The Furies

by John Jakes

  She shrugged, the movement tightening the fabric over her breasts and reminding him of his long-unsatisfied need.

  “You said one marriage was enough. Besides, even though I’m regarded as something of a loose creature around here, I continue to believe it’s the loving, not the document, that counts most. If you wish to consider that an invitation, Captain McGill, please d— What on earth’s wrong? Why did you pull such a terrible face?”

  “Just thinking of the poor devils still on board the clipper. They don’t get leave till morning. While I wallow in debauchery—” He grinned.

  “No debauchery permitted until children are in bed. Do you want to help me find Louis?”

  “With speed, sweet. With the utmost speed.”

  As she stood up, he leaned forward to kiss her mouth. She caressed his face again.

  “Make sure of that,” she whispered.

  He wheeled and sped out into the clammy fog, shouting her son’s name.

  vi

  She was full of eagerness and heat too long contained. With Louis bedded down in the smaller cubicle, and the curtain carefully pulled across the entrance to hers, they made love with almost desperate haste, Amanda not even allowing Bart to slip out of his trousers before her hands were on him, pulling him to her.

  The alcove grew warm. They lay together drowsily afterward, Amanda laughing about how shameless it was for a woman midway through her forties to enjoy a man’s body. She teased him about the difference in their ages, calling herself a seducer of innocents—whereupon he rolled over and kissed one of her breasts while his other hand slid down the smoothness of her belly.

  “I’ll show you how innocent I am. Would you care to learn a certain way Chinese girls make love?”

  She laughed and poked him. “What Chinese girls, you deceitful bastard?”

  “Unimportant. Just pay attention—”

  “And I thought southerners were honorable men.”

  “In public. Shut the bedroom tight and we rut just as hard as the next. Harder, maybe. Better, for sure—”

  Laughing, hugging, kissing with their lips parted, they went more slowly this time. The play of hands and limbs drove Bart into a frenzy, until he was floundering on her, parting her legs with insistent fingers, opening the way for himself, thrusting forward with a haste that matched her own—

  She cried out happily at the impact—only to jerk her head from the mussed pillow an instant later. Her sudden movement jolted him.

  “What the hell’s wrong?”

  “Someone’s shouting—”

  “Let them shout.”

  “I hear people in the square—”

  He listened. Caught the unintelligible bellow of a bass voice.

  “We’ve had trouble before, Bart. Drifters liquored and starting a scrape. Setting fires—hand me my robe.”

  “Oh, goddamn it, all right,” he said, severely peeved.

  She lit a lamp on the walnut table. Louis popped out of his cubicle, asking what was wrong.

  “You go back to sleep,” Amanda said, reaching past the pile of new books to a board hanging on the wall. Pegs jutted from the board. Two of them supported one of the revolvers manufactured by Colt’s of Hartford. The gun was an 1840 holster model, .36 caliber, with a barrel a full foot long. Amanda handled it expertly, flipping out the fold-in trigger and checking the five chambers to be sure they were loaded. Through one curtained window Bart glimpsed a running figure with a torch—the mulatto, Israel, heading for the square—

  Amanda rushed through the kitchen and into the public room, Bart a few paces behind. She unlatched the front door, dashed out on the stoop. Struggling to pull on his shirt, Bart saw her stiffen, silhouetted against the weak glow of several torches being carried through the fog toward the source of the shouting.

  He heard the bass voice again. This time he understood some of the words. “By God, I tested it myself! Come and look if you don’t believe me—”

  He ran toward the door as Amanda disappeared in the thick fog. Moments later, shivering, he joined a growing crowd of people who surrounded a spent, bedraggled man. The man held up something that glowed yellow in the blaze of the torches.

  Sam Brannan’s thick black hair literally bounced on his forehead as he emphasized his words with shakes of his head.

  “It’s gold, I tell you—” He brandished the half-full quinine bottle. “Right out of the American River!”

  Someone on the far side of the crowd went racing away to summon others. “Brannan’s back! He’s got gold from the American—”

  Within seconds, it seemed that a half dozen voices began to bawl the word through the fog.

  “Gold!”

  “Gold!”

  Lights bobbed as people came running with more lanterns and torches. Bart McGill stared at the faces ringing the stocky Mormon displaying the quinine bottle. The faces were sleepy or stunned or stupidly amused—all except one.

  Amanda didn’t see Bart watching—nor see him shiver a second time. Her dark hair was lit by the fuming torch in Israel’s hand. She was staring at the sparkling yellow dust in the bottle. Staring thoughtfully—speculatively—

  She had the look of a predator again.

  Chapter II

  The Fever

  i

  THE ARRIVAL OF THE Manifest Destiny was a welcome interruption of young Louis Kent’s undemanding, if monotonous, routine.

  Louis customarily rose before daylight. He laid and lit the fire in the cast iron stove in the kitchen. While his mother cooked for the men who took breakfast at Kent’s, he waited tables, collected money and ran dirty dishes back to Israel, who washed them in two large wooden tubs. When the breakfast business slacked off about eight-thirty, everyone began preparing for the noon trade, which actually started closer to ten.

  At that hour, Israel moved out front to take charge of the liquor kegs. A phlegmatic Mexican girl named Concepcion took over the serving chores while Louis was demoted to dishwasher for the afternoon and evening. He wasn’t especially fond of any of the work, but dishwashing was particularly boring. He knew the work helped his ma keep the place going, though, so he accepted his responsibilities with no complaint.

  But the nocturnal shouting in the square, followed by Amanda’s departure with her revolver, altered his life more drastically than the return of Captain Bart ever had.

  The following morning, he learned the cause of the commotion. Merchant Brannan had rushed back from the American River with a bottle of genuine gold dust.

  Almost immediately, Louis noticed a change in his mother. Her mind seemed to be on something other than the operation of the tavern. He hoped she wasn’t finally planning the return to Boston that she discussed from time to time. Even though life in Yerba Buena was far from ideal—he had no playmates, for instance—he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.

  Oh, she painted an elegant picture for him. She said the printing business her family had once owned would be his one day. She promised him fine clothes, and marvelous sights, and an existence that no longer included a broom, scalding water and garbage scraps. He supposed it might be nice to have some friends his own age. And it would be interesting to see the huge cities at the other end of the continent, though truthfully, he couldn’t imagine any place as large and crowded as New York. He hardly believed half of Captain Bart’s descriptions.

  And could faraway Boston give him the fine, free feeling that swept over him when he and Israel roamed the hills of the peninsula, sniping at jackrabbits with the mulatto’s antique squirrel gun? He doubted it.

  His reservations sprang from something other than simple fear of the unknown, however. When his ma spoke of Boston, a peculiar, almost ugly look came into her eyes. She seemed like a stranger, somehow.

  He finally figured out that his mother’s absent air was directly connected to the furor over the gold, though Boston might be mixed up in it. He knew a lack of money was all that prevented their return to the east. And now there was a kind of money available
right in the inland rivers.

  He didn’t like the whole business one bit. Practically overnight, his ma stopped smiling—and she always smiled a lot whenever Captain Bart visited. She grew a little curt with him, and with everyone—Israel commented on it. Louis wished Mr. Brannan hadn’t raised such a fuss and set the whole village buzzing. He wanted his mother gay and easygoing again—

  But things were never to be what they had been before.

  Two days after Brannan’s return, Captain Bart stormed into the public room about ten a.m. Louis, pushing the straw broom, glanced up and saw the captain wham his peaked cap onto one of the tables.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “In—in the kitchen, I think,” Louis said, next to speechless.

  The captain sank into a chair. “Tell her to fetch me a cup of coffee. Then you can uncork that rum keg and pour me—” He jumped up. “No, I’ll get the damned rum myself. You get your mother.”

  Louis put down his broom and raced for the curtain separating the front from the kitchen. He discovered Amanda in the center of a cloud of steam. Perspiring, she was stirring a kettle of beans with a horn spoon.

  “Captain Bart wants coffee, Ma.”

  She laid the spoon aside. “I thought I heard someone come in—” She lifted the lid of the battered pot. “The coffee’s gone. We had so many customers this morning, we ran through four gallons.”

  “Where are all those people coming from?”

  “Up from the south—out of the hills—from the sky! There must be fifty more men in town than there were this time yesterday.”

  “Maybe that’s why the captain’s in a bad temper. I’ve never seen him so stormy—”

  “Louis, for Christ’s sake, the rum keg’s empty!” McGill shouted.

  “Ma, you better hurry—”

  Amanda wiped her hands on her apron. “Find Israel. Have him bring another keg from the storage shed. We drained the one out in front last night.”

  She disappeared beyond the curtain. As the boy headed out the back way, he heard McGill thunder, “I sent Louis for you and some coffee, goddamn it!”

  “Don’t you talk to me that way, Bart McGill! What in the world’s become of that reserve you’re so proud of—?”

  Her voice faded as the boy darted into the sunlight.

  He hailed Israel, who was emptying a tub of dishwater behind the privy. A few minutes later, the two reentered Kent’s, the lanky mulatto balancing a small keg on his shoulder.

  Israel removed the empty from its cradle behind the plank counter and set the new one in place. Captain Bart was tapping his cap against his knee while Amanda studied a piece of paper. In a moment, she shook her head. “It’s almost ludicrous, Bart.”

  “A man does ludicrous things when he smells easy money. Jesus, I need something to drink—” He jumped up again and stalked toward the counter.

  “I’m sorry about the coffee—” Amanda began.

  McGill paid no attention. Israel reached for a tin cup. The captain snatched it from him.

  “I’ll pour my own, if you don’t mind.”

  He put the cup back on the shelf and picked up another. He maneuvered the cup under the bung and got the keg open. But his hand was shaking. Rum splashed, soaking the cuff of his blue jacket. He swore under his breath, oblivious to Israel’s venomous stare.

  The boy realized Israel was mad because the captain refused to let him handle his drinking cup. Louis saw that his ma noticed, too. She tried to blunt Israel’s anger with an explanation.

  “Two of Captain McGill’s crew jumped ship last night.”

  “My cook and my third mate,” McGill said. “Took off up the Sacramento—” He downed a swallow of rum, then gestured with the cup. “The mate left a note for his father. If he thinks I’m going to see it delivered to New Hampshire, he’s got shit between his ears.”

  Amanda glanced at her son. “Bart—”

  “Sorry,” the captain muttered in a perfunctory way. He drank again.

  In a toneless voice, Israel asked, “What’s the note say, Miz Kent?”

  “Go on, you can read it to him,” Bart said to Amanda.

  “I can read it for myself,” Israel said. “My mama taught me in the pine woods, even though it was against the law. Bark for a tablet. A white oak stick for a pen. An oak ball soaked in water to make ink—and fifty apiece across the back when the driver finally caught Mama and me sneaking off together for a lesson. There isn’t any nigger more dangerous than an educated nigger, is there, Captain?”

  “I don’t need any goddamn sass from you!” McGill exclaimed.

  “Maybe you gonna get some anyway. And something else besides,” Israel said, stepping forward.

  Bart McGill slammed his cup on the plank counter. Louis saw with alarm that the ex-slave’s fingers were fisted. Amanda rushed between the two, a hand on each of them.

  “I forbid that kind of behavior around here, and both of you know it! Israel, you go back outside—Bart, you settle down.” She tugged his arm. “Come on.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Israel, I’m asking you to leave—”

  “Asking or telling?”

  “Asking. Please!”

  His dark eyes resentful, the lanky man finally shrugged, turned and walked out. McGill was still seething. After the door banged, he exploded.

  “That snotty son of a bitch acts like I’m one of those Mississippi cotton barons! The McGills never owned a slave. Not one!”

  “But Israel sees all white men alike because a few of them treated him badly. Unfortunately you have the same kind of irrational feelings about colored people—”

  Louis heard Amanda with only half an ear, having inched his way toward the table where the paper had fallen. He managed to glimpse a few of the scrawled lines:

  —frenzy has seized my soul. Piles of gold rise up before me at every step. Thousands of slaves bow to my beck and call. Myraids of fair damsels contend for my love. In short it is a violent attack of what I can only term gold fever—

  “Now settle down and think about your men,” Amanda urged. “Are you going after them?”

  McGill started refilling his cup. “By every law on the book, I should. But I decided against it. I plan to load the hold as fast as possible and weigh anchor. I can’t afford to lose anyone else—I’ve already got the first and second mates standing guard. They rounded up the whole crew this morning and sent ’em back to the ship. They have orders to shoot if anybody takes a header over the rail. I hope the cook and the mate dig to hell and find nothing but a ton of those pyrites!” He slumped at the table, staring moodily into the cup.

  Amanda’s face had acquired that intense look Louis disliked. “How does a man collect gold, Bart? You’ve called in Peru and Chile, surely you’ve heard—”

  His head jerked up. “Why the hell are you so interested? You planning to sail off to the American too?”

  Louis knew his ma was hiding something when she answered, “No, I’m just curious. Gold-hunting must take some equipment—”

  “Not much more than a pick, a shovel and a pan for placer mining. You wash the dirt out of a pan of water and because the gold’s heavier, it stays put. It’s hard labor. Even harder if you’re working solid rock instead of a river. The South Americans have mechanical contraptions—arrastras—for separating gold from quartz.”

  He finished his drink, jammed the paper in his pocket and his cap on his head. “I’ll see you for supper—provided I get enough hides loaded. I want to get out of this lunatic place—”

  When he was gone, Amanda moved quickly to her son. “Louis, I’d like you to do an errand.”

  Uneasily, he said, “What is it?”

  “I need a new iron pan for the kitchen. Fetch twenty cents and run to the hardware. While you’re there, see how many shovels are in stock.”

  “Ma!” he cried. “You haven’t got the gold fever too?”

  Amanda laughed in a harsh way. “No, I’m not that addled. But I’ve been noticing how many peo
ple have come to town just in the past twenty-four hours—”

  She gave him a pat on the bottom. “You hurry along and get that pan.”

  ii

  “I need an iron pan, Mrs. Holster,” Louis said to the stout woman tending the hardware counter.

  She pointed to an empty shelf. “Sold the lot not two hours ago.”

  “Who bought ’em?”

  “Sam Brannan. He bought every pick and shovel, too. Paid twice the going price for everything. He’s loading them out in back right this minute.”

  Disappointed, Louis headed for the front door. Courtesy jogged him into acknowledging the owner’s absence. “Is Mr. Holster feeling poorly this morning?”

  “You mean because he’s not here?” The woman sniffed. “He hired Andy Bellamy to pole him up the river to Sutter’s fort. Mr. Kemble the editor went with him. You won’t be reading the Star around here for a while—or seeing Mr. Holster selling nails! I swear, I don’t know what’s got into people, traipsing off to nowhere thinking they can wash a fortune out of a stream—”

  But Louis knew. He’d read the third mate’s note. The fever explained everything from the influx of strangers and his ma’s odd behavior to the sudden turnover in hardware.

  To verify that last, Louis walked around to the rear of the building. Bare-chested and sweating, Sam Brannan was lashing a canvas over the bed of a small wagon. Louis said hello, then shinnied up one wheel for a look into the bed.

  “What are you shipping, Mr. Brannan? A whole lot of pickaxes, huh?”

  And pans and shovels, he noted before Brannan shooed him off and covered the cargo completely.

  “That’s right, Louis. Going to peddle them in the store I lease up at New Helvetia. I figure just one pan will bring me anywhere from half an ounce to one ounce of dust, flake or lump gold.”

  “How much is that in money?”

  “Oh, about eight to sixteen dollars American.”

  Louis whistled. “How can you ask so much for a twenty-cent pan?”