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

by William Martin

  I jumped into my breeches and boots and ran to rouse the Aussies, for we had goods to protect in the Brannan Warehouse. Past the long table in the saloon I ran, past the caboose, into the forecastle, and—where were they? Their berths were empty. Could they still be carousing at this hour?

  I raced back to our cabin, where Janiva was already dressed, striking a match, lighting a lantern, and screaming at the sight of a face appearing at the stern gallery.

  But it was Flynn, once more clean shaven. He pulled open the window and said, “It’s a bad one, Jamie.”

  I told him the Aussies were gone.

  “Probably out lootin’.” He climbed in. “Them Sydney Ducks been braggin’ they could torch the city and loot the hell out of it whilst it burned.”

  I said, “If the Brannan Warehouse goes—”

  Janiva said, “If it goes, the five hundred shovels we’re holding on this ship will become the most valuable shovels in California.”

  “So we’d best stay and protect them,” I said.

  “It’ll take a long time to steal five hundred shovels,” said Flynn. “You got a lot more in that warehouse you need to protect. But the lady—”

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Janiva.

  “I don’t, darlin’, not at all, not with a woman who can sail seventeen thousand miles on her own hook, all for the glories of love and commerce. But I worry for your goods. So your husband should stay with you to protect ’em on this ship, and I’ll go protect ’em in your warehouse.”

  Janiva said, “They won’t even know who you are, Michael. They’ll shoot you for a looter. So both of you, go. I’ll stay with the shovels.”

  And before I could protest, she grabbed a fistful of my shirt and looked at me fiercely. “This is our future, James.”

  “She’s right about that,” said Flynn.

  Then she went to the locker in the corner and pulled out the seven-barrel Nock gun that the captain of the Proud Pilgrim had left behind when he headed for the gold fields. It was like a small cannon, perfect for sweeping a deck of mutineers or pirates. She said, “I have shot duck on the Rowley Marshes and partridge in the Berkshire Hills. I can shoot anyone who comes aboard this ship.”

  And I relented. She was right. Our future lay crated and priced in that warehouse, not to mention the gold in Brannan’s safe.

  I said, “Stay here, then. Bolt the door. If anyone tries to get in, shoot through the door. Seven barrels will make an awful mess, no matter what’s on the other side. Then use this.” I put my pistol on the table. “It’s fresh-loaded and capped.” I kissed her and followed Flynn out the window, down the rope, into the rowboat.

  The red glow of dawn was expanding to the east. But we were headed toward the redder glow of the flames spreading over San Francisco.

  “The wind is up,” I said.

  “Bad sign.” Flynn took the oars. “But there’s a good sign behind you.”

  I looked over my shoulder at Janiva, standing in the side gallery, watching us, with the big gun in her hand. I waved to her, but she could not see me in the dim light.

  Flynn pulled a few times—clink, clank, splash—and said, “I was hopin’ you’d come with me. Help me find my river of gold. But you found your gold right here.”

  * * *

  WE TIED UP AT the foot of the Clay Street Wharf and ran.

  We passed four men dipping buckets and filling a canvas-lined cart. One of them was shouting, “Hurry up, damn you. They’re giving sixty dollars a cart for water. If we can keep it comin’, we’ll be rich before the city burns down.”

  “Does your heart proud to see men doin’ their civic duty,” said Flynn.

  We ran past the Niantic, its balcony crowded with gawkers watching the flames on the hill. We ran all the way to the end of the wharf and dove into a torrent of people and carts and animals flooding Sansome Street.

  A month ago, this had been a dock. Now it was a thoroughfare, lined with one- and two-story buildings, sheds, canvas tents, saloons. And it might all soon be gone. Everywhere, men were running and stumbling, in and out of buildings or off toward the wharfs. Some were saving what they could carry. Others were stealing what they could grab. And a noble few were preparing to fight the fire, filling buckets and daubing walls with great gobs of insulating black mud.

  Meanwhile, more fire bells were clanging. And in one of the saloons, someone was pounding on a piano, perhaps for the last time.

  The whole east side of Portsmouth Square, the downhill side, was now ablaze, including the magnificent new Parker House, scheduled to reopen that very night with a grand ball. And the wind was pumping the smoke and firebrands in our direction, so that everywhere, sparks were flickering on rooftops and boardwalks.

  “If that wind keeps up,” said Flynn, “Frisco’s fucked.”

  A gang of men came along, hauling a red fire pump. The words MARTIN VAN BUREN were painted on the side. It had once belonged to the former president, who used it to water his lawn. Saving San Francisco on this night would be a far greater challenge.

  “Hey, lads, tail on,” shouted one of the volunteers. “We could use a push.”

  “We got things to do,” answered Flynn.

  Another volunteer shouted to a gang of men milling about on the corner of Clay Street. “You! What about you? We need help gettin’ up the hill.”

  “Three dollars an hour!” said one of the men.

  “Why, you son of a bitch,” shouted the brigade captain. “We got a fire to fight and a city to save. If that fire gets goin’—”

  “It’s already goin’, mate,” cried one of the corner hangers. “The Exchange is gone. The new Parker House is goin’. It’s all bloody goin’.”

  Flynn grabbed me by the elbow. “Sydney Ducks. Keep clear of ’em.”

  The captain looked from the Ducks to us, then back. “So none of you’ll help?”

  “Three dollars an hour!” shouted one of the Ducks. “Each!”

  “Well, fuck you all!” The fire captain made a swooping wave and got his men going again to push the Martin Van Buren up Clay Street.

  The Ducks went in the other direction on Sansome, moving like gangs always seemed to, all dark shadow and bobbing hats, swaying shoulders and swagger. One of them was carrying a wooden club. Another pulled a sap from his pocket. A set of brass knuckles flashed. Trouble Tom was nowhere in sight. But trouble was everywhere.

  Flynn said, “Do you recognize any of them.”

  “None on our payroll.” I noticed, however, that two of them broke off and went running up Clay Street. I figured later that they went in search of McLaws, because I saw them again. But we were distracted just then by the shouts of Reese Shipton, who came rushing along in his white suit, with Dingus at his heels.

  “Shipton! Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To my office, if I can get there. Get my papers.”

  “Ain’t you got a fireproof safe?” asked Flynn.

  “Yeah, and the last fire cooked everything in it right down to a fine powder.”

  I told him I’d help, but we had worries of our own, and he understood. I shouted after him, “The papers aren’t worth your life.”

  Shipton went one way into the surge. We went the other, dodging carts and crowds and clots of thuggish toughs bent on nothing but trouble. The Australians weren’t the only bad ones in town. We knew that. Society’s bonds could easily be loosed in the kind of panic now rising like dawn in the eastern sky.

  When a group of Chinese came scurrying by, their backs laden with whatever they had saved from their huts and hovels, Flynn studied them in the orange firelight, as if hoping that he might see Chin or Mei-Ling. And … did he see a female? I could not tell. But someone, a Celestial shadow, turned as if startled to see us. Flynn took two or three steps, and the shadow disappeared into the throng. Then I grabbed him and dragged him ahead. We had a job to do.

  Off to my left, I heard a window shatter and saw two men run from a hardware store carrying—yes—shovel
s.

  “Ignore that.” Flynn pulled his pistol. “Keep goin’.”

  Up ahead, on the right side of Sansome Street, stood Brannan’s barn-like warehouse. A gang of men had gathered in front of it, dark men with muskets, hulking in the heat and strange burning light. Were they looting? Would we have a fight? As we drew closer, we saw that they were surrounding Sam Brannan himself. They barred my way, but Brannan said, “It’s all right, boys. It’s his goods we’re protectin’.”

  “And we’re damn glad of it,” I said.

  “We learned our lesson at Christmas.” Brannan looked up at the flames leaping a few blocks away. “Somebody set fire to the U.S. Exchange just to get us stirred up.”

  Jonathan Slawsby stood next to him. “We’ll be fine, sir, with the help of God.”

  Flynn said, “We come to help you hold off the looters.”

  “I got my Mormons,” said Brannan. “I promised them a percentage. They know our goods are worth more with every hardware store that goes up. We could be holdin’ fifty-dollar shovels by dawn. So we’ll wet the roof and shoot the looters.”

  A ladder was leaning against the side of the warehouse, and a bucket brigade was lifting from one of the water-filled carts.

  Brannan said, “The son of a bitch who owns that cart is gettin’ sixty dollars a load. But I’ll pay, Spencer. I’ll pay, and you’ll get the benefit.”

  From up the hill came a great, explosive whoosh of sparks as a building fell in on itself. Brannan said, “Get back to your ship. Protect the shovels you kept aboard. They’re the real gold.”

  “Have you seen my men,” I asked. “McLaws and Henderson?”

  “They were here when we got here, takin’ positions around the doors. The big one, McLaws, he said they were here to protect your goods.”

  “They’d been drinkin’ some,” said Slawsby, “and one of them had a crowbar. Strange tool for protectin’ a warehouse.”

  * * *

  IF THE WIND SWEPT the fire toward the Brannan warehouse, nothing would stop it. But if my Australians were disappointed that they could not plunder on land, they might decide to steal the fifty-dollar shovels from the Proud Pilgrim.

  So we rushed back onto the wharf, only to discover that our boat was gone. I cursed and looked toward our ship, and what I saw froze my blood. Men were moving about on the deck, looking furtive in the pre-dawn light, doing nefarious business for certain.

  “They’re lootin’,” said Flynn. “Probably usin’ me own damn rowboat, the bastards. Probably tied her up on the other side, so nobody sees what they’re up to.”

  I began looking for another boat. Some were chained and padlocked. Some were without oarlocks. And—

  I heard a voice behind me. “Is that Spencer? Mr. Spencer?”

  He was wearing a plug hat and leather vest. He was carrying a big canvas bag full of tools, just as the first time I had seen him on the wharf in Boston.

  “Matt Dooling! Where are you going?”

  “Burned out,” he said. “Nothin’ left but my anvil and my rowboat. I’ll get the anvil when it cools, but—”

  Flynn said, “You have a boat?”

  “Right here.” He went to the side of the wharf and dropped his bag into a boat chained below. “Goin’ back to join a bucket brigade.”

  “Can we borrow the boat?” I asked. “Somebody stole ours, and—”

  “They’re lootin’ the Spencer ship,” said Flynn.

  “Lootin’?” said Dooling, almost indignantly. “From you?”

  I pointed to the Proud Pilgrim. As I did, I heard a muffled shot and saw the windows of the starboard gallery, our Bower of Bliss, lit by a muzzle flash.

  Good Lord, but Janiva had just fired that monstrous Nock.

  I said, “We need that boat, Matt. Right now.”

  “You need help?” asked Dooling.

  “Do you got a gun?” said Flynn.

  “Nope. But I got a big claw hammer. And this!” He pulled a fine Bowie knife. “And Matt Dooling never forgets a favor.”

  In an instant, all three of us were in his rowboat, with powerful Matt Dooling pulling hard for the Proud Pilgrim.

  The next few minutes were pure agony for me, knowing that intruders were aboard with Janiva.

  Dooling said, “You want to go right up to the side? Or do we surprise ’em?”

  I heard myself say, “Surprise or not, if they’ve hurt her, we kill them all.”

  “We might have to,” said Flynn. “But we need to see what’s happened in the cabin before we start shootin’.”

  Behind us an explosion rocked the city. The fire had reached something flammable—paint, turpentine, gunpowder—and a huge red-orange ball roiled into the sky. The brigands on the deck glanced toward the eruption, but with all the boats full of panicked people fleeing the flames, we attracted none of their attention as they got back to pillaging our stores.

  Flynn told Matt Dooling, “Make like you’re pullin for the Willie Winter over there, then get in close to the stern.”

  In a few minutes, we bumped unseen under the gallery of the Proud Pilgrim.

  Flynn borrowed Dooling’s Bowie knife, slipped it into his belt, threw his hat into the boat, then lifted himself onto his rope ladder, up to the windows of the stern gallery. He peered in and made a gesture: nothing. Then, he lifted himself to the taffrail, beside one of the glowing stern lanterns. Another gesture: two fingers for two men. He dropped back, pulled out the unlocked gallery window, and climbed in. Then he stuck his head out and, with his finger to his lips for quiet, he gestured for us to follow.

  I could not imagine what I would see. But what I heard pierced my soul. As soon as I dropped through the window, the sound of gasping, moaning, and crying struck me. It was echoing down the passage from the saloon amidships.

  Flynn grabbed me and whispered, “If you want to end this right, be quiet.”

  A second later, Matt Dooling followed me through the window with his big shoulders and his big ass and his big feet tripping on the sill. He dropped his hammer. But Flynn, with a flash of his hand, caught it before it hit the floor.

  We all stopped, motionless, in fear that we had been heard. Instead, we heard Trub McLaws say, “Come on, Muggs, finish up. Then Brizz gets a bit.”

  “Aye,” said another voice. “My dick’s fixin’ to explode.”

  Janiva groaned out a cry that sounded more like a growl.

  Again I fought the impulse to race down the short passage and burst into the saloon, where these slugs were raping the woman I loved.

  Flynn pointed at the deck. The body of the one called Bludger, face and upper torso shot to pieces. Splinters of the door were shattered and blood was splattered all around him.

  Then I heard a groan, met by higher-pitched screams, a male voice and female response. Muggs Henderson was finishing his obscene business.

  Flynn raised a finger and whispered, “We kill them all. Nobody gets away. Not in there, not—” He pointed above. Then he asked Dooling, “Are you with us?”

  Dooling held up his pound-and-a-half hammer—octagonal head, long nasty claw. “Goddamn them all to hell.”

  In the saloon, Trub laughed, “Get off her, Muggs. Time for Brizz. And I’m gettin’ another stiffy just watchin’. I’ll have her again ’fore we call Brizz’s baby brother down.”

  “He’s sixteen,” said Brizz. “Awful randy.”

  “Let him keep loadin’ shovels. It’ll make him tired so’s he don’t pop off so fast.”

  Janiva whimpered, then she growled, “When my husband gets back—”

  “When your husband gets back, we’ll kill him,” said Trub. “All we wanted was a signature, sayin’ we was takin’ them shovels all nice and legal-like. Then we would’ve been gone for good. Them shovels was our payment for keepin’ quiet about Broke Neck. But your smart husband wouldn’t pay in gold. Instead, he told you to shoot through the door.”

  “I’m glad I did.”

  “So now,” said Trub, “we’ll kill him.
We’ll lure him aboard. Give him a look at what we done, then kill him.”

  “Aye,” Muggs said, “him and that smart-mouthed Irish prick.”

  “Should’ve killed ’em the first time we set eyes on ’em,” Trub went on. “But too many watchin’. So we had to act like gents. Like proper poopers—”

  All the rapists laughed at that.

  Trub kept talking. “Now them damn fools is off fightin’ our fire. Maybe they’ll burn up in it. Then we’ll take the ship, too. Bring Lady Boston here along with us, fuck her all the way to Sacramento. Would you like that, darlin’?”

  I heard Janiva spit. Then I heard a slap.

  Flynn’s hand went across my chest. Wait. Wait. He pointed to himself and said, in gestures, “I’ll look.” He slipped down the passage as it began again, and the sound of my wife’s pain tore at my soul.

  A moment later, Flynn scuttled back and whispered, “Trub is at her head, with a knife to her throat. They got her legs tied on the table.”

  Trub said, “That’s a fine big cock you got there, Brizzy boy.”

  I heard poor Janiva scream.

  Trub cheered him on. “Get it all the way in lad, all the way.”

  Now we heard another man coming down the gangway from the main deck. “Oi, when’s it my turn?”

  “After me,” said Trub.

  And that was all I could take. I grabbed my Colt from the table, cocked it, and rushed down the hallway.

  Janiva lay there, legs splayed in my direction, Brizz between them, his back and bare ass to me and his pants at his ankles. I could have killed him, but it was Trub that I wanted. Trub stood at her head, holding a knife. And Trub would kill her.

  But I gave him only enough time to see me, see the muzzle of my pistol, and see it flash in his face. The ball went through his forehead, and the back of his skull blew out, splattering brains all over Muggs, who was just then pulling up his pants.

  And that was my plan. Kill Trub while one man had his pants half off, another had his half on, and a third was halfway down the companionway steps.

  But Flynn and Matt Dooling followed right after me, and they knew what to do.