The Irishman lowered his head, unable to contemplate the display of abundant decay. "You won't see Irish on this run. They don't do well in warm climes. My mum and dad died in the potato famine of '46. When my wife ran off to Australia with a sergeant in the British army, I sold my pub and sailed for Boston. Worked as a bartender and baker, then got a job on the waterfront. Hated every goddamn minute, but saved enough for the gold fields."
They passed naked children staring at the train with huge empty eyes, then shacks covered with palmetto leaves, and further on, a funeral train stationed on a sidetrack where bodies were being lifted into two black carriages reserved for the dead. As Zebulon looked closer, he saw his own face staring back at him. Or was it Hans, the German merchant from The Rhinelander?
Suddenly there were yells and screams as the carriage swayed, then lurched back and forth and left the track.
"A washout," the conductor shouted, walking calmly through the carriage. "It happens, folks. We'll be up and running in no time."
The passengers stumbled outside to sit on the side of the tracks in front of a roaring torrent of brown water. Some had bruises and broken bones, but no one was seriously hurt. Where the bridge had been, there were now only two abutments of masonry, one on each side of the swollen river. Towards the other side of the river they could make out a spur and several iron girders protruding through whirlpools of thick green slime.
The conductor consulted with the engineer, then walked over to address the passengers. He presented a reassuring presence with his black silver-buttoned uniform and snap-brim cap set over a square face and neatly trimmed mustache.
"There's a settlement down river. We'll cross on canoes, then go the rest of the way on mules. No cause for alarm, folks. We'll be in Panama in a day or two. Maybe three. Once the river goes down, we'll ferry over everyone's supplies and get them to you in Panama. We've never lost anything yet."
The men talked among themselves or tried to comfort their wives, several of whom were openly weeping.
"Everything is under control, folks," the conductor repeated. "It will take ten days for a crew to pull the train back. Only thing to do is go on. Nothing to be alarmed about. A walk through a jungle paradise will do us all good."
Zebulon's entire body began to shake as his eyes lost focus and his brain felt as if it was about to explode. Stumbling towards the river, he sank to his knees and vomited.
He was barely conscious when the conductor and two male passengers lifted him onto an improvised stretcher. They carried him for over a mile until they reached a clearing where five bamboo huts were raised up on stilts over the flooded river. In the middle of the clearing a few Indians were waiting to trade bananas and yams for trinkets.
Zebulon was lifted up a ladder into one of the huts, where an ancient and toothless Indian woman wearing a muslin shift bathed his feverish forehead with a wet cloth, then poured green coconut water into his mouth from a gourd, followed by a bitter paste of root bark mixed with guava, lemon, and green chilies.
"Cholera," he heard a voice say before he passed out. "Or parrot fever. Most likely he'll be dead by morning."
He imagined a seagull soaring over towering waves. Come closer, the waves howled, and then he heard another sound, like a dress being ripped apart, and he thought of Delilah tearing at her heart. Or was it his heart?
"Come, sweet death," he heard her sing as the waves howled again. "Deliver yourself to me."
E LAY ON HIS BACK IN THE MIDDLE OF A DUGOUT CANOE. There was no hawk nor gull above, nor towering waves below, only the sound of the swollen river and then a scream from one of the other canoes as it rammed into a submerged log, throwing two Argonauts and an Indian into the water, their bodies sweeping over the rapids like a trail of wet laundry.
When they finally reached the far shore, several miles downriver from where they had started, Zebulon was wrapped in a strip of canvas and tied to a travois behind a mule. Once inside the jungle he was transferred to a stretcher. When the rotting vegetation became too thick, the Argonauts were forced to hack their way through the undergrowth with knives and machetes. Soon the light grew dimmer and then disappeared altogether. Poisonous plants brushed against the stretcher, dropping leeches and centipedes that left throbbing welts on his face and hands. Once when they stopped to bury someone, he heard a voice praying in an unknown language, and he wondered if the prayers and the grave were meant for him.
They spent the night in a small clearing where he was laid on a mat of cowhide and spoon-fed a thick soup that he immediately threw up. His feet had turned blue, and his fever had continued to rise even though his bones had stiffened and his teeth were clenched and then chattering from chills. Bats swooped overhead, feeding off insects half as large as his hand. Tree frogs croaked, and somewhere a jaguar screamed. In his delirium the jaguar's scream sounded as if it came from inside him.
He lost all sense of time, aware only that he was still being carried on a stretcher and that somehow the jungle was receding. Towards evening they reached the crest of a hill where a soft wind was stirring through clumps of bunchgrass. Around him Argonauts began to weep and offer prayers of gratitude.
The conductor propped him up. "Take a look. From sea to shining sea."
White clouds swept across a deep green valley. Further on, beyond a range of rolling green hills, he could see the Pacific. In the opposite direction, the Caribbean was visible over a thick roof of steaming jungle.
As Zebulon stood up, spreading his arms towards the two oceans, a large yellow butterfly circled his head, then two more, until his legs buckled and he collapsed.
e woke to groans and cries of pain. Around him men lay on rows of wooden bunks. He was on a ship, that much was clear, and for a moment he thought he was at sea again. Propping himself against a bulkhead, he looked out a porthole at a church spire rising above the red-tiled roofs of a town.
"Welcome to hell, pilgrim." It was the Irishman on the next bunk. "The only way out is feet first and a drop into the slop."
Zebulon sank back, covering his eyes with his arm.
"I went down right after you," the Irishman said, saliva drooling from his mouth. "But I'm too ornery to let a jungle bug get me. Most of the poor bastards in here aren't sure if they're dead or alive, and from the looks of you, you might not be either. Not that anyone cares."
Zebulon passed out, and when he opened his eyes, the Irishman's bunk was empty.
Hours later, or maybe it was a day or two, the doctor, a small man with a bulging alcoholic nose, made his rounds, followed by a nurse holding a handkerchief over her face against the stench of vomit, urine, and death. Once, she paused to tie a tag around the blue toe of an unfortunate who hadn't made it through the night.
"I was convinced you were dead meat when I first saw you," the doctor said, taking his pulse. "In fact, I even bet on it as you were being carried in. But you're one of the lucky ones. Not like some of your bunch who came in with cholera or typhoid fever. You're hard to figure. It might be a parasite. Whatever it is, it's obviously sucking all the life out of you. We'll keep you for a few weeks. Bleed a few ounces out of you to purify the blood. Throw in some camphor and hot-water emetics, mix in a little ginger and pepper and hope for the best. Maybe try calomel until your gums begin to bleed. Not much else to do. By rights you should be shark feed."
The nurse, a white thin-lipped Baptist with sparse tufts of gray hair across her skull, nodded her approval, convinced that anyone that ended up in this wretched hospital ship had been consigned there for God's punishment. As the doctor moved on to check the next patient, she bent her head towards Zebulon's ear: "You're under quarantine until we find out what's wrong with you. If you make an attempt to leave, you'll be shot out of hand. Nothing personal, but we have to guard against plagues. Those are the rules."
He slept away the days and weeks in a pool of night sweats, waking only to relieve himself. He was half-aware of being force-fed various foul medicines followed by water and a thin
gruel that passed for soup. When someone tried to remove Delilah's gold and ruby necklace from his neck, he automatically reached for the knife he kept tied to his belt and slashed off the thief's hand. The act brought yells of approval from several patients, many of whom, in their deliriums, were on constant guard against pirate attacks and Mexican revolutionaries, not to mention the doctor and his nurse.
As long as it wasn't raining, which it was more often than not, he was encouraged to pass his afternoons on the upper deck, taking in the sun on a straw mat. One evening, as the sun was setting across the harbor, he noticed a ship sailing out towards the open sea.
It was The Rhinelander.
It was another month before he was given permission to go ashore, the doctor having finally dismissed his illness as "delusional."
A few days later he boarded a Portuguese whaler bound for the Bering Strait with a lengthy stopover for repairs in Mazatlan, before sailing on to Monterey and San Francisco.
'HEN THE WHALER SAILED INTO SAN FRANCISCO BAY SIX weeks later, half the city was in flames and black soot-filled clouds sagged over the water like shrouds. Through the flames Zebulon could see the smoky silhouette of the shore and the hills surrounding the city, where thousands of tents and canvascovered shacks were sprawled around iron buildings that had been shipped in from the eastern states. The Captain and the Portuguese crew were afraid to set foot on land, convinced that the entire West Coast had been seized by a biblical conflagration; a disaster brought on, they had no doubt, by the godless scum of the earth who had deserted families, traditions, and religions to rush off to the gold fields. The ship remained anchored in the bay for six days until a squall drenched the last of the fires. Finally, fears suspended, if not relieved, the ship made its way towards a long line of wharfs, passing hundreds of deserted vessels along the way.
Zebulon disembarked into a furious crowd of hawkers yelling offers for supplies, whores, jobs, flop houses, peep shows, and business deals. Now that his hooves were planted on earth, he promised himself that he would never embark on a ship again. Here was the Promised Land. Here was freedom from the past, a chance to break loose. He let out a loud mountain yell, causing a horse and wagon to bolt off the dock. Never mind Delilah or Hatchet Jack or being trapped between worlds. Never mind what his Ma or Pa or anyone else had said or thought or done. From now on, whatever hell awaited him would be of his own choosing.
He walked off the dock and shouldered his way into the first saloon he came to - three stitched-together army tents supported by empty crates and scrap iron. The bar was fashioned out of two wooden planks, each twenty feet long, propped up on empty whiskey barrels. Every inch was jammed with newly arrived immigrants and prospectors: Kanakas from the South Seas, Hawaiians, Cubans, Peruvians, Chinese, Russians, as well as all sorts of Europeans and foot-loose Americans. The only subject in the saloon was gold: where to find it, how to mine it, how to spend it.
He drank through the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, not moving except to relieve himself in a long ditch outside the tent. The more whiskey he consumed, the more he thought of Delilah, as if his exhilaration had given her an open invitation to invade him, and the more he tried to shut her down, the more present and haunting her spirit became.
When he finally staggered outside, it was dark and a soft mist was drifting over the waterfront and the hills. Not knowing where to go and preferring higher ground, he climbed a hill towards a collection of shanties and tents thrown together out of canvas, potato sacks, old shirts, and whatever else was available. When the mist turned to rain, followed by a violent downpour, he crawled into a shack. Inside, two men in red long johns sat near a crude stove made out of barrels, playing poker on a wooden crate. The older man's head was as smooth and shiny as a bullet. When he looked up at Zebulon, the tattoo of a sperm whale bobbed across his Adam's apple.
"Come far, partner?" the man asked.
Zebulon sank down by the stove. "Far enough to know better."
"You can say that again," said the younger man. He was rail thin with a long, bushy mustache drooping over his sunken chin.
"We're lucky to have shelter," the older man said. "We threw together this pile two days ago in the middle of a rainstorm. Me and my boy aim to stay here until we put together a stake. Then it's hallelujah and off to the gold fields."
"I'll pay for the night," Zebulon offered.
The younger man looked at his Pa, as if waiting for a sign. When his Pa nodded, he threw his cards on the crate. The only card face up was the queen of hearts.
"I'll be goddamned. Lookee here. That old queen keeps floppin' up like a high-priced floozy."
"Don't mind my boy," his Pa said. "He ain't won more'n two hands all night. Him and me are Christians from the Church of the Holy Rapture. We're Pennsylvanians and proud of it. We work for the Lord and share what we have and don't gamble for money or drink hard liquor. We expect those we work and live with to help themselves to everything we got and we'll do the same.
"Fair enough," Zebulon said, and passed out.
When he woke the following morning the shack was empty. His money had disappeared, along with his boots, his Colt, and Delilah's necklace. All that remained was a half-a-pot of cold coffee.
Outside, a raw, wet wind blew off the bay. People were moving about in front of the tents and shanties, cooking breakfast and speaking in foreign tongues. Beneath the hill, beached on the shore like wreckage from a tsunami, were the hulks of schooners, brigs, paddle steamers, steamships, ferries, scows, and yawls. A few larger vessels had been converted to temporary saloons, others transformed into hotels or warehouses. One of them was The Rhinelander. All three of her masts were gone and a yellow and red sign was painted across her stern:
RHINELANDER HOTEL BEDS 75 CENTS.
He drank the rest of the coffee, then bound his feet with rags. Avoiding the still-smoldering embers, he stumbled down the bill past the charred remains of what had passed for shacks. When he reached The Rhinelander, his feet were bleeding and his pant legs were hanging in strips from his waist.
The deck was jammed with prospectors and refugees from the fires, all of them guarding their supplies. Not recognizing any of the crew or passengers, Zebulon went below.
Captain Dorfheimer lay spread out on the bunk of his cabin in a silk bathrobe, staring at the ceiling where a freshly painted galaxy displayed hundreds of stars circling around red and green planets.
Slowly, as if each cracking joint was causing him agonizing pain, the Captain gathered himself up and stumbled over to the chair behind his desk. Holding his head in his hands, he stared bleakly at Zebulon.
"How I fear and loathe the past when it arrives unannounced."
"I'm here to settle our account," Zebulon said.
Dorfheimer sighed, massaging the back of his head. "If only that were possible. My officers and crew have deserted me for the gold fields. Every last one. Left me to rot. Don't misunderstand, business will pick up. I have to hang on. Serve decent food. Provide fresh sheets. Then they'll pay double and I'll sail away from this cursed land, never, God help me, to return."
He opened his desk drawer, removing a page torn from a newspaper.
"Thanks to Artemis Stebbins, you're famous from Mexico to Alaska. My God, if I had known about the wild and violent crimes you've committed, I would have had you thrown overboard."
He handed the article to Zebulon, who glanced at it, pretending to read, then handed it back.
"Allow me," the Captain offered.
"No need," Zebulon said. "It's all lies."
The Captain folded up the newspaper and returned it to the desk drawer.
"Where are they?" Zebulon asked.
"Baranofsky ran into some trouble in a Spanish town south of here. I heard he was in jail. Stebbins will know about the woman. He hangs his hat at the Busted Flush, a cafe down the street."
"Are you going to settle up?" Zebulon asked.
The Captain shook his head. "Obviously you didn't hear me.
Your passage and trip across Panama were paid for, which was far more than you deserved, given all the trouble you caused. Are you aware that there's a five-hundred-dollar reward posted on you, dead or alive? I should have you arrested."
"Settle up," Zebulon said, picking up a letter opener from the desk.
The Captain stumbled over to a chest. Pulling out an officer's uniform, he threw it at Zebulon. "My father's. A vice admiral in the Kaiser's navy. It will confuse the bounty hunters and vigilantes. Now leave. Go away and never come back, and I promise that I will never mention you to anyone, not even to myself."
Zebulon changed into a tight-fitting jacket with blue epaulets. Then he put on black pants that were six inches too short and had a broad red stripe running down the side, followed by kneehigh boots. The whole assemblage was topped off by a cockaded admiral's hat and long sheathed sword.
Zebulon removed a pearl-handled revolver from the halfopen drawer of the desk. Staring into a mirror, he blasted his image into flying shards of glass. Another bullet blew open the handle of a small wall safe.
After he removed seventy dollars in gold coins, a string of black South Sea pearls, and a gold-plated pocket watch, he shoved the revolver into his belt and yanked Dorfheimer to his feet. Dorfheimer shut his eyes, expecting the worst. When Zebulon embraced him, the gesture was so unexpected that the Captain collapsed on the floor, weeping and gasping for breath.
Shen Zebulon appeared on deck, he was greeted by shouts and applause from the assembled, everyone believing that Dorfheimer had been shot because of his overpriced accommodations and rotten food.
The Drop Edge of Yonder Page 9
