Unease slithered up my spine as the men began to haul Father away without waiting for my consent. No one seemed to question the man with the knife.
“Wait.” I took a step forward and called out to the others to stop. “Is Bess’s Place respectable?”
A chorus of laughter erupted as Hazel pressed closer to me. I knew what I was getting into when I talked Father into leaving Massachusetts, but I hadn’t realized it would take us this long or that we’d lose all our money getting here. We needed to travel to the Yuba River by the end of September to be primed for the next big gold strike. It was the only chance Father had to restore his finances, though he had adamantly refused to look for gold. He thought we were coming to start a school.
I had other plans.
But the end of September was only a month away, and if he didn’t get better soon or I didn’t find a job to pay for the hundred-and-forty-mile trip to the Yuba River, all my plans would fail, and I would have put Father and Hazel at risk for nothing.
“It’s as respectable as they come in this city,” the British man said. “Tell Bess that English Jim sent you. She’ll treat you right.”
“Or else,” another man said under his breath.
English Jim either didn’t hear or ignored the man as he nodded for the others to continue.
“Do you have luggage, miss?” an old miner asked. “I’d be happy to carry it for you.”
I pointed to the trunks and bags we’d brought, trying to keep one eye on Father as I held Hazel’s small hand.
“Go on,” the man said in a kind voice. “We know where Bess’s Place is. We’ll be right behind you. I’ll make sure your things get to you without being mussed.”
I had little choice but to trust him.
The sound of hammers, saws, and shouts echoed across the dock as we followed the men carrying Father. Hundreds of buildings climbed the hills of the city, several in the middle of construction. There were a few brick and adobe buildings sprinkled throughout, but the majority were hastily built of boards and canvas. Shelters made of sticks and clothing dotted the landscape, but very few trees softened the barren scene. To the right was a tall, rugged hill, different than the others.
“That’s Telegraph Hill,” said a man near my elbow. His stenchsuggested he hadn’t bathed in months. “You’ll find Bess’s Place at the base of it.”
Thankfully we didn’t have far to go.
Father’s head lolled back, and I prayed the movement wouldn’t be the end of him. He had started to recover from the malaria when we boarded the ship in Panama City, but the close, dank quarters of theEugeniahad brought on another bout of sickness. He’d been feverish and delirious for the past two weeks and had passed out when they lowered him into the rowboat earlier.
If he died, I wasn’t sure what I would do. Father needed to get well and go to the gold strike near Nevada City. I knew about the discovery from my life in 1929, and though I couldn’t change history and have Father be the first to find the gold, I could have him there before thousands of other miners descended on the Yuba River.
If Father died or was penniless, who would look after my little sister? I couldn’t leave her to fend for herself as an orphan—but I didn’t want to forfeit my life in 1929, either. As a time-crosser, I would have to give up one life on my twenty-fifth birthday on November 2nd. I had no other choice.
The closer we came to the start of the dock, the more crowded it became with men of every shape, size, and color. Foreign languages mingled with unfamiliar English accents, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see a woman among them.
Hazel and I followed the men along a level, dusty street that ran parallel to the shoreline. Signs on the buildings promoted everything from gambling halls and saloons to restaurants, banks, laundry services, real estate brokers, and general stores. We passed several hotels and boarding houses, butNo Vacancysigns hung on the doors.
As we approached Telegraph Hill, the crowd became rowdier and louder. Here, there wasn’t as much diversity. Most of the men looked like they were of western European descent. Their accents were English or Scottish or Irish.
And there were women, standing on porches, lounging at theends of alleys, and sitting in upper-floor windows—all of them scantily dressed.
“Welcome to Sydney Town,” a man said, then spit into the dusty street. “Best watch your back, miss. This is the meanest piece of God’s green earth.”
Sydney Town?
My pulse began to race as I realized where they’d taken us.
The most notorious and dangerous place in the burgeoning city.
Perhaps in the world.
The men pushed open the door into Bess’s Place before I could stop them. A hand-painted sign at the front of the building saidHoteland Restaurant, but I wasn’t convinced that was all I would find.
“Please,” I said as I pushed to the front of the group, my hand clasping Hazel’s in a death grip. “Is there nowhere else we can—?”
“What’s the trouble?” A young woman entered the front room, wiping her hands on an apron. Her British accent was just as strong as the others’.
