The Spoils of Sin

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘I regret, sir, that you have to make way now. I should be most happy to see you here again on another evening. For this evening, however, that must suffice.’

  He said nothing, and she wondered briefly whether she might encounter violence from her very first session. But then he sighed and rolled away from her. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his hair as if to wake himself up. ‘That seems hard,’ he muttered. ‘The second time is always so much better.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated firmly. She got up from the bed and straightened her clothes. Not a garment had been removed, which struck her a waste of the alluring silk bodice she had bought for twenty dollars – five down and another fifteen owed to the haberdasher. Listening for sounds from Carola’s room, she caught moans and thumps that suggested the dark man was considerably slower to take his satisfaction than hers had been.

  She led the man down the stairs, and bade him adieu. The third customer remained on the piano stool, but his hands were unmoving. ‘Sir?’ said Fanny. ‘Thank you for your patience. If you would permit me a moment, I shall be happy to accommodate you.’ The wording had been practised in advance. The girls had searched for terms that were plain but not shocking. Accommodate had struck them as especially felicitous.

  The two men exchanged a glance that was oddly uneasy. The tall one was morose; the young one far from eager. Something was lacking, Fanny realised. Somewhere she had gone wrong. There should be lightness and laughter and a complete lack of shame. Instead there was a furtiveness, a sense of impropriety that she and Carola had been anxious to avoid.

  ‘I have yet to pay you,’ said the fair-haired man awkwardly.

  ‘Ah! So you have,’ she returned, thinking that was one mistake identified. ‘I have a box upstairs for the purpose, which I neglected to show you.’ She resolved not to omit that detail again.

  The man extracted a note from his pouch and handed it to her. He looked again at his friend. ‘Will I wait for you, John?’

  ‘No need. I can manage.’ John’s unease only seemed to increase with each passing moment. Fanny felt a helpless pity for him and a glancing pang for herself. New skills were likely to be needed from the outset, it seemed.

  ‘I’ll take good care of him,’ she told John’s friend.

  ‘She’s all right,’ said the man. ‘You’ll have a fine time with her.’

  John smiled and raised his chin, causing Fanny to wonder if she had somehow misjudged him. ‘Should I go up, then?’ he asked her. His eyes met hers with a direct look that came from a determined man, rather than the squirming inexperienced boy she had assumed.

  ‘Please do. I’ll follow right behind you.’ Holding the five-dollar bill tightly, she ran out to the privy, and resoaked the sponge in the jar of vinegar. The viscous fluid adhering to it floated off, and she pushed it back for a second time.

  John was quite startlingly different from his friend. He asked her politely to remove her clothes, while he lay on the bed, slowly unbuckling his belt. He handled his organ without self-consciousness, until it was big and rigid. ‘I intend to enjoy this,’ he said thickly. ‘Come here.’

  She was unsure how to position herself, with him already prone. ‘Straddle me,’ he ordered.

  He was immediately transformed into a wholly different creature from the mild young man strumming the piano. As she lowered herself, he bucked violently, entering her further than she would have thought possible. He clutched her hips tightly, forcing her to join his rhythm, on and on, with his eyes closed and his lips clenched. She hurt, somewhere beyond the sponge. He was striking something tender, not intended for such treatment. She whimpered and tried to escape. ‘No!’ he grated.

  It went on for years, or so it seemed. He shouted, and there was a rush of fluid, but he did not stop immediately. But at last it was over. He pushed her aside and rolled away.

  Fanny got off the bed and tried to find words of reproach. He had cared nothing for her, simply seeing her as a piece of flesh to fit around his own. He had become a mindless animal, intent only on his own gratification. It was insulting. It had a brutality to it that she had never anticipated.

  Drawing a deep steadying breath, she pulled on her clothes. ‘You were rough, sir,’ she said.

  He looked at her with eyes wide. ‘I was not. What are you saying?’

  She shook her head wordlessly.

  ‘Rough is when a man strikes you with his belt. When he ties your hands and turns you onto your face. Rough is when he drives himself into your throat hard enough to choke you. Are you so innocent, then? If so, you have entered into a dangerous game. You thought to earn good money in a sweet and simple embrace, where you might find some pleasure for yourself. So wrong, my dear. Men will find wives for the sweet and simple business. For the darker passions, they come to girls such as you. What else did you expect?’

  She shook her head again, and pointed to the money box. ‘Five dollars, if you please,’ she choked.

  He quickly complied, and she thanked him. His words were filling her head, breeding horrors and terrors that she could not begin to address. She couldn’t wait to be rid of him, to be free to tell Carola what he had said and how he had used her.

  Carola! Surely she must have finished with the dark-haired man. Perhaps he had been as beastly as John had been – or even worse. Perhaps men were habitually cruel and vile, as John had implied, and in no time they would be torn and injured too severely to recover. Perhaps they would be killed! The Maria Monk book came to mind, with freshly ominous implications.

  What else did you expect? rang in her ears, through everything else. Had she and Carola both been unforgivably naïve and foolish, then? Had they failed to see the dangers in front of them? Was the whole business over before it had properly begun? Would her parents take her back again, if she begged them? She would milk cows and hoe bean rows for the rest of her life without complaint, if so.

  Downstairs, two more men had arrived and were sitting with Carola. Fanny fought back tears as her companion greeted her with a broad smile. ‘Here are Jack and Tom,’ she said. ‘Come and tell them how welcome they are.’

  Chapter Three

  Fanny considered pleading sickness, but the look in Carola’s eyes prevented her. There was a steady purpose that hinted at an awareness of Fanny’s frame of mind. ‘You take Tom,’ she said. ‘He is new-arrived from Boston, he tells me, and has been impatiently awaiting our opening.’ She patted the man’s arm with an easy familiarity before turning to the other. ‘And Jack is an old-timer in Oregon Territory. He accompanied the first wagon train, back in ’43.’

  Fanny forced a smile. The fact that the men had shared something of their backgrounds with Carola made them more human that the first ones. They were older and calmer, too.

  A third trip to the privy revealed a streak of blood on the sponge, which did not surprise her. She repeated the preventative process with a sense of resignation. What did you expect? still echoed in her head.

  Tom was blessedly easy. He was careful, pacing himself in an attempt to prolong the experience, but nonetheless finishing in little over a minute. His member was of modest size and Fanny felt almost no sensation. Afterwards he held her to him, his arms around her, his face against her neck. It made her feel that she might be more to him than a hot tunnel of flesh into which he needed to disgorge himself.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said. ‘I needed that more than you can ever imagine.’

  She rubbed his bare shoulder and said nothing.

  It was still short of nine o’clock, and Carola insisted they remain open until ten at least. They left the door half-open and tended the lamps to give a welcoming blaze of light.

  ‘The next one’s mine,’ said Carola, reminding Fanny than she had entertained one more client than her friend.

  ‘And welcome,’ she said.

  ‘It will be a success, I’m certain. Twenty-five dollars in a single evening, if not more. First thing in the morning, I shall open an account at the bank.
In a week, there might be close to a hundred dollars each. Just think of it!’

  ‘You…liked it, then?’ Fanny ventured.

  ‘Liked? I liked the money. I tolerated the rest. Why? What ails you, Fan?’

  ‘My second one was rough. He hurt me. He said some dreadful things to me.’ Tears seeped down her face. ‘He said what did I expect. He said I was too innocent, and had no idea what it could be like. I am afraid for my life. Afraid for both our lives. He had such a look – as if I was an animal, to be treated just as the whim might take him.’

  Carola sat very still. Her square jaw had never looked more determined. ‘Then we must hire someone to protect us,’ she said at last. ‘We have been reckless.’

  ‘Who? How do we find such a person?’

  ‘We must ask around. Keep our eyes and ears open.’

  ‘It must be a man, then?’

  Carola hesitated, frowning at the floor. ‘What woman would carry the right authority? The strength to maintain order?’

  Fanny thought of her grandmother, who had kept order during their migration, without anybody even realising she was doing it. ‘A man, though, Carrie. Could we trust him?’ Try as she might, she could not envisage such a character.

  ‘We have been reckless,’ said Carola again. ‘We have learned a good lesson tonight.’

  ‘I am grateful to you for heeding my fears. Your men, I presume, were well-behaved?’

  ‘The first had his difficulties. I lacked the skill to assist him. But patience was rewarded and all was to his satisfaction in the end, I believe.’ She did not meet Fanny’s eye as she spoke, the language of the bedchamber no easier than before. ‘The second was closer to my expectations. Fast and friendly. A simple soul.’

  ‘The same as Tom, then. And my first was very quick. I fancy we will come to prefer the quick ones.’

  ‘We have such a deal to learn,’ sighed Carola. ‘And the first lesson is how great a variety of men there are in the world.’

  ‘Lock up now,’ begged Fanny. ‘I cannot endure any more tonight.’

  Carola closed the door without demur, but sighed as she did so.

  Next morning, Fanny was less sore than she’d feared, and more rested. Her sleep had been deep and dreamless and her bed untainted. A foot away, Carola lay softly breathing, a steadfast friend and colleague who would steer their little boat through choppy waters. There was nothing, in truth, to fear. The man with his vile threats had been crazy, deliberately scaring her for his own twisted pleasure. There was no cause for concern.

  They roused themselves slowly, making coffee and throwing open the windows. Outside the leaves were turning, and a breeze from the north brought hints of approaching winter. Chemeketa nestled between two ranges of mountains, on the banks of a gentle river – a perfect spot for a new settlement. Waves of migrants created fresh streets every few months. Churches, newspaper and government offices rose up beside stores, stables and homes. All around the land was being tamed and cleared, with cattle and horses proliferating. Giant redwood trees stood like sentinels on the edges of the growing town. Fruit trees had been planted all along the valley – apples, pears and plums. The Indians who had given the place its name – a name which meant ‘meeting place’ – were seldom in evidence, except for a few wives to settlers who had arrived before the wagon trains that brought families and even some single women. These women were regarded with disdain for the most part, even those few who had accepted their fate with comparative satisfaction, behaving towards their husbands with affection as well as deference.

  There were, however, Indians and half-breeds in considerable numbers in the shadowy region beyond the town limits, bringing furs and meat now and then, in hesitant twos and threes, eyes downcast. The white settlers dealt with them impatiently, awareness of the injustice of the situation making them variously angry, defensive, guilty, self-righteous. The missionaries spoke of the savagery of the Indian way of life and the imperative of educating them into civilised behaviour. The town’s businessmen muttered between themselves that they only true solution to the situation was to shift the redskins to remoter spots, where they could offer no threat.

  ‘We should go out,’ said Fanny. ‘A long walk to clear our heads.’

  Carola chewed her lip for a moment, before nodding. ‘We ought not to hide ourselves away,’ she said, as if trying to convince herself of something.

  They dressed modestly, hoping to mingle unnoticed with other townsfolk. But they both knew this was unlikely. There were homes in the town, some of them with families in them – but almost all the men in possession of wives and daughters lived out on the homesteads with them. Women were always a minority on the sidewalks, and those who were to be seen had mostly come to town for provisions in their traps and spent no unnecessary time there. Two apparently idle young women with no mud on their skirts and no straw in their hair were highly conspicuous anomalies. It was as if an instinct told respectable wives and daughters precisely what these women did, and what a danger they presented thereby.

  Hostile glances came their way and by silent agreement they turned their steps alongside the river. A path had been cut out leading to a small graveyard, and thence to a gentle hill with seats set out for the purpose of admiring the views all around. It was an attempt by someone only a year or so earlier to recreate the public parks in the eastern cities. Such a simple piece of civilised behaviour endeared itself to Fanny. It made her feel cleansed, even forgiven, by whatever spirit might be watching her from beyond the bright wide sky. Out here she was just another young woman making her way in a new land. But there was also a strong thread of defiance in operation. She was not harming anyone, after all. Something of her early ambitions returned to her – bringing relief and pleasure to lonely men, pioneers who were following their own way for a host of different reasons. They deserved some female company, and surely it was not sinful to provide it for them.

  She said nothing of this to Carola, knowing these ideals were as fragile as soap bubbles, already bursting into nothingness after one single evening. Her own intentions were immaterial to the men she would serve. They cared nothing for her reasons. A few might thank her, but by reason of the payment they made they would never see her as an equally worthwhile individual to themselves. By taking their money she became a commodity herself. Already, this was dimly apparent to her. Already she understood that something crucial was about to be lost.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ asked Carola after a prolonged silence.

  ‘Oh – nothing,’ came the reply, too quickly.

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘It’s not easy to render into words. My head is a great jumble. Everything is rushing so fast. It’s like being on a mudslide, tumbling down to the water and quite unable to stop.’

  ‘You have been on a mudslide, then?’

  Fanny laughed. ‘I have come close a few times.’

  ‘So have we all. But Fan – we might just as easily be on a ladder to fortune, if we keep our heads. Besides, it’s too late to turn back now.’

  ‘Just as if we were on a mudslide,’ persisted Fanny darkly. ‘On a ladder, it’s possible to get back to the ground without mishap.’

  ‘Keep your eyes to the front,’ Carola instructed. ‘Imagine we’re soldiers, marching forth to greatness.’

  ‘I will,’ vowed Fanny, suppressing the tremor of dread as to what that evening might bring.

  They made no haste to leave the balmy spot. Carola had brought a basket containing apples and bread for their nooning, along with a bottle of beer. She laid the meagre fare on the grass and invited Fanny to partake. ‘We must call into the store on the way back and buy some cooked meat,’ she said. ‘I have a great craving for meat.’

  Fanny’s gaze was on the mountains to the east, which she had not revisited since crossing them with her family and all the others on the wagon train. In fact, she was no longer certain of the way they had come, and would have found it impossible to retrace their steps. She had heard it said
that no woman made the journey twice, in any case. If she persisted in returning to Providence or Boston, she would go by ship, down to the Cape and up the endless coast on the other side. She had seen it on the maps and quailed at the distance. It would take months, and be almost as hazardous as the migration had been – more, perhaps. ‘We have little choice but to remain here and make what we can of our lives,’ she sighed.

  ‘I for one have no reason to complain,’ said Carola. ‘It was my own decision. I had to plead with my brothers to bring me with them. I cannot pretend to be disappointed. Dear Fanny, I so wish you to look to the brighter side of things. The die is cast and we will win or lose by our own efforts.’

  ‘I know that’s true. But I cannot quite see what winning or losing might involve, precisely. My vision has dimmed for the moment.’

  But then a figure came before her eyes that seemed to deliberately confound her words. Long legs, a rough brown coat and a great grinning head obscured the mountains, looming at her as she sat back on the grass, almost prone. ‘Oh!’ she squealed.

  Carola had shrunk away, eyes bulging. ‘Keep still!’ she hissed. ‘It’s a wolf!’

  ‘It is not,’ laughed Fanny, and put out a friendly hand. ‘Hello, boy. What brings you here?’

  ‘Fanny! Have you lost your senses?’

  ‘This is exactly like a dog we had in our party – Melchior was his name. It could even be his son, the likeness is so great. But this lad is larger by half a foot. Far larger than a wolf, I would guess.’ She fondled the coarse neck fur and then offered the animal a nugget of bread. Recalling an accident to her small sister’s hand when just such an offering was made, she took care to toss the morsel the final few inches. The great mouth opened and snapped shut and the bread was gone. The broad tail wagged slowly.