“Not if you get hanged.”
“That won’t happen. My father’s name is McCauley, right? Maybe I have a second sight of my own.”
He wraps an arm around me, and I’ve never been the clinging type, but I can’t help clutching fistfuls of his shirt and holding him tight against me, absorbing his warmth, taking him in. He smells of wood shavings and clean hay. “That’s not funny.”
“We’re going to be fine. Besides, this is proof that you’ve been right all along.”
I lift my head. “Huh?”
“Hardwick has no respect for laws and the process of justice,” Jefferson says. “If he’s not stopped, more people are going to get hurt. More people are going to die.”
“At least it won’t be you.”
“But it’ll be someone,” he says. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what Henry said. It’s all the people who don’t have a say in the government who get hurt by it. Indians, Negros, Chinese, women, children. Poor folk. We don’t mean anything to Hardwick and men like him. We can’t stop all of them, but we can stop him.”
“This robbery put a hiccup in our scheme.”
Jefferson reaches around me for another bite of bread. “Tomorrow is the auction. We’ll stick to that part of the plan and steal his reputation. We’ll figure out the rest too.”
“I guess.” I pick up the spoon and force myself to eat another bite. “Nobody ever got hanged for stealing a reputation, did they?”
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday morning comes, cold and plodding. Five of us attend the auction under a grim gray sky—me, Jefferson, Becky, Henry, and Mary. An auctioneer’s platform has been set up in Portsmouth Square, near the Custom House. A body hangs from a hastily constructed gallows, swaying in the wind. A group of dirty children makes a game of throwing pebbles at it.
It casts a pall over me, a long shadow that seems to follow me no matter where I stand or the angle of the shrouded sun. There’s no way to look at the auctioneer’s platform and not notice the limp body out of the corner of my eye. I can’t help staring at it, feeling that the dead man is staring right back, accusing.
“It’s not your fault,” Jefferson says as we wander through the milling multitude. “It’s Hardwick’s.”
“Are you sure you should be up and around?” Becky asks. She’s wearing a beautiful dress of soft green calico, which she gleefully chose in spite of it being an inappropriate color for this time of year. Her own minor mutiny, I suppose. “Jasper says you should rest and take it easy for a couple days.”
“I’m fine,” I say. It’s true. I do feel fine. Maybe I feel better than fine, the way you do after you run a mile to the neighbor’s house, chop an extra cord of wood, carry two full buckets from the spring instead of one. At first, the day after, you’re tired and sore. But then you get busy again, feeling stronger than ever.
Henry slipped away for a moment, but now he returns, handing out sheets of paper to all of us. “These are the preliminary auction items,” he says. “The map shows plots of land for sale, along with their estimated values. The other list is marked with opening bids.”
Mary skims the list and glances over the map. “Why did you say preliminary?”
Henry and I exchange a glance. The preliminary lists circulate first, and that is part of our plan. But I shut the thought down as soon as it forms. I don’t see Helena Russell anywhere, but she’s sure to be near.
“At these auctions, they often circulate one list early to see what people’s reactions are, then print another, final list, with prices higher or lower, based on what they think they can get,” Henry says.
“They’ll hand out the final list right before the auction starts,” Jefferson adds.
“Well, that’s clever,” Mary says.
“There’s my house!” Becky says. “They have no right to sell my house.” She turns toward the crowd and shouts it again. “They have no right to auction off my house!”
“Right doesn’t come into it,” I say.
“It’s whatever they think they can get away with,” Jefferson says. “Speaking of getting away with things . . .”
He tenses, like his hackles are going up, and I follow his gaze.
Two workmen in muddy coats stomp up the platform steps, hauling an auctioneer’s podium. They’re followed by a thin man in a blue-striped shirt and a pair of round spectacles. He wields a gavel, like a judge.
Following the auctioneer is Frank Dilley. The burned half of Dilley’s face shimmers with glycerin, making his sneer gleam like the edge of a knife. His jacket is pulled back to reveal the guns in his holster, one on each hip.
Dilley is the last fellow I care to see, but I’m a little relieved at the same time. If he’s here as Hardwick’s representative, then maybe Hardwick won’t be coming at all. Which means we might be clear of Helena’s second sight for a spell.
The workmen deposit the podium in the center of the stage. Frank Dilley drops a lockbox beside it; it thumps hollowly. It won’t be hollow by the end of the auction. And from here, it’s just a short walk to the bank, where he’ll add it to the rest of Hardwick’s money.
Watching it all makes me wish our practice run had gone a whole heap better. There’s still so much we don’t know, and tonight will be for real.
Dilley twirls the key to the lockbox on his finger, bored as he surveys the crowd. He gaze lands on me. He snaps his fist closed on the key and shoves it into his pocket.
“We’ve been spotted,” I say, remembering that we have as much right to be here as anyone, that of course Hardwick and his people knew we’d come. I shuffle my feet and fight the urge to run.
“At least Miss Russell isn’t here,” Jefferson says, softly, soothingly. His calmness is an anchor as my emotions roil like a storm. “After our failed practice run, we deserve a spot of luck.”
I glance around for Helena one last time, but as far as I can tell, Becky, Mary, and I are the only women here. Still, I discipline my mind, just in case. I will think only of my tiny role today. Concentrate on my outrage. Nothing else.
“Final prices! Final prices!”
A towheaded little boy, not much bigger than Andy, scampers into the crowd from the direction of the printer’s office. He lugs a huge stack of papers and hands them out to everyone he sees. The crowd murmurs at the updated sheets.
Henry grabs a handful. “Well, this is it, then,” he says, distributing them to us. “We should probably split up for better effect.”
Jefferson grins and heads off to the far edge of the crowd, in the opposite direction of Henry.
“This should be interesting,” Mary says, then weaves nearer to the podium.
Becky reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Good luck,” I tell her.
“We don’t need luck.”
The little boy hands the remaining copies to the auctioneer. I watch for his reaction. He stares at the price list, then takes his glasses off, wipes them clean, and stares at the sheets again.
A voice whispers at my side. “Are you ready?”