The Runaway's Gold (30 page)

“Aye. Well, that might a' been the smarter thing for us to do,” Malcolm quipped. “Seein' how you sent us to a killer without any warnin'.”

“Had I warned you of the danger, would you have gone?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Not likely. But Christopher here, now, that's another story. Seems he was on a mission to prove himself
trustworthy
. I assume he was successful in his attempt.”

I scowled at Malcolm as the captain and Charles looked on.

“Aye. I believe he was,” the captain said, a hint of a smile creeping from his lips.

Gold Half Eagles

New York City, October 1, 1842

s it turned out, Plimpton's satchel carried much more than anyone had imagined, and the captain was most pleased. In thanks for our work, he set us ashore just to the north near Blyth, and as I watched the
Ernestine Brennan
disappear into the dawn's pea-green light, I knew me last tie to Shetland was gone.

Only Malcolm seemed sure of where to go next.

“It's off to Liverpool,” he proclaimed. “Shouldn't take but a few days. Then we'll book passage on the next ship to America.”

“So far from home,” I sighed, heart heavy.

“Aye, lad. But if we linger in England, Nicolson'll catch up with us for sure.”

“And if we get all the way to America and don't find Sam Livingston?”

“Hoot, lad! New York is where the work is! Think of it—we could change our names, start anew! Earn an honest wage to send back to our families—or better yet, bring them to us!”

“Hah,” I scoffed. “We've nary a copper between us for a loaf of bread, much less passage to America.”

He chuckled as he turned to face me. “Tell me, lad, who was it carried old Plimpton's sack of money back from shore?”

I stared at him, aghast.

“Come now—dunna look so shocked. You know as well as I Marwick didn't deserve it all. 'Twas us risked our necks to get it.” Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of banknotes. “By the looks of it, I swiped enough to get us where we need to go.”

It was the second week of May when we arrived in New York Harbor, and that morning the fog was so dense I couldn't see ten feet ahead of me. Which was why, I suppose, most of just getting there still seems like a dream. We had used nearly all the Plimpton money to buy food and our passage, and by the time we staggered off the ship, we were as bedraggled, confused, and hungry as the other passengers from Ireland and England who shuffled to our left and right.

“Need a place to stay, boy?” a one-eyed man shouted as we passed. A bright orange scarf was tied tightly around his neck.
I could smell the whiskey on his breath as he grabbed fast to me arm. “I'll set ya up!”

“Leave him be, Dickie,” a stern voice chided above the throngs of bread sellers, flower cart vendors, con artists, and thieves waiting to take advantage of the new arrivals. “Wait'll he has a job before you try to pick his pocket.”

It was Billy Tweed—a warmer smile we'd never seen—looking dapper and smart in his dark woolen suit and neatly combed hair. “Stick with me.” He winked. “There're plenty the likes of him here in New York who'll steal the shirt right off your back.”

By week's end, of course, we were indebted to Billy for our jobs and lodgings. And five months later I was on me way to the Dudley Glue Factory to pick up goods no one else was desperate enough to deliver.

WHEN I LEFT THE FORGE THE NIGHT OF THE delivery, I waited at the Rope Walk off Mulberry Street for Malcolm to get off work. The building was nearly a quarter mile long, and, thanks to Billy, Malcolm spent his days with the other men, hemp coiled around their waists, walking backward through the stifling, dust-filled air, spinning lines 120 fathoms long.

“Don't do it,” Malcolm snorted when I showed him the paper. By now the headline of every paper in the city screamed the news: “Theft of Dahlonega Mint Gold Half Eagles Traced to New York. Watchmen on Alert!”

“We've been here for months now, Mal,” I said. “Do you want me to find Sam Livingston or not?”

“Aye, I do,” he said. “Got as much stake in this as you do. It's Tweed I don't trust. Who's to say, even if you're successful with the haf-krakked delivery, dodging every Watchman in the city who'll be running after you, that he'll keep his word?”

“What choice do I have? If Sam Livingston's alive, I have to take the chance.”

“If he's alive, why hasn't anyone else heard of him?”

I looked away. It was growing dark and I was hungry. If I was going to hike all the way to Twenty-Third Street in the wee hours of the night, I needed coffee and bread.

“Want company?” Malcolm asked.

“No!” I said. “Billy was clear. I'm to go alone.”

“And if you're caught?”

“Wasn't it you who told me back in Lerwick Prison that too much thinking makes you too fearful to act?”

Malcolm grimaced. “Aye, it was. But I got a bad feelin' about this.” Then he grasped me shoulder. “Take it from a thief with experience who's made a bad choice or two in his life. This one's high stakes, Chris. And Billy Tweed knows it better than anyone.”

I shrugged. “As Billy always says, when the city sleeps, the Watchmen do, too.”

“Hah! And do you think they'll snooze with the chance at grabbing a few bags of gold Half Eagles? Hoot—they're five dollars apiece!”

“Maybe I'm wrong. We don't know for sure that's what's in the sacks.”

“Don't we?” Malcolm asked, raising his brows. “The Dahlonega Mint—they tell me that's in the state of Georgia. In the part of America they call
the South
. Didn't you say Billy's friend was from
the South
?”

“Billy tells a good tale, but he can't be much older than John. Have you asked yourself, Mal, how a lad so young could have gotten hold of those stolen coins?”

Malcolm raised his brows. “
Gotten hold of
and
deliverin'
are two different things. The
southern friend
pays Billy a handsome sum to move the goods to the river, where they can be slipped out of New York to who knows where. Then Billy washes his hands clean of the whole thing and pockets the money for his campaign for alderman.”

“You mean for
me
to move the goods to the river.”

“Aye. And remember this: If you're caught, there'll be no tracing the gold back to Billy. Just your word against his. And take a guess whether they'd believe you over the likes of Billy Tweed when they discover you're the same lad who's wanted for stealin' back in Shetland?”

I reached into me pocket and felt the cool of Mary's compass at me fingertips. And then I thought, as I had so many times since leaving Shetland, what it would be like to never see her again. Or Catherine or Victoria.

“What of Netty and your bairns, left hungry without you?” I asked.

Malcolm glanced away.

“Aye,” I said. “Well, then, it's a chance I'm willing to take.”

AND THINGS MIGHT HAVE BEEN FINE IF THE scar-faced man at the Dudley Glue Factory had given me two bags instead of three.

“I canna carry three!” I said in a hushed voice, stumbling over a mound of foul-smelling animal carcasses waiting to become the next batch of glue.

“Them's me orders,” he grumbled.

“But it's only me!”

“That's your worry, lad,” he sneered, slowly backing into the dark. “Me part of the job ends here.”

This time, as I staggered forward, there was no doubt it was coins that I was carrying: the dead weight within me arms, the slight jingle in the canvas bags. The same sound, perhaps, that Sam Livingston had heard so long ago in Shetland when he pulled the ducats from his ship and buried them who knows where.

Lerwick and its winding streets were one thing, but New York, at least five times its size, was quite another. To deliver to a pier near the Dry Docks at the east end of Tenth Street was me order, and I had Mary's compass. East—the river would always be east, I told meself, picturing in me mind the route I would take. Twenty-Third Street to First Avenue, then south on First to Tenth Street. From Tenth it would be only five blocks east to the river! That was simple enough. Until I spotted
a Watchman only a block from the glue factory, his leather helmet just visible in the distant glimmer of a streetlamp.

I darted into an alley before he saw me, me arms already aching from the weight of the bags, slipping through the shadows to the next block south before turning east again. But I made it only two more blocks before another Watchman appeared. Gasping for breath, I dropped the bags in the shadows to massage me aching forearms. Malcolm was right, the Watchmen were everywhere, and with every change of direction I thought of the hooded man, waiting, and what he would do if I was late.

An hour passed and I'd only made it as far as Fourteenth Street. Me back was wet with sweat and me forearms so stretched I feared they would snap in two. That's when the tall figure started moving toward me, and with every ounce of strength I had left I hefted the bags to me chest and raced ahead. It was when I tripped on a loose cobblestone and the bags flew from me hands that I realized me only chance was to leave them. And when the hand clamped to me ankle before I could get up, I knew it was over.

“Where you think you're goin'?” a voice whispered. “I'm willin' to heft two of these, but I'm not about to heft all three.”

“Malcolm!” I said. “Do you always just appear out of nowhere?”

“Been followin' you all night,” he said. “Nearly thumped the guy when he gave you three bags. You looked so pathetic I couldn't take it anymore. Now, quick, grab one up and move!”

Together we made our way south and east, maneuvering
the blocks, one at a time, each of us signaling the other when the coast was clear.

When we finally were a block from the river, he handed his two bags back to me. “I'll be waitin',” he said, motioning me on ahead.

But when I got to the pier where Billy's man had told me to go, it was deserted. Until, out of the shadows, a thick arm grabbed me around the neck from behind.

“Birds to Roost,” I gasped.

“You didn't come alone,” the voice sneered. The same voice from the night before.

“I
am
alone,” I said, dropping the bags at me feet, me entire body trembling.

“Liar!” The hooded man's arm tightened around me neck as he spoke. “I seen you four blocks back with another.”

“They gave me three bags!” I gasped, as his grip grew tighter. “I—couldn't—carry—them—meself.”

“Bah!” he said. “You've been warned!”

“Do you want 'em, or not?” I choked. “Or should I yell to the Watchman round the corner?”

Just then there was a cry from down the street and the flash of a lantern as a Watchman's leather hat came into view. “You there! Stop!”

In an instant the hooded man let me go and gathered the three bags under his cloak.

Whether he made it to the boat I'll never know, because I didn't stop running until I was back on Pearl Street.