Fires of Change (The Fire Blossom Saga)

by Sarah Lark

  Chapter 36

  Six hundred miles away, Linda stared into the decimated valley called Gabriel’s Gully. She was just as stunned as Carol and Mara had been to witness the scorched earth where Maori villages had stood on the North Island. There were no trees or bushes as far as the eye could see. Not a single blade of grass reached for the sunlight, even on the abandoned claims. The famous goldfield was the most depressing sight Linda had ever seen. Five years prior, when the Australian Gabriel Read had found gold there, it must have looked just as beautiful and idyllic as the rest of Otago.

  For several days, Fitz and Carol had been guiding their covered wagon through the mountainous region, which alternated between grassland, scrubland, and sparse forest. Linda liked Otago, and she had easily been able to imagine having a small farm there. She had gazed covetously at the farmhouses they passed along their way, but she never had a chance to chat with their owners. Even when Fitz and Linda stopped to buy food, the people greeted them with weapons in hand and demanded to see the money up front.

  “Nothing personal,” one of the farmers’ wives drawled as she allowed them to take water from her well with a rifle trained on them. “Over the last few years, so many scalawags have come through that we’ve had to learn how to protect ourselves. But now the goldfields are used up, and most of the rogues are gone. Do you actually believe they left a few nuggets behind for you?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Especially for us, milady,” Fitz confirmed, offering her a charming smile. “But for now we’re a little short on funds. Is there any work we could do for you, perhaps?”

  Actually, the young couple hadn’t spent any of their money on the journey. In spite of all of the locals’ mistrust, Fitz somehow managed to find little jobs along the way. Linda was pleased about that, even though she grew worried and ashamed whenever he disappeared after dark and returned a few hours later with a chicken or a few eggs.

  “I’ve been hunting,” he would say with a mischievous grin. “I got a kiwi hen and a few eggs. Very easy to catch. You dig them out, you know.”

  Linda, who had spent half of her childhood in a Maori village, knew much more about it than he did. Kiwis did dig burrows, but during the day. The birds were nocturnal.

  “This one here preferred daylight,” Fitz said with a grin when Linda called him out. “It was the odd one out. And you can see what became of it.”

  Laughing, he held out the freshly plucked bird. Linda roasted it without asking any more questions.

  Aside from such feelings of suspicion, the young woman was happy with her marriage. Fitz was almost always cheerful. He joked with Linda and never tired of describing their future wealth to her. He satisfied her in bed every night, even if it was in a different way than her friends had described. Fitz was skilled with his tongue. He played with her body, caressed and excited her with his dexterous fingers. But his manhood rarely rose to the occasion, and when it did, it never remained hard long enough to penetrate her. Still, Linda bled once. Fitz must have torn the thin area of skin that Cat had told her about.

  Linda was pleased not to be a virgin anymore. But she still wondered what was happening with Fitz, and finally worked up the courage to ask again.

  He brushed aside her worry. “I’m thinking more of you than I am of me, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s a fine art. You’re satisfied, are you not?”

  Linda tried to be satisfied with this answer, but lovemaking with Fitz left her with a slightly bitter feeling. He knew how to excite her, but why couldn’t she do the same for him? Wasn’t she beautiful or interesting enough? Was she missing something that other women had? Linda began to doubt herself, and worked all the harder during the day to be a perfect wife. She managed well during their journey, but it became more difficult when they finally arrived at Gabriel’s Gully.

  “This is terrible,” Linda said, looking out over the sweeping fields. In order to turn over the top layer of ground so thoroughly, thousands and thousands of prospectors must have toiled here. Now, just a small smattering were working on their claims. The desperate figures looked as gray and lost as the landscape. Linda could see men and women armed with sieves and shovels. It had rained the day before, and some of them were up to their knees in mud. Gabriel Read had discovered the glimmer of pure gold the first time he had been here, but the ones seeking it now were searching in vain.

  “Fitz, there isn’t any gold left here,” Linda said quietly. “The farmer’s wife and Bill Paxton were right. It’s all gone.”

  Fitz laughed. “Don’t be silly. Smile, Lindy! We’re here, we made it! Gabriel’s Gully is right in front of us!”

  Linda stared at him in disbelief. “Made it, Fitz? You want to stay? You want to try scratching something out of the ground down there?”

  Shuddering, she watched a young woman who had just laid her sieve aside, exhausted, to sit down and take a baby down from her back to nurse.

  Fitz nodded enthusiastically. “Of course, sweetheart. But first we have to find somewhere to stay. We can’t live in the wagon forever. What was that backwater they changed the name of three times? We’ll go there. And we can find out how to make our claim right away. Sounds good, doesn’t it? Our claim!”

  If Linda were honest, she found the prospect of hammering more poles into the marred ground of Gabriel’s Gully neither appealing nor promising. But it was impossible to communicate that to Fitz; he was too euphoric. Linda only hoped the license to dig here wouldn’t cost them anything.

  The road between Gabriel’s Gully and the village of Tuapeka had been overused, and sometimes the covered wagon got stuck in deep ruts. But at least the ground was packed so hard that it didn’t soften in the rain; the water just collected in puddles. The vegetation here wasn’t as destroyed as in the goldfields themselves, but it was meager. The grass was yellowed and flattened, the bushes had been cut, and the trees chopped down, and there were traces of campfires everywhere. At the high point of the rush, the prospectors’ camps had stretched all the way from Tuapeka to the goldfields. Now there was hardly anything left of them aside from rubbish, an occasional decaying tent, and a few improvised huts about half a mile from the village. Linda shuddered when she saw the rough constructions of canvas sheets and wood scraps that people were living in. A few women were cooking over open fires, and children played in the dirt.

  Fitz seemed not to register any of it. He was looking for a gold bullion dealer’s, hoping for information about staking a claim. But in this slum, they found nothing, and the woman that Fitz finally asked only pointed in the direction of the town.

  “There’s a dealer’s office next to the bank,” she said curtly. “The man it belongs to is called Oppenheimer.”

  Tuapeka’s bank wasn’t hard to find. The tiny town barely consisted of more than a bank, post office, and general store. The only remarkable features were three pubs with brightly painted façades. These clearly catered to prospectors, not the few citizens of the town. As two garishly made-up young women left one of the establishments, a primly dressed lady demonstratively moved to the other side of the road. Linda greeted her politely as the wagon rolled past, but the woman ignored her. Apparently, she had the same opinion of gold seekers as she did of whores.

  The bullion dealer’s office was between the bank and the post office. Inside, an old man was tinkering with a delicate scale. He didn’t look up when Fitz and Linda entered. Another man in dirty, worn-out clothes stood across from him. He stared as though entranced at the scale, a tiny pile of shimmering flakes upon it. The bullion dealer began to put weights on the opposite tray, but couldn’t find one small enough. Finally, he looked up and peered at the man through a monocle.

  “I’m sorry, Bob, but I can’t give you more than ten pounds for this,” he said.

  The prospector’s face turned red. “Ten pounds, Oppenheimer? That’s a week’s work! I used to get a hundred pounds for that!”

  The dealer shrugged. “I don’t pay by the hour, Bob. I pay by the ounce. And this is
n’t even a gram. The scale barely registers it. If you used to earn more, that’s ’cause you used to find more gold.”

  “You used to have more competition,” the prospector retorted. “When there were ten or twenty dealers in town, you had to pay better prices!”

  The dealer shook his head. “No, not really. We all based our rates on the gold price in London.”

  The prospector snorted. “Then I’d get more in London, wouldn’t I?” he said acerbically. “You Jews always put half of it in your pockets, you—”

  The old man carefully brushed the contents of the scale onto a sheet of white paper. He folded it up carefully and handed it to the prospector. “Here, Bob, take this to London. You might get thirteen or fourteen pounds for it there, if they’d buy such a small amount.”

  The prospector’s face fell. “I, uh, didn’t mean it that way—”

  The bullion dealer shrugged. “You want the money after all? I don’t care either way. But if you want to do business with me, then we’ll have to agree that we won’t try to trick each other, and that you won’t insult me.”

  The prospector grumbled to himself as Oppenheimer counted out the money, and then stalked out.

  “And what can I do for you?” the old dealer asked kindly as Fitz and Linda stepped forward. His brow creased as Fitz spoke about his plans. “You want to stake a claim? You don’t need to. Just take one that’s abandoned. I must have the map somewhere.” Oppenheimer stood up with difficulty and began to search the room without success. “Hmm. Let’s try the post office.”

  The young couple followed him into the next building.

  “Hello, Jeff,” he said, greeting the postmaster. “Do you still keep a record of who has a claim in the gully?”

  Linda and Fitz peered over his shoulder and saw the postmaster point outside, telling Oppenheimer to look there. On the back of the door, they found a sun-bleached, tattered piece of paper with a roughly drawn map. Parcels were marked on it in faded ink. Oppenheimer carelessly tore the paper down and began to examine it.

  He thought for a moment and then pointed to one of the parcels. “Here. Roberts made good money right at the beginning, and then he took it and went off to Dunedin. Afterward, Bernard had the claim. He also found something, but he gave it up pretty quickly. Now he’s on the west coast. The claim is free. And this one here was Peterson’s. At first, it looked promising, but unfortunately it was used up quickly. Peterson tried and tried. Last winter he killed himself. No one wanted his claim after that. Here’s another: Wenders. He also didn’t do badly at first, but it just didn’t go fast enough for him. He gave the claim to Feathers, and he struck it rich. Today he has a sheep farm somewhere near Queenstown. Afterward, three or four others sifted through it. If you ask me, there’s nothing left there.”

  “Is there gold left anywhere at all?” Linda asked.

  Oppenheimer raised his eyebrows. Then he ran a hand thoughtfully over the edge of his bald head, as though there were hair there to smooth down. “Missus, when Read first came here, Gabriel’s Gully was twenty inches higher than it is now. Then they carried away all the topsoil, and one after another they dug everything up again and sifted through it. It could be that a few flakes weren’t found. And you can pan for gold in almost any stream in the area. It’s the local boys’ favorite game. Afterward, they come here proudly and trade it to me for a few pence of pocket money. But you can’t get rich here anymore. I’d bet my life on it.” He turned to Fitz. “If you’re smart, mister, you’ll look for a different job. Or go to the west coast, where fortunes are still being made. Of course, it’s a tough place. With your missus—” He frowned. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

  Linda nodded proudly and showed him her ring.

  But Oppenheimer frowned. “You can’t take an honorable woman out there.”

  “I want to try here first, anyway,” Fitz said warmly. “Perhaps on the edges of the gully. Maybe no one’s looked there yet.”

  The bullion dealer laughed. “I can’t stop you. If you turn up something shiny, you know where to find me. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Do you know a place we can stay?” Linda asked. “Does anyone here have homes for rent?”

  Oppenheimer pointed toward the prospectors’ camps on the outskirts of town. “Just take one of the ones that have been abandoned. But they aren’t castles. None of the prospectors wanted to lose time building anything more stable.”

  As the man limped back to his office, Linda realized that he hadn’t even bothered to lock the door. There couldn’t be much money lying around there, or much gold. They both thanked him politely.

  “Looking forward to doing business with you!” Fitz called cheerfully.

  Fitz steered the horses and wagon back toward the shacks. It was raining again, and Linda stayed in the wagon with Amy, feeling depressed, while Fitz went to look around. He returned quickly, in a good mood.

  “I found us a house!” Fitz announced. “It’s nothing special, but at least it’s free. Well, almost free. I promised the owner a couple of pence per week.”

  That made Linda a little more optimistic. If the house was for rent, at least it must have a roof.

  Fitz guided the wagon into the encampment, with Brianna straining to pull it through the mud. When Fitz finally stopped, the sight of the ramshackle hut in front them immediately dampened Linda’s spirits again.

  “This is the house?” she asked.

  There was barely enough covered space for two people to sleep next to each other. Inside, a stained mattress was on the floor, accompanied by a small rickety table and one chair. The walls had been roughly nailed together, and it was easy to see where the wind would whistle through the cracks during a storm. But at least the roof didn’t seem to be leaking. Someone must have repaired it many times.

  “Can I help you with anything?” Linda heard someone inquire. “Is there anything I can carry in, or something?”

  Linda recognized the young woman who had been nursing her baby on the goldfield. She was still carrying the child on her back.

  Linda shook her head. “No, thank you, we can manage. You should take your little one home; otherwise, he’ll get wet. Or is it a she?” She tried to smile.

  The woman was thin and haggard, her lips cracked and her eyes dull. She didn’t return the smile.

  “A he. At least he was lucky that way. He’s not a girl.”

  Linda felt a flash of annoyance. She approached the little boy and tried to make him smile by pulling the necklace out of the front of her dress and dangling the shiny medallion in front of his face. “What’s his name?”

  “Paddy,” the woman replied. “After his father. I knew him, in case you were wondering. Even if no one believes me. And as for that,” she said, pointing to Linda’s necklace, “I would keep it hidden. Everyone is desperate for gold here, no matter where they find it.”

  Linda nodded nervously. “I won’t wear it anymore, or at least I’ll keep it under my dress,” she said. “My name is Linda Fitzpatrick. Are you a neighbor?”

  The woman laughed. “You could say that, but I’m also your landlady. This hut belongs to me, and the one next to it as well. Of course nothing really belongs to anyone here. We just built here because no one chased us away.”

  As they spoke, Amy trotted in and threw herself onto the mattress. Linda scolded her half-heartedly.

  “Nice dog,” their visitor said. “But don’t let it walk around alone. Otherwise, it’ll end up on a spit. The fellows here eat anything.”

  Linda gasped. “People here eat dogs?”

  The young woman shrugged. “Dogs, cats, rats . . . The gold they find isn’t enough to buy both food and whiskey. Guess which they choose? And if there’s enough whiskey, anything will taste good.”

  “That’s dreadful!” Linda eyed the door, wondering how to leave immediately. She took a breath to steady herself. “The dog’s name is Amy. She’s a trained sheepdog, a border collie.”

  Amy hea
rd her name and came over, her tail wagging.

  “I’m Irene,” the woman said. “Irene Sullivan. Or Miller. I don’t know for sure if the fellow who performed my wedding was actually a priest.”

  Before she could continue, Fitz stormed into the tiny hut and set down all their worldly belongings. Then he swept Linda into his arms. “I’m all done, sweetheart! Welcome to your new home! As I always say, a light load makes light work.” With a grin, he uncorked a bottle of whiskey. “Let’s drink to a good start!” He took a long swallow and passed the bottle to Irene.

  Linda repressed her disgust and put the bottle to her lips. Perhaps the alcohol would give her courage to face this new life. Fitz looked on cheerfully as Linda and Irene passed the bottle between them.

  “Do we have anything left to eat?” he asked his wife.

  A little unwillingly, Linda shared their provisions with Irene and Paddy, who hungrily stuffed pieces of soaked, softened bread into his still-toothless mouth. Irene devoured bread and jerky just as ravenously.

  “Does your husband have a claim here, Mrs. Miller?” Fitz asked as he doled out the last scraps of food with unbroken optimism.

  Linda watched with mixed feelings. She didn’t begrudge it to Irene and Paddy to eat their fill for once, but she’d have to buy more tomorrow, and her savings wouldn’t last long.

  “My husband is gone,” Irene said curtly. “I dig wherever I want to, or pan in one of the streams. But it’s starting to get too cold for me. With bare feet in the water so long . . .”

  “Do you find enough for you and the child to get by?” Linda asked cautiously.

  Irene glared at her. “Yes, madam, thank you for inquiring!” she said sarcastically. “I won’t pretend I say no to other opportunities. A person has to live. But I don’t sell myself on the street! The child shouldn’t have to hear folks damning me as a whore!”

  Linda raised her hands conciliatorily. “I was only asking,” she said quietly.

  Actually, the thought that Irene might be a prostitute had never crossed her mind. The young woman was the opposite of the painted, buxom barmaids Linda had seen in Tuapeka. Irene was pale and sickly, her blonde hair thin and stringy, and her watery, light blue eyes seemed to have no lashes.