It was time for Field to start concocting schemes of his own.
So he followed the steamer captain to the customs office, where he stood at the counter, dripping a pool of water onto the floorboards.
“Captain Rushy Wakeman,” he told the dour fellow. “You’ve heard of me, no doubt?”
“Oh, aye, who hasn’t heard the name of Captain Wakeman in these parts? You still hold the record to Sacramento—six hours and ten minutes in that four-hundred-fifty-ton steamer. This here’s a new one.”
“Sure as shooting,” agreed Captain Rushy Wakeman. “I assembled her off the coast in Los Angeleez. Five hundred tons, this beaut is. Lots of newfangled humbug on her—red velvet upholstery, brass rails, stained glass, murals of river scenes painted by none other than Thomas Cole himself.”
“I wouldn’t mind riding on her. Hey, you,” said the clerk, suddenly taking note of Field lurking in the doorway. “I told you. The Henry Miller ain’t getting in till tomorrow.”
Embarrassed that Captain Rushy Wakeman had seen him, Field waved apologetically and melded back into the shadows, unable to hear the rest of the conversation.
But one thing was evident. Wakeman had not just “assembled” that beautiful vessel in Los Angeleez. And another thing was becoming evident. Wakeman had somehow stolen that vessel.
Field could use this information to his advantage. He would not get Wakeman in trouble with customs—that would defeat his purpose. So Field meandered down the wharf a ways, purchasing a few oysters to slurp from their shells, until Wakeman emerged from the office and got into a skiff to return to his steamer.
Field waited another few hours until Wakeman took a skiff back to shore, presumably flush with the gold he’d recently acquired by selling his shipments of pork barrels and boots. Field’s intention was to accost the captain right then and there, but some instinct told him to follow the captain up the wooden sidewalk of Montgomery Street and continue following at a distance when he turned right onto Washington Street.
Wakeman went to the front door of the most palatial house on the block, a two-story lemon-yellow affair trimmed in white gingerbread detailing. A servant let Wakeman in, and Field grabbed the attention of a passerby. “Who lives in that house?”
“Why, that’s Sam Brannan’s house. Big Mormon fellow? Runs damn near the whole of this town and all of Sacramento as well. His Vigilante Society has been rustling up all the lawless society, throwing a necktie party for anyone who steps out of line. Justice is never blind with Brannan around.”
“I see. Is Mr. Brannan in town now?”
“I wouldn’t think so. He spends most of his time in Sacramento these days.”
Field thanked the man, and thought.
He thought just long enough to give Captain Wakeman time to “give the silent tribute of his superior penetration” to the lonely Mrs. Brannan. Then, with a decisive clip to his step, Field, too, strode up the front pathway past the hedgerow trimmed in architectural shapes, but he did not knock at the door. He turned the knob and dared enter the stranger’s house, bellowing out happily, “Sweetheart! I’m home!”
He was immediately gratified by the upstairs sounds of bodies crashing to the floor, frantic raspy whispering, and a window being thrown open.
An aghast servant appeared in the parlor doorway, his limp hands holding tea cups. “Master Brannan!” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not Master Brannan. Who do you be?”
“Someone more important than Sam Brannan,” Field replied before sallying out the front doorway from whence he had come.
Chuckling to himself, Field circled the house to discover the window that had been thrown open. Captain Rushy Wakeman was now poised shirtless like a long-distance somersault leaper on the gutter below the window, one hand attempting to button his trousers, the other hand clinging to the gingerbread. A female hand appeared briefly at the window, tossing out Wakeman’s shirt and other accoutrements.
Field hid under the overhang while Captain Wakeman took a clumsy leap with the seeming intention of shimmying down the drainpipe. Wakeman landed with a thud as his shirt and cravat rained down on his back. He leaped to his feet, gathering his garments, then saw Field.
“You!” he cried. “I don’t think you want a meeting with Brannan at this moment in time. He’s bound to be a little irate.” And he struck for Washington Street, but Field grabbed him by the bicep.
“Brannan’s not in town,” Field informed the sneaky fugitive. “It was I who hollered inside Brannan’s house.”
Wakeman stopped, stone-still. He was a sensual-seeming man, with full, luscious lips and those infernal hazel eyes. He apparently got the gist of Field’s intent, for his eyes became hooded with suspicion. “Why’d you do that, brother?” He attempted a grin. “Ruin a fellow’s good time?”
As much as he tended to like this captain fellow, Field had to maintain control. “Because I aim to use what I know about you to my own advantage,” he admitted. “I know you didn’t just assemble that boat in Los Angeles because I’m an engineer from New York and have built many engines in my time. That thing there on the El Dorado is a walking beam engine of the sort we used to tinker with two years ago. And I saw you fall into the water—you didn’t just lose your papers. You stole that boat. And now you’re upstairs in Sam Brannan’s home screwing his wife in full blast right under his own roof.”
Wakeman squared his body to Field and faced him head-on. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to partner up. Tomorrow I’ve got engine parts coming into the harbor from New York, parts intended for a locomotive steam engine, but I can alter it sure enough. If you give me a stake in that vessel, I’ll donate the engine, and I can guarantee you she’ll be the fastest on the Sacramento River. How many passengers does she carry?”
“About three hundred,” Wakeman said guardedly. “Or four hundred, if you cram a hundred ricemen into the china hold. You’re an ingenious class of person,” he added quickly, as if afraid to give up too much information. “What would you get out of this venture?”
“Ownership of half of the fastest steamer on the Sacramento.” Field shrugged.
Wakeman gaped at him. “Half? For doing what—providing me with a new engine?”
“A new engine that’ll make you tens of thousands of dollars the first year.” Field shrugged again. “Or, have the leader of the Vigilance Committee chasing you down with a pack of reckless backwoods Missourians who smell blood.”
Wakeman’s nostrils flared. “Why don’t you just get your own boat the honest way?”
“Like you did?” Field became contemplative and sighed. “I’m at the end of my rope, Captain Wakeman. I need a large sum of money very fast, and I don’t aim to wait three, five years to convince someone from back East to build a railroad across the continent. I’ve always wanted to travel on rivers. I’d like to learn the river from you.”
At this, Captain Wakeman smiled a little. “I know that river four ways. Up, down, night, and day. This is the great commercial empire of the Pacific.”
Field smiled in return, even though he was blackmailing his newfound partner.
Wakeman said, “Let’s start walking. Loitering under Brannan’s roof is giving me the creeps.”
They started down Washington Street side by side, Wakeman buttoning his shirt up and tying the cravat about his throat. “Then I presume you’re stealing this engine, too, from someone? Someone who did not intend on it being used on a paddlewheel.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Field. “I intend on it being used on a paddlewheel.”
Chapter Three
Whiskey flowed like the Hudson River.
All the sirens in the ocean crawling onto land would not have created more excitement than this imperial “floating palace.” When Rushy Wakeman demonstrated the navigability of the San Francisco-to-Sacramento run in the record time of five hours, fifty minutes, the entire town of Sacramento exploded in celebration. Every merchant wanted to claim the El Dorado as his f
lagship. Out of the twenty-eight steamers that plied the river, the El Dorado was the sleekest, steamiest, fastest, and already Rushy knew he’d have more than a full passenger list on the return trip. If they recovered from the celebration in time.
“The destiny of Sacramento depends upon your presence!” exhorted a merchant of something or other at full blast into Rushy’s ear. The din of the exhorting and singing in the Fremont House was only equaled by the uproar of the horses racing down Front Street outside. Men pressed cups of whiskey upon the partners in the hopes they would endorse their establishments, bring passengers there, and sign contracts to float their goods downriver.
Rushy had made a very smart deal indeed when he had submitted to the blackmailing charm of “Captain” Trueworthy, that educated and slick engineer from Troy, New York.
As the weeks passed while Field rebuilt the El Dorado’s engine in San Francisco, no more had been said about Rushy’s indiscretion with Sam Brannan’s wife. Nor was it mentioned that Rushy was probably not the original owner of the paddlewheel floating palace. In fact, right now Field was so full of his achievement he was hugging up Rushy something fierce. The thrill of having the aristocratic, taut, and lean body plastered up to his was enough to send Rushy to gulping yet another cup of the acrid liquid.
They were the big dogs of the tanyard.
Field bellowed at the top of his lungs, “This fellow here just named his racehorse after you, Rushy!”
Rushy lifted his cup to the merchant who alarmingly resembled San Brannan. Brannan had a large store two doors down Front Street.
Rushy had been enjoying viewing Captain Trueworthy working on the steamer engine. In this sweltering Indian summer that was hot enough to keep the wolves awake, Field worked manfully in the engine room with the iron pieces the welder brought aboard. Field would patiently explain every detail of every cylinder, boiler, and pump he was installing, but the fact of the business was, Field was wearing Rushy to a frazzle with his shirtless behavior. Glossy hair covered pectorals slick with sweaty oil. Rushy pretended to be interested in the ingenious engineering. Rushy put on a few airs about the leather piston rings, when really his mouth watered every time Field reached overhead, exposing the fluffy tufts nestled in his shimmering underarms.
Rushy had to stroke his own meat into oblivion while lying in his bunk at night in the texas, one thin bulkhead separating his cabin from Field’s. How pathetic he was, spewing streams of hot jism onto his own belly while dreaming of licking the athletic captain’s delicious prick. He primped up and displayed his own shirtless state to Field at every possible chance, but there was well-nigh a penguin’s chance in hell that Captain Trueworthy would respond favorably to an advance. Field was a blue-blooded Scottish engineer who was no doubt searching for a pristine virginal bride of impeccable manners. Not some cracker from the Talladega hill country of Alabama.
Not some man.
A whaling big crowd pressed them together now. Field was well-nigh cheek to cheek with Rushy as men jostled them from all sides.
“Now you’re glad we partnered up?” Field asked him cheerily.
“Nothing can beat it,” Rushy agreed.
“Captain Wakeman!” cried the fellow who resembled the shrewd, energetic Sam Brannan.
Rushy shook Field by the shoulders. “This here’s the captain. I’m only the pilot.”
“Whatever! I’m glad to finally make your acquaintance. I’m Samuel Brannan.”
Rushy numbly shook the proffered hand as he shared petrified glances with his partner. Did Brannan own the Fremont House?
Brannan continued, “I’d like to introduce you to the best girl, Catalina. As a bonus for your monumentally speedy journey from San Francisco.” Brannan, taller than most men in the room, searched around eagle-like for the best girl. “She’s a voluptuous and enticing gal with an ample duff that’ll ably fill your hands!” Brannan shaped his paws as though holding two melons.
Isn’t he supposed to be a Mormon? Didn’t Mormons abstain from, well, pretty much everything, including grabbing hookers in the bum?
Apparently Brannan was a new breed of Mormon, for it was a caution the way he got worked up looking for this Catalina piece of goods. “Catalina!” he bellowed to the four walls of the room that were choked with sweaty, odiferous horse-racing enthusiasts. “Where’s my luscious blonde wildcat?”
Field elbowed Rushy in the ribs. “Wildcat.” He leered at the invisible woman. In his enthusiasm to screw a woman, Field even put his arm around Rushy’s shoulders, squeezing him so tight Rushy’s erect cock was pressed against Field’s hip.
“Shall we take turns?” Rushy asked.
Field looked fondly at the pilot. “Nah. You can have their best girl. You’re the one who steered the boat past all those underwater snags I never would’ve known about.”
“But I never would’ve made it in under six hours if you hadn’t built the best newfangled engine in California.”
Brannan couldn’t find Catalina, so Rushy had to settle for the next best, a jaundiced, bony gal who looked like she’d just come through Panama from the bland, nauseated expression on her face. But Field’s gal was even less appealing—tolerable healthy women being at a premium in California—so Rushy went off with a mighty grave air to a second-story cubicle. Rushy and Field glanced at each other before diving behind their doors made of blankets.
“Let the frolics begin,” Field said lustily, squiggling his eyebrows.
Rushy wished Field would be thinking of him when he screwed his hooker, but the fact of the business was, Field would probably rather be masturbated by an eight-fingered leper than touch another man. That was the way of the mainstream world, the world that didn’t steam through the byways of malarial swamps, looking at the same monotonous caved-in fireman’s face for weeks on end. Rushy had frolicked with many a strapping river man, where women were especially rare and legendary. But on land, “up the hill” as river men called anywhere other than a boat, such things were viewed with horror and disgust.
Rushy humped his gal about as well as a sewn-up, exhausted riverboat pilot could be expected, thinking of Field’s pointy Greek nose. He wondered how Field’s spiky chestnut hair would feel between his fingers—he had not dared think of it brushing his inner thighs yet. The whore must have left the enclosure soon after, but the downstairs din prevented him from drifting off. He was accustomed to sleeping with the softly chunking paddlewheels, not the blare of a hundred yee-hawing miners.
It wasn’t long until a seemingly soaked Field Trueworthy came reeling into his cubicle, waving a bottle and leaning on his hooker.
“Hey, partner! Avast! Stop engine and kill all smoke!” Field got tangled in the hanging blanket and tripped over his own ankle.
Always fast on the uptake, Rushy kneeled on the cot to catch his partner. Gratitude surged through him when he caught Field and they tumbled back onto the cot. Field seemed content to stay where he sprawled against Rushy’s bare chest, cradled between his thighs. The fuzzy sensation of that soft spiked hair against his collarbone was enough to swell Rushy’s naked cock against the small of Field’s back. The sudden reality of just what he’d been dreaming of was almost too much, and he was even a bit glad that Field had put his clothes back on before stumbling in.
The hooker merely sat on a stool and unscrewed the bottle from Field’s hand while Rushy allowed his palm to caress the spiked head, his nude thigh rocking the riverboat captain slightly side to side, as if they were on the boat. He hoped Field was too soused to feel his erection bulging against his tailbone.
“Ain’t it precious being the lions of the day in Sacramento?” Rushy drawled.
The hooker said, “If you’re the lions of the day, why don’t you buy a sheep for the chef to cook? Let’s have a regular husking frolic.”
“We should buy a sheep for our own chef,” Rushy said soothingly, reveling in the feel of the thick, satiny locks between his fingers. He got a fistful of that hair and feared he’d ejaculate against
the flannel shirt without doing more than rocking his leg against the virile creature sprawled so carelessly in the cradle of his thighs.
“Ah,” sighed Field, as though the manly plane of Rushy’s chest was his mother’s bosom, his hands clasped over his abdomen. “Our chef lit out for the gold mines.”
“What?” Rushy started to sit upright but immediately relaxed back against the wall. “Buck Parsons took a French leave? In our grandest moment of glory? That miserable critter from the bottomless pit.”
“Yes,” Field agreed limply. “Who will serve us our cheese platters with olives and anchovies?” They had often enjoyed sitting in the saloon on the burgundy velvet chairs next to the log cabin mural, eating what Field called “hors d’oeuvres.” In this way Rushy had discovered that Field had a deceased wife and a nipper named Benjamin who lived with Field’s sister in Amsterdam, New York.
Rushy massaged Field’s scalp with his fingertips, pleased to see gooseflesh rise on Field’s forearms. The engineer rolled his hips as though to mash a more comfortable indentation in the bug-encrusted mattress. It had been a long time since Rushy had held such a vigorous stallion between his thighs, and his prick threatened to spurt against the squirming of the captain’s rigid back muscles. Was it his load of sin, having tussled with many deckhands in darkened cabins, that had plunked six feet of seductive treat between his thighs? He forced himself to the subject at hand. “We can’t start back for San Francisco without a chef.”
Field shrugged, his gliding shoulder muscles against Rushy’s tight nipples sending shivers deep into his abdomen. “No matter. I’m sure there are dozens of acceptable cooks downstairs right now, eager to work for such victorious sailors as us.”
Blowing Off Steam Page 3
