“‘But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.’”
He delivers a short sermon about people coming to California in search of gold, when what they really need to find is a congregation of souls, a community of like-minded spirits. He says that when the gold fails and the money runs out, as it surely will, God will still be there to help us, and the way he helps us is by surrounding us with the right people.
Brother Jim, he points out, was one of the right people. Even though he’d only been in San Francisco a few months, he’d made it his business to look out for others, like Isaac here, who needed a hand finding a home, or Brother Hampton, who needed the community to lead him out of Babylon and rescue him from unjust imprisonment.
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
I glance around at my own small community—Becky and the children, Henry, the Major, and most of all Jefferson. I have treasure richer than gold, if I have friends like these. And it’s true; they have my heart.
The minister would say I’m laying up treasure in heaven, where thieves do not break through nor steal, but he’d be wrong. My treasure is still worldly, still vulnerable, and I’ve already lost too much of it. Theresa and Martin, my parents, and now Jim—all stolen from me.
Maybe I’m just as greedy as any ne’er-do-well taken by gold fever. It’s just that I’m greedy for friends. Greedy for a home.
The minister ends by leading us all in a hymn. It’s not one that I’ve ever heard, but I appreciate the sentiment.
“Steer well! The harbor just ahead
Aglow with glory’s ray,
Will on thee golden luster shed,
From out the gates of day,
And waiting there are longing hands
That thrill to clasp thine own,
And lead thee through the heav’nly land
Into the bright unknown.”
It’s fitting we sing this song as we view California’s Golden Gate to the bay, still strewn with morning fog, lit on fire by the sunrise. Jim would have loved it.
The minister bows his head and prays. Then we take turns tossing handfuls of dirt onto the casket. Andy enthusiastically throws fistful after fistful, until Becky guides him clear. The two cemetery attendants finish the job with their shovels; I imagine filling a grave goes a lot faster than digging one. When they’re done packing down dirt, a little mound remains. I lift Melancthon’s cross from the wagon and jab the long, pointed end into the ground, leaning hard until it’s firmly set.
I reach into my pocket for gold coins to hand out, two to the minister, and one each to the attendants and to Isaac.
“You don’t need to do this,” the minister says, but it seems like more of a formal protest than a genuine one. The other coins disappear quickly into their owners’ pockets.
“I do, for Jim’s sake,” I say. “Thank you for coming out today.”
“Thank you, and God bless all of you,” the minister says.
“When will you know about the fate of Hampton?”
“As soon as the sheriff has time to see me and sign the papers. Seems he’s busy at the moment, with the auction just yesterday.”
“And evicting people from their houses all week long,” Isaac adds.
“We mean to see Hampton free,” I say.
“We’re handling it,” the minister assures us firmly.
“We look out for our own,” Isaac adds.
There’s a lot of handshaking and farewelling, and after all of Jim’s friends have trickled away, our group finds itself standing in the cemetery at the foot of Jim’s grave. Jefferson just stares at it, shaking his head, as if he can’t believe what’s just happened.
“So what’s next?” Becky asks me.
“We go into the lion’s den,” I say.
“Might be tricky,” Mary says. “The hardest part yet.”
Jefferson kicks a clod of dirt at the foot of the grave. “Let’s ruin him.”
The Major clasps Jefferson on the shoulder. “Even I’m willing to put on some frippery and attend a party, so long as there’s a chance to set Frank Dilley to rights. That son of a—”
Becky clears her throat abruptly, and the Major jumps.
“Beeswax. That son of a beeswax.”
“Ma, what do bees whack?” Andy whispers.
“Hush, darling,” Becky says.
Henry is the only one who seems delighted at the prospect. “This is going to be the biggest, most exclusive party in the history of San Francisco. Maybe in the history of California. You couldn’t drag me away with horses. And that’s before we get to any of the other business.”
I can’t help grinning at his enthusiasm. “And you, Becky? This all depends on you. I would never do anything to put your children in harm’s way, on purpose or by accident. If you have any doubts or reservations, just say the word and we’re done.”
Becky bites her lower lip, which is never a good sign. She pulls Olive close and gives her a tight hug, puzzling the girl. Then she reaches out for Andy, to tousle his imperfectly combed hair, but he dodges her and starts darting around everyone’s legs.
“Bees whack this,” he sings. “Bees whack that, bees whack the bear with the bowler hat!”
Becky gazes at her unruly son, her face full of warmth. Full of love. My mama used to look at me like that.
“Oh, of course I’m in,” she says at last. “That man’s so low he has to reach up to rub the belly of a snake. He should be stepped on like the vermin he is.”
“That’s what I hoped you’d say.” I grab Andy as he runs by and make as if to toss him into the back of the wagon. He squeals in delight. “Let’s get ready.”
Chapter Twenty
Henry offered to hire a coach for the evening, something to convey us to Hardwick’s soiree in style and comfort—at my expense, of course. But it turns out there are a limited number of carriages to be hired in San Francisco, and we were too late to schedule the lowliest driver with a dung cart.
“I could take all of you in the wagon,” Melancthon offers when Henry breaks the news to us.
“I would rather walk a hundred miles,” Becky says, “than be bumped around in a wagon like some poor country girl on a hay ride.”
She had enough wagon riding to last a lifetime.
I add, “Plus, it’s better if you aren’t seen with us.”
Melancthon presses his lips tight, making me wonder how much he has guessed. But then he nods, and that’s that.
So we’re going to walk.
As the night falls, we gather in the galley of the Charlotte, dressed in our best finery. For Becky and the Major, that means the same clothes they wore to Jim’s funeral, but brightened with a few decorative flourishes. Becky paces nervously, irritating Baby Girl Joyner. I don’t pretend to know much about babies, but from what I’ve seen, they must be like cats, sensitive to every fleeting emotion of the person who holds them. Before the tiny girl can get too upset, the Major offers to hold her, and both she and Becky calm right down.
Jefferson sidles up to me. “We might have one of those one day,” he whispers in my ear.
“We might have a whole mess of them,” I say. “I just hope we can bring them into a world a little safer than this one.”