“Have you said grace yet, sirs?”
Eugene, his mouth stuffed full, mumbles they have not.
George presses his palms together. “May I? Is it all right with you, Doc? You, Mr. Langstrom?”
The Swede shrugs. Eugene nods. He likes that George and some others call him Doc out of respect for his learning and gentleman-like ways. Professor would be preferable, mind, but when was Eugene Augustus Hume one to quibble?
George squeezes shut his eyes. Eugene and Langstrom put down their forks. “And God bless my mother and sisters, and my father who’s in heaven and the cows and make it rain enough for them so as there’s hay in Ontario and please, Lord, find cousin Adair a good husband. Oh, and God bless Mr. Hume for all his kindness and good advice, and keep Mrs. Hume safe for when he returns. And God bless Mr. Langstrom too. . . . Wait, sirs, there’s more.”
Eugene puts down his fork again, says as jovially as he can: “I am sure there is, George, vast multitudes to bless. The food, however, is growing cold.”
“And God bless the Queen and all her children and help her in her sorrow for her husband, amen,” George says in a rush and then smiles.
“Amen,” Eugene says.
“Amen,” Langstrom echoes and touches the rough green stone about his neck.
“Are you prepared for this evening, Young George? I sense luck once again in the air, good clean luck.”
“Gosh, Doc, I dunno if it’s a good idea is all.”
“The Lieutenant is away, not to worry.”
“It isn’t that so much. It’s the gambling. I promised mother I wouldn’t is all. She says that gambling is a terrible sin.”
“A sin? Come now. You need not gamble yourself. Merely ring the bell. We can win money this evening as we did last week. Money we will need for our claim. Do it for us, lad.”
“All right, then, all right,” he says and smiles bravely. Eugene claps him on the shoulder, feels an avuncular affection for the young man, a comrade-in-arms friendship for Langstrom. They are all partners now. Have sworn on George’s Bible to pool their capital and buy a paying claim. Eugene has great confidence in their success. Langstrom appears to have some expertise in mining, certainly he keeps gesturing knowledgeably at the ground. George has a strong back and is a good hand at the carpentry. Eugene has the best suggestions for a name. The Golden Bough or the Dora Dear is what he favours now. Ah, dear George, good Langstrom. If not for them, Eugene would have tossed aside his axe and barrow the same day he began. The money is hardly worth the while. Only the promise of a partnership has kept him here, the information that good claims can still be found for men willing to seek them.
Full dark and insects halo the lamps hung from cross poles. Perhaps fifteen men jostle for position in their tent. Their shadows, thrown up against the canvas, meld into one writhing form. A bottle of whiskey is being passed round. Eugene takes a drink. And then another. Whiskey is not as despicable as once he thought. In any case, he is not one to put on airs, to refuse the offers of honest men.
A droplet falls on Eugene’s neck, and then another. He does not look up for a spitter, for someone sweating more profusely than most in the fuggy air, the challenge before him is too important. The four contestants—Langstrom, Eugene, a bandy-legged Philadelphian, a thin-faced Mexican—crouch at the ready. Before each is a tin plate bisected with chalk lines. It is their fifth round of the evening. Langstrom’s Gustavus has won once, Eugene’s Lilith twice.
“Lilith! Lilith! Lightning Lilith,” Eugene sings out. “Win this race and you’ll win my heart. I’ll write you an ode. I’ll sing your praises to the Gods.”
An enormous Irishman holds aloft a kettle that is stuffed with bills, ajangle with coins. “Place your bet, lads, place ’em, place ’em!”
The shouting comes from all corners.
“Three on Doc Hume’s Lilith!”
“She’s got nothing on the Swede’s what-ya-call-it. Three dollars says the Swede wins.”
“Six shillings on the Señor’s Migro.”
“Milagro!” the Mexican shouts.
“Don’t matter the name, it won’t live fucking long enough to be remembered!”
“Over here, Paddy, we’re betting two dollars on Mr. Washington.”
“He damn well deserves more than that!” the Philadelphian shouts.
“Doc, how you know she female!”
“Because my darling, beautiful Lilith does as she’s told!” This draws a gust of laughter from the men, a doubtful glance from George. Ah, so at least two of them understand the jest. For Lilith, the first wife of Adam, was transformed into a succubus when she abandoned her husband. Lilith was a fitting name for a louse then, though not, of course, for an obedient woman.
“Smith! What you betting? Place ’em! Place ’em!” the Irishman shouts.
“Saving my bloody bets for a bloody craps table in Camerontown! Lice racing, hah. You’re desperate, the bloody lot of ya!”
“Count on the English to be miserly! Last call! Last call!”
Money shifts hands. The Irishman dashes out chits. George rings the bell. Langstrom’s louse Gustavus immediately crawls over the lip of the plate. Langstrom slaps his forehead in a parody of despair. Grinds his louse into the dirt with the heel of his hand. Roars with laughter.
Howls. Shouts of disappointment. Men elbow each other for a view. The Mexican seems to be praying as his louse Milagro steadies on. The Philadelphian’s Mr. Washington is nearly to the dividing line. Stops, turns. The Philadelphian pounds his fists on either side of the plate, yells: “Get a move on! Stay the course, damn you. No turning and running like a yellow coward!”
Mr. Washington stops completely. The Philadelphian tips the plate.
“You! Out! Illegal that is!” shouts the Irishman.
The Philadelphian throws up his hands.
Here is a scene that would give even a Londoner pause. What are rat pits and cockfights compared to this? What a colourful interlude for Eugene’s guidebook! What a. . . . “Lilith! Lilith, my love.”
She trundles over the dividing line of the plate, a louse breadth before the Mexican’s. Men huzzah, wave bottles over their heads and punch the air. Even George is grinning now.
Eugene gives a champion’s salute, takes a champion’s drink from the proffered bottle.
The Irishman is doling out the winnings. Arguments erupt, subside. Eugene knows there will be no fights, no grudges. The mood is too jocular, the losses too minor, and the event too ludicrous. It was his most excellent idea to set the maximum bet at three dollars each, to make it merely a lark, merely a way to pass the time. Still, he has made near two weeks’ wages in one fell swoop. Let Lilith return to where he found her, nestled snug in his beard with all her sisters. Let her feast to her heart’s content. Christ and all his saints! Is he now so uncouth? Ah, well. When in Rome. When in Rome.
“Mr. Hume!”
The tent falls silent. Men shuffle behind each other. Look about as if they have lost something. Their senses perhaps.
“Lieutenant. Lieutenant. Quite so. You have returned. You are here. Ah. Well.”
Lieutenant Olsen speaks through gritted teeth, through thick moustaches. “Yes, I am here. Most certainly here. You there, pick up those plates. And you, Mr. Hume, step outside with me, sir.” He turns smoothly on his heel, back ramrod straight, as if he is nailed to a door.
The men mutter in sympathy as Eugene slowly follows. The tents are clustered in a swale near a small lake. Fires flag out thick smoke from green wood to keep the mosquitoes at bay.
The Lieutenant waits by a skid some twenty paces off. He seems a tin soldier in the moonlight, his regimentals drained of their scarlet and gold. The sight heartens Eugene. He strides forward, gathering his thoughts, putting his limbs into some kind of harmony with each other. He has imbibed too liberally. It happens at times. No matter, he must merely consider himself alike to an automaton with ingenious hinges and wooden limbs that must be lifted just so for effect.
“How was the expe . . . expedition, Lieutenant? Is the trail well-blazed? I met one of your number at the great canyon several weeks ago. Did I mention this? Ah, but we had a splendid chat. A fine job you gentlemen do, a fine job. I was in the Crimea you know. Sevastopol. And I can tell you, most certainly, that her Majesty . . . Majesty . . . would be . . .”
“Proud? I think not. Not with such as you reeling drunk and inciting gambling in the camp when I clearly stated that such things were forbidden.”
“Sir, I would scarcely call it gambling. There were no cards, no . . . no roulette wheels, no dice. It was small wagers only. It was mere entertainment after a hard day’s toil.” He throws a sweeping gesture toward his tent, to the men outside of it, their stances those of eavesdroppers. “Have pity on the men. Punish me if you must. But have pity . . .”
“Oh, for God’s sake, man, shut it. It is hardly as if I can send you swinging from the gallows, much as that would appeal.”
“Ah, quite so.”
Lieutenant Olson sighs in exasperation.
Poor man! Such an amorphous authority. Not that it was a foil, what Eugene just implied about sacrifice. For he would. Yes. He would, in a heartbeat, sacrifice himself for these admirable men of all nations and creeds, and they for him. They would protest mightily if he were sent packing, the Lieutenant must realize this. They would refuse to work until he was reinstated. His name would become a rallying cry. And surely the Lieutenant will consider that he is as strong as two men, or at least a man and a half. And educated enough to give advice on the positioning of the blazes, the possible trajectory for the road. Will consider that there are barely enough men, Chinamen and Indians included, to finish the road in the required time. The Lieutenant cannot afford to lose even one man; thus, he must walk a tightrope between appeasement and command, and must do so while retaining his honour. Well, by God, Eugene Augustus Hume will not force him into a corner.
“I believe we are cut of the same cloth, sir. My great third cousin is an earl, you see, and my father a knight and they . . .”
“Your father may well be the King of Spain for all it matters here.”
“Ah, but.”
“And we are not cut of the same cloth. My father was a barber, so do not attempt to ingratiate yourself with me, sir.”
“Ah, quite so, the man has no gentility.”
“Speak louder if you have something to say. You sound like a tinker in his cups.”
“I was saying . . . saying . . . that you are at least a man of sensibility. I have seen you in the evenings, silhouetted on a promontory, paying homage on bended knee to the vista below you, the great swath of stars above you.”
“Paying homage!” the Lieutenant shouts. “I am gauging our latitude and longitude by the stars so I may make a map that will stand for generations to come. I am not composing pointless odes like some consumptive poet!”
“Quite so, but . . .”
“Gambling and drinking! Merrily in hand they go. And then what happens to the calibre of the work for which I am responsible? It becomes shoddy. And what happens to the men? They become fools. They leave blasting powder too close to the fire. They blast Old John sky high. Do you follow, Mr. Hume?”
“Old John?”
“And now I am without a foreman for the Chinese crew. Fools and shoddy work. Merrily in hand they go.”
“Sir, you have my word of honour that it will not happen again, but to explain. It is just that I won. It is just that I cannot stop winning.”
The Lieutenant sighs, says quietly now: “Everyone stops winning sooner or later, I assure you.”
“Quite so, quite so, but fortune is smiling at me. Her lovely arms open. Never mind that I have been fleeced by innkeepers, by ferrymen that could be kin to Charon, that I have been robbed by bandits, have fought against ferocious beasts, have toiled on this road like an Antipodean felon. I, Eugene Augustus Hume, am a lucky man.”
“I assure you, there is no such thing as luck. You won. The others lost. As such one man’s luck is always another man’s despair. Where was Mr. Sang’s luck?”
“Whose?”
“My Chinese foreman, Old John. Have you not been listening?”
“Perhaps their luck is not useful here?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It is a false equation to think that luck can be owed or used as money is, or favours for that matter. Luck is not stored. It is not parcelled out. Luck is a random ordering. A matter of ratios. Never have I encountered so many gamblers as here, men who believe in ridiculous amulets, who believe in a destiny they need only step into as if it were a pair of boots. Toil and restraint, such are the key to one’s success. Not luck. Not at all.”
“Listen, I beg you. I, too, am a man of reason. I, too, have more than a passing acquaintance with rational thought. But the evidence is accumulating that I am . . . well? What should it be called? I am lucky. Yes. There is no other name for it.”
Eugene speaks of the aura some have seen about him, like a bluish halo. Of his certainty that a grand destiny is in store for him. It is why the others consider him a kind of a talisman, why they wish to gamble when he is about. Eugene’s voice rises as he speaks, becomes insistent. Even he can hear it in a sort of whine. Even he has trouble believing himself.
“My friend Judge Begbie claimed he had never met a man whose destiny was so evident. He said . . .”
“Enough of this. You are rambling like a madman. This is your second infraction. You will be deducted three days’ pay. See my clerk in the morning about the rest and then be gone.”
“My second infraction? What . . .”
“The strike. You were the instigator there as well.”
“I . . . I did not suggest it. I am being wrongly accused. It was the Americans. The Dutchman. Some others. I forget.”
“We cannot afford strikes. The road must be built.”
“But we relented after only one day.”
“Why should the Chinese and the Indians receive less than you? What matter is it of yours? They work harder than the lot of you and without all the drinking and gambling and carrying on and complaining. If I had my druthers they’d be out-waging you.”
“I did not say their wages should be lowered. I merely voted, along with the others, the many others, that we, the white crews, should receive more. And in hindsight, in hindsight, I agree with you entirely. Allow me to quote my great friend, the High Judge Begbie: “The yellow man and the red are all the same under British law and . . .”
“You admit it then. You were involved.”
“No, I merely went along. Please, consider that if you send me packing you must send us all.”
“You rate yourself too highly. Not a man will protest your departure. You will stand as an example. Good evening, Mr. Hume.”
Eugene watches the Lieutenant stride off. Calls out: “Fine, good, splendid. I hardly care. Hardly. Do not expect charity from me, however, once I have struck the lead, as they say. Once I am rich, indeed.”
The Lieutenant gives no sign that he has heard him. Eugene stands alone. The other men have lost interest in the spectacle and have drifted back to their tents, many no doubt thinking of the proximity of the dawn when the taste of road dust will overlay that of stale whiskey and bad dreams. Eugene should be angry, furious. A scapegoat, that is what he is, nothing more. But instead he feels an even greater certainty of his coming fortune. It is as if it is all going to plan.
≈ ≈ ≈
It is a night full of shadows and quicksilver light, a night that can trick the mind and the eyes. Still, something, someone, shifts in the thickets.
“Who’s there?” He parts the brambles. A small, furred creature rushes past his legs. Night hare? Fox? Goblin? Eugene yelps and falls onto his back. The earth shifts like a raft on a gentle sea. A warm wind is scattering the mosquitoes. The swath of the Milky Way arches over him. So this Olsen sees no poetry in the firmament, only latitudes and longitudes, only angles and degrees. A pity for him. Likely he also doe
s not notice the crickets that sound like the mutter snores of night itself, nor that haunting fluty call of some nocturnal bird. Likely he never bore affection for woman or beast. Ah, faithful Ariadne, waiting hobbled in the fields. Everyday he slathers her with mud as protection against the insect hordes. When it dries she seems to be in the process of hatching. At least the grass is good, as least she is growing plumper by the day. Dear girl!
A mosquito has burrowed under his collar. He lets it suck its fill. Where is Lilith? He has forgotten Lilith. Ah, but not Dora. Not Dora.
“Doc. There you are. Gosh, you all right?”
“What? Dora?”
“It’s George.”
“Wife? Hah. He think wife.”
“Who are you? What?”
“It’s your friends, is all. I’m George. Here’s Langstrom.”
They haul Eugene to his feet.
“Ah, the Good Swede, the Saintly Young George. I have failed. I must be on my way come the morrow. You will join me? Will you?”
George clears his throat. “We would, ’course. I would, anyway. But our contracts. We won’t get our pay, is all. None of it. And Mr. Langstrom and me, well, we’ve been working near a month.”
“Of course, of course. Do not fear, I will find us a claim. We will be rich. I can sense it as surely as I sensed that Lilith would win. Did I not say Lilith would win?”
“You did,” George says.
“Ya, win,” Langstrom says.
“Say a prayer for me, will you, Young George? There’s a fine chap. I need a prayer.”
“Easy now, Doc. Easy. Let’s get you on to bed for some shut-eye.”
≈ ≈ ≈
The black powder explodes and Old John hurtles upward and stays balanced in the crux of a gigantic tree. On a nearby branch brocaded ladies dangle their jewelled shoes over the abyss and clap as if witnessing a feat of acrobatics. Old John has wispy grey moustaches and wrinkles about his panicked eyes. He waves his bloodless stumps and voicelessly screams. Eugene can see clear down his throat, clear to the green sea churning in his gut and a square-sailed ship careening there, can see clear to the man’s childhood in a misty village adorned with pagodas and white flags. The Lieutenant is there, dressed in silken robes. He is berating Eugene. “Your fault. You fool. Shoddy work and fools. Merrily they go. Merrily down the lane.” Dora stands beside Olsen. She is coyly smiling and holds her breasts in her hands the way a baker might hold out two round loaves of bread. “Do you want them, or not, Eggy? There are others waiting. Make up your mind.” Eugene cannot breath. Cannot move. Why is so much asked of him? He is only a man, only a man.
Reckoning of Boston Jim Page 20
