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

by William Martin

  Flynn said we could have stew later, so we made for the line on the south side of the street. A dozen men stood in front of us, all waiting to get into the big top of Big Beam’s Traveling Circus of Earthly Delights, where every man stopped before heading to one of the smaller tents that led to fulfillment. We waited our turn. We would have been in a fight otherwise. There was almost a fight anyway, as the two men ahead of us—two from the Triple MW, a skinny, hairy specimen named Vinegar Miller and his rat-like partner Charlie Boles—offered us crosswise looks as soon as we ambled up behind them.

  But Flynn answered with a smile. “Boys, as the unofficial Irish mayor of Big Skull Rock, I proclaim all hostilities suspended for the night, since we’re all after one thing: the best fuck of our life.”

  And that seemed sufficient. Without a crosswise word to match their looks, they turned back to the night’s plan.

  Things had grown more organized since Big Beam’s first visit. Just inside the flap, at a table under a lantern, he greeted each man. A chalkboard behind him showed the names of seven girls. And yes, Maria was one of them. Big Beam wrote the name of each man on the board, next to the name of the girl he requested, either for herself or for her particular specialty. Some men liked to ask for Sheila. Others cared only to know that they were getting a “round rump” or “smooth-shaved legs.” Big Beam promised to fulfill requests, if he could, then demanded an ounce for fifteen minutes, two for thirty, and so forth, but No Kredit Accepted, as the sign said. So men dutifully measured out their dust, then sat on benches, like schoolboys awaiting dismissal into the June sunshine. When a girl came ready, she would ring a bell and another miner would go through the back flap. If there was romance in any of this, I did not see it. But romance was not the point.

  I requested Maria. Flynn made a joke of my request, something about me being in love. Then he and Big Beam went to jawing about all the whoremongering competition coming into the gold country. Meanwhile, men kept streaming through the back flap, toward the smaller tents until only two remained ahead of me.

  Then Big Beam called for Vinegar Miller, who popped up, cried, “Here I be.”

  The other miner, Charlie Boles shouted, “Hey, we come in together.”

  “One of you has to wait,” said Big Beam. “There’ll be another girl soon.”

  “I waited all day. I ain’t waitin’ no more,” said Boles.

  “Me neither,” said Miller.

  Big Beam said, “But there’s only one girl.”

  Raised voices brought Pompey to the back flap, ready to exert himself.

  But when it came to sex, the men of the Triple MW were downright cooperative. Boles said, “We’ll both take her, then. We’ll give you four—no five!—five ounces for half an hour. That ought to give us some extra fun. Right, pardner?”

  Vinegar Miller got a devilish glint in his eye, pulled out his pouch, and dropped it on the table. “Take what you want out of there. Then let’s get to her.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Big Beam scratched the back of his neck.

  Charlie Boles pulled out his pouch and offered three more ounces.

  It was all too much for Big Beam to turn down. “The girl is Maria, in tent six.”

  I made a strange, strangled sound, and Flynn asked if I was all right.

  I said to Beam, “I’ll pay six ounces for her, right now.”

  Miller and Boles looked at me. Then Miller said to Big Beam, “Tell that son of a bitch to wait his turn.” Then he and his friend went through the back flap.

  I thought to follow them, to stop them. I even took a step, but Pompey put himself in front of me. “Sorry, Mr. Spencer, but once the boys pays their gold and go down the line, ain’t nothin’ we can do. You get her for free, like I promised. But they gettin’ what they want first.”

  Big Beam said, “If you wasn’t friends with my old pardner, I’d throw you out on your thick head. Just sit quiet and wait. You’ll have the little Mexican filly in half an hour.”

  I called him a fat son of a bitch and would have called him more, but Flynn grabbed my elbow and pulled me away, whispering, “Either you found something good or you’re in love. Want to let me in on it?”

  Before I could speak, Big Beam shouted, “Flynn! Roberta’s free. And she been talkin’ about you all day. Says she powdered up nice, just for you.”

  Flynn said, “I’m here for Sheila, but I missed Roberta, too. Maybe I’ll have her, then pay another ounce for Sheila.” And that was the end of my talk with Flynn. He told me, “You be careful, Jamie, and wait your turn.” Then he headed for the back flap.

  More men were coming in, loud men swinging jugs, spreading laughter and the scatology of minds made up for fucking.

  One of them shouted, “We hit it big, and we all want a poke!”

  “That’s right. Poke anything that ain’t nailed down.”

  “One ounce for fifteen minutes,” said Beam. “Gold dust up front. Leave your guns with me.”

  “You want my pistol or my gun?” shouted another, and they laughed and burped and farted and eyed me as if they remembered me from somewhere. One of them dropped down beside me, his breeches already bulging, and offered me a swallow of whiskey.

  I took it. I could use it, and refusing it would only bring bad feelings, of which there were already enough in that tent.

  Then, to my surprise Deering Sloate came in, approached Big Beam, and asked for Sheila. “I hear she’ll take it in the rump.”

  “You’ll have to pay her a bit more,” said Beam. “Leave your pistol with me.”

  Sloate seemed to be a man who followed his stiff dick in any direction it took him. He paid his money, dropped his gun and holster, looked around, and his eye fell on me. “Writing with your other pen, Spencer? What’ll that girl back in Boston think?”

  “What would your mother think?”

  In response, his hand went to his hip. I was glad he was unarmed.

  I decided to step out of the tent, away from Sloate, away from the cloying smells of perfumed canvas and whiskey breath, away from the close stink of miners in rut. Another fifteen minutes in that tent and I’d be gagging.

  I walked a little ways up the street, past the crowd slopping down in Emery’s eating tent, and I took a perch on the stoop of Emery’s store.

  Miz Pat came out, aproned and sweating, to take a small rest. She lit a cigar, which did not shock me as once it might have, and she leaned against the porch post.

  I said, “The boys like your stew.”

  “They’d eat anything that didn’t eat them first, so long as it had a sauce.” She took a deep inhalation of smoke and said, “Sure is rowdy tonight. Are you headin’ for the girlie-tents?”

  “Yes, but not for the purpose you might be thinking.”

  “My husband said you were a strange young man.”

  I suppose that I was, given such an answer as that. And she had no more talk to offer. So she turned and went back inside, muttering about more carrots for the stew.

  I stayed on the stoop, watching the men surging through the streets. I heard laughter from the eating tent. I listened to the piano in Grouchy Pete’s pounding out “Oh, Susanna.” The fucking and eating and carousing would go on all night beneath the sputtering torches of this transitory little town in the middle of the wilderness, and—

  —a scream pierced the air like the shattering of a window. It came from the line of whoring tents. A moment later, Maria burst from the last of them, running, running as if she had just seen hell and wanted to escape before she fell into the abyss, running as I had never seen a woman run before, running completely and utterly naked, and screaming as she ran, wordless and terrified.

  Vinegar Miller lurched out of the tent after her and cried, “Murder! Murder!”

  Pompey burst from the main tent. “Murder? Who been murdered?”

  Then Boles staggered out behind Miller, looked down at his chest, reached for the handle of the knife now protruding from it, and collapsed.

&nbs
p; “Murder! Right here!” cried Miller. “That Mexican whore just killed my pardner!”

  Two miners came out of Grouchy Pete’s. One fired his gun into the air. The other shouted into the saloon, “Hey, come see the naked whore!”

  Pompey grabbed Miller and threw him back. “You just wait, now. Wait.”

  I ran into the street, and as she came toward me, I tried to grab her. “Maria, stop! It’s me. Spencer.”

  She gouged at my eyes and kept running, the innocent nakedness of her shining in the torchlight.

  Now dozens of men were running and lurching and staggering from everywhere, shouting for us to grab her, stop her, get the Mexican whore.

  The man in the top hat and black frock stalked out of Grouchy Pete’s. He had a noose over his shoulder. He saw the young woman go by. He saw the body of the miner. He stepped off the porch and strode after her.

  Pompey tried to put himself in front of the crowd. He threw up his hands and shouted, “Y’all wait one damn minute, now. Let me get her. She trust me. She—”

  I heard a gunshot, and the crowd surged over the falling Pompey, all except for one in a white suit, who rifled Pompey’s pockets, pulled off his money belt, grabbed his pistol. As he ran off, I saw the pomade shining in his hair. The gambler named Becker, making good on a threat, which meant Bunche was sure to be lurking nearby.

  Now the Gaws burst from the saloon. Moses was unfurling his new whip. David was carrying the leg of a chair like a club.

  I put myself between Maria and the men and cried, “Stop! She’s just a girl! Stop!”

  But the mob did not stop for me, either. They were an angry wave rolling right at me, right over me. When the chair leg hit me, the world went black.

  * * *

  THEY HANGED HER FROM the oak tree beside Emery’s Emporium.

  Her pendent body was my first sight when I came to. Pain was my first sensation … for her and for the throbbing inside my skull.

  Flynn had dragged me unconscious out of the riot, to the safety of Emery’s porch.

  I tried to go to her, but Flynn held me, held me down, held me in place.

  “Goddamn them,” I said. “She was just a girl.”

  “She killed a man,” said George Emery.

  I looked over toward the line of whoring tents, to where Boles had fallen. They had carried him off, but Pompey still lay there, in a pool of blood that glistened darkly in the torchlight.

  Flynn said, “I reckon our black friend won’t be buyin’ that family, after all.”

  My mind, fogged by confusion and pain, kept going from the girl to Pompey and back. I said, “Who hanged her?”

  Miz Pat put a mug of tea into my hands. “Moses Gaw got her with his whip, tripped her, dragged her. Then his brother started in to screamin’ hellfire and damnation on a murderess. Then a tall man in black frock and top hat stepped up, said he’d do the work of the Lord and the law.”

  I said to Flynn, “Trask? He hanged her?”

  “I’m thinkin’ he’ll hang anybody.”

  “Sure did kill the appetites in the eatin’ tent,” said George Emery.

  Miz Pat told her husband, “If that’s all you have to say, get inside.”

  The town had gone quiet. Even the randiest of miners left after the hanging. The only sound came from the hissing and sputtering of the torches that lit the street.

  Then Big Beam appeared from his big tent and hurried toward us like a man late for work. He carried a ladder on his shoulder and was muttering, “Terrible thing. Terrible thing to have to see. Terrible. Terrible.”

  George Emery said, “At least justice was swift.”

  Miz Pat turned to him, “I swear, George—”

  As Maria twisted in the night breeze, so that her breasts and bottom were displayed for any who passed, Big Beam fitted the ladder beneath her and called over to us, “Does anybody got a knife?”

  I said, “Why don’t you use the one she fought them off with?”

  Big Beam said, “Why don’t you just stay out of it?”

  “I stayed out of it.” I came down off the porch and strode toward the ladder. “I let you use her, you and those dirty miners, and now—” I looked up at her and felt something explode inside me. It was in my mind, and suddenly, it was in my whole being.

  I flew at Big Beam and smashed into the ladder and sent him sprawling onto his fat, food-filled belly. When he tried to get up, I kicked him in that belly, then kicked him again, then again, kicked out all the fury I had in me, all the anger building for months, anger at the ease with which men slipped the bonds of civility and civilization, kicked out all the anger at letting those bonds slip in myself, kicked and kicked and smashed my boot into his face, so that his nose crunched, then kicked again so that his teeth flew and then, Flynn flashed from somewhere … and the world went black once more.

  March 31, 1850

  Swift Justice

  Morning sunlight brought no joy when it struck my face.

  Flynn was sitting on the edge of his pallet. He said, “Sorry I had to hit you. I thought you might kill Big Beam.”

  “She was sixteen. He let two miners have her at once. Damn him, damn them, and damn this place.” I was lost, cut loose from anchor and mooring. The mob had left me unnerved, unwound, and unmanned. I stared at the wall, saw her naked breasts and blackened face twisting obscenely, then saw the black bulk of Pompey, bleeding in street.

  Flynn brought me coffee.

  I did not want it.

  He suggested I step outside.

  I wanted to stay in the dark of the cabin, stay and hold my head, keep it motionless and empty.

  Flynn brought me my journal and suggested I write. “Might make you feel better.”

  I said, “I’ll write about Pompey, shot down like a dog—”

  “Pompey got no more rights here than in South Carolina. It was one of them gamblers killed him. A low brace of cowards, them two.”

  I took the pen and dipped into the ink and stared at the page. They say that after a blow to the head, a man can go wobbly for days … or months. I had taken two, and though I scratched a few things, I could not focus. I closed my eyes and held my head. I heard Flynn working outside. I heard the Chinese down by the river. I heard Chin talking to Flynn. I could not hear what they were saying. I did not care. Then, late in the day, I heard horses coming down the opposite bank. Whoever they were, let them come.

  Then I heard Samuel Hodges say, “Who you boys speak-ee English?”

  Moses Gaw said, “The tallest one, the one scowlin’.”

  Chin said, “I know your language.”

  “You tell others boys, we no like-ee fight, so they move, chop chop.”

  “But tax?” said Chin. “If we pay tax?”

  “The council met last night,” said Hodges. “We’ve decided to move you all out. No more Chinks or Niggers or Mexicans murdering white men.”

  I went to the window. The sunlight made my head throb.

  Hodges had brought half a dozen Sagamores, including the Gaws, Tom Lyons, Sloate, Vinegar Miller, and Christopher Harding. Up on the road, in white duster and top hat, Miner’s Councilor Micah Broadback sat his horse. Next to him, a perfect contrast in black, sat Nathan Trask. Broadback looked like he did not want to take any part in this. Trask looked like he was yearning to use the noose again.

  Tom Lyons said, “From now on, foreigners can pass through, but they’ll stake no claims in Broke Neck, not even on tailing piles like this.”

  Stepping into the cabin, Flynn watched through the open door. “Might be trouble.” For all his volubility, he understated things when they were at their worst.

  Little Ng, shirtless in the hot sun, had moved close to Chin. The other three, in their baggy clothes and straw hats, had formed a half circle around Mei-Ling. Uncle Bao held a hoe, Little Ng’s big brother, Ng-goh, stood with a shovel, and Friendly Liu had produced a pair of threshing sticks chained together.

  Flynn said, “I don’t like it, Jamie. If them Trip
le MWs find out about Mei-Ling—”

  Hodges was saying, “We’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

  “Fifteen minutes?” Chin just stood there.

  Hodges pulled out his watch. “Starting now.”

  Flynn said to me, “Last night is an excuse. No talk. No tax. Just go. He’ll steal every foreign claim, give it to some white miner.”

  Chin was saying, “We do no bad thing. We no move.” Then he took a few steps toward the other Chinese.

  Hodges looked up toward our cabin, to see if we were watching, then he said to Moses Gaw, “Seize him up. Tie him to the wheel.”

  Two men grabbed Chin, who kept his eyes fiercely on Hodges …

  … who leaned down from his horse and said, “A dozen lashes, Mr. Chinee man. Then you leave. If you stay, we give a dozen to every Chink here.”

  They dragged him to the wheel, which was chocked and motionless above the current.

  I moved toward the door.

  Flynn stepped into my way. “No, Jamie. They have to face this themselves.”

  Four of Hodges’s men tied Chin, hand and foot. He said nothing and did not struggle, as if by taking the punishment he could protect the rest.

  But David Gaw had dismounted and was walking among the Chinese. He stopped in front of the smallest of them, gave a long look, and said, “Brother Moses, let’s flog this one instead.” He was pointing at Mei-Ling.

  And Flynn forgot his own advice. He flew out the door and down the hill with his Colt drawn and fury in his stride.

  Sloate pulled his pistol and swung it toward Flynn, but Hodges stopped him and said, “No. No. Not yet.” Then he shouted at Flynn, “Keep that gun pointed down.”

  “These people had nothin’ to do with last night,” answered Flynn. “You got no right to be punishin’ them. If they pay the tax, take it, and ride on.”

  “Did you hear that,” said Moses Gaw. “This arrogant Mick says ride on. To us?”

  Hodges looked at him, “Arrogant in Boston, arrogant in Broke Neck.”

  Sloate laughed as if he knew that a bully’s laughter was just the thing to provoke an Irishman’s anger. “You think you can drive all of us off yourself, Mick?”