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

by William Martin

Gaw yelled, “That’s what we do to Chink lovers!”

  I rolled over and tried to see where Cletis and his old gun were. But Deering Soate was holding a pistol to Cletis’s head. I was on my own.

  Moses Gaw was hauling on the whip, dragging me toward him “Come on, Mr. Boston Writer, come and take the lickin’ you deserve for insultin’ our American democracy.”

  The men were egging him on, cheering his strength and anger. This was now nothing but great fun and good entertainment at my expense.

  But if Moses Gaw thought that calling me a writer would appeal to my sense of myself as a gentleman, he was mistaken. I rolled over and grabbed a handful of dirt, rolled again, and flung it at his face.

  Gaw bellowed and brought his hands to his eyes, but he never let go of the whip.

  I tried to stand, and he yanked the whip again, slamming me onto my back.

  “Now you’ve bought a real beatin’.” Gaw strode toward me to deliver something—a bare knuckles or a boot—while the men closed around him.

  Then, as if it had come from the sky, a fist flew from the crowd, a flash-pan left that drove into Gaw’s big, broad belly and stopped him in mid-stride. He doubled up around the fist, and looked toward the puncher, just as a right hand shot from shoulder-level into Gaw’s face. His nose crunched. He landed on his ass in the middle of the street, looked up dumbly, and a boot took him square in the jaw.

  Michael Flynn had come back, and just in time. He spun around, looking into the eyes of every miner, and shouted, “If anybody attacks one of me pardners, he attacks me. Fightin’ with Jamie Spencer means fightin’ with me. Do you understand?”

  I got to my feet, wiped the warm blood from my cheek, and grabbed for my pistol and hat.

  Flynn shouted it again, with a kind of crazy Irish anger that he could summon when he needed it. “Maybe you sons of bitches didn’t hear me. I said, ‘Do ye’s all understand?’ ’Cause I ain’t askin’ another time.”

  Deering Sloate turned his pistol onto Flynn.

  But I heard George Emery’s voice, “Don’t you be thinkin’ of shootin’ any of my friends, there, bub. You pull that trigger, I’ll let fly, and it’ll be too damn bad for whoever gets hurt.” Emery stood in the doorway of his store, with his fowling piece at his hip. The miners downwind of him immediately gave way, making a wide berth for the spray of ball and buck that was sure to follow if Emery kept his word.

  Hodges made a slight motion of his hand, and Sloate lowered the gun.

  “That’s better,” said Emery, and he shouted, “You need to get control of your men, there, Mr. Samuel Hodges.”

  Moses Gaw by now had rolled onto all fours, spit blood, and reached for his whip.

  Flynn snatched it away and threw it at my feet. “Go ahead, Jamie. Use it on him.”

  I wiped the blood from my face, picked up the whip, and—when David Gaw made a move, I snapped it. I was shocked by the power I felt at the end of my arm.

  David Gaw stopped where he was. “Best put that down. Or it’ll go awful bad.”

  Moses Gaw looked up. “You’re bound for trouble, mister. Right now.”

  And here was the crucial moment. In half a second, we could all be spraying lead and leather and blood, but—

  As always, Flynn knew when to throw water on rising flames. “Nobody’s bound for trouble, Mr. Whip Man, so long as you stay calm. If you do, I’ll give you first crack.”

  “First crack at what?” said Hodges, as if he was ready to leap down and exact the revenge he had been planning on Flynn since the Arbella Club.

  “First crack,” Flynn paused like an actor, then shouted, “at the women!”

  In that transcendent moment, it was as if a second sun had burst though the blue of the cloudless California sky.

  Women? Women? The word went flying faster than the tip of the whip, repeated a hundred times, two hundred, all in an instant. Women? Women! WOMEN!

  Then we heard wild, high-pitched shouts from the west, and a female voice screamed, “Howdy, boys! Howdy! Howdy!”

  A covered wagon came pushing up the road into the mob of men. A gang of painted women was waving from behind Pompey, who rode shotgun for Big John Beam. Yes, Big Beam, the two-legged San Francisco rat, was riding to the rescue, whipping the horses, shouting and yahooing in a voice loud enough to call the grizzlies down from the hills.

  And among the Broke Neck mob erupted a riot of running, stumbling, rushing, pushing, until Michael Flynn leaped onto the wagon beside Hodges, and fired three times into the air. “You’ll all get your turn, boys. We brung some fine ladies, and—”

  A miner shouted, “I can smell ’em!”

  Another shouted, “Smell ’em? I can taste ’em!”

  Another one shouted, “I can’t taste ’em, but my mouth’s waterin’!”

  Concerns about democracy, the taxing of foreigners, and the revenge that I now wanted upon Moses Gaw, which was surely as strong as what he wanted upon Michael Flynn—all of that faded in the cloud of perfume and high-pitched female laughter.

  * * *

  IT IS FAIR TO say that February 10, 1850, brought a greater transfer of wealth in Broke Neck than any day before or since (including the best days of ’48, when the earth itself rendered riches to any man who could bend at the waist).

  Samuel Hodges proclaimed that the Miner’s Council would deliver to every man another free drink while they waited for Big Beam’s Traveling Circus of Earthly Delights to stake its tents and position its wagons on the south side of the road, right next to Grouchy Pete’s. Then he sent the Gaw brothers home to their wives, no doubt because they had to appear as virtuous men. He also sent George Beal to see to my face, which would not stop bleeding.

  Doc Beal took me to the rear of Emery’s store, gave my cheek a look, and said, “Stitches.” He then pinched the skin together and challenged my manhood with a curved surgeon’s needle and thread, four times, painfully but neatly.

  And in a reversal of a long-ago scene aboard the William Winter, Flynn appeared with a flask. “You have an awful habit of speakin’ your mind, James Spencer. It’ll get you into trouble. Ain’t that right, Doc?”

  “I’m glad he did,” said the young doctor. “Honest words take root.”

  Flynn offered me the flask. “Ain’t right, drivin’ out foreigners.”

  I took a drink and said I was grateful for his help.

  “Not at all, not at all.” He offered us peppermints. “Thank me when I get you laid.”

  Doc Beal said, “These girls you’ve brought, are they clean?”

  “They all had baths in San Francisco,” said Flynn. “I washed Roberta meself.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking,” said the doctor.

  “Well, come to think of it, I got a bit of an itch, like.”

  “I don’t want a girl,” I said, “whether she itches or not.”

  “Yes, you do, Jamie.” Flynn caught Doc Beal’s eye. “Don’t he, Doc?”

  “He’s twenty-five. He wants something.” The doctor raised an eyebrow, as if to ask if what I wanted was not a woman. “Be careful, both of you, or you’ll both end up with the itch.”

  “Ah, but it’ll go away,” said Flynn. “Always does.”

  “If it doesn’t,” said Doc Beal, “come see me. I’ll give you the mercury treatment.”

  “Shove a big needle up me pecker and shoot me full of quicksilver?” Flynn put his hands over his crotch. “Not on your life.”

  “That’s not how it works. But it’s not my life I’m worried about,” said the doctor. “You both should be worried to start a war with the Triple MW. Hodges has changed.”

  “He seems like more of the same to me,” said Flynn.

  “No,” said the doctor. “More dangerous.”

  “Love conquers danger,” answered Flynn. “That’s what I told Big Beam. I said, ‘Too much love in San Francisco. Women arrivin’ every day, some a lot better lookin’ than what we’re offerin’ the stiff peckers of Portsmouth Square. So let’s head f
or the hills. Bring some love to lonely miners.’”

  I asked, “Are they the girls you had on the ship?”

  “And a few more. You remember Señor Vargas? We stopped at his ranchero. He offered two girls, indentures up from Mexico.”

  “You mean, slaves?” I asked. “Sex slaves?”

  The doctor shook his head, as if he did not want to hear more, as if it disgusted him, as if he had seen too much in every direction that disgusted him. He packed his instruments into his leather case and said, “We’ll cut those stitches out in a week. I’ll come to your claim, just so long as that old man with the blunderbuss doesn’t shoot me.”

  “Once he gets his poke,” said Flynn, “he’ll be downright docile.”

  I said, “Cletis? He’s in line for a poke?”

  “He damn sure is.” Flynn took me by the elbow. “And you need one yourself.”

  * * *

  FLYNN LED ME OUT onto the porch of Emery’s Emporium.

  Though the days were getting longer, the lanterns were already ablaze because when dark came to those foothills, it came quickly. George Emery was leaning against a post, looking across the street at a line of miners outside the largest of the new-pitched tents.

  Flynn said, “You been over there, Georgie boy? Considerin’ all you done for this town, I could get you one on the house.”

  “My wife would kill me. And don’t call me Georgie.”

  Flynn, always impossible to insult, tipped his hat. “Well, you don’t mind if I give Jamie a tour of the titties and bums, do you?” And he led me toward the tent.

  I stopped in the middle of the street and said, “I’m not sure about this.”

  I know how naïve I sounded. But my experience with women was as limited as my experience with life had been when I boarded the William Winter. I had gone far toward expanding the latter. I wanted to expand the former. But—

  “Come on, lad,” Flynn whispered, “Sally Five-Fingers won’t make you a man, nor teach you how to love a woman. And there’s a long line of fellers who seen you take a beatin’ already today. If you don’t go into one of them tents with a bulge in your breeches and come out pantin’ from the pokin’, they’ll call you a nancy-boy for sure.”

  “But—”

  “I have someone special for you.” And he told me to wait. Then he jumped to the head of the line, ignoring the grousing miners. In the tent, Big Beam had set up a table on which were scales, a loaded fowling piece, and hourglass timers. After a few words, Flynn gestured for me to follow.

  And I went. I wanted it as much as any man in Broke Neck. And I decided that what Janiva did not know would not hurt her.

  “You got fifteen minutes,” said Flynn.

  Then he led me through the back flap and down a line of six smaller tents lit by lanterns hung from poles. Beneath one of them stood Pompey, arms folded like a harem guard. All around him rose the sounds of male satisfaction, of female urging, of the grunting of every man desperate to make the most of his time before the sand in his glass ran out.

  I said to Pompey, “I see you found something other than cooking.”

  “Oh, we cookin’, Mr. Spencer. And the food be very tasty.”

  Flynn led me to the last tent and shoved me through the flap.

  I expected to see a woman from the ship, like Roberta or Sheila, wrapped in crusty sheets or stained camisole. Instead a small, birdlike girl of dusky complexion sat, head down, on the edge of the cot. Her eyes darted up to me, glistened briefly in the dim light, then turned down. She wore a clean, plain dress, a black ribbon around her neck, and a red ribbon in her hair, which was wet and combed back, as if someone has spruced her up a few moments before I entered.

  I did not smell that feral, female aroma that I remembered from the other whores. If I smelled anything, it was fear. I said, “Good evening.”

  She kept her eyes on her hands in her lap.

  Outside, Pompey shouted, “Hey, Number Five. Fifteen minutes up.”

  In the adjoining tent, a man began to pound harder, the thump of copulation causing our canvas walls to vibrate as if the breeze had just stiffened.

  Pompey repeated, “Time’s up!”

  “But so am I!” said the man in Number Five, then he whispered, “Damned embarrassin’ to be explainin’ such things to a nigger.”

  “If you ain’t out in sixteen seconds,” said Pompey, “you’ll pay another ounce.”

  I heard the man finish, stumble, jump, bump, and fall out of the tent next to ours.

  I said to the girl, “He’s very clumsy.”

  She nodded but did not look up.

  I sat beside her on her pallet and asked her name.

  She said, “It does not matter.”

  “You are very young.”

  “I am sixteen, señor.” Her accent was thick with the music of Old Mexico. “Please do not hurt me.”

  I took her hand. I knew what I wanted to do. I was simply mustering the courage to do it. I asked, “Have other men hurt you?”

  And she stopped me with this. “There have not been other men.”

  I was shocked. I said, “I am the first to—”

  She took her hand away and folded it on her lap. “This is my new job.”

  “And before?”

  “I work at the Vargas hacienda, washing and cooking. Then Señor Vargas tell me to go with Beam and the Irish man who talk so much. El Patrón say times are hard. He need to make more money. So he sell me and—”

  “El Patrón? With the broken leg?”

  “His son. Back from the gold fields with nothing to show. Back now to run what is left of their ranchero. The old señor is dying.”

  Any lust I felt for her, in my head or my loins, drained quickly away. She did not want to be here, not for desire or commerce. I leaned over and kissed her cheek. She neither rejected nor invited. But when she turned her face, so that a shaft of light fell upon her from the lantern outside, I recognized her.

  This was the girl who had cared for me in my sickness at Sutter’s Fort. Whenever Rodrigo could not come, she had brought me beef broth and clean water. She had been gentle and kind. I took her hand and reminded her and thanked her for taking mercy on a sick man.

  Then Pompey shouted through the canvas flap.

  My time was up. I said good-bye.

  Maria thanked me for my kindness.

  I felt better hearing those words than if I had spent half the night spending myself inside her. I felt better for me … but worried for her.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, I MADE SURE to walk with a bit of a strut, so that Flynn would sense a change in me.

  “How you feelin’?” he asked.

  “Fine, just fine.”

  “The quiet type, eh? How was she?”

  “A nice girl.”

  He gave me a long look, then said, “I’ll be damned, Jamie, but it’s the quiet ones who do the best. You could go far with the ladies. But for now, let’s go home.”

  “Home?”

  “Back to the claim.”

  This puzzled me. I thought he had found his life’s work in whoredom.

  He said, “I woke up the mornin’ after you left and thought, damn me, but Jamie’s right. I come to here to find a river of gold, not little trickles of it dribblin’ from the dicks of randy miners. So I’m splittin’ with Beam. Takin’ me share, gettin’ back to manly work.”

  There was nothing to say to that, so we walked some in silence. Then I stopped.

  “What?” said Flynn. “Do you want to go back? Get another poke already?”

  “What would you think of me buying that girl I was just with.”

  And Flynn laughed in my face. A burst of whiskey breath and bacon, loud and maniacally amused. “By Jesus, you’re in love!” And he started walking.

  I followed on, saying, “Not in love. But—”

  “You spend fifteen minutes in a little Mexican gal—or was it fifteen seconds?—and you think—”

  “She’s not made for this.�
��

  “She got a pussy, ain’t she? Besides, the old Patrón was worried that his grandson, Rodrigo, was fallin’ in love with a girl from a lower class, so they sold her to us.”

  “For how much?”

  Flynn led me to a buckboard beside Beam’s covered wagon. He flung back the canvas, revealing a load of supplies—coffee, flour, bacon, brandy, beans, and four hogsheads of gunpowder. “Beam and me, we bought up a lot of supplies, agreed to divvy ’em when we split. El Patrón offered us the girl if we’d barter. He didn’t need food, but he said he could use some gunpowder. So he took nine hogsheads. We kept the rest.”

  “Why gunpowder?”

  “He’s sellin’ it to miners. Good for blastin’ holes in hard rock. Never know but we might need it ourselves. And with Emery’s prices, it’s for damn sure we can use the rest of the supplies, too.”

  February 11, 1850

  Chinese Eggs and Chinese Gold

  In the morning, I stepped out of the cabin and saw something I had never seen in six months in California: a smile on the face of Wei Chin. He was brewing tea at our campfire, and two large sacks were curled at his feet.

  He stood and offered a deep bow. Then the Chinese across the river stood as one from their tasks and raised their hands over their heads and clapped, causing the birds to flutter up from the bushes on the bank above them. Uncle Bao, Friendly Liu, Ng-goh, Little Ng, and Mei-Ling sent their joy echoing up the valley and down.

  “They know your words in the town yesterday,” said Chin. “They thank you.”

  I did not say that if I’d had it to do again, I might have held my peace.

  The noise brought Flynn and Cletis stumbling out, and I noticed Flynn’s eyes brighten. Then he turned and went back into the cabin.

  Mei-Ling was crossing the river, climbing for the first time toward Big Skull Rock. She carried a small lacquered box before her with great ceremony until she stopped directly in front of me. She handed the box to her brother. Then she withdrew a tin of salve from her sleeve and, with a delicate gesture, daubed some on my face, which had swelled so that my left eye was all but closed.

  I admit that I was filled with warmth and desire both. Had she been the girl in the tent, I would not have held back out of conscience, guilt, or fear of disease. But her brother was watching, and Michael Flynn was returning with a bag of peppermints, which he offered her, saying, “Here you go, darlin’. All the way from San Francisco.”