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

by William Martin

  “Flynn has gone back to Boston, I tell you, to make a society there.”

  Trask said, “And what if I tell you I do not believe you?”

  “He will tell you that he does not care.”

  While watching the sea change in Trask’s face, I had not noticed Janiva slip in the side door, holding the mighty Nock at her hip.

  Trask shifted his eyes toward her, but wisely did not move. “Is this the young woman whose arrival on Long Wharf disrupted Reverend Stone’s benediction?”

  Janiva said, “You have an excellent memory, sir.”

  “I do not forget affronts to the dignity of my ship or my command.”

  I said, “Would you flog her, too, as you did Michael Flynn that day?”

  “I would never flog a woman, no matter how much she deserved it.”

  “In that case—” I gestured for Janiva to put down the gun. I had no wish to see Trask splattered all over me, and if all seven barrels were loaded, I had no wish to be splattered myself … all over the wall.

  She said, “First, make him promise that he’s not here to use that rope … on anyone.”

  “You do not trust me?” asked Trask.

  “I may never trust another man again, save my husband.”

  Piece by piece, bit by bit, Janiva had been restoring the equanimity ripped from her on that awful night. But her trust had always been a hard-earned thing. Now, even I felt the challenge.

  Trask studied her from the corner of his eye and said, “If Flynn has gone back to Boston, you can trust that it’s a promise I’ll keep, until I get to Boston. He was the last crewman at large.”

  I hoped that Janiva had caught my ruse, and of course, she had.

  I said to Trask, “You’ve hanged nineteen men?”

  “Sixteen. The others received permission to leave my service.”

  “And you now have our permission,” said Janiva, “to leave our presence.”

  Trask turned to face her, appraising her from the hem of her skirt to the top of her head. He looked and said nothing, looked for so long that she began to grow uneasy under his gaze. At length, he asked, “What do you bring?”

  “Bring?”

  “To this city. To this society. What do you bring of yourself, ma’am?”

  Janiva looked at me, plainly undone by this line of question.

  Trask had just as plainly gone crazy, but in a fashion that reflected deep, disappointed sanity. He saw concentric circles of chaos around him and sought to bring order to each of them, from greedy ship owners to shirking seamen to the roiling, storm-dark sea itself. His neat cabin had reflected his belief that only through order and discipline could we navigate life. He hated the quick-wealth ambition of the men passing our office windows or streaming up to gold country. And those who transgressed laws of personal discipline deserved public discipline from men of stronger character, men like himself. In such a cosmos, his question made perfect sense, because he believed that by restoring discipline, he guaranteed order, and order gave structure to hope.

  He said to Janiva, “A married woman bespeaks stability. She promises the future.” He turned to me, “Would you have a family?”

  “We would,” she said.

  “My crew were my family. Like a father, I loved them. And so have I punished them.” Then this calmly crazy man left the office and headed down Market Street.

  * * *

  WEI CHIN AND I had agreed that we would share news if the vengeance of Broke Neck followed us to San Francisco. So I went the next morning to Ah-Sing’s Apothecary, a small, wood-frame storefront above Portsmouth Square. Over the door hung a green sign with gold Chinese characters. The English words, Chinese herbs, were scrawled on a chalkboard in the window.

  By marrying his sister to one of the leading Chinese businessmen of San Francisco, Chin had earned favor in his community. By distributing loans from his stash of gold, half of which he believed was still buried beneath Big Skull Rock, he had earned loyalty. By taking as a bodyguard his cousin, Little Ng, who now carried a knife in the baggy sleeve that once held a flute, he had earned respect.

  Chin also understood the preparation and application of Chinese herbal potions, skills that had earned him the position of Number Two in Ah-Sing’s Apothecary. He offered remedies and opinions on afflictions ranging from fever to flaccidity of the male member, while he and Little Ng kept the peace and collected the fees in Ah-Sing’s mah-jongg parlor, accessed through the rattling bead-curtain at the side of the apothecary shop.

  I had visited many times. Ah-Sing himself had given me ginseng tea, promising, “It make stiff you root and make swell you wife’s belly.” At my age, I had no difficulties with the former, and the latter, Janiva and I were certain, would happen in God’s good time, another layer of tissue to cover the wound in her soul. But we liked ginseng tea, and I loved the sensation of stepping off Clay Street into a cloud of cinnamon and clove and a dozen other spices.

  Chin was behind the counter, talking to a tall, exotic Chinese woman who wore her hair in what appeared to be a black fan spreading from either side of her face, making her appear all the more dreamlike, which was fitting in that she was a source of dreams for white men and yellow, both here by the Bay and far up in the gold fields. She was the glorious Ah-Toy herself, wrapped in a robe of green-and-gold silk.

  Wei Chin introduced us and added for Ah-Toy, “Spencer friend of Flynn-man.”

  She said, in surprisingly good English, “Flynn-man, Irish. Big dreamer, him.”

  “Most men are big dreamers,” I said.

  “Most men dream what I give. What Wei Chin and Ah-Sing soon bring from China.”

  Chin scowled, as if he did not want me to know his business.

  That made Ah-Toy giggle. Her lips, painted into the shape of a little red bee sting, seemed to embrace her words: “Yes, yes. China girls they bring. Pretty ones, I take. Ugly ones go street cribs or up to mountains, where white mans make fuck with any girl-cooch. I pay forty dollar each, pretty or ugly. Ah-Sing pay ten dollar in China.”

  Now I understood. Chin had fled China to escape oppression. But he was not above indenturing Chinese women to whoredom in California. He must have sensed my thoughts by the look I gave him, as he said, “Most men in California dream of Gum Saan.”

  “Gum Saan. Gold Mountain.” Ah-Toy gave another giggle and brought her fan to her face. “Flynn-man, he no dream gold mountain. He dream gold river. He like-ee China girl swim bum-naked in gold river. He find?”

  “The river?” I said. “I don’t know. I have not heard from him in months.”

  “If do, tell him China girl him like-ee. He spend gold at Ah-Toy’s, he get look-ees from me, do-ees from girls. And talk. Much talk, that Flynn-man. You talk?”

  I shook my head, as if to prove the point, though I was as intoxicated as most men by the painted lips, the regal height, the long legs balanced on open-toed platform shoes.

  Ah-Toy said, “You quiet man. Quiet man deep river. Maybe you find gold river?”

  “There is no such thing,” I said.

  Ancient Ah-Sing came from the back, placed a package on the counter, and looked at Ah-Toy with eyes of longing behind thick spectacles. No man, young or old, escaped her allure. “Cinnamon Bark. Oil of jasmine. Alkanet root. One pinch.”

  She opened her purse and offered her pouch to the old man.

  He gestured for Chin to do the dipping. “Bigger fingers.”

  Chin dipped and deposited the gold dust in a little box.

  Ah-Toy spoke to Chin in Chinese, then smiled at me, said “Good-bye,” and stepped outside, where Keen-ho Chow held an umbrella to shield her from the sun.

  Chin said, “Cinnamon bark tea, good for woman cramp. Oil of jasmine and alkanet root, mix with mutton fat, make red paint for lips. Red lips make women very fucky, even ugly woman.”

  Ah-Sing grunted, as if this talk was beneath him, and he disappeared again into his back room.

  Chin said, “He pretend no like. But he know men in
China, sell slave girls. Put on ship, send here. Big profit. Ah-Toy promise to pay and give me my pick, too.”

  “Is that what she just said?”

  “That what always she say, then always she say to make my sister courtesan.”

  “But your sister is married.”

  “Ah-Toy know we mix ginseng for husband. Ah-Toy say ginseng no work. She say Jon-Ling come see her to make him hard. But no good. Ah-Toy say pretty sister need stiffer thing than what Jon-Ling have.”

  “And what do you say?”

  “I say leave sister alone. Ah-Toy just want to make money off her.”

  “While you make money off other girls.”

  Chin held up eight fingers. “In all California, eight China girl. No one get rich off China girl. Not Ah-Toy. Not me. Now, you here tell me you see Trask?”

  “He’s living on his ship. He says you’re in the clear, but be careful.”

  “If he come Clay Street”—Chin looked around—“we send him forever home.”

  I lowered my voice. “You mean, kill him?”

  “Maybe. Maybe I chain him in ship and sink him if he try hurt family. I kill for family, kill for friend, keep quiet for friend, too, if friend ask. And you always friend.” Yes, he had figured out our Proud Pilgrim secret.

  “You always friend, too,” I answered.

  “Some day, Mr. Always Friend, we go back to Big Skull Rock and get gold.”

  I did not tell Chin something I had known for weeks: the gold was gone. I had written to George Emery, the only man I trusted in the Mother Lode, and told him to move the wheel and dig at nine and ten o’clock. But he had found nothing. My loss had not hurt my finances too deeply. And the knowledge of his loss would not help Chin. But someone had taken the gold. I had my suspicions.

  * * *

  NATHAN TRASK SURPRISED US a few weeks later with what, for him, amounted to an expression of friendship.

  Around four o’clock on a September morning, another great blaze exploded, this time at the Philadelphia House on Jackson Street. As the fire bells rang, Janiva and I leapt into our clothes. She grabbed the Nock gun and took a position on the outdoor landing. I went down to the street, and Matt Dooling came to stand next to me, with a claw hammer in one hand and a six-pound sledge in the other.

  Though the smoke and embers were blowing away from us, we had to be vigilant, for every fire brought out looters who took advantage of the confusion to break into storefronts. And the dark gangs came, slowed, saw my pistol or Dooling’s hammers or Janiva’s seven barrels, and kept going.

  Soon after the alarm, Janiva shouted, “One man, coming fast from the water.”

  It was the dark silhouette in a plant-pot hat. Trask looked more yellowed and stooped, as if disappointment or loneliness in the ruined cabin of his ship had worn him down. But he tipped his hat to Janiva and said, “Would you need help in the chaos?”

  “All the help we can get,” I said.

  “Then we will teach San Francisco about the simple physics of fear.” He turned to the street, lay a noose over his shoulder, pressed the shoulder to mine, and gave every passerby the hangman’s glare. Trouble did not even stop to chat.

  Around six, as the sky was brightening, another gang surged up Market, but led by Sam Brannan. He shouted, “I come to see how you fared. It looks as if you three need no help.”

  “Four,” said Janiva from the landing above.

  Oh, but she made me proud. Those were hard days, much harder for her—but with such a helpmate, how could a man do anything but stand firm?

  Brannan gave her a tip of the hat. Then he noticed the rope over Trask’s shoulder. “Are you the hangin’ captain we’ve heard about?”

  “I’ve served justice on deserters and murderers. I’ll serve it on looters, too.”

  Just then, half a dozen men rumbled down Dupont, splashing bottles and spitting insults, the Sydney Ducks, the king villains. They stopped in the street and threw their dark looks at us, but there were too many of us to bull rush. So the leader shouted, “Oi, Spencer! Have you seen me old mate Trub McLaws?”

  I said nothing, but Matt Dooling clanged his hammers together.

  “Damn funny, that,” said this tough. “Feller used to work for you, just up and disappears one night along with his whole crew, and you know nothin’?”

  “Look for him in the Mother Lode,” I said.

  “Nah. I like prospectin’ right here. C’mon, lads.” And off went the Ducks.

  “That’s Jenkins,” said Brannan, “they call him the Miscreant.”

  “They’re all miscreants,” said Trask.

  Brannan nodded. “You know, Captain, if they cause more trouble, we may need a hangman. The law around here is too lenient.”

  “If I find a crew, I’ll leave you my nooses. If not, I’ll do your hanging.”

  Brannan fingered the heavy knot. “You make a fine noose.”

  He had much practice at making them, but I did not say so. When a man stood at your shoulder, you called him a friend. And this country, as Cletis had said so often, made strange friendships.

  October, 1850

  Statehood

  On the 18th, the steamer Oregon blasted her whistle before she cleared the Golden Gate, blasted and blasted all the way to her anchorage, for she carried glorious intelligence: California had been admitted to the Union!

  We celebrated with parades, a grand ball, and a fine expression of our American dream, as written by an Englishman in the Alta California: “A community of thousands, collected from all quarters of the world, Polynesians and Peruvians, Englishmen and Mexicans, Germans and New Englanders, Spaniards and Chinese, all organized under old Saxon institutions and marching under command of a mayor and alderman, celebrated admission—which they had literally demanded—into the most powerful federation on earth, the American union, thereby creating a state with a territory as large as Great Britain, a population difficult to number, and a destiny which none can foresee.”

  Such a bright ideal, I thought, so beautifully expressed. But I wondered about those who had seen a darker vision, men like Samuel Hodges.

  And Janiva wondered what Michael Flynn might think of such a glowing encomium to our young nation, considering all that he had endured.

  I admitted that I worried about him, in that I had heard not a word in five months. There were even times I considered a trip into the high country to find him, but she could not understand why.

  “Because he is my friend,” I told her. He had saved me more than once. He had saved her, too. And he had helped me in the Mother Lode to discover the man I was, so that I could now be the husband she deserved. For such a friend, a man stood up, even if he had stolen our gold from under Big Skull Rock.

  December, 1850

  Christmas in California

  Christmas in San Francisco brought celebration and sadness, too.

  We enjoyed dinners with the Brannans and other friends, but pleasant times reminded us both of home, of the joy of reunions with those whose smiles were the light of past happy hours, blest now in our imagination. We might see them all present—but only by looking into our hearts, or following with fancy’s eye the rail track of memory to behold parents and sisters, brothers and loved ones. At least she and I were together, and in the long run, that was what mattered.

  On Christmas Eve, Reverend T. Dwight Hunt gathered his congregation in the Jackson Street meetinghouse. There we experienced a powerful sense of community, as we enjoyed the Nativity in the Gospel of Luke, followed by a fine sermon, then ringing carols that overrode—for us at least—the noise of gunshots, shouts, and raucous caterwauling that signified the celebration of any holiday in Gold Rush California.

  Then, on New Year’s Day, Reverend Hunt paid us a visit. He came to ask our assistance in starting the San Francisco Orphan Asylum Society. And it was as if Janiva Toler Spencer had found a purpose. And in finding it, she regained something that had been taken from her eight months before.

  It might seem
odd that a city with so few females would produce so many orphans. Some had lost parents to cholera on the wagon trains or to accidents at sea, and without oversight, they might be victimized by the army of unscrupulous shavers who surged each day through the streets. Others were the offspring of “soiled doves” and anonymous miners paying for pleasure, and as such, were likely to become the jetsam of a harsh place. Janiva insisted that it was simply un-Christian either to punish them for the sins of their parents or leave them to the predations of evil.

  So I paid for a building prefabricated in Boston and put up on the corner of Second and Folsom. And Janiva poured forth her energy, going about the city identifying children in need and prevailing upon our friend, Dr. Coit, to tend to their ailments. We did not do any of this to enhance our standing in the community or gain capital in the currency of public opinion. We did it simply because it was the right thing to do.

  February–March, 1851

  A New Law

  But in San Francisco, knowing the right thing to do was not always easy, for as men impose order in a new place, the wheels of justice may grind too slowly … or too harshly.

  In February, when the shop of dry goods merchant C. J. Jansen & Company was robbed and Jansen mercilessly beaten, a pair of troublemakers named Stuart and Windred were arrested and charged in the Recorder’s Courtroom on Portsmouth Square. An angry crowd gathered, and with the cry of “Now’s the time,” they made a general rush for the prisoners. Doors and windows were smashed, desks and railings broken to pieces, and the mob would certainly have dragged the prisoners out and hanged them right there, but for a company of Washington Guards, U.S. Military, who had been parading on the Plaza.

  Righteous anger had been rising against unpunished criminality in San Francisco, so it was not only the rowdies who rioted. Our best citizens had come to believe that the law afforded no protection and thus should we take matters into our own hands. Having seen a lynching, I retreated from this demonstration of mobocracy, of shattering glass, of a crowd’s deep-throated angry roar, and returned to the quiet company of my wife.