“You did a good job getting him this far,” he said. “He has a chance.”
Jasper beckons the workmen over with a wave of his hand, and they put the stretcher down and gently lift Jim onto it. “We’ll take him through the side door and directly to the operating room in the back of the house,” Jasper says. “Mary, keep pressure on that wound as we go. Lee, walk with me and fill me in on the details.”
Blood covers Mary’s hands. There’s even a bit of it matting her black hair, just above her ear.
The workmen rush Jim back to the office, the rest of us following behind. I babble the whole way, telling Jasper everything. I end with, “I think Dilley wanted him dead because he figured out Hardwick’s scam to rob people.”
The older doctor with remarkable whiskers meets us at the side door. He’s taken off his suit coat and is now wearing a clean white apron.
“I suppose this is another one of your charity cases, Clapp,” he says, not unkindly.
“No, sir,” I tell him. “We’ll pay whatever it costs.” Even if it’s the last of my gold.
Jasper blocks the door. “You can’t come in. You’ll have to wait in the parlor.”
“I . . .” I hate feeling so helpless. “You’ll do everything you can for him, right?”
“I always do everything I can for my patients,” he says, turning away.
The door closes. We stare at it a moment.
At last Mary says, “I know you’re worried about Mr. Boisclair, but this may have presented us with an opportunity.”
“What do you mean?” I say, still staring at that door. My oldest friend in the world besides Jefferson is behind that door, his life hanging in the balance.
“I mean, it depends on how things turn out, but—”
“What do you mean, Mary?” Jefferson repeats, more sternly.
Quickly she sketches out the beginnings of a plan. A plan within a plan. Another thing we can’t dwell too hard on, lest Helena Russell pluck it from our thoughts.
“So, what do you think?” she says.
“It’s a good idea,” Jefferson says.
“Better than what we had already come up with,” I concede. “It solves one of our remaining problems.”
Mary wipes her hands on her skirt, leaving bloody smears. “I guess I’ll go find the others. Let them know what we’re about.”
She turns to go, but I grab her arm. “Thank you, Mary,” I say.
“Of course.” She yanks her arm away and heads off at a jog, as if our recent exertions have not winded her even a little. Jefferson takes my hand and leads me back to the parlor, where we find seats. The red-faced businessman is leaving. The clerk escorts the little boy with the broken arm to his mother, and a short while later, he brings Jefferson and me some tea.
Jim is in surgery forever. People come and go while we wait. Gold changes hands, small amounts, unlike in the hotels and gambling dens. It’s a relief of sorts, not to have so much of it around.
The sun is low, shining through the parlor window, when the older doctor with remarkable whiskers appears at the end of the hall, wiping his bloody hands on a white towel. He glares at us and glances away, saying nothing.
“If Jim dies,” I whisper to Jefferson, “is it my fault?”
“Don’t be daft.”
I give him a sharp look.
“You’re scared,” he says. “You’re sad and you’re angry. Dilley shooting Jim is a reason to stay to the course, not doubt it.”
I feel numb, maybe too numb to take in what he’s saying, but a distant part of me knows he’s speaking the truth.
Jasper appears at the end of the hallway, blood on his shirt and pants, beads of sweat on his upper lip.
I jump up, and Jefferson follows. “Can we see him now? Is he going to be all right?”
Jasper’s expression conveys a world of bad news. “Come this way,” he says, gesturing. “We have some things to talk about.”
Chapter Eighteen
We spend a long time with Jasper, talking things through, making all the proper arrangements.
Before returning to the Charlotte, we hire a boat to row us out to the prison barge. The water is rough today, and the little boat can’t seem to keep its course, no matter how valiantly the boatman rows. But eventually we reach the sheriff’s floating jail. I bang on the hull, just like on my previous visit with Jim, and call out for Hampton.
When his face appears in the porthole, a lump lodges in my throat.
“How are you doing?” I manage to shout.
“If it weren’t for the rats and the lousy food, it’d be just like the county fair,” he says. The false cheerfulness in his voice doesn’t hide the strain. “Come to think of it, the county fair also has rats and lousy food.”
“Need anything?” Jefferson calls up, and I give him a sharp look, because that’s not like Jefferson at all. It’s one of those things that feels good to say, I guess, but I don’t know how we’d get Hampton anything he needed.
“I need out! Won’t be much longer. Yesterday Jim said they raised enough money to get me free. They just need to take it to the sheriff and sign the papers.”
“That’s why we came to talk to you,” I say. “It’s about Jim. I’m afraid we have bad news.”
Hampton’s face in the porthole is an unreadable mask, like a man so accustomed to bad news it doesn’t even land.
“Frank Dilley shot him. It turned out bad.”
Anger flashes across his face. Then he pulls away from the porthole. He returns a moment later, wearing the same mask as before. “Shouldn’t make a difference. Jim said one of the preachers is handling the money. He has standing in the community, even with the sheriff.”
Jefferson and I exchange a look. “That’s . . . good news,” I say.
“Have you talked to Tom?” Hampton asks.
After too long a pause, Jefferson says, “We haven’t seen much of Tom lately.”
“He’s been working,” I add. “We see him at supper and sometimes breakfast.”
“You ask him about my Adelaide.”
“We’ll do that,” Jefferson says.
The waves are growing more violent, knocking our boat against the side of the ship. I grip the bench to keep from losing my seat.
“We gotta go,” Jefferson says.
Hampton nods once, and his face disappears from the porthole.
We reach shore, pay the oarsman, and trudge home toward the Charlotte. The daylight fades early this time of year, especially with the sky so overcast. It’s almost dusk by the time we make it home. The wagon is parked outside the ship. Inside the wagon is a huge barrel.
Everyone is gathered in the galley, including Mary. The table is cleared of the Major’s and Melancthon’s latest project, and fixings for dinner are spread. The Major bounces the baby on his knee, the end of his wooden leg tapping on the floor.
Becky’s eyes go straight to the bloodstains on Jefferson’s clothes and mine. “How is Mr. Boisclair?”
“He’s . . .” I glance at Mary, who nods quietly. Yes, she arranged everything after she left the doctor’s office, just as she promised. Even though Helena Russell is nowhere near, I’m afraid to say or even think too much.