The Spoils of Sin

by Rebecca Tope

  Fanny was impressed. ‘You are perfectly correct,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Or perhaps I am simply too timid to make such an uncertain change,’ shrugged Carola. ‘I have my little luxuries about me, and I am hopeful of sustained business in the years to come.’

  Years to come rang uncomfortably in Fanny’s ears. Even with due attention to cleanliness and the requisites for robust health, she shied away from any considerations regarding the future. The work was relentless, the responses already automatic for the most part. Always, the words of the man on that first night returned to her – the certainty that one day she would be attacked and damaged by a man of unsound mind lurked just below the surface. Hugo, her stalwart protector, might not always have the speed or the strength to protect her.

  They left at sunrise on the twenty-seventh of March, with warm hugs and promises to return in the fall, when there would be apples to gather and beef to be salted and a new niece or nephew to be welcomed. The horse was reluctant to have the traces put on again, after so long a respite, but resignation soon overcame him and he drew the cart away towards the Chemeketa road with a fair grace.

  Hugo loped alongside, tongue lolling from his mouth and tail describing circles in the air.

  Carola was hopeful that they might make the entire journey by nightfall, obviating the need for a strange bed. ‘Fifty miles!’ Fanny objected. ‘The horse cannot do it.’

  ‘He might. The road is easy, and he is well rested. And we have the moon to guide us, God willing, if the clouds stay away. We might continue an hour or two in darkness, in that case.’

  Fanny shivered. Travelling by night would be a frightening experience. Who knew what miscreants might lurk in wait for them? ‘Fifty miles,’ she said again. ‘On the Trail we never managed half so much in a single day.’

  ‘You had plodding oxen and well-loaded wagons on rough-hewn tracks. It does not bear comparison.’

  But there were stretches of Oregon road where the mud was deep and the horse soon mired to his knees. The girls climbed down, and with skirts bunched up, did their best to hasten the cart along. By noon they had covered perhaps a dozen miles at most. ‘If we achieve thirty miles, I shall be surprised,’ said Fanny. ‘We must make the best of it.’

  The weather was clear, with a winter sun casting deep shadows beneath the trees they passed. The horse was given a half-hour for grazing and taking a brief drink from a puddle of water. Hugo chased a raccoon and came within a whisker of catching it. Fanny walked a short distance amongst the trees and found green spears of new growth under her feet. Fiddleheads, unfamiliar buds and shoots, small white blooms all took her fancy and sent her dreaming. What matter if they reached town one day or the next – it was a beautiful world and the exploration of it was a pleasure.

  Carola, however, had a darker attitude. ‘We shall be within fifteen miles or so of Chemeketa by nightfall. That leads to a difficulty, which you do not appear to have considered. We are known, Fan. There will be ideas about us that we might not like. Remember the head reading man and what we believed him to be intending? We were wrong, I admit, but not so very wrong at that. They were five-and-twenty miles from our boudoir and still they knew of us. I cannot contemplate it. Forgive me, but there it is. We will be judged, abused, condemned – the generality do not like what we do. Why did we sustain the secrecy with your family otherwise?’

  ‘Then what? Whip up the horse until he drops down dead? Or sleep in the open air, with a frost as likely as not?’

  ‘The horse won’t drop dead. If we keep a steady pace, I believe we might still accomplish the whole distance. I estimate we have covered over a quarter, and there should be no more stretches of quagmire.’

  Fanny looked around her. To the right were hills, but ahead and to the left the land swept smoothly towards the Willamette Valley and lower ground. Traffic passed in sufficient quantity to have formed a well-packed road, with none of the bumps and ruts she recalled from the Trail. Homesteaders living alongside the road took it upon themselves to maintain it, both for their own benefit and that of passing travellers. It was not so very different from the thoroughfares back in Rhode Island. Commerce was established already between Oregon City, Chemeketa and Portland, necessitating the reliable transport of goods and passengers by road. New and adventurous as it has seemed when they set out on their journey, she had to admit that it was in fact quite normal to travel from place to place for a whole host of purposes.

  As she chewed her lip and mulled over Carola’s words, she observed a group of men of horseback, approaching from the north. Her instinctive reaction was that this added weight to her side of the argument. If there were riders like this abroad, did this not render two unescorted females entirely too vulnerable to contemplate spending a night on the open? Even if the horse could be persuaded to keep plodding onwards, they could easily be caught and molested by a group of two or three men.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ she said. ‘We have mismanaged ourselves. You were perfectly right.’

  But Carola had somehow revised her opinion and was clearly much less concerned. ‘See those men,’ she tilted her chin at the horsemen. ‘And look – there are more following.’ She pointed at a second group, appearing over a gentle rise in the road. ‘Something is afoot.’

  She clicked her tongue at the horse, and shook the reins. ‘We must ask them for news.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We have been without any word from town for two weeks and more. Are you not curious?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Fanny was examining the travellers and counting them. Six in the first group and five in the next. Young men, with bulging saddlebags and thick blankets rolled up behind them, lashed across their horses’ withers. Chattering and laughing as they rode, they ignored the girls in their trap. ‘They’ll be off to the goldfields,’ she realised.

  ‘But where have they come from?’ Carola wondered.

  Hugo settled the matter for them, by cantering up to the first group and wagging a friendly tail at them. One horse shied nervously at the sight of him. The rider tightened the rein and shouted at the dog to go.

  ‘He means no harm,’ called Carola. ‘He likes to meet new friends.’

  Another man laughed at this, and everything suddenly felt warm and sociable to Fanny. The men were all in such high spirits, so young and excited, that it was folly to fear them.

  ‘Where are you headed?’ Carola asked, as they approached to easy speaking distance.

  ‘California – where else?’ came a reply from a dark-haired youth. ‘There are migrants in their thousands setting out, families and foreigners already on their way. In another month or so they’ll be here. We are making sure we stay ahead of them.’

  ‘Are you Oregon men, then?’

  ‘No, indeedy, Miss. We have come from the Canadian Rockies.’

  ‘And other places too,’ supplied another. ‘I had just left ship in Vancouver when the gold stories came in. There is talk of nothing else, everywhere we pass. Every darn prospector is certain to make himself two thousand dollars in gold, if he gets himself into the vanguard. There are ships sailing up from Chile, loaded with men hungry for riches. The whole world has gone mad – but we are well placed to be amongst the first.’

  ‘Good luck to you, then,’ said Carola. ‘Be sure to return to Oregon County when your pockets are full. There’s a good life to be had in Chemeketa, for men of means. We will expect to see you there, in a few months’ time.’

  ‘That is a date, my lady!’ the man agreed with a cheerful grin.

  Joining the modest procession with the horse and trap, Fanny was suddenly back on the Trail, in the wagon train containing close to a thousand people. She was almost moved to dismount and walk alongside the trap with the dog, as they had done three years earlier. The strong sense of comradeship and shared purpose brought her a lift in her spirits. ‘We will be safe now,’ she sighed.

  Carola raised her brows. ‘You feel in danger when there is no soul in sig
ht, yet safe in a crowd of young men?’

  Fanny laughed. ‘That’s the truth of it. Mock me if you will, but amongst a group such as this, there will be a code of behaviour as powerfully protective as a thick stone wall would be. Perhaps it is hard for you to understand, but trust me, it is so.’

  The night was spent on a level stretch of grassland close by the Willamette river. The girls wrapped themselves in as many layers of clothes and covers as they could find, and placed Hugo warmly between them. The ground was hard and not entirely dry, but when the sun rose they were still both fast asleep, peaceful and unworried.

  As morning progressed, the men saddled up and cleaned out their coffee cans. Fires were extinguished and plans discussed. Fanny and Carola, with a score or less easy miles to go, were slow to rouse. Carola’s dark-headed friend approached, doffing his hat in a gesture that appeared to be entirely natural. ‘I bid you adieu, ladies. God speed you home.’

  ‘And may good fortune be with you,’ Carola replied. ‘I almost envy you the adventure.’

  The young man’s name was Nicholas, he had told them during a brief assembly around the fire before settling down to sleep. ‘My father is Bavarian,’ he revealed. ‘It is a common name in those parts.’

  Neither girl confessed to her ignorance of Bavaria, and its place on the map. Fanny had offered, ‘I have heard the name Nicholai, which I believe to be Russian.’

  ‘Well, we are all Americans now,’ he had said carelessly.

  He hung back, waving his hat at Carola, as his companions trotted away on the road south.

  ‘You have made a conquest,’ Fanny observed. ‘What will you do when he returns with a fortune in gold?’

  ‘Marry him, of course,’ said Carola. It took Fanny some moments to understand that this was merely a jest.

  Chapter Eleven

  Chemeketa was changed in quite other ways from those expected. The main street was thronged with groups of men who were strangers in town, intent on acquiring necessities for the trek southwards from the stores. Rumours were rife that there were no more picks or shovels or buckets or even boots to be had in the ever-expanding goldfields. Would-be prospectors should equip themselves in advance, so the story went – otherwise they would be grubbing in the dirt with bare hands, with no hope of success.

  ‘Can it be true?’ Fanny wondered. ‘The men we met with on the road had no hardware hanging from their pommels.’

  ‘Who can say?’ Carola was staring around, deep in thought. ‘This is a great business,’ she said. ‘I had not given it due credence until now. It is as if an ants’ nest were broken open and all the little creatures scurrying here and there with such great purpose to save their valuables. Have you ever watched them? They collect up their eggs and their food stores, each with his own task, so that the appearance of chaos is entirely deceptive?’

  ‘You believe there to be clear purpose here?’ Fanny was sceptical. ‘To me it seems more like a sort of madness. A brain fever, which can not end well for the most part.’

  ‘I am withholding judgement,’ said Carola. ‘We will know the rights of it by the end of this summer, I should estimate.’

  ‘Yet it makes you restless,’ Fanny observed. ‘You would like, after all, to go along to see for yourself. Have you changed your opinion since yesterday, then?’

  ‘I would go in a minute, if I were a man. As a woman, the choices are far too limited to be considered seriously. But I have changed to this degree – I believe we are living in a place which will see immense changes in the shortest time. When the men of Oregon return, as they must, many of them will have the means to build the most handsome of cities and indulge every whim. It will be for the women to ensure that they behave wisely.’ Her eyes were sparkling. ‘I shall stand firm here, Fanny, and await my own good fortune.’

  ‘And I stand with you. I intend to reap whatever benefit might accrue from your bump of acquisitiveness as well as your firmness. But for tonight, we must set the range going and get busy with our dusters. It will be cold and grimy in our little house, after all this time.’

  Hugo enjoyed a fine meal of scraggy ends, added as a free bonus to the purchases made from the newly-established butcher. An Irishman, he had caught the hints of the accent that Fanny had acquired from her parents and grandmother, and taken her under his wing. ‘Have ye been away, then?’ he asked her.

  ‘Nearly three weeks visiting my kinsfolk,’ she told him. ‘And scarcely a word of news. There are changes,’ she concluded, looking onto the street where there was more movement and confusion than she had ever seen.

  ‘The gold,’ he nodded. ‘The papers talk of nothing else. There are preachers and politicians doing their best to caution against greed and madness, but they go unheeded.’ He looked into her face with a smile. ‘Strikes me that you and I each have fine prospects ahead. Men will always want good meat – and soft words and touches.’ Fanny’s quick mind had made the link even before his words were out. Carola and I are meat of another sort, she thought ruefully. The butcher had changed what he had been about to say, out of consideration and friendship.

  ‘We shall see,’ was all she said. A small sigh escaped her. In her mind was an image of waiting lines of impatient men, running up the stairs to the bedrooms, pushing and panting and spilling, on and on, with no pleasure in it for the girls – just money and sticky sponges and always a nagging sense of wrongness. This sense never entirely went away, she was discovering. If anything, it was increasing in prominence. It was not the right way to live. What was the word that Jeremy man had used? Amativeness. Her true nature was to enjoy physical love, to be affectionate and desirable and even inventive at times. There had been evenings where only one or two men arrived, and there was time to be slow and sensuous, to teach a young man something about his bodily sensations, and to permit her own to awaken for a little time, as well. Afterwards, there were mixed feelings. It would be foolish to expect such pleasurable moments to be frequent. The existence of a few regulars brought consolation of a sort, since it was possible to alter and refine their couplings over a number of visits. But to allow affection to develop, or even to anticipate future encounters, was to become too deeply engaged. There was no choice or control available. They had to take what came: old, young, fat, sweaty, desperate, deformed, deranged. The majority had no notion of the woman’s state of mind. To them she was literally nothing more than a length of warm flesh. However hard she and Carola might strive to offer additional elements of female company, with the colours and scents and music of the boudoir, it was only a few men who consciously enjoyed these touches.

  But the anticipation of men with pockets full of gold returning from California with the future ahead of them did set her heart beating faster, if only for the strangeness of it. How men would spend their wealth remained unknown. There would surely be some jewels and fine clothes to be gained by it, if nothing else.

  They devoted two full days to cleaning and refreshing the house, building stocks of bourbon, candles, sweet cookies and dried fruit. On the second day, at nightfall, there was a knock on the door. They opened it to find Mr Canelli the barber standing on the threshold, smiling his habitual Italian grin. ‘Home once more,’ he announced. ‘You were missed, my dear young ladies. When does business resume, may I ask?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Carola. ‘Is it true that we were missed? There seems to be little evidence of it. You are the first to enquire as to when we might be receiving gentlemen again.’

  ‘They are suffering badly from gold fever. Their thoughts are all on the yellow metal that sits so heavily in the hand, and how it will transform their lives. If one tenth of their ambition come to be realised, your services will be in very great demand.’

  ‘So we are told,’ said Carola. ‘While in the meantime, we are like to go hungry.’

  The barber raised his shoulders in helpless agreement. ‘The world has lost its wits. Who can say where it will take us next?’

  ‘And yet you say we were missed
?’ Fanny reminded him. ‘Who exactly missed us?’

  ‘The man who calls himself Charlie, for one. It would seem he had no warning of your departure, and took it rather personally. It surprises me that he has not been banging on your door before now.’

  The girls exchanged a look. They had deliberately not publicised their holiday, for fear of objections and complications. The door had been firmly locked, the drapes left closed, and customers abandoned to make the best of it. Fanny had briefly worried that they might be forced to start all over again when they came back, but it had not been enough to make her rethink the trip. ‘We could leave a sign, saying BACK IN APRIL,’ Carola had suggested.

  ‘Better not. We might be robbed, if it’s well known that we’re away for weeks.’

  And now they were glad they’d done it as they had. A gradual return to business routines was preferable to a rush and bustle, where tempers might rise and Hugo become mindful of his role.

  Carola took on the tasks of shaking out the rugs and washing the windows, inside and out. Fanny took hot water out to the privy and scrubbed it as thoroughly as she could bear. The pit beneath the seats had been emptied by the wretched old man who took it away in great buckets and sold it for manure. It had been very far from full, but the girls had elected to order frequent attentions from the man. Cleanliness was crucial to them both, fastidiousness increasing as contact with grimy men and their emissions had to be borne. The vinegary sponges in their lidded pot, were slimy and cold. Fanny resolved to acquire a new stock, the next time she went marketing.

  Hugo seemed glad to be home, and devoted a morning to strolling around town renewing acquaintance with dogs, humans and horses. Fanny wondered how he had reacted to the additional traffic in the main street and hoped he would not be kicked by a startled horse.

  The weather turned wet and windy, driving down the slopes of the coastal range to the west and attacking any poorly-fixed sidings or railings. The nights were noisy with bangs and rattles, and the repeated thumps of a large object blowing over. It was, people said, the worst gale they had known since settling in Oregon. Such remarks were common – in a short experience, it was inevitable that there would be the hottest, wettest, windiest moments in plenty. The definition of ‘normal’ was constantly shifting, although consultations with the Indians could be helpful. Many conversations began with a quote, to the effect that ‘Even the Indians say this is unusual.’