“Okay, Lee!”
Together, we head toward Hampton’s makeshift corral, and I marvel at my own words, feeling their truth blossom deep inside me. I lost Mama and Daddy to my murderous snake of an uncle. I miss them every day. But I’ve found happiness, for sure and certain.
It scares me a little. It means I have something to lose again.
I’ve rubbed down Peony, and I’m heading back to camp with her tack when I hear the rumble and creak of wagon wheels. I pick up my pace and round the hill to discover the college men, back from their supply run. They left with nothing but their mounts and saddlebags, but they’ve returned with a cart horse and a small cart practically bursting with goods.
I run forward to help unload, but I stop when I see the long line of folks coming up the road behind the cart. Most are small-statured men, with glossy black hair tied in long braids down their backs, and each one carries a mule load’s worth of equipment and supplies. They wear simple, billowy clothes, and slippers on their feet, except for one man who wears silk robes and a broad, flat hat. The man in silk carries nothing but a walking stick. He raises a hand toward the college men as he passes, and they wave back. The group continues past our camp and heads into the hills.
“Are those Indians?” I ask. “The Maidu we heard about?”
“No, those are Chinese laborers,” Tom says.
I stare at their backs as they disappear over the ridge. I’ve never seen a Chinese person before, at least not in real life. Annabelle Smith back home boasted about encountering some in Savannah, but all I’ve seen are newspaper cartoons and lithographs.
“It’s called a coolie gang,” Tom says, frowning. “No better than slave labor.”
“You talked to them?”
“To the headman,” Jasper says. “His name is Henry Lee.”
“For true?”
“Maybe not originally,” Jasper says. “He was educated by British missionaries in the city of Canton. He speaks excellent English—with a British accent!”
“And he’s well read,” Henry says, lifting a bag of oats from the cart. “He was familiar with the poetry of William Wordsworth.”
“You don’t say.” I have no idea who William Wordsworth is. “You said they’re slaves?”
“Not the headman,” Jasper says. “But he owns work contracts on the others. He’s looking for a big mining operation or a rancher to hire the whole crew. He’ll collect the wages for all of them, and probably send most of it back to China. We saw a dozen groups like this at Mormon Island. There are hundreds of Chinese here already, and more coming.”
“The coolie contracts won’t last long,” Tom says. “Mark my words. There’ll be no slavery in California, not for Negros and not for Chinese.”
“Will they become American citizens? Like the Mexicans in California?”
He doesn’t have the chance to answer, because Andy and Olive are tugging at our sleeves, and even though there are only two of them, it feels like we’re outnumbered. “Chickens!” Olive says.
“Show us the chickens,” Andy insists, dragging Jasper toward a wooden box with holes in it.
“Just pullets,” Jasper says. “We didn’t want grown hens until we could build a proper henhouse.”
“Couldn’t find a milk cow,” Tom says to Becky, who comes trailing behind her children. “They’re in high demand, apparently. But we brought something else for you. A present.”
“Oh?” Becky peers over the cart’s edge.
The Major heaves a sack of cornmeal onto his shoulder, and Jasper moves aside a barrel of beans, revealing a brand-new box stove, shining black with curved legs. Beside it is a matching flue pipe.
Becky gasps.
“That ought to help with the cooking, yes?” Jasper says with a grin. “And keep that cabin we’re building warm this winter.”
“But . . . how much do I owe you for this?” she asks, eyes wide.
“Not a cent,” Tom says. “It’s a gift. We used the gold that Lee found for us. It cost every last bit, and we’re all dead broke, but we’ll just get more, right?”
Gold comes hard but goes easy, Mama always said. Whenever she worried Daddy and I were getting greedy, she’d remind us that some of the folks in Georgia who found the most gold ended up the worst off. “But they didn’t have a witchy girl to help them,” was how I always replied, which always made her madder than a hornet. She hated the word “witch.”
“In fact,” I say, “I kept filling your flour bags while you were gone. You’re not dead broke. Not even close.”
Andy pipes in with, “I helped!”
“Me too!” says Olive.
Tom reaches into his pocket and pulls out two pieces of hard white candy. Peppermint scent fills the air. He hands them to the little ones, saying, “For your hard work,” and is answered with a chorus of thank yous.
Henry turns to me. “We got something for you too, Lee.”
“You didn’t need . . .” Words leave me when he pulls out a large package wrapped in paper and twine.
Henry hands it to me. “Open it!”
Jefferson peers over my shoulder as I use my knife to cut the twine, then fold back the paper to reveal beautiful calico in soft green. I lift it from the package.
It’s a dress. An honest-to-God dress, with rich brown ribbon trim, a white lace collar, and the fullest, swishiest skirt I’ve ever seen.
At my stunned silence, Tom jumps in with, “Not saying you have to stop wearing trousers. Nothing like that. It’s just . . . we recalled you once telling us how you miss dresses and that you’d like to have a nice one for special occasions.”
“We had to guess at the size,” Henry says. “I thought this color would be lovely on you!”
“It might be too big,” Jasper adds. “But the lady at the counter assured us a dress is easier to take in than let out.”
“I’m a dab at the needle myself,” Henry says. “I could help you.” He’s practically beaming, so pleased is he to present this gift to me.
I swallow hard and blink. “It’s pretty,” I breathe, fingering the fabric. “The prettiest thing I’ve seen in a long time.”
Tom and Jasper share relieved smiles.