Chapter 4
At Metini, the work had gone the other way: tearing things down. Mitya had learned most of his carpentry pulling apart walls, working free the great silver-gray planks of Fort Ross, which the undersea people had made so well that the place took as long to come down as it had taken to go up.
Here, in San Francisco, the planks were boatskin, smaller and thinner than wall boards, and he learned fast to handle them delicately or they split.
The work made trouble in his head. He kept thinking old words, thinking old names, nearly called one of the black men Vanya, which was Mitya’s brother’s name. He showed the big one, Josh, how to put planks together without nails.
“Hey,” Josh said. “You be good at that.”
Mitya grunted at him. Hiding in the alien language he took some care not to know. With the ax he cut twice, cleaving off pieces of the end of the plank, to make a tongue, then fit the tongue neatly into the hole in the header.
He did not use these words to Josh — tongue, header. Useless words of the undersea people. He pointed instead. Made gestures with his hands. The other men came to watch. Somebody called the white man.
The white man came and watched. “Good,” he said. “Do it that way. I can’t find nails anywhere,” and he went off again, in a hurry. He was always in a hurry.
So in that way they made the boat into a hut. At sundown they ate soup, stewed fish, mushy potatoes. Drank beer made of raspberries. Mitya sat with the other men, against his will enjoying the closeness, the human heat.
The little black woman spent that time moving into the new hut. She and the other woman. They kept the other woman under cover, like a girl before her wedding.
The white man’s name was Gil Marcus. He had known of the undersea people, called them by the other name. He had headed Friendly off. But it was the little old black woman who gave most of the orders.
She wasn’t so old, either. Mitya had seen that. Everything about her led two different ways.
He turned to Josh, the big man. “Who boss?”
“Boss.” Josh blinked at him. He had big eyes that bulged a little out of his head, the whites yellow, tinged with brown.
“Old woman? White man? Boss.”
The big man moved one shoulder. “Gil Marcus.”
“Him boss?”
“Or Mammy.” Josh sipped at the sweet, foamy beer. His forehead rumpled. “I don’t get you, you got to learn to talk better.”
Mitya looked away, angry. The sky overhead was dark, muffled with fog; the wind had changed, smelling of the dank tidal flats of the bay. The daylight was gone, the work over. He could go back to his own place now. Across the way Friendly’s tent roared with hundreds of voices; the light of lanterns shone up through the dirty canvas and turned the fog yellow. In the street the endless crowd trudged along.
Pieces of the crowd dropped off. Gathered along the little platform in front of the hut, stood facing it, doing nothing. Mitya got another cup of the beer and sat and drank it, waiting to see what they waited for.
Gil Marcus came out of the hut and put a lantern on the plat-form and lit it. The waiting men called to him, and he waved and went off. More people moved in around the lit platform. Mitya began to itch to go. His place was well hidden, but at night it made him jittery not to be there. Then the hut opened and they led the white woman out.
The crowd gave a great breathy cry, like a receding ocean wave that dragged the sand back with it. Gil Marcus went ahead of the others, up onto the platform, and walked into the haze of the lantern light.
“All right, boys, here’s what you come for. Now, you remember, she doesn’t like roughhouse, you treat her like a lady. Here she is, the sweetest girl in San Francisco, Miss — Daisy — Duncan!”
At that the crowd roared, like the wave coming in hard. Mitya stood up. All he could see was the woman’s back. She walked up and down and waved her arms and wiggled; he could not hear her voice. Friendly’s emptied within a moment after she appeared on the platform, doubling the size of the crowd. In the lantern light, her clothes glimmered.
The little black woman came out of the hut and stood by the side of the platform, watching. Mitya could not figure out what the white woman was doing, and lost interest; he lowered his gaze to the black woman.
He remembered how she had faced up to Friendly, small and skinny like a spider, glowering at him across the boiling pot. He struggled to remember the name she had told him. Frances. Josh had called her something else. Mammy Hardheart. She was watching the stage, the lantern light just brushing her face. Like sunlight on the ocean, a pale color over a dark color. She turned suddenly and stared at him, and he turned away.
These women reminded him of his own women, whom he loved. Of Olga, with her round cheeks, her eyes bright and clear as rain on the grass. The merry ripple of her laughter. Prettier than any white woman. Prettier than anybody. He had no right to think about Olga now.
He thought of Anna, his sister. Not pretty. Walking toward him, the wind blowing her shawl and her hair wildly around her. Telling him in a ringing voice that he had to go, to leave Metini and his people, and never come back.
Across the street, in the flapped door of his tent, stood Friendly. He was scowling over at the stage. Behind him the saloon tent was quiet. Mitya stopped, peering past him, seeing that the great dusky space within was almost empty. Friendly was staring at him.
“You want a drink?”
Mitya said, “You let me in?” Mostly the white men kept dark people out of their places.
The fat man’s face was bland. “Yeah. Sure, I need the business. I’ll even stand you a free drink. Come on in.” He stepped to one side, and Mitya went into the big tent.
There were only a few miners left in here, standing around the tables where they gambled. The fat man led Mitya through them toward the far side of the tent, where there was a line of wooden planks set on the tops of barrels. Friendly slapped one of these planks with a broad hand, his gaze keen on Mitya.
“Mike? Give the Indian here one on the house.”
Behind the bar a white man came with a bottle and a broken cup. Mitya looked from one to the other, suspicious, but Friendly had lost interest in him, and when the other white man had poured the liquor into the cup, he and Friendly started talking. Mitya held the cup in his hand. The place was empty. Friendly had to let anybody in. Mitya wanted the whiskey, its pound in his blood, its slumber in his brain, and he took a mouthful of it.
As soon as he swallowed he knew it was bad, and he threw the cup down. But it was too late; he was already falling.
✽✽✽
Dirt against his cheek. His hands hurt.
He opened his eyes into half darkness, smelling blood and vomit. A hand’s width in front of him was another man’s head, facing away from him, lying on the ground. He was a white man. His arms were twisted behind his back. Like Mitya’s.
Mitya shut his eyes again. Friendly had poisoned him.
His wrists were bound and his arms were going numb. He began to work his hands around, straining at cords so tight they were cutting his skin. He got his fingers on the rope and worried it until he could get a grip on it and slide it up and down on his wrist.
Men coming. Feet, voices. He lay still, his eyes closed. His head hurt; he wanted to go to sleep.
“How many we got now?”
“Eight. No, seven, this one’s dead.”
“Son of a bitch.”
There was the thud of something striking flesh and bone. They had kicked the dead man for dying.
“Is that gonna be enough? How many does he need?”
“I don’t know. His whole crew took off for the mines, he said, he needs enough men to make it to Honolulu. It’s a big ship.” This man was coming closer. His voice was labored and breathy; he was doing something as he spoke. Suddenly his hands fell on Mitya, pulling at the bound wrists, pushing him roughly back and forth to see if he was awake, or dead.
“Hundred bucks a head, that’s still good money,” said the other one.
“Too bad we got to give Friendly so much of it.”
Mitya lay still, his heart half choking him. They were selling him to a sea captain, to a sailing ship, he would never get home again. A wild panic seized him and he almost moved, almost gave himself away; he throttled that. He was not home now. He would never go home now. But he did not want to be a sailor on a ship, not a white man’s ship. Not any ship.
“Come on, here comes the cart, let’s load ’em up.”
His mind was clearer now, in spite of the intense, sharp headache. He heard them walk past him toward the creaking and hoofbeats of a horse-drawn cart. The horse blew softly. Men grunted, lifting something heavy. Something heavy thudded into the cart. Mitya struggled with the rope on his wrists, pulling, twisting, getting nowhere, until abruptly the rope slipped and there was slack between his hands.
He lay quiet, his hands clutched together, making himself wait. They picked him up and carried him, and he landed face first on another man’s body, rough cloth under him, warm flesh under that. Then another body was thrown in beside him.
“Maybe we should get just one more.”
“If’n we see a drunk passed out on the way we’ll pick him up.” The cart under him began to move, shaking him up and down. He worked his hands frantically, trying to get out of the rope, but in spite of the foot of slack between them his wrists were still tied together. He cocked his feet up to his hands and pulled at the rope around them. The cart was rumbling along downhill, the bodies tightly packed in it trembling and sliding against one another. Abruptly the rope around his ankles came loose. He squirmed and wiggled his way backward until his feet hit the tail of the cart.
“Hey! Look out back there!”
He lurched up onto his knees and dove sideways out of the cart into the street. A man walking down toward him dodged out of his way, and somebody yelled. His mouth full of dirt, he rolled over and over in the street, away from the cart, then got his feet under him and ran, weaving a way through the crowd ahead of him, his arms stretched awkwardly behind his back. His head pumped. His knees sagged with every step.
Heads turned as he passed. Somebody stuck out a walking stick and tried to trip him, but he dodged.
He ran back up the street to the place where he had worked all day. There were still a lot of men standing around the stage, but the girl had gone. He dashed in past the far end of the stage to the fire by the half-built hut, and stopped, panting, and looked back the way he had come.
Nobody coming. He had escaped. Like a bolt of lightning through his skull the headache pounded at him.
The white man, Gil Marcus, was standing by the fire, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Seeing Mitya, he dropped the cup and came toward him, drawing a knife. Mitya shrank back from the blade, and the white man gave him a startled look.
“Hold on. I’m just —” He waved the knife. “I’ll cut you free. What happened?”
Mitya relaxed; he turned his back and felt the white man take hold of the slack of the rope. He said, “Friendly poison me.”
The white man grunted, half a laugh. “It seems in character.”
“He sell me, on the sea, to the sea. To a ship on the sea. He sell me one hundred dollar.”
He turned to face the white man, who nodded at him. “You’re lucky. People get crimped in San Francisco every day, and they don’t wake up until they’re halfway to Shanghai.” He clapped Mitya on the shoulder. “You’re very lucky, Mit.”
Mitya peeled off the rope wound around his wrists. “Crimp.”
“That’s what it’s called. It seems to be a routine occupation among a certain class of men here.”
Mitya jerked his head, staring toward Friendly’s. “He do it. Friendly.” His gut surged with rage. He started around, and the white man caught his arm.
“Mitya, hold it. Where are you going?”
“He poison me.” But the white man was right; Friendly had power, and Mitya had none. He stopped, staring over at the tent, which glowed dirty yellow with the light of its lanterns as if the tent itself were a big lantern. His wrist was worn open and raw, and he licked it.
The white man said, “You got away, Mitya. Sometimes that’s the only revenge there is.”
“Stupid,” Mitya said. “I know he bad. I know he not true.” He clubbed his own thigh with his fist. “I hate him.”
“Good. He’s an evil man.” The white man bent for his coffee cup. “Care for something to drink?” He squatted, reaching for the pot on the fire.
Mitya stood staring at Friendly’s tent, his head seething. If he went in there now he’d be killed. If he did somehow punish Friendly, he would still be killed. He felt himself jammed face up against this injustice. There was nothing he could do. He sank down on his heels beside the white man and reached for a cup for some coffee.
✽✽✽
In the morning, with the help of a hundred bystanders, they hauled another ship up from the bay, an old brigantine, its masts long gone. Coming up the street, the ship brushed against the tent fronts on either side; before they could move her onto their piece of land, they had to dismantle the stage. This, Frances thought, was no real loss. She liked the idea of starting from the bare ground. With Gil Marcus she walked around the wooden hulk, its sides slimy with weed and rot, rough with barnacles. The ship lay slumped to one side, its keel digging into the sand. Most of the wood looked sound.
Gil said, “Where’s Mitya? I want him to see this, he obviously knows more than anybody else.”
Frances rapped with her knuckles on the side of the boat. The broken railing was a good ten feet above her head. “He rubs me backwards, that one.”
Gil called to Josh and sent him to find Mitya. “He’s a pretty dour sort.”
“Dour!” Frances laughed, startled, amused, and said the word again, mouthing it. “Dour.” Gil was watching her, half a smile on his mouth under his ragged mustache. “He’s a pailful of trouble, Gilbert, that’s what I think.”
“Shall I get rid of him?” Gil glanced away, over her shoulder, and she supposed from the way his voice changed that Mitya was coming toward her.
She said quickly, “Oh, no. Trouble has a way of making things interesting.” She turned, and the Indian stood behind her.
He studied the ship with them, saying nothing; once, going up the tilted side, he reached down and gave Frances a hand, and the feel of his hand on her wrist was like a serpent coiling around her arm. They went down inside the ship, where the decks ran in layers, so close together that they had to crawl along between them, over chunks of wood and rope, piles of rat turds. The inside of the ship was like a honeycomb, made of little cells. It smelled of tar, of wet wood; it smelled like a place where wild animals had lived. They came out again and stood between the ship and the street.
Gil said, “We want to build a house out of this. How can we do it? It seems already so well made, it’s a shame to pull it apart.”
Mitya grunted. Frances went away down the ship, running her hand over the wood. The Indian’s odd, resonant voice reached her clearly. “No pull down. Dig here. Brace. Make her stand up straight.”
“All right,” Gil said. “But it won’t be near big enough. Can we rip out those decks without losing the side walls?”
“Brace,” Mitya said. “Inside, outside. Not hard. Fast, too.” He thumped the hull of the boat with his hand. “Good wood. Peel off here. Couple pieces.” He put his hands one on top of each other, showing the layers of the hull.
Frances left it to them; clearly they understood this, they did not need her. Her body tingled. She felt good about this; things were going along as she wanted. Her eye caught again on a piece of wood hanging down the stern, and she stretched her arm up but could not reach it.
“Mitya,” she called.
He and Gil paced toward her. Gil’s face was intense, his mouth set. “We still may not have enough wood,” he said.
Mitya shrugged. “Get more wood.” He faced her, his long eyes unhuman. “What?”
“Get that down for me.” She pointed.
He looked up, thinking it over. As if he could refuse. At once she was determined he would never refuse her anything. The long black eyes probed at her again, and he climbed up the stern of the ship like a lizard climbing a wall, gripped the dangling nameplate, and wrenched it free. Dropping to his feet beside her, he held it out — not to her. To Gil.
Gil took it, startled. Frances’ gaze locked with Mitya’s; between them a taut challenge formed. Gil held the wood out to her.
“That’s the name of the ship,” he said.
She looked down at the wooden plank, carved with letters, with a scrolled border. It had been painted; in the deep grooves of the letters some red paint remained.
“ ‘Shining Light,’ ” she said, and laughed. She lifted her face toward Gil, delighted. “That’s wonderful. Let’s call it that. The place. When it’s done.” She laughed again, vindicated. “The Shining Light.”
Mitya frowned at her. “Not made yet,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. “That’s little enough. The name is all.” Lightfooted, she carried the nameplate away like a captive banner to show Daisy.