Son of Fortune (7 page)

“How much do the bullets cost?” he said dumbly. His head throbbed. Damp from the street was oozing up through his socks. The gnome woman let out a scratchy laugh.

“Are you just come off the boat, then?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, well, I thought as much. There's some bad hang down the docks like that, see? Follow a fresh new man as you are. A sailor just paid off, or an Eastern man, or a foreign man, though clear to me you're none of those. What are you—miner?” She suddenly sprang close and thrust her face up to his, squinting so hard her small eyes almost disappeared into the wrinkled face. Her bony hand darted out and wrapped around the side of his neck, then felt its way over the knob of his shoulder and down along his arm, as if examining a horse. Aiden stood still, too surprised to pull away. She grabbed his right hand and spiraled her fingertips over the palm.

“Ah! I say lumberjack!”

“Yes,” Aiden said, startled. “How did you know?”

“You haven't a miner's neck—but there is shape of you from work. And the calluses. And the cloth.” She rubbed the fabric of his shirt between her fingers. “I know the cloth. So, that's sense, then. They would've seen as much the same. That's why they didn't just rob you straight off, eh, down the docks, but followed all along and got up the whole pack to swarm so as they did. They saw you wouldn't be a daisy man.”

“Do you know them?”

“Not by person. Only the sort what do this. Boys make a little gang all their own, or some might just be standing around this day and idle when the robber man needed hands.”

She spoke in a strange accent, like an Italian or Russian who had learned English from an Irish and then just plain gone loopy.

“But even if they was known and found and hanged, there'd be more tomorrow. Always more boys.”

“Thank you for helping me.” He held out his hand to shake hers, but she made no move to take it. The giant dog lifted his now-placid head and sniffed it. “My name is Aiden—um—Madison, ma'am.”

“I'm Blind Sally.”

“Blind Sally?”

“Aye.”

Aiden recalled the sound of her bullet thwunking into the dirt by his ear.

“Are you really blind?”

“Did I not just say so?”

“But you—you shot at us!”

“I wasn't about to go in swinging my fists, now was I?”

“They let you have a gun?”

“They who? Who's they who ought to let or not? And who needs a gun more than a poor old blind woman, eh?” she snapped. “
They
do nothing little else ever much good to help one what needs help, now, eh? Of course I have a gun!” She tucked the pistol into a pocket of the tattered uniform coat. Frayed ropes of gold braid swished across the lapels as she moved. “Come. We may find your boots before the full dark. Your coat maybe too. Was it shabby as the rest of you?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, likely gone if it was any good. Was it any good?”

Aiden prickled. He didn't need to add insult to his already considerable injury.

“It had bloodstains on it,” he said. “Will that help or hurt?”

She shrugged. “Can't tell blood from gravy, I've found. But coats are easy to sell along. Not so boots. The fit is easier for a coat. And some decency part of it too. The worst thief won't steal a live man's boots. Not usually. Or cut his fingers off. Not usually. And more so if they're happy with the glint. Did you have coin or greenbacks?” she asked.

“Some of both,” he said. “And some gold certificates.”

“Happy, then. Maybe they will leave you a packet of sweets besides! Come on, The Moon.” The huge dog ambled to its feet, stretched lazily, then fell into place beside her, his shaggy side lightly touching her hip. Aiden had given up trying to understand anything at this point. He simply followed the old blind woman in her ancient soldier's jacket, with her cannon-sized pistol and her ambling dog called The Moon. She and the dog led him down to the end of the small street and around the corner into an even smaller lane. Aiden shivered. The January evening was now cold, and his torn pockets flapped as he walked. His wool socks were soon soaked through and sagged heavily. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought as he scanned the edges of the narrow street.

Blind Sally and The Moon navigated the streets without hesitation. She did not speak as they walked, but sometimes she clicked her tongue against her teeth or muttered to the dog. Around the second corner, in the middle of the road, in the faint pool of light from a single gaslight, were his boots, standing upright and together as if by the side of his bed. People walked by with no notice, like it was a normal thing to have empty boots in the middle of the way. Aiden wriggled the soggy socks into the boots and tied the laces. He felt marginally less ridiculous.

“Thank you, Miss—Blind Sally,” he said. “I'll give you something for your trouble when I have something, if you tell me where to bring it.”

“Bring it here. I'm always here.”

“I don't exactly know where here is,” Aiden confessed. To his surprise, and horror, he suddenly felt his voice starting to shake and hot tears pooling in his eyes. He hadn't cried in over a year, not since his mother died. There had been plenty of sorrow in the time between, but he'd felt only rage or cold, dead-hearted nothing. Why schoolboy tears just now? He hadn't cried over murder or banishment; he hadn't cried over leaving his only friend behind, or the fate of an entire Indian tribe who might die of smallpox, or the cold-river death of his beloved sister. Why tears now? Why only for wet socks, mild lostness and a bit of a knocking? The physical pain wasn't that bad. The lost money hurt, but it had never seemed real anyway. Was he turning stupid? He coughed to squelch his sobs and thanked the heavens that the old woman was blind.

“Could you point me toward Swedish Town?” he asked.

“You're crying salty tears.” The softer tone of her voice told Aiden that he had not disguised himself quite well enough. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.” He rubbed his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

“Ah. Well.” She stroked the gigantic dog's head and fingered the braid on her decrepit uniform. “Cheer up—this won't be the worst of things for you, then, will it? Plenty more bad times ahead. Come on, I'll set you on the way.”

iden arrived at Mrs. Neils's boardinghouse just a few minutes after Fish and Magnus, who had not yet even begun to worry.

“We figured you stopped off for a drink or three along the way,” Fish said. “It's what I would have done. Have done, actually, many times—including today!” His cheeks were rosy.

“No,” Aiden said. “I was just, ah, seeing a bit of the city.” He had brushed most of the dirt off his pants, and they didn't seem to notice he was coatless.

“Then clearly you need to catch up!” Fish picked up the bottle of aquavit and waved Aiden to a seat on the bench nearby. Aiden gladly took the drink from his friend's unsteady hand. He tossed it down and Fish refilled his glass. The small room was bright with oil lamps and crowded with men. It smelled of tobacco, tar, damp wool and beer. A small fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth. The door opened, and a woman poked her head in the room and shouted something in Swedish that, even in the foreign language, sounded clearly like a command.

“That's my mother—supper's ready.” The men quickly began to assemble at the three long tables, tucking their shirts in and removing their caps first.

“We haven't told her quite everything about the last trip,” Fish whispered to Aiden. “The shark events and such. It's bound to get round to her sooner or later, but we thought she might have a night or so with just her usual worries. Which, far as I know, don't yet include me being eaten alive.”

“Fine by me,” Aiden said. The food was plain but plentiful. Boiled meat and pickled vegetables with a sort of dumpling. After supper, the men smoked pipes and talked a lot of ship talk, while Sven the Ancient played music on a strange instrument. It looked a bit like a fiddle and was played with a bow, but the neck was much wider and there was a row of levers that pressed the strings. It sounded something like a hurdy-gurdy.

“It's called the
nyckelharpa
,” Fish explained. “It is too old and fragile to take on the boat, so Sven must come home to his lover!” The other sailors laughed. Aiden hadn't heard the old man speak twenty words on the ship, but his music told a thousand stories now. The night wore on in a warm, dull, lovely way, with the sweet music playing gentle background to nothing much happening at all. He could see why Fish was crazy to escape it, but after this particular day Aiden was quite glad for the utter boredom.

Whether it was simple tiredness catching up to him or his brother's heavy hand with the liquor bottle, Fish also sat drowsy and contented by the stove with the others and did not mention his earlier plans for a night out on the Barbary Coast. By ten o'clock, almost everyone had gone to bed or down to the local Swedish tavern. Magnus slung Fish's arm across his shoulders and helped steer his little brother to their room, while Mrs. Neils took a lamp and led Aiden to the bunk room, already noisy with snoring sailors. After just four days at sea, he had grown used to the feeling of the bed moving and the sound of the wind. It was strange to have everything so still. Though he was very tired, and aching from the fight, he could not fall asleep. It felt like his entire life was stampeding through his head like a herd of buffalo. He had no family, no home, no possessions and now no money. Aiden tossed and sweated in the narrow bunk as weary sailors snored all around him. The world was full of gorgeous things and awful things—things that made no sense and things like the temples of Greece. How would he find his way through it all?

He knew he had finally fallen asleep only because he was awakened suddenly. It was barely dawn, but the entire boardinghouse was noisy with activity. Men were hurriedly stuffing clothes in their bags and downing plates of fried potatoes and onions as fast as Mrs. Neils could cook them.

“The weather is coming in,” Fish explained groggily as he finished off a large mug of coffee. “If we don't get out of the harbor, we might be stuck in for a couple of days.” He grabbed his cap and kissed his mother on the cheek. She dropped her wooden spoon and yanked him into a real hug instead. No one, Aiden knew, ever went to sea without thinking it might be the last goodbye.

“I'll see you in two weeks or so.” Fish tipped his cap at Aiden. “And we will have a grand night then! Good luck.”

Then, just like that, the place was empty.