On the bottom of the bucket, there were only two more single sticks of dynamite. George had been bluffing, in order to force Henry and R.P. Grover to confess. He couldn’t have blown up the Little Pittsburgh at all.
Henry wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve, and then stood up in the bucket to release the winding-pulleys. George had twisted wire around them, right through the spokes, to prevent them from turning; but it was a simple job to release them; and as soon as he had done so, Henry called up, ‘Grover! Can you hear me? Wind me up!’
He was hoisted up slowly; and when he was swung out into the daylight, with George Hook’s body huddled up beside him, R.P. Grover and the rest of the day-shift crossed themselves, and said, ‘Amen,’ and looked away. They all knew what had happened, in spite of the fact that Henry had ordered them out of the winding-shed. But the sight of George Hook, impaled by a change steel from skull to pelvis, was enough to convince them that this was still a hard world, without pity or compromise, and that a hard-rock miner’s lot was still the meanest.
Henry was bloodied and shaking. R.P. Grover threw his fur coat around his shoulders, and said, ‘They’ll talk about this, sir.’
‘Well, let them talk,’ Henry replied sharply. ‘Where’s that whiskey?’
‘No, Mr Roberts, you don’t understand me. They’ll talk about this with respect. They know that Mr Hook crossed you, sir; and that he threatened the lives of their workmates; and that you did the best you could. You redeemed yourself, sir, with that climb. There isn’t a single man here who would have taken your place; myself included. Two hundred feet on a hoisting cable, sir, that’s a climb you wouldn’t readily do for money; nor for any other reason that I can think of.’
Henry stood where he was, shaking. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re quite right.’ He was offered a pewter flask of whiskey, and he grimaced his thanks at the miner who had given it to him, and pulled at the neck, quickly, three or four times, coughing.
‘He couldn’t have done it,’ he said.
‘What?’ asked R.P. Grover. Then, confused, ‘Couldn’t have done what, sir?’
‘He couldn’t have blown up the mine,’ Henry told him, flatly. ‘You see what he had there? Two sticks of dynamite, that’s all. Hardly enough to blow out the lamps.’
‘A rum type,’ R.P. Grover decided.
‘Yes,’ said Henry, with conspicuous sharpness. ‘But not entirely unjustified, wouldn’t you say?’
R.P. Grover looked blank. ‘Can’t do with rumness; not down a silver-mine.’
Rumness, thought Henry, as one of the miners drove him back down to Oro Junction in his navy-blue carriage. Who can define rumness, and who can condemn it? For if rumness means eccentricity; and a sense of honour so deep that it appears to be odd; then George Hook was certainly rum; but martyred, too. For when that three-foot steel came lancing out of the darkness above him and penetrated his eye, killing him instantly—instantly, it must have been—so fast and silent that he probably didn’t have time to realize that he was fatally injured—nor even to begin to comprehend what had happened to him—aaaahhh, and three feet of coldness right through him, instantaneous coldness, quicker than being struck by lightning—when that had happened he had been doing nothing more rum than demanding an admission of the truth, which itself is probably the definitive interpretation of rumness, but in its perversity the most honourable of all pursuits.
George Hook had died for the truth. Actually died. And when I killed him, I killed the truth, too. And here I am, going back to Augusta, and what truth can there be in that? No rumness, certainly, no honour, no perversity. I love Baby Doe, or at least I say that I do, I pretend that I do, I delude myself that I do. But how can I, when I can still talk to Augusta about building a mansion; when I can still discuss our future together, as if it were all anniversary cakes and smiling relatives? How can I think of staying with her, why do I even consider it, when Baby Doe is back in Denver, beautiful and understanding and willing; the Ophelia of the Rockies?
Guilt? Stupidity? Or the feeling that God has given me too much for nothing at all; and that if I try to tempt fate; and take Baby Doe; then I’ll be punished for it?
He arrived back at the store and climbed down from the carriage. Up in the gulch, the whistle on top of the winding-shed blew, to tell the miners that the shaft was clear, and that they could start the next shift. Henry tipped the miner a dollar for bringing him back, and said, ‘Tie the horses up in the stable, would you?’ Then he crossed the yard, and went into the back door, which gave straight into the kitchen.
Augusta was there, baking. Her nose was smudged with flour. She put down her pastry-pin, and said, ‘Henry! My dear! What’s happened to you? Henry, you’re covered in blood!’
Henry sat down. ‘Not mine, most of it,’ he said.
She knew at once whose it was. ‘George Hook,’ she whispered.
Henry nodded, and sniffed. ‘He’s dead,’ he said.
Augusta said nothing. Henry brushed flour across the table with the palm of his hand, and then he said, ‘I’m going back to Denver, to talk to David Moffat. I’ve decided to sell the Little Pittsburgh.’
‘Oh, Henry, you don’t know how pleased that makes me.’
‘Well,’ he said, and then shrugged. ‘The Little Pittsburgh doesn’t have very happy associations, does it?’
Augusta knelt down beside him, and held his hands. ‘You don’t have to go back to Denver to sell the mine, do you? You could always send David a telegraph.’
‘No, Augusta; I have to go in person.’
‘But why? Look, it’s starting to snow. Supposing the Fremont Pass is closed?’
‘Augusta, selling a silver-mine is a complicated business. I’ll have to sign dozens of papers; and besides that, I’ll have to meet any prospective buyers in person.’
Augusta said, ‘Can’t you stay, just for a while?’
Henry eased off his coat, and then began to unbutton his waistcoat.
‘It’s that girl, isn’t it? Augusta demanded. ‘That’s why you want to go back.’
‘I think I ought to talk to her, yes,’ said Henry.
‘And then you’ll tell her what you promised? You’ll tell her it’s all finished between you; and that you’ve given your word to come back to me, and never leave me?’
Henry reached out and stroked her hair. She really wasn’t as bitter and ugly as he always imagined. In fact, she had a grace about her that was almost religious. She had a kind and generous heart, Augusta; she always had done ever since she was a girl in Bennington; and it was only fear of losing him that had made her so anxious, and so shrill. He had married her, after all: and she did have the right to expect some kind of care. He didn’t love her, but how could he leave her?
‘Are you hurt?’ she asked him, tenderly.
‘Just a few scratches on my legs, that’s all.’
‘I’ll draw you a hot bath. Have a rest today; you can go to Denver tomorrow, if the snow holds off. How would you like tripe in batter? And a winter-apple pudding?’
Henry gave her a pale smile of acknowledgement. He was beginning to feel shocked now, after what had happened up at the mine. ‘Come on, my dear,’ she said, and helped him up, and fussed him upstairs to the bedroom, where she made him lie down on the bed while she unlaced his ruined shoes, and unbuttoned his shirt, and massaged his chest and his stomach with hands that still smelled of shortening.
‘You’re right,’ she said; ‘you should go and see her. Tell her straight to her face that everything’s over. Tell her how happy we are; and that it was wrong of her to interfere in a married man’s life, no matter how much she wanted you.’
Henry lay back on the pillow. He thought of the steel falling down the mine-shaft, and hitting George Hook in the eye. He closed his own eyes, tight. He could almost feel the pain of it.
Augusta stopped massaging him, and said, ‘Henry? Henry, my dearest, are you all right?’
*
The next day was crisp and sun
ny with no sign of snow, except on the peaks of the mountains that crowded in on Leadville like solicitous nuns. Henry was awakened by the sound of Augusta coming upstairs, and the warm smell of coffee. He rubbed his eyes. His hands were swollen and red, and his back was aching, but at least he felt rested.
Augusta set the cup of coffee down on the bedside table, next to the clock.
‘Well, good morning,’ smiled Henry. ‘It looks like a good day for travelling.’
‘Yes; you could say so,’ replied Augusta. She stood with her hands folded over her apron, and her tone was distinctly chilly.
‘Is there something wrong?’ Henry asked her. He propped himself up on one elbow, and picked up his cup of coffee. ‘Could you put less cream in it next time? You’re making me as fat as a prize pig.’
Augusta said, ‘I packed your case for you.’
‘Yes? Well, thank you.’
‘I found this,’ she said, and opened her hand. Henry didn’t even have to look at it to know that it was his diamond ring.
‘I bought it in Denver,’ he said off-handedly. ‘I didn’t wear it because I didn’t think you would particularly care for it.’
‘I don’t. But I suppose you’re entitled to waste your money in any way you wish.’
‘Then why are you looking so upset?’
‘Because—’ she said, and reached into the pocket of her apron, ‘—because I found this, too.’ She produced the receipt from Ischart’s the jewellers, and unfolded it, and held it under Henry’s nose.
‘Well?’
‘There are two diamond rings; one for a gentleman, and the other for a lady.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Where is the lady’s ring?’
‘I, er, took it back. I only had it on approval.’
‘You took it back without even showing it to me?’
Henry sipped coffee without tasting it, and shrugged one shoulder. ‘I didn’t think you’d like it, on reflection.’
‘Perhaps I might. How could you tell?’
‘It just didn’t look as though it would have suited you. It was too showy. Listen, Augusta, you don’t have to turn this into a performance. I bought two rings and took one back and that’s all there was to it. When we go to Denver together, you can choose one that you really like.’
Augusta dropped Henry’s ring down on the bed. ‘You gave it to her, didn’t you?’ she said, softly.
‘What are you talking about? That ring cost me a fortune. I wouldn’t have given it to a woman I hardly know.’
‘Henry, don’t lie to me, as well as betray me. Don’t you think that it’s enough to have insulted me, and to have treated me with neither affection nor respect, and to have slept with another woman, without lying to me as well?’
‘Augusta—’
‘I don’t want to hear another word. Henry. Not another excuse; not another invention. I simply want you to treat me as your wife, as I deserve. And you can begin by bringing me back from Denver that diamond ring, that exact ring, as described here, and putting it on to my finger, where it belongs.’
Henry banged his coffee cup so hard on to the saucer that it was a miracle it didn’t break, and swung fiercely out of bed. Augusta retreated towards the door, afraid of his anger, but still determined.
‘I want it, Henry, no matter what you might think of it.’
He splashed water into the basin on top of the washstand. ‘All right! I can hear you! You want the ring back! I’ll get it!’
‘Henry, you don’t have to be so angry. It’s a compliment to you that I want it. Just like I want the house.’
Henry towelled his face dry, and then glowered at himself in the mirror. Augusta’s face appeared in the corner of the frame like a pale mask hanging on the bedroom wall. ‘I’ll get it,’ he repeated doggedly.
He met David Moffat early the following, morning, for breakfast. They sat in the morning-room, which faced east, and which was discreetly decorated with eau de nil silk and faux bamboo furniture. The rug was eau de nil, too, thick and silent, pure wool specially woven in England. David’s butler poured Darjeeling tea, and served out hot croissants and seven different types of jelly; as well as cold beef, devilled ribs, pickled eggs, and sopocka.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your friend Mr Hook,’ said David, stirring his tea with measured clinks of his spoon. ‘I hear that such accidents are all too frequent in hard-rock mines.’
‘There was nothing that anybody could do,’ Henry told him. ‘He was killed outright. The same thing happened at the Comstock, so I was told.’
‘So now you want to sell? Well, it’s understandable, after such a tragedy. You and he were tolerably good friends, I suppose?’
‘You could say that; although most of the time he kept himself to himself.’
‘Mm. Well, I have some buyers in mind. I was approached only last week by a consortium of Philadelphia bankers. They were quite anxious to get some of their money into silver, especially with the price going up so steadily. I’ll telegraph them today, and see if they’re still in the market.’
‘How much would you ask?’
David Moffat carefully spread a piece of croissant with kumquat preserve and bit into it with teeth that were too white and too even to be real.
‘Certainly no less than $850,000,’ he said; and then added, ‘cash, of course.’
‘That’s a great deal of money,’ said Henry. His tea remained untouched.
‘Yes, it is,’ replied David, ‘and it will all be yours. Now that your two partners have so regrettably....’ He swallowed his mouthful of croissant, and pointed heavenwards with his butter-knife.
Henry stood up, and walked across to the sunlit windows with his napkin still tucked into his belt. ‘What would I do with it?’ he asked. ‘Buy up land? Or gold? Or railroad stocks?’
‘What business do you know best?’ David asked, rhetorically.
‘Silver-mining, I guess; after running a general store and post-office.’
‘In that case, to begin with, I suggest you buy up shares in a selection of different silver-mines. You know better than anybody which are the most profitable mines, don’t you, since all of their miners come and shop at your store? I’ll take care of selling the Little Pittsburgh; you put your ear to the ground back in Leadville, and draw me up a list of the twelve most likely silver-mines. Then, as soon as we’ve disposed of the Little Pittsburgh, we can start to buy.’
Before lunch, Henry went to the Corona Hotel to see Baby Doe. The morning was cold and snappy, and there was grit flying in the air. The clerk at the desk said that Mrs McCourt Doe was out shopping, but that he expected her back shortly. Henry went into the bar to wait for her, and nervously drank two measures of whiskey and smoked a cigar. In the looking-glass behind the bar he could see a heavy-looking man with a thick moustache; a man who kept glancing towards him as if he were lost, or as if he couldn’t quite decide who he was.
Baby Doe arrived back at the hotel half an hour later, in a white fur coat with frogged buttons, and a white fur busby. She was accompanied by a tall, handsome girl in a green overcoat, and both of them were carrying parcels of shopping from Weston’s and LaSalle’s and Maquette’s the Milliner. Henry could see right through the lobby to the front desk from where he was sitting; and he watched as the desk-clerk called out to Baby Doe, and beckoned her over, and then pointed towards the bar.
Baby Doe smiled disbelievingly, and then crammed all of her parcels into her friend’s hands, and came hurrying through the hotel lobby in excitement. Henry winked to the barman, gave him two dollars, and then climbed off his barstool to greet her.
‘Baby Doe,’ he said, gently.
‘Henry, my sweetheart,’ she gasped, and seized the lapels of his coat as if she wanted to shake him out of sheer pleasure. He held her tight, and kissed her, and even though her nose was cold, she was just as warm as before, and her cheeks were just as soft, and she was just as fragrant and just as startlingly pretty. God, he had forgo
tten how pretty!
‘You came back so quickly!’ she said. They linked arms, and she led him back across the lobby to meet her friend.
‘I couldn’t wait to see you again,’ he told her. ‘And anyway, I had some important business to do; I’ve decided to sell the mine.’
‘You’re going to sell the mine? Does that mean you won’t be rich any more?’
Henry laughed. ‘Not at all, my darling. Exactly the opposite. It means that I’m going to be the wealthiest man in the whole of Colorado.’
‘Here,’ said Baby Doe, ‘this is my friend Agnes Clarke. We met at the theatre, and we’ve decided to find rooms together.’
‘You can have more than rooms,’ said Henry. ‘I’ll buy you a house. Yes, and a maid, too, to wash out your linens.’
‘My goodness,’ said Agnes, in surprise, dipping Henry a little curtsey. ‘You are rich?’
‘Yes, and not afraid of it,’ replied Henry. ‘Would you girls care for some lunch?’
‘I’ll have to change,’ said Agnes.
‘Well, go right ahead,’ Henry told her. ‘Let’s meet here in half an hour, if that’s sufficient time for you. Tell me, Agnes, are you an actress, too?’
Agnes shook her head. ‘I work for the Ladies’ Home Adviser. I suppose you wouldn’t think much of it. It’s mostly to do with embroidery, and ladies’ interests; like cookery, and how to cure the croup, and sometimes a little poetry.’
‘Do you write any of the poetry?’
Agnes coloured. ‘A little, sometimes. It isn’t very good.’
‘Tell me some,’ Henry urged her. ‘Go on, if you can remember any of it.’
‘Now?’ asked Agnes, flustered.
‘If you want to. But don’t let me embarrass you.’
‘Oh do, Agnes,’ encouraged Baby Doe, her eyes sparkling. ‘She’s so clever, Henry, you’d scarcely believe it.’
Agnes lowered her head and clasped her hands together. ‘Very well, then, she said, ‘but only a very short one.
‘Under the linden trees,
Full many a glad eye sees
Silver Page 46
