’s nose was easy to draw. He saw it staring back at him whenever he looked in a mirror.
When he finished the picture, he began sketching Mallie again. Instead of posing at his house, he drew her on the steps of Scott’s Grove, her silk-clad arm draped over the banister.
He glanced back and forth between the portraits of Isaac and Mallie as the sun began to set, at the two people who meant everything to him. The two people who were supposed to love him back. And his blood began to boil again.
Isaac would never run away from him. Alden—like Eliza—must have forced him to leave. Kidnapped him from Scott’s Grove. Or maybe he’d tricked him into going west. Alden probably lied, telling Isaac that he’d take him home to Victor before forcing him onto a ship. Isaac was probably crying for Victor right now.
A scorpion crawled over the sandy ground as the afternoon darkened. It was moving toward the sugarcane field.
He would find Isaac, no matter how long it took to get to California. Then he’d make Alden pay for stealing his boy.
Chapter 21
San Francisco
May 1854
ThePharosand its worn passengers passed through the Golden Gate on the twenty-sixth of May. Fog draped over the cliffs, reminding Alden of the mythological sirens that lured sailors forward with their sultry voices, enticing them straight into the treacherous rocks.
He leaned against the railing as if it would help Captain Crandall navigate between the rocks on their way into the harbor. They’d left Boston with 117 passengers on board and were landing with two less—both men who’d died of scurvy.
The ship had made record time with the winds propelling them north. And the people crowded on the deck were anxious to set their feet on firm land. Once their stomachs had been satisfied with the provisions from Valparaiso, it seemed that none of the passengers could talk about anything except gold. As if every one of them would find a pot of it in this strange new land.
As if gold were the answer to all their problems.
Alden’s work on their boat had given him plenty of time to think, though he couldn’t really formulate a plan until he found Judah’s office. Later, he would find a family to care for Isaac.
Someone slid up beside him, leaning against the rail. He thought it was Isaac at first, but it was Mrs.Dawson. The petite woman had made a remarkable recovery in the past week, as though the promise of land ahead was the remedy for whatever had ailed her. Isaac continued reading to her each afternoon, but she joined the other passengers in the dining saloon for her meals.
They drifted past a shipwreck partially masked in the fog, the abandoned hull rising and falling with the waves, grating against the rocky islet that ended its voyage.
Mrs.Dawson nodded toward the wreck. “Do you think the passengers made it to shore?”
“It’s hard to tell,” he said, though he didn’t know how a smaller boat could help passengers stranded against that stone wall, especially if it was during a storm. Swimming between the outcroppings of rocks would be dangerous on a day with fair weather, impossible in waters churned by the winds.
