Bound for Gold--A Peter Fallon Novel of the California Gold Rush

by William Martin

  Then I staggered down the slope to wash my face in the river that flowed toward the last light silvering the August sky and glimmering like oil on the water. I knelt, dipped my red and yellow-paisley neckerchief, and saw a shadow.

  Not ten feet away stood one of the Chinamen.

  I jumped up, startled. He stepped back, startled.

  For a moment, we stared across the stream at each other’s shadows, men who had traveled far from opposite compass points to this new land, this alien place, this gold country in the gloaming.

  His hair had been razored back, giving him a high forehead. A long braid curled down his back. And his baggy trousers and gown-like shirt made his silhouette appear square and solid, not to be trifled with.

  I said, “Good evening,” in a gentle manner, as I would to a skittish dog or a small child, since I did not believe he would understand the words themselves.

  He shocked me by saying, “A beautiful sunset.”

  Yes. The Chinaman could speak English. But he did not stay to chat. He said something to another Chinaman who came out of the bushes nearby, and together they scurried back downstream to their little camp.

  August 11–16, 1849

  Blisters

  Every day came in clear and cloudless, with heat rising into the afternoon, then receding toward a cool evening. There was a comforting predictability to it all, but a profound monotony, too.

  In the mornings, I warmed my hands around a mug of bitter coffee, brewed from beans that Cletis had bought for the outrageous sum of $4 a pound, put through his grinder, and roasted in his cast-iron frying pan. Then I wrapped my hands with cotton strips cut from one of my shirts to cover the blisters on my palms. Then I got to work. But no matter how I protected them, by day’s end, my hands were so bloody and raw that I could barely curl my fingers around a pencil.

  Each night, however, I wrote. Writing was my reason for being here, and in truth, my reason for being. I hoped to produce a dispatch for Sam Batchelder every two weeks and a letter a week for Janiva. But on some nights, I fell asleep before writing a word.

  * * *

  ALL THAT WEEK, WE concentrated on the claim just below the big rock, so heavy with gold, going so deep into the bank, that we might all get rich on that claim alone. But to “wash” the gravel, we had to carry water from the river or carry gravel to the water.

  We had decided it was more efficient to carry the gravel, and I was elected, since my blisters were too painful to swing a shovel. Cletis made a yoke for my shoulders, allowing me to carry two buckets at once. Flynn’s gold fever broke, for no man could sustain the intensity that gripped him the first day. Cletis, steady Cletis, seemed never to change the pace at which he walked or talked or worked, which was a good lesson for us younger men. And thus, with Flynn and Cletis digging and filling or crouching and washing, with me beating a path between them, we got on.

  Then, late on the 16th, the English-speaking Chinaman came along the opposite bank and stood, looking over at us.

  Flynn said, “What’s he thinkin’?”

  “Don’t know,” said Cletis. “But he better not be thinkin’ him and his friends can stake claims on this side.” He grabbed his blunderbuss and stalked down the bank.

  The Chinaman took a step back, but he did not run.

  Cletis said, “No crossee river. You hear?”

  The Chinaman just looked at him.

  Cletis swept the gun up and down the bank. “White men only, this side.”

  The other Chinamen were watching, though none moved. They reminded me of frightened rabbits, hoping that if they went motionless, the predator would not see them.

  But the bold one kept his eyes on Cletis, who said, “Stay your side, we friends.”

  “Friends?” The Chinaman sounded more puzzled than pleased, as if he did not understand the meaning of the word … or perhaps the possibility of it.

  “Just … just … stay over there.” Cletis came back up the slope. “Don’t want him gettin’ ideas. Don’t want him leavin’, either. Them Chinks are like a painted sign for white miners … Nothin’ here. Better diggin’s elsewhere. Best keep movin’.”

  August 17, 1849

  Visitors

  In the late afternoon, Drinkin’ Dan Fleener and his partner came up from town. They stopped on the road and watched the Chinamen for a bit. Then they walked down the slope toward Flynn, who was swirling his pan at the river’s edge.

  Cletis put down his shovel and whispered to me, “Tell ’em nothin’.” Then he gave them both a big, “Howdy, boys!”

  Drinkin’ Dan squinted through his one eye. His partner limped on a bad leg. Together, they made a formidable man, one that no grizzly or claim jumper would challenge—not one with a nose, anyway—in that the partner, John McGinty, also known as Stinkin’ McGinty, was the most odiferous man I had ever encountered. His stench foretold him in a way that the common smell of sweating male bodies did not. He could make eyes water. He could make toes curl. Get too close and the ammonia wafting off of him just might make you gag.

  Drinkin’ Dan shouted, “You boys makin’ money?”

  “Workin’ our arses off is what we are,” said Michael Flynn.

  “Ask ’em, do they got anything to drink?” said McGinty.

  Cletis laughed. “Drinkin’ Dan gets a drinkin’ partner. Reckon that makes sense. But we drunk all the whiskey. Got some coffee, though. Brewed it up this mornin’.”

  I wondered why Cletis offered them coffee if he wanted to be rid of them. Then he said, “Or we could ask the Chinks for tea,” thereby drawing their attention to our neighbors.

  Drinkin’ Dan rolled his eye downstream. “You drink tea with Chinks?”

  McGinty kicked at the dirt. “Ain’t no gold where there’s Chinks.”

  Just then, the English-speaking Chinaman came along the bank. He was carrying a steaming pot of … something.

  Cletis whispered to me, “What the hell is this?”

  The Chinaman ignored Cletis and offered me the pot. “Tea. Hot tea. Tea for eat.”

  “Eat?” said Cletis. “What the—”

  The Chinaman made a gesture to his mouth. “Deal. Make tea for eat. No?”

  I knew what the Chinaman was up to, so I went back to our tent and fetched about eight inches of beef jerky, one of the more unpleasant things I had ever chewed. (I never honored the consumption of beef jerky with the word “eat” because I never ate it, only ground it on my molars until the taste of it killed my appetite. Then I spat out the remains.)

  Returning to the riverbank, I stepped rock to rock and met the Chinaman halfway. As he extended the pot, I looked into his eyes. This was the first time that we had faced each other in full daylight.

  He was in his twenties and handsome for his race, with eyes that did not deviate or defer but met mine straight on, except when he winked, as if to say, “play along.” That surprised me almost as much as his skin, which was more sun-browned than yellow. He took the jerky, bowed, and backed away. “Good deal. Good jerky. Good tea for good jerky.”

  I turned the pot in the direction of our visitors. “Tea?”

  “Chink tea? Made by Chinks minin’ here?” McGinty spat. “Got to be better diggin’s upstream.”

  “And better drinkin’, too,” said Drinkin’ Dan.

  McGinty turned and went limping up the slope toward the road.

  Drinkin’ Dan said to us, “McGinty’s my pard. I have to stay with him.”

  “Come by anytime,” said Cletis. “But if you bring that feller again, see he takes a dunk in the river first.”

  “Good luck,” said Drinkin’ Dan. “And be damn careful when you go for a piss at night. Got us a big grizzly sow up in these hills with two new cubs. Not somethin’ you want to meet with your dick in your hands.”

  Cletis said, “Maybe the bear likes the taste of Chink.”

  Drinkin’ Dan laughed and waved and followed his partner.

  After they were out of earshot, Cletis said to us, “Well, th
at Chink’s a bold one, steppin’ into white man’s talk like that.”

  From the opposite bank, the Chinaman said, “Drink tea. Give back pot.”

  “Yep, as bold as the ball sack on a big horny bull,” said Cletis.

  “But you know,” said Flynn, “I could do with a bit of tea. After whiskey, it’s the Irish national drink.”

  “After whiskey,” said Cletis, “the Irish national drink is more whiskey.”

  Flynn sipped the tea, rolled it around in his mouth. “Different. Strong. Nice.”

  He offered it to Cletis, who looked at it, then at Flynn, and counted, “Eight … nine … ten.”

  I asked what he was counting for.

  “To make sure it ain’t poisoned. If I can count to ten and he ain’t keeled over, then—”

  “You drink my tea,” said the Chinaman, “they think we friends. So they go. Good for you, ’cause you no want more white miner. Good for me, ’cause I no want, either.”

  Flynn chuckled. He was quick to admire any man who showed a sharp sense of the world and the wit to react to it. He said, “There’s one sly little Celestial, for you.”

  The Chinaman gave a bow of the head. He may even have smiled.

  Cletis took the tea pot and drank. Then he offered it to me. “It’s all right.”

  It was more than all right. Tea with herbs and a scent of clove. Delicious.

  The Chinaman backed away.

  Flynn said to us, “I’m thinkin’ those Chinks found somethin’ over there on that claim that the white miners missed.”

  “If the whites find out,” said Cletis, “they’re like to run the Chinks right off.”

  The Chinaman did not let on that he heard any of this. He just kept backing away.

  I called after him. “What’s your name?”

  “Chin. Wei Chin.”

  “I’m Spencer. This is Flynn and Cletis.”

  “Don’t be tellin’ him our damn names,” said Cletis.

  August 18, 1849

  Routine

  We worked the hillside claim, filling buckets with dirt, carrying them down to the river, or the other way round. As my blisters were toughening into callus, we changed positions often, so no man exhausted any one set of muscles. Better to wear them all out equally. One man dug, one carried, one washed. At noon, we stopped for hardtack and a swallow of water. Then we worked until sunset. In the evening, we cooked bacon and beans. And Cletis insisted that we go into the woods and collect berries, roots, and wild mustard greens that we boiled into a soup.

  “A fine feast,” said Flynn that night. “It ain’t the Arbella Club, but it’ll do.”

  Cletis bit off a chaw, settled back against the big rock, and spat tobacco into the dust. “Too many fellers get the glint of gold in their eye, they forget everything else, even their bellies.”

  We were pulling twenty ounces a day, so we all had the glint and ever-expanding pouches that we kept buried under the big rock.

  “May the glint never go,” said Flynn.

  “It’ll go if we get the scurvy,” answered Cletis. “That’s why I have you boys pickin’ green trash and such. Feller I knew, never et a green thing for six months. Scurvy snuck up on him like an Injun in the dark. First he started losin’ his energy. Then his skin got all spots. Then his legs took to swellin’ … when I found him, his teeth was fallin’ out. Knew right off what it was. Bought some limes off a Mexican farmer, give him the juice. Saved his life.”

  “Lime juice. That’s why God made grog,” said Flynn. “A fine drink and good for you, too. Not so good as Irish whiskey, but—”

  “Speakin’ of Irish whiskey…” Cletis upended our jug. “Time for that trip into Broke Neck.” Then he asked me how much coin I had.

  “About two hundred in ten-dollar Gold Eagles.”

  Cletis said we should spend the coin first. “As soon as we start payin’ with fresh dust, folks’ll start askin’ about our claim. Then we’ll get neighbors, sure enough.”

  “Let’s hope the Chinks stay, then. But”—Flynn looked at the campfire across the river—“I sure don’t like ’em watchin’ us.”

  “They watchin’ now?” asked Cletis.

  Two Chinese shadows were moving on the bank. One was coming out of the bushes.

  Flynn got up and walked halfway down to the river’s edge.

  “What are they doin?” called Cletis.

  “Can’t tell.” Flynn watched their shadows gliding toward the light of their own campfire. “But I swear, one moves like a girl. Maybe they were after more than an evenin’ stroll.”

  “You been away from females too long.” Cletis scratched one foot on the other. “Best thing about gettin’ old, you don’t dream so much about tastin’ salty-sweet snatch.”

  “Speakin’ of which,” Flynn said, “you should see Jamie’s Boston gal. Pretty enough to make a priest dream of—” Flynn saw the look that I shot at him, and he shrugged, as if to apologize. “Dreamed of her meself a few times.”

  “You dream of my Janiva?” I said. “What kind of dreams?”

  Cletis laughed. “When a man has a good-lookin’ woman runnin’ through his brain? He dreams the only dream you can grab hold of with one hand in the dark. Ain’t that right, there, Galway Bay?”

  I ignored that and kept my eyes on Flynn, who said, “Didn’t tell you, Jamie. Didn’t want you hittin’ me with a shovel if I started talkin’ in me sleep, but she’s worth a dream or two, for sure.”

  “Dream about one of your own,” I said.

  Cletis pulled on his boots. “Might as well dream of a featherbed and a fine steak and a jug full of whiskey, too. At least we can do somethin’ about the whiskey. Harvard and me, we’ll go into town and refill the jug and mail that gal of his a letter.”

  “What about me?” asked Flynn. “I need to buy more peppermints. If I can’t have a girl to kiss, at least I’ll have somethin’ sweet in me mouth.”

  “I’ll buy ’em if they got ’em,” said Cletis. “In the meanwhile, you keep an eye on them Chinks. See if one of ’em squats to pee. If he does, well, maybe he is a she.”

  “Chinks squat to do everything,” said Flynn.

  “Then watch close.” Cletis stood. “And watch for them bears.”

  “Don’t be startin’ with talk about bears again.”

  “It’s their country, too,” said Cletis, “And I seen piles of fresh scat up on the ridge. That big sow smells food, she might come lookin’ for some Irish stew.”

  * * *

  WE WALKED THE MILE into town leading the burro. The canvas sides of the tents had been raised, so lantern light filled the street, and the squeal of a squeeze-box annoyed the air. We tied the burro in front of the general store. And it was then that Cletis noticed the sign, Emery’s Emporium, No Kredit. He said, “I’ll be damned. Didn’t see that the first time we come through.” Then he shouted, “Hey, George!” and hopped through the door.

  Emery’s Emporium was not much larger than a Broke Neck claim, but what a collection of shovels, pans, sacks, jars, tins, boxes, and sundry cans was packed into that space. And what a crowd of miners was doing business.

  Cletis pushed up to the counter and called out to a skinny piece of old rawhide named George Emery. The two greeted each other like brothers, then Cletis introduced me to “one of my oldest army friends. One of the smartest, too, considerin’ how fine he’s set himself up. A fine store, and … how’s that fine young wife, George?”

  “Back in Sacramento, doin’ my buyin’ off the ships,” said Emery, whose beard was as gray as Cletis Smith’s but trimmed and combed, as if to complement his clean shirt and leather shopkeeper’s apron.

  “Be careful someone don’t try to buy her,” said Cletis. “She’s worth her weight.”

  As Cletis and Emery began to jabber, I held up the jug.

  Emery said, “No spirits sold here, son. Nothin’ against them. Just need room for things that miners need, like navy beans and shovels.”

  Cletis told me to try
the saloon. “And don’t pay more than two Eagles.”

  “Go see the Scotsman,” said Emery. “Grouchy Pete McDougall. Tell him I sent you.”

  I said, “Thanks for the referral.”

  Emery gave me a quizzical look. “The what?”

  Cletis explained, “Smart young feller. Went to Harvard. Smart but awful dumb.”

  “A lot like that comin’ into this country,” said Emery. “Educated fools, I call ’em.”

  Ignoring that, I headed first for Abbott’s Assay and Express Office to send my dispatches. Mr. Abbott eyed me warily. He looked to be about forty and had the cleanest hands I had seen in gold country, with nails neatly trimmed and polished as if to proclaim that he spent no time turning over rocks or shoveling gravel. His business was the weighing and measuring of gold and the delivering of dispatches and letters.

  On the table in front of him were arrayed a set of scales and weights, a pistol, and a ledger book. A big black safe hulked in the corner. He had written prices on a chalkboard: Assays, one ounce. Letters carried to San Francisco, $5, mailed from SF, $5. Gold shipped east, 10% commission.

  I paid with two ten-dollar Gold Eagles and asked how long it would take to get my dispatch and letter to Boston.

  Abbott promised that his rider would have the letters in San Francisco within two days. He made no promises, however, as to the schedule of the mail steamer California. “We do what we can and trust to God for the rest.” This was the first time in this country that I had heard a man mention God as if he actually believed in him.

  I thanked him and promised more business. That elicited Abbott’s first smile.

  * * *

  THEN I TOOK MY jug to Grouchy Pete’s, a huge tent fashioned from sail canvas (a common commodity, given all the abandoned ships in California) with a floor fashioned from wooden planks that may once have been deckboards.

  The bar was a pair of long planks supported on upturned barrels. Behind it were more barrels, set on sawhorses, with spigots in the bungholes and words scrawled on each barrel, to be taken on faith: Whiskey. Rum. Brandy. Opposite the bar, a dozen or more drinkers lounged, perched, and flopped, some on the floor, others on benches and chairs arranged in configurations best suited for the sharing of jugs and rumors. And over in the far corner, at a round table, six men were playing cards.