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

by William Martin

  * * *

  IN THEIR ROOM, THEY dropped onto their separate beds.

  “I’m exhausted,” said Evangeline. “But I don’t think sleep is in the cards without chemical assistance.”

  “That dead gunman,” said Peter. “Was he the one you saw in the restaurant tonight?”

  “No. But they were both wearing Giants caps.”

  “Like I say, half the guys in San Francisco are wearing Giants caps.” Peter flipped the bolt on the door. “So there’s someone else out there.”

  “Working for who?”

  “Hard to say.” Out of habit, Peter looked at his email. “But it appears that your persistence with a certain winemaker came through.”

  The email from Manion Sturgis arrived with a little paper-clipped attachment. “Read about the Chinese gold. Then make this all go away.”

  Evangeline said, “Something to entertain us until the melatonin kicks in.”

  As Peter started to read, the hotel phone rang again, and Evangeline nearly levitated from her bed. They both looked at the phone, then at each other.

  “Who the hell is calling us at this hour?” she said. “On the hotel phone?”

  This time, Peter answered with his best get-off-my-lawn voice. “Who is it?”

  “Somebody who’s happy that he missed your limo ride tonight. I’m telling you, this can be a very dangerous town.”

  Peter decided to engage his mystery caller. He said, “What are you after? The bags of gold, the river, or the journal?”

  “I want the journal. All seven parts. It’ll answer all the other questions. Then we can all live happily ever after.” Click.

  Evangeline looked at his face. “So … another avid reader?”

  The Journal of James Spencer—Notebook #4

  February 1, 1850

  Steam Passage

  Samuel Hodges is heading for Broke Neck.

  This intelligence reached me shortly after I had settled into a comfortable chair in the saloon of the steamboat Senator, bound overnight for San Francisco. I had determined to see how the city had rebuilt, to escape the stench and general awfulness of Sacramento, and, most importantly, to find Michael Flynn, from whom there had been no word since New Year’s Day.

  I sipped a brandy, my first strong drink in nearly a month, listened to the thumping of the engine, and opened for the hundredth time my letter from Janiva. Would the sight of a Boston-bound ship in Yerba Buena Cove tempt me to buy a ticket and sail back to her? I wondered. Then I sensed someone standing over me.

  “Spencer, is it?” He wore a sweat-stained hat and a threadbare tweed suit, and under his arm, he carried a leather satchel as if it was his most valued possession: Tom Lyons, de facto attorney for the Sagamores. He said, “Good to see you, though you look something the worse for wear.”

  Traveling in style, I was, in my own tweed suit. But I had lost such weight to the dysentery, I looked like a stick in a tweed bag.

  “Headed home?” asked Lyons.

  “No. Not yet. Not done yet in California. And you?”

  “San Jose. The new government is meeting there.” He dropped into the chair opposite me. “Hodges has asked me to represent his interests.”

  “Hodges?” I said the word with what I hoped was concealed trepidation.

  Lyons eyed my brandy, although he retained enough dignity not to lick his lips. I offered to buy him one, knowing that nothing lubricated a man like brandy. After that, I needed only to ask how the Sagamores fared, and he began to talk: Hodges had been all over the northern mines searching for a place to build something bigger. Then he heard about Rainbow Gulch, studied the map of the Miwok, and said that was the place to go. But not for the gold. For the water.

  “Does he know my claim is on the Miwok?”

  “Oh, yes.” Lyons toasted me with the brandy. “He speaks of you often.”

  “Warmly?”

  Lyons sipped the brandy. “He said that in Broke Neck, he would show you all that he had predicted. In Broke Neck, he would fulfill his ambition, and you would have to tell the people of Boston.”

  I was not so foolish as to believe that Hodges was going to the Miwok simply to impress me into writing about him, but that was how Lyons made it sound.

  “Hodges means to build that empire, Spencer. He’s greedy for it.”

  “Everyone is greedy in California,” I said.

  Lyons eyed the crowd—drinkers and gamblers, men of business going between the new hubs of California commerce, flush miners intent on squandering newfound wealth, backtrackers looking sullen and disappointed, and he said, “The greed of most men is for gold. It can be quantified, understood, even satisfied. Hodges is greedy for fame, respect, reputation. That kind of greed is … metaphysical.”

  “Then why are you working for him?”

  Lyons patted the satchel. “In a land where men make up the law as they go along, there’s great opportunity for one who’s been schooled in it.”

  “Lawyers bring civilization, or so I’ve been told.”

  “Hodges aims to bring it, too.” Lyons drained the brandy. “But he has joined forces with a company of Missourans, led by brothers named David and Moses Gaw.”

  “Lawmaking with David and Moses? Sounds more biblical than legal.”

  “They’re Bible thumpers, yes, but the only law they care about is the law of water. And California has no laws regarding downstream rights. Water is power in this country, Spencer. And power is wealth. And wealth guarantees power. Hodges wants water to close the circle.”

  “Our water? From the Miwok?”

  Lyons stood. “Be careful, Spencer. That’s my best advice.”

  February 2, 1850

  San Francisco Rebuilds

  The Senator reached the city at eight the next morning.

  Lyons’ intelligence lent greater urgency to my mission: find Flynn, then hurry back to Broke Neck and face Hodges.

  But my first thought upon debarking was that California was an amazing place, to draw forth such effort from men who had seen their city burn and had built it back up again in six weeks. Bright new frames of wood and clean white canvas covered all that the fire had scoured. And the air smelled of fresh lumber, not the fetid flood-waste of Sacramento or the burnt stink I was expecting.

  They were building bigger, better, stronger, and I was filled with confidence in the future of this place, which was bright indeed if the inhabitants could control their baser instincts.

  I climbed to Portsmouth Square, mailed a dispatch and a letter for Janiva, then began my hunt. I might have expected to find Flynn at the Parker House, which was rebuilding quickly but not yet ready to reopen. Business being business, however, and drinkers being thirsty, the proprietors had set up a bar outside, where men were buying and backslapping and bending elbows in the bright sunshine. But I found no Michael Flynn quaffing an early brandy.

  Nor did I find him at Ah-Toy’s, where Keen-Ho Chow was minding the gate. I asked, and Keen-Ho shook his head, as if he did not recognize the name or did not care. So I described the Irishman, and Keen-Ho’s eyes narrowed. “You friend?”

  Saying I was Flynn’s friend did not seem the best course, so I admitted only that I was looking for him.

  “You find, you tell him no more come back. He drink too much. Fight too much.”

  * * *

  I DECIDED THAT IF anyone knew where to find him, it would be the lawyer, Reese Shipton.

  He was working out of a tent on the north side of Portsmouth Square. He offered to give me news. His fee: a pinch of gold dust for fifteen minutes of his time.

  I opened my pouch and watched this yellow-haired, honey-drawling Southerner wet his fingertips, then dip them deep. A pinch was the going price for many things not worth an ounce, and a clerk with thick fingers was a valued employee.

  Shipton deposited his pinch in a small box on his desk, then gave me a grin.

  “So,” I said, “what’s your news?”

  “Your Sagamore friends couldn�
�t take it. Sam Brannan undercut them. And with more ships bringin’ more supplies, prices kept droppin’. Then come the Christmas fire. Burned Jason Willis of Boston right out of business. Him and Collins and half a dozen other fast-talkin’ Yankee boys up and left on the next steamer, pockets empty and dicks draggin’.”

  I was not surprised but did not care. I said, “What do you hear of Michael Flynn?”

  “Makin’ a fine old legend of himself, that one is. Drinkin’ and fuckin’ and fightin’, too. Surprised he didn’t generate a few fees. I make plenty gettin’ pugnacious drinkers out of the hoosegow.”

  “Hoosegow?”

  “The city jail. It’s on an abandoned ship till they build one for good and proper. The brig Euphemia, anchored off Long Wharf.”

  “So … Flynn’s in jail?”

  Shipton shrugged.

  “If you keep shrugging, I’ll consider that pinch to be money wasted.”

  “Spoken like a Boston Yankee. Always puttin’ a man to the guilt when he asks for an honest fee. No wonder Willis didn’t make it, treatin’ folks that way.”

  “Forget him,” I said. “What about Flynn?”

  “I hear he got in a fight over a card game. A Boston blacksmith rescued him.”

  “Dooling?”

  “That’s him. Come after the fire. Went over the burnt ground, siftin’ metal … old nails, barrel rings, and such. Melted it all down, started makin’ new nails at a forge on Montgomery Street. Enterprisin’ feller. Nothin’ this city needs like nails, considerin’ that lumber’s not worth a shit without ’em.”

  “But Flynn. What about Flynn?”

  “Oh, Flynn found other whorehouses, other gamblin’ tables. And he got into business with Big Beam, of all people.”

  “Big Beam? The labor broker?”

  “Brokerin’ a new kind of labor, from what I hear. Go see him.”

  “Where?”

  “Can’t really say. They been movin’ as the city rebuilds. Ask around.” Shipton popped open his pocket watch to signal the end of our time. “But if you need a lawyer, y’all come to ol’ Reese.”

  I stepped into the sunshine and the surging San Francisco crowd, considered my next move, and heard a low voice. Dingus, Shipton’s slave, was sitting on a stool by the tent flap, whittling. “I tell you where your friend is, mister. I tell you for two pinches.”

  I looked at his huge black hands. “One pinch is all your master got.”

  “He my master till California come in a free state. Then he my nothin’. And when it come to your friend, my master know nothin’. But I do … for two pinches.”

  I scowled and opened my pouch.

  Dingus scowled back, but I suppose he had the right, being enslaved in a place where men of so many races had come to prosper, regardless of their class or the bonds that had held them at home. He took the second pinch and gestured toward the harbor. “He’s out there. Out on the ship.”

  “The William Winter?”

  “If that the ship that brung y’all to California.”

  “He signed on again?”

  “Signed on?” Dingus laughed, though he was careful to look down. He was not yet so defiant as to laugh in a white man’s face. “That ship ain’t even got a cap’n.”

  “Trask is gone?”

  “The boy, Pompey, he say the cap’n cut half the lines, make nooses of ’em, and take off to find every last desertin’ crewman from his ship. Fixin’ to hang ’em. Hang all of ’em.”

  * * *

  I GOT A BOAT to row me out to the William Winter, now just one more derelict in Yerba Buena Cove. The paint was peeling on her false gun ports. Rigging lines swung loose. The upper masts had been stepped down and carried off. Reverend Winter himself had developed a split down his cheek that resembled a great wooden tear. I gave the rower a pinch of gold, told him to wait, climbed the footholds at the side of the ship. The deck, which had pitched and rolled a hundred thousand times on our voyage, lay deserted, bleaching in the sun. Cracks had opened between the boards. Weeds grew in the cracks.

  Then female laughter came to me from somewhere aft. I followed it to the quarterdeck, to the skylight in the roof of the captain’s cabin. I peered down and saw breasts … naked, voluptuous breasts.

  A woman was pumping herself on someone who was pumping right back. She said, “Come on, baby, come on, pop one more time for Mama and—”

  A deep groan rose from beneath her.

  “Yeah, yeah, you know what Mama likes.” She pumped harder and threw her head back, perhaps in ecstasy, perhaps not. I was no expert, but as her face turned to the skylight, I saw no contortions of pleasure, only the concentration of someone finishing a job of work. And her eyes were open. When they met mine, she screamed.

  A man’s face appeared beneath her. He shouted, “You son of a bitch!” And with the woman still astraddle, he grabbed a pistol from somewhere and fired.

  The shot shattered the pane at my ear, and a moment later, Michael Flynn, wrapped in a dirty sheet, exploded from the stern companionway. “I told you sons of bitches that— Why, Jamie! What are you doin’ here?” He was naked except for the sheet and an enveloping cloud of whiskey.

  I said, “I’ve come to bring you back.”

  “And leave all this?” He waved his pistol toward the city, as if he owned it.

  Then the girl emerged, also in a sheet. “You said no customers ’fore noon.”

  “It’s all right, darlin’. He’s my good friend.” Flynn gestured to her. “This here’s Roberta. Want her?”

  “Want her?” I said, trying to hide my shock.

  In the sunlight, she looked hard and hard used. And she smelled, but in a way that smelly miners didn’t. There was something earthy in the air around her, a scent of fecundity, of musk, of sex. I had to admit I found it tempting. She grinned, but a missing tooth did little to diminish the power of her scent. She said, “I don’t come cheap, mister.”

  “You can have her for two ounces,” said Flynn. “Or Sheila? She’s got a glorious rump and ain’t above offerin’ it, if your taste runs that way. Hey, Sheila!”

  “Not before noon.” Sheila, in frilled pantaloons and camisole, was emerging from the forward companionway. She staggered to the rail, held a finger to a nostril, and blew her nose into the water. Then she asked, “Where’s the nigger?”

  “Drummin’ up business,” said Flynn.

  “What about Big Beam?” she asked.

  “Ain’t he with you?” asked Flynn.

  She scratched at her crotch. “He’ll never be with me again, if he give me what I think he did.”

  Flynn looked at me. “Big Beam’s me pardner. He brought three girls. I had two—”

  “You’re pardners? With Big Beam? In whoredom?”

  Flynn put an arm around Roberta. “It may be whoredom, but it’s heaven, too.”

  I said, “Cletis needs us.”

  “Cletis?” Flynn wobbled, as if he was drunk at ten o’clock in the morning. “These girls need me. They come down from Oregon, lookin’ for to make a few dollars. And—”

  “And we made plenty from you, Mr. Galway Bay,” said Roberta.

  “I’m a man who likes to live,” said Flynn, “and ain’t above payin’ for the pleasures we’re entitled to while we’re on this side of the grass.”

  “How much?” I asked.

  Roberta looked me in the eye, “Say, mister, do you want a poke or not?”

  “Oh, he wants one,” said Flynn, “but he’s too upper-crusty for the likes of you.”

  My crust had nothing to do with it.

  She said, “He ain’t good enough for me.” Then she disappeared down the companionway as Flynn gave her a loud smack on the bottom.

  “How much?” I asked Flynn again.

  “After roulette and faro and the buyin’ of bad liquor, the lasses got all I had left.”

  “All? You lost it all?”

  “Makin’ it back, though. I get all the cooch I want, while Big Beam and Pompey go about to
wn, tellin’ the boyos who’ll pay in gold all about our floatin’ palace of pudenda. That’s Latin for the pussy, the snatch, the cunt itself, the wellspring of life, deeper and richer and way more rewardin’ than all the hot holes men are diggin’ up in them blasted foothills.” He chuckled. “Of course, your Boston investors, they’d fall over dead if they seen the holes we drill on this ship. But—”

  “Trask? Where is he?”

  Flynn gestured to the east. “Gold country swallowed him up, like it swallows up damn near everybody. Swallows ’em whole, then shits ’em out into the California dirt, and they never even know they been digested. I’ll stay here and get fucked when I want and get fifteen percent to protect these gals when they do their business.”

  “What happened to your dream? Your Boston dream?”

  Flynn looked at the hills and islands around us, blinked, and said, “Why, I woke up.”

  I took a ticket from my pocket and put it into his hand. “The Senator is leaving this afternoon. We can be in Broke Neck tomorrow.”

  “What’s so damned important in Broke Neck, now?”

  “Hodges. He’s gone to the Miwok Valley.”

  “Let him. I’ll stay on the Willie Winter. And you’d be smart to take passage on the Panama, not the Senator. She’ll be here in a day or two. You’ll be steamin’ back to Boston in the time it takes to fuel her up and turn her around. Get on back to civilization, Jamie. It’s what you’re made for.”

  “I signed on to tell the story of Hodges. And we owe that old man up there. Without him, we’d be dead. So I’ll see you in an hour or goddamn you.”

  February 3, 1850

  Returning

  Michael Flynn did not meet me on the dock, so I gave him a good goddamning, then goddamned myself because he was right. I had “seen the elephant.” I had faced loaded guns, fought for my life, found a fortune in gold, and met inhabitants of the Celestial Empire itself. I had watched men die and had buried them and had nearly died myself. If all that experience could not make me a writer, nothing could. So I should have taken passage for Panama City and joined the reverse migration across the isthmus to the Atlantic, where a fleet of steamers now ran between Chagres and the East Coast. I would have known the embrace of my beloved before the glaring red rockets of the Glorious Fourth had faded from the Massachusetts sky.