The Claim (15 page)

I missed him so much.

When I went downstairs, I discovered that all the ladies in town had pitched in to prepare a supper in M’Carty’s honor. The tables groaned with the weight of the food, and people began filtering in. It seemed that the entire settlement had turned out, even men from as far away as the other side of the Columbia River. The parlor room of the hotel was soon packed, and guests spilled out all the way into the street. I circulated on the front porch, handing out tea.

Willard was glumly playing with a piece of pie instead of eating it.

“You don’t like my pie?” I teased.

He swung his leg on the railing. “Is Katy gonna be okay? Now that her pa’s dead and all?”

“She’s very sad,” I said. “But she’ll be fine, especially with a friend like you to look after her.”

“I’ll look after her, Miss Jane,” he said staunchly.

“I know you will, Willard,” I said.

I left Willard to his pie and made my way back to the kitchen, overhearing a snatch of conversation.

“It ain’t right. Everyone can see she’s a white girl. She shouldn’t be raised like a savage,” a man said.

I looked over to see Mr. Dodd and his wife speaking earnestly to William.

“She needs to be with her own kind,” Mrs. Dodd said in a righteous voice.

And then I could listen no more, as Father Joseph was calling for everyone’s attention.

“Excuse me,” Father Joseph announced solemnly. “Several of M’Carty’s friends would like to say a few words.” He paused. “Monsieur Russell.”

The crowd grew quiet as Mr. Russell awkwardly walked up the porch steps. He looked out at the crowd and removed the wad of tobacco from his mouth and stuck it on the brim of his hat. He seemed so old suddenly, in his borrowed, ill-fitting suit.

“M’Carty,” Mr. Russell began in a thick voice, “was one of the finest men I ever did know.” His voice grew hoarse as he continued. “He could shoot a bear without blinking, and was as good an oysterman as they come. I reckon I’ll miss him a lot.” His voice grew strangled as he tried to clear his throat again.

He was silent for a few moments, but finally he swallowed hard and muttered, “Anyways, that’s all I got to say right now. Thankee.”

He stuck the wet wad of tobacco back in his mouth and walked back down the stairs, his head bent.

“Thank you, Mr. Russell,” Father Joseph said. “Monsieur Swan?”

Mr. Swan stared out at the crowd, misty-eyed. “I find myself quite at a loss for words for once,” he said, his voice trembling. “M’Carty was a good neighbor and a good friend. And, of course, he was a fine husband and father. He shall be dearly missed by all.” He took a great shuddering breath and looked for a moment as though he had more to say. But then he heaved a great sigh and walked back down the steps. I daresay it was the shortest speech he had ever given in his life.

“Finally, we shall have a few words from Keer-ukso,” Father Joseph said.

The crowd went still at the sight of Keer-ukso walking up to the porch. He looked out, his dark eyes bright with unshed tears.

“M’Carty was my first friend of Boston
tillicums
. He and Russell and Swan and Jane,” he said, looking at me, “my friends, help me learn Boston speech. M’Carty say, ‘Keer-ukso,
mika chako Boston
.’ You become like Boston
tillicum
. But I tell him. ‘M’Carty,
mika chako Chinook
.’ You become like Chinook.” And here he gave a small chuckle. “And he married Cocumb, so I won.”

The crowd laughed in remembrance.

His eyes grew serious. “But I speak Jargon best. Jargon is beautiful to tell you how I feel about my friend, because Jargon, it is Chinook and Boston speech coming together. And M’Carty and Cocumb, they are Chinook and Boston people coming together. So I say in Jargon, M’Carty,
nesayka kwansum kumtuks mika
.”

M’Carty, we will always remember you.

  Despite the dark cloud that M’Carty’s death had cast over our little community, it was decided that the election should still be held as planned. Red Charley bowed out of the race for justice of the peace and threw in his hat for constable to fill the void.

The day of the election dawned gray and rainy, but Mr. Swan’s spirits were bright.

“I was thinking that a courthouse would be my first order of business as justice of the peace,” Mr. Swan said as he paced back and forth in the hotel’s kitchen, where he had stopped for a bracing cup of coffee. “That way, Mr. Staroselsky wouldn’t have crowds descending on his store. Maybe I can even have Jehu
build it. And we can name it after M’Carty. What do you think, Jane?”

I thought he didn’t have a chance of winning, but instead I said, “It’s a very nice idea.”

“Capital!”

“Mr. Swan, perhaps you ought to wait until after the elections to make any plans,” I suggested.

“Whatever for, my dear?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

I sighed.

Mr. Swan consulted his pocket watch. “Well, I must be off. Time to vote, et cetera!” He drained his cup and put on his hat.

“Good luck,” I said. “I would vote for you if I could.”

Mr. Swan smiled gratefully. “I know, my dear. Now, I shall see you later this evening, at which time we shall have a congratulatory toast!”

And with that, he strolled jauntily out the door, whistling to himself.

The election was held by secret ballot, and all the pioneer men cast their votes into an empty pickle barrel at Star’s. Father Joseph was selected to tally the ballots. A man of the cloth, it was reasoned, could be counted on to be honest.

Men came and went to Star’s as the hours passed, and Willard ran back and forth to tell us who he estimated was winning. His method of polling was quite simple. He just asked the men as they were leaving whom they’d voted for, and most of them told him.

“’Cept Jehu and Mr. Russell,” he complained. “They wouldn’t tell me! Lips tight as a bear trap, I tell you.”

Millie had made a large iced cake for the victors.

“It looks perfectly delicious,” I said.

She gave a satisfied nod. “I used nearly all of the sugar on hand for that icing. I certainly hope our Mr. Swan wins.”

Late in the afternoon the whole town gathered outside of Star’s and waited for Father Joseph to announce the results.

“I shall start with the winner of the election for justice of the peace,” Father Joseph said, unfolding a sheet of paper. Before he could get another word out, Mr. Swan was walking up the steps of the porch, pumping hands as he passed.

“Thank you so much, my good man,” Mr. Swan said to Father Joseph. He turned to the waiting crowd. “And thank you, good people of Shoalwater Bay. I promise to work very hard as your justice of the peace and …”

Father Joseph was tugging on Mr. Swan’s sleeve.

“Monsieur Swan,” Father Joseph whispered.

“Later, man,” Mr. Swan said. “I’m in the middle of my acceptance speech here.”

“But Monsieur Swan,” Father Joseph said. “You did not win.” He hesitated, clearly discomfited. “Dr. Baldt did.”

Mr. Swan blanched.

“I am very sorry,” Father Joseph murmured.

Looking much like a man headed to the gallows, Mr. Swan walked down the steps, pushing his way through the silent crowd. I was on the other side of the crush and I attempted to make my way toward him.

“Mr. Swan!” I called.

But he was gone.

*    *    *

After a desperate search for Mr. Swan, I returned to the hotel where everyone had gathered to congratulate the victors and enjoy the refreshments. Mrs. Frink had bent her rule for this one night, and everywhere I looked men were slurping down raw oysters with whiskey. No doubt she was feeling generous on account of Mr. Frink being elected our first representative. Red Charley, the new constable, was clearly enjoying himself as well and told me that his first official act would be to make a law against me being “so purty.” But, in truth, it was William’s night. He held court in the center of the room, with Mr. Biddle at his side, accepting congratulatory handshakes.

“Poor Mr. Swan,” I said as I stood next to Father Joseph on the side of the room, watching the spectacle.

“It was a very close race,” Father Joseph confided. “Dr. Baldt won by only two votes.”

As the hours passed, Mr. Swan still did not appear, and I was beginning to fear the worst.

Willard was perched on a stool in the corner, eyeing Millie’s beautiful iced cake.

“Why don’t you go look for Mr. Swan?” I asked.

“What about the cake?” he groused.

“We’re not going to cut it for a little while yet, and I promise to save the biggest slice for you,” I said enticingly.

His eyes glowed. The rascal tugged on his cap. “I’ll find him. You just save me a piece of that cake.”

I shook his hand solemnly. “I shall.”

In the end Willard did not find Mr. Swan. Mr. Swan found us.

I was fetching tea from the kitchen when he came stumbling through the back door.

“Mr. Swan!” I cried.

But from the way he nearly fell over where he stood, I knew we were in for a bad time. He was drunk. And worse, he was on a mission.

“Good man, Baldt,” Mr. Swan slurred.

“Oh, Mr. Swan,” I said sadly.

He stared at me, glassy-eyed. “You tried to tell me, old girl, but I wouldn’t listen, would I? No fool like an old fool.”

“You’re not a fool, Mr. Swan,” I said.

“I am!” he said. “Most foolish man on this bay!”

“Mr. Swan,” I said, taking him by the arm. “Here, why don’t I take you up to one of the rooms? You can spend the night here.”

He tugged his arm away from me and squinted blearily at me. “Bed? I can’t go to bed! It’s early! And I have to congratulate the new justice of the peace. Right thing to do.”

He started ambling toward the dining room, swaying.

“No, Mr. Swan, you do not want to do that,” I said firmly. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Are you saying I’m drunk, young lady?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” I said.

“I’m not the least bit drunk. You’re looking at a man who can hold his liquor.”

“Mr. Swan, please, I insist,” I entreated him.

He pulled away from me and marched unsteadily through the door to the dining room. I confess, I could hardly bear to watch what was going to happen next. I cracked open the door to observe the debacle.

All laughter and conversation abruptly ceased.

“Congratulations, Baldt!” Mr. Swan shouted to Mr. Biddle.

“I’m Biddle, Swan,” Mr. Biddle said. He pointed across the room. “Baldt’s over there.”

“Oh,” Mr. Swan said, and ambled his way over to William. “Congratulations, Baldt!”

William sounded a little irritated but said graciously, “Thank you, Swan.”

“I say, that is a capital cake!” Mr. Swan announced with a loud hiccup.

And then there was an enormous crash.

Willard came running in the back door, out of breath. “I looked everywhere, Miss Jane, honest I did. But I couldn’t find him!”

“Don’t worry. I found him,” I said.

“Where?” he asked.

I opened the dining-room door wide.

“Right there,” I said. “Although I don’t know if you’re going to want any of the cake now.”

Covered in icing and snoring away in the middle of the flattened confection was Mr. Swan.

Mr. Swan awoke the
next morning in one of the hotel’s beds, where Mr. Frink and Mr. Russell had managed to carry him the night before. Great gobs of icing had dried on the front of his suit.

“Where am I?” he groaned, red eyed.

“At the hotel, Mr. Swan,” I said, handing him a cup of coffee.

“Thank you, dear girl,” he croaked hoarsely.

He struggled to sit up. Then he looked down at his clothes, and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I’m a disgrace,” he said, his voice empty.

“You shouldn’t worry,” I said lightly. “No one really had room left for cake, anyway.”

He didn’t laugh.

“I thought I would win, Jane. How did it happen? How?”

“Drink your coffee,” I said.

He nodded morosely and took a sip.

“This is a disaster of biblical proportions,” he said.

“I wouldn’t go that far, Mr. Swan. But I do think things are going to be very uncomfortable around here in the near future.”

“I never had a chance, did I?” he asked.

Despite myself, I smiled back at him and said, “If votes had gone to the man with the best heart, you would have won, Mr. Swan.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes watery, and whispered, “Thank you, dear girl.”

  I was feeling thoroughly dispirited, and my mood did not improve when I stepped out onto the porch and saw William waiting for me.

“Ah, Miss Peck,” he said, standing.

He seemed changed already, more confident of his power, as if becoming justice of the peace had bestowed upon him the place in society he had always desired.

“I should very much like to finish our conversation,” he said.

“What conversation was that?” I replied.

“You disappoint me, Jane.”

He nodded out at the muddy road before us. Already it was abuzz with activity. Horses dragging carts. Men heading out to the oyster beds. Children running and playing.

“You see, I am a man who can see the future. All these men think of nothing but oysters and timber. They do not see what is right before them.”

“And what is that?”

“Land fever, Jane. Back east, people are dying for land. With the help of Mr. Biddle, I shall create a town and sell off
individual plots. Baldt City.” His eyes gleamed. “It shall be the jewel of the territory if I have my way, maybe even the capital. And I shall be a rich man.”

Baldt City? As ridiculous as it sounded, the crease of his brow and the set of his jaw told me William was entirely serious.

“Which brings me to you,” he said, focusing on me. “Your claim is the perfect site to begin Baldt City.”

“Does Mr. Biddle know about this scheme of yours?”

He laughed. “Of course, Jane. Mr. Biddle is my partner. He believes me to be an enterprising man of the highest character.”

“He obviously doesn’t know you very well,” I muttered.