Son of Fortune (42 page)

'm sorry, Aiden,” Fish said. “She still doesn't want to see you.”

“But she'll go with you?” Aiden asked weakly. He had lost a lot of blood, and everything was melting in and out of foggy noise. The doctor had bandaged his leg but was impatient to do surgery while they still had good daylight.

“Yes,” Fish said. “She will stay with my mother tonight. We will sail in the morning. I will take care of her. I promise.”

Aiden nodded. “Thank you.”

Fish would take Ming to Jefferson J. Jackson's compound north of Seattle. The old man, retired now from leading wagon trains, had a large extended family of half-breed Indian and Mexican children and grandchildren. He would not object to sheltering a Chinese girl. And it would only be for a little while, Aiden thought. Ming would come to understand. She would forgive Aiden, and they would get married and find a place in the world where they could live together. Aiden pulled the envelope of cash from his jacket pocket. Surprisingly, it had not fallen out during all the fighting.

“She will need clothes. Practical things, but a dress too. A nice one. And good boots and—”

“We'll take care of it,” Fish said, taking the money. “Don't worry.”

“She needs painting things—an inkstone and brushes for her painting. There is special paper too.” Aiden winced with pain. “It's called the four treasures.”

“Be quiet,” Christopher said. “Will you just lie still?”

“Get some presents too—toys and sweets. Jackson has dozens of children there.”

“I need to operate now,” the surgeon said crossly. Christopher frowned. He had wanted to send for their own family doctor, but Aiden pointed out that high-society doctors didn't tend to have much experience with gunshots. Dr. Patrick was well regarded on the Barbary Coast, when he was sober, and his table looked clean. His assistant, a light-skinned Negro man with short gray hair, set a little bottle of chloroform and the mask on the tray and rolled up his sleeves.

“Tell Mr. Jackson I will write to him soon,” Aiden said. “And please, Fish—you can explain it all to Ming—tell her I'm sorry.”

“Help get him on the table,” the surgeon said to Christopher and Fish. “Then stay or go as you like, just shut up and stay out of my way.”

When Aiden woke up, he was lying on a canvas cot with a coarse blanket over him. He felt cold as a stone. The room was dark, except for the light of the moon, just one day past full, shining in through the bare window. It gleamed on the white enamel operating table nearby. His head ached and his leg throbbed. He couldn't move. His right arm was splinted snugly between thin boards. The room smelled of blood and carbolic soap. He turned his head and saw a single candle on a table across the little room. Christopher was sleeping in the chair beside it.

The next time he woke, it was morning. The sky outside was gray and foggy. He tried to sit up, but the world spun. For a minute, Aiden thought he was on the lumber boat, the morning after the shark, a lifetime ago at the beginning of it all. He lay back and lifted the blanket. His leg was swathed in bandages. Blood had soaked through, but there was no smell of rot, so Aiden felt relieved. But the fog worried him. Would it be too dense for Fish to sail? He almost hoped for that, for then he could go himself to see Ming. She had had a whole night to soften her heart. Christopher, roused by Aiden's activity, sat up in the chair.

“You're still alive,” he said sleepily.

“Yes,” Aiden said. “Is there water?”

Christopher got up and poured him a glass from a tin pitcher. Aiden drank the whole thing down.

“Does it hurt awfully bad?”

“No,” Aiden lied.

“You can't get up. There's a jug there if you need to piss.” He refilled the glass.

“Thank you for staying with me.”

“Oh, well.” Christopher shrugged. “I wasn't about to go walking home alone through the Barbary Coast after dark.” He stretched and slapped his face, then walked over to the window and peered out. “She disappeared, you know,” Christopher said. “Your crazy lady.”

“Blind Sally?”

“Just vanished! Shoots two people in broad daylight—well, three people, in fact—and then walks off.”

“I'm sure she'll turn up again,” Aiden said.

“The bullet is enormous,” Christopher said, retrieving a jar from a shelf near the washstand. “And it wasn't smashed, which the doctor said was good.” He shook the jar and Aiden heard the metallic clank. “Will you put it in your pouch?”

“I don't know,” Aiden said. What sort of token would that be except a reminder of his own stupidity?

“The doctor said he would come by this morning to check on you. He couldn't really tell if your arm is broken—it's not bad enough for him to feel anything anyway, but he splinted it to be on the safe side. He says you must not be moved for a day or two, but I think if we use Mother's new buggy, it would be all right. It has marvelous springs and is very smooth. You can't stay in this wretched place. That cot doesn't even have a mattress.”

“I can't stay at your house,” Aiden said.

“No, I know.” Christopher pulled the chair closer and sat down. “I was really careful, you know—about being followed. Honestly, I looked all around. I went down different streets. I am sorry about that.”

“Of course,” Aiden said. “I don't blame you at all. You and Fish saved my life. You've learned something about fighting.”

“Only more reasons to avoid it,” Christopher said, dismissing the praise. “Anyway, I'll arrange a hotel room for you. And someone to look after you. I probably shouldn't visit myself, since, obviously, I'm not very good at sneaking about. But you'll be up in no time.”

“Please give your father my deepest apologies for the trouble I have caused,” Aiden said. “I will write to him myself, perhaps this afternoon. And tell the ducklings—” Aiden found himself suddenly about to get weepy. “Tell them I will miss them. And tell Elizabeth—”

“Oh stop!” Christopher interrupted. “You're not about to fall off the edge of the earth. The Chinese trouble will fade away, my father will get over his anger—with the both of us—and you and I will start my newspaper. First here, then we expand to Chicago and New York.”

“Yes,” Aiden said. “All right.”

“All right, then.” Christopher stood up. “I do need to get home before they all go crazy with worry. Goodbye. For now.”

They shook hands. Christopher left and Aiden lay back down on the cot. The fog thinned and the sky grew brighter, and Aiden drifted back into sleep, dreaming of Ming standing by a window, painting soft gray birds.

e could see her through the window as he walked up the path from the dock, still just a shadow from this distance, but he immediately recognized the shape of her, the essence of her. It had been nearly a month, and he had no idea what she thought or felt now. He had received no letter. When Fish returned from dropping her off, he could say only that she had arrived safely and that he had tried to plead Aiden's case as well as he could. Ming had not spoken at all on the voyage.

A warm March wind blew up from the sound. Bright green tips were already sprouting on the pine trees, and Aiden smelled newly turned soil from the gardens. He saw some of the Indian women carrying bundles of fresh willow branches for weaving baskets. Then the children began to notice him and dashed in a swarm down the hill to greet him, racing in circles around him, pulling his hands and chatting gaily. Only a few of them remembered him from the last time he had been here, but they were always excited to have any visitor. Their commotion alerted everyone in the compound. He would have no quiet arrival. The front door of the main house opened, and Jefferson J. Jackson came out. He looked the same as ever, though he wore gold-rimmed spectacles now, and his wiry gray hair was a bit thinner.

“Welcome back,” he said simply. “You alone?” He looked down at the dock.

“I took a steamer to Seattle,” Aiden said. “Fish was on a lumber run, and I couldn't wait that long once I was fit.”

“Heal up all right?” Jackson scrutinized Aiden with his experienced glance.

“After a while.” The wound had gone septic, as wounds often did, but he had avoided amputation. “Is Ming all right?”

“Yeah.” He tipped his head toward the door. “She seen you com'n.” Jackson waved off the excited children. “Go on—go make your ruckus elsewhere!”

Aiden climbed up the steps to the porch but then couldn't make himself go inside. Jackson clapped his rough hand on Aiden's shoulder.

“I think she don't hate you, boy.” He pushed Aiden toward the door.

She was still standing by the window. She wore Western clothes, a calico dress and apron, and her hair was in two braids, like the Indian women wore, but everything else about her was so true. Aiden felt like his heart—but no, not just his heart, his lungs, his kidneys, every unglamorous organ inside of him—might now be restored. If only he could say the right thing. If there was ever a right thing. He could not speak at all. Then he did not have to.

Ming walked through the beam of sunlight and stood in front of him. Shyly, she took his hand.

“You have come a long way,” she said with a smile. “Would you like some bread and water?”