One

Declan Fitzgerald leaned back in his chair and laced his hands over his full belly. The rickety wooden chair creaked as he stretched his legs to their full length under the round table, but he trusted it to be sturdy enough. Bob Lum’s restaurant on the outskirts of Chinatown was a little shabby around the edges, but spick-and-span inside, scrubbed to within an inch of its life, and decorated with red paper lanterns for the Chinese New Year. 

Lum served a variety of Chinese and American food and his clientele was a polyglot mix of Chinatown residents, Barbary Coast denizens, sailors, longshoremen, whores, and merchants. It was Declan’s favorite San Francisco restaurant, and worthy of the celebration he was treating the Black Dove’s crew to after a successful voyage.

He surveyed the leftover morsels of the dishes on the table, and contemplated picking up the last of the pork buns, but didn’t think he had any room left in his stomach. Joey Carrigan, shoveling noodles into his mouth with one hand, pointed at the bun with his other hand with a questioning look. Declan gestured that he could take it, and suppressed a smile at his young first mate’s bottomless appetite. 

Deckhands Luca and Seamus were arguing, as usual. Over an article in the San Francisco Examiner about a pair of train robbers, of all things. Reginald, the bosun, was picking his teeth and slurping through another cup of green tea. Thomas, the ship’s cook, was leaning against the window to the kitchen, talking in Chinese pidgin English with Lum's head chef. 

Declan hoped he was getting the recipe for those pork buns. Thomas came back to the table, trailed by Lum himself, who was carrying a small plate he set in the middle of the table. 

“No more,” Declan protested amid a chorus of concurring groans from everyone but Joey. He patted his belly and smiled at Lum. “Too full now.”

Lum ignored him and flicked a fingernail at the plate. It held six triangle pastries, small pancake-like discs folded in half and then in half again. A small slip of paper stuck out between the folds in each triangle. 

“Fortune crackers,” Lum said. He mimed breaking open a cracker and squinted at an imaginary slip of paper between his fingers. “Tell your fortune in coming year. Bring you good luck in year of the rabbit.”

“Fortune crackers, eh?” Reginald reached for a cracker, the small triangle nearly disappearing in his large hands. “This some Celestial voodoo? How do you know whose fortune is whose?”

Lum shook his head, his long black queue swinging behind his back. “Not really Chinese. I buy from Mr. Hagiwara.” 

“I know him,” Thomas piped up. “Good fella. Owns a restaurant in Japantown.” He turned to Declan. “He gave me the recipe for those bean pastries you like.” 

Lum nodded, then continued, “Each fortune made just for you. Read on New Year and do what it says, set tone for rest of the year. And you lot,” he grinned at Declan with a mischievous glint in his eye, “you need all help you get, shì?”

“Begin as we mean to go on, you mean?” Declan rolled his eyes at Lum but let the rest of the crew select their crackers before taking the last one on the plate. “All right then. Let’s see what our fortunes will be this year.”

Each man broke open his cracker, and for a moment, the only sounds at the table were the crunching of the crispy sesame-flavored crackers between teeth while they each read their fortunes. 

The Concordia, this afternoon. A little cryptic, that. 

Declan tossed the slip of paper on the table. Reg picked it up and read it out loud, then cocked his head at his captain. 

“There's a lumber schooner called Concordia. Saw her pulling in at the end of Pacific Wharf right before we finished unloading,” he said. “You thinking of changing ships, Captain?”

“Hardly,” Declan snorted. 

If anyone loved the Black Dove more than Declan himself, it was Reginald. He’d been the ship’s bosun since before Declan bought her off his father, and was responsible for everything from the cleanliness of the deck to the condition of the rigging and sails. 

Reg relaxed back in his chair. 

Declan paid Lum for their meal and gave him a generous tip. At the last minute before leaving the table, he plucked the little slip of paper from the saucer Reg had tossed it in. He couldn’t fathom why he should meet a ship other than his own, assuming the name Concordia meant the vessel that Reg noticed, or whether this afternoon even meant today, but he tucked the fortune in his vest pocket all the same. 

The rest of the crew gathered in small clumps outside the restaurant. They’d made good time on the voyage around the Cape to San Francisco and deserved a few days of shore leave before returning to Port Townsend, Washington. The early February afternoon was cool but sunny overhead for now, though fog was already rolling in from the Bay. 

“I think I’ll take a walk,” he said to no one in particular. Seamus and Luca were already whispering to each other about something, and casting speculative glances at Thomas. Declan averted his eyes. If the three of them were up to something together, it was bound to be nothing he needed to know about. 

Reg clapped Declan on the back. “Don’t buy us any lumber ships,” he chortled before shuffling off, down Dupont Street, farther into Chinatown. Declan knew where he was headed, and that wasn’t any of his business, either. 

He waved to Joey, who gave him a lazy salute and a short giggle when Declan mock-glared at him, then Joey scampered off, as well.