The Gent shouted to Mr. Scatter, "I don't care a bean if you are the biggest toad in this puddle, I aim to sit here. Not a bean. Not a baked bean. Not a string bean!"
"Vagabond! Rogue! Border ruffian!" were shouted as
well as things Mama would never let me write and tell you.
Suddenly Mama spoke, so quietly that everyone had to shut their pans to hear her and so firmly that everyone listened. "Shame on you, acting like rowdy children! Stop this ruckus or I'll go throw myself in the river." It was as quiet as a tree full of owls. "Now listen to me good. You hounds are sniffing around the wrong dog's tail. I am not hankering to be wooed, pursued, courted, sparked, or any such thing. And I am not in the mood to be marrying anyone. Anyone!" she said, looking directly at Mr. Scatter, the Gent, and Poker John Lewis, still with Mr. Scatters starched white collar grasped in his fist.
So your daughter is still a widow and life goes on in Lucky Diggins and I am fourteen and near grown, although to most people around here I'm still little sister. I am not fat anymore, am taller than Mama, and my yellow hair is now mostly brown. What I would have liked most for my birthday is to see you, but I thank you sincerely for the ribbons and the warm wool shawl.
Most of the boarders went south or west as autumn deepened, and we rattled around in the boarding house with its big, new kitchen. The Gent hung around the house, and Mr. Scatter and Poker John Lewis came calling frequently. I confessed to Prairie my worries about Mama and her suitors. "Mama says she is of no mind to marry anyone, but what if she changes her mind? What if the Gent or Poker John Lewis promises her something so utterly wonderful that she cannot but say yes?"
"Then she will say yes," Prairie said.
"Do you want someone sleeping and eating in Pa's place? Telling us what to do like he was our pa? Taking up all of Mama's time and attention and leaving none for us?"
Sierra said, "I like the Gent. He would be a good pa."
Prairie, mending socks, added, "Jimmy Whiskers says curly-headed men are industrious and make good husbands."
"Gol durn, rip-snortin' rumhole and cussed, dad-blamed, dag diggety, thundering pisspot," I said later to myself. "Why can't they understand? We got to keep Mama single or we'll lose her." Without Butte to cajole into helping me, I looked for advice where I always looked—in a book. And I found it in an old ballad about the beloved of Clerk Saunders, who wore no shoes or stockings nor combed her hair for seven years in mourning at his death.
"That's it!" I cried. "Oh Mr. Scatter," I would say, "Mama would never ever tell you herself, for it was a sacred private oath, but she has determined not to be courted or wed but to mourn for seven years for my Pa. She wears no gloves or cloaks of fur and will not until the seven years are over." I imagined this being true, and tears for the doomed lovers filled my eyes. Sometimes being so fantastical comes in handy.
I told Mr. Scatter and Poker John Lewis and the Gent and, for good measure, Ripley Gurgins, who was known to be looking for a wife although he was not exactly courting Mama yet. I reckon they believed me, for they came around less and less.
When autumn deepened and even selfless men of God could not sleep outside, Brother Claymore returned and filled up the house with his big laughter. Even Mama took to smiling and laughing again. One morning I chanced upon him seated by the cookstove.
"What the dickens are you doing?"
"Sewing curtains for your mama's kitchen window."
"Sewing? You know how to sew?"
"I figure it's like darning socks—put two ends together and stitch—and I've darned a lot of socks. Damned 'em too, sometimes," he said with a laugh.
There he sat, big hands like hams pushing a tiny needle through rose-sprigged muslin to make curtains for my mama. Seemed like another dog would be sniffing around, and this one had God on his side. I thought to try the Clerk Saunders story on him but decided against it. I couldn't see him swallowing such a tale as easily as Ripley Gurgins, at least without talking it over with Mama. So I just counted on Mama not being in a marrying mood. But Brother Clyde's big hands and merry heart reminded me of Pa, and I found myself smiling at him as I started boiling up the coffee for breakfast.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SPRING/SUMMER 1852
In which an ill wind blows nobody good
Ever after I thought of it as the Ice Time, that February and March of 1852 when the snow would not melt and everything green froze and everything frozen was too hard and too treacherous to lift, pick, or walk on. Tents collapsed from the weight of the snow, and those miners who stayed behind for the winter crowded into the boarding house and the saloons. Anything or anybody outdoors overnight was an icicle come morning. Mr. Scatter let Bernard sleep on the floor of the general store in exchange for sweeping and stacking, packing and unpacking, and Brother Clyde's mule, Apostle, moved into the shed Bernard had inherited from Sweetheart.
Food mostly ran out at the end of February, winter usually meaning lean pickings anyway, and we tried to stay alive on potatoes, barley broth, and a kind of bread made from flour and water with a drop of molasses to kill the taste of weevils. Even Mr. Scatter's celebration pickled beets got eaten, and Jimmy said that now he would give twenty dollars in gold for one of those fondly remembered sheet-iron steaks. I was afraid we'd be reduced to eating tallow candles.
Rusty and the Gent went hunting several times but mostly came back empty-handed. One time Rusty returned without the Gent, and we all feared he was lost in the snow. Many hours later here came the Gent, dragging the carcass of a deer. He figured he had pulled that deer near six miles through the snow. While Rusty and Jimmy cut up the meat, Mama rubbed the Gent's feet with snow, for they were frostbit. He soaked them in cold and then hot water; still his toes were dead white and painful for a long time after. But we did eat good for a while.
Lucky Diggins stayed indoors, animals sleeping and dreaming of green meadows, Mama and us sewing quilts and knitting stockings, and the miners entertaining themselves with poker, whist, ninepins, fighting for the last of the salted mackerel, drinking while there was drink, and listening for the arrival of a pack train. "I hear a mule bell," someone would shout, and everyone within hearing would run to the door and look out but see only snow falling, meaning the paths were not clear and the passes were not open and no butter or eggs or whiskey would be coming to Lucky Diggins today.
Folks kept their spirits up any way they could. I had my books, which I turned into plays with Prairie, Sierra, and Jimmy until no one would agree to watch anymore. Mama and Brother Clyde talked Heaven and Hell, argued about sore foot remedies, and danced while the Gent played his fiddle, saying we should pretend he was a whole orchestra and the cookstove a potted plant.
One day, while I sat with a flapjack on my head trying to ease my headache (an old remedy of Gramma Whipple's), Brother Clyde bundled up Prairie and Sierra in all the clothes they could find and took them outside to count snowflakes. When they came in, noses cold and red, Clyde said, "We were almost finished counting when some snow blew in from the west and mixed with what we'd already counted." Prairie just snorted and wiped the steam from her spectacles, but Mama laughed and beamed on Clyde as if she were a hound and he her only pup.
Although most of the folk in Lucky Diggins came from the old states and had suffered through long, harsh winters, we all grew winter weary, this being California and not ordinarily so bitter. I could understand the passion of Prairie who from time to time slipped outside to her garden and scraped away the snow and ice to see and feel and smell the earth and crumble it between her fingers.
A thaw came as it always does. The snow turned to mud, and the river to a mass of dark-foamed waves. The sun even came out now and then to tease us with the promise of spring.
One day I pulled on Butte's old India-rubber boots and stepped outside. There was, for the first time since Christmas, no snow. The slush had melted, revealing the streets (for Lucky Diggins had grown to two) piled with gravel mounds, empty bottles, oyster cans, sardine
boxes, worn-out kettles, and rusty tools. I looked up as a flock of ring doves, happy to see the pale sunshine, swooped over the town only to be met with pistol and rifle fire. Although I mourned for the soft dead birds, I did enjoy the stews and soups and pigeon pies we turned them into.
By the end of April Lucky Diggins was ready to start living again. The snow was a bad memory, the days warm and dry, the passes sure to open soon. Mama's crocus and daffodil bulbs sent up soft green shoots, promising a riot of flowers if folks would just be patient. Brother Clyde left to go preaching, a jar of Mama's sore-foot remedy tucked in his sack, and a mess of new boarders moved in.
May and June were like summer, hot and still. Grasses and wild berries threatened to overgrow the town, and flowers appeared in the middle of streets and paths, in pits and holes abandoned by the miners, and even on the piles of mule manure thawing in the sunshine. The warm breezes were so welcome after the ice of winter, I ate most of my meals outside, face to the sun, trying to fatten up again. But as the hot days went on, I began to worry. If spring was like this, what would August bring?
The warm breezes turned into hot wind, and there was no more eating outside. There was dirt in our food and our eyes and our mouths. My lips cracked, and my hands, as the hot wind sucked all the juices out of me.
One morning that hot wind grew bolder, blowing like it came directly from Hell, searing our faces and noses and throats. Twigs and dry leaves whipped through the air, several tents blew down, and the Gent's top hat flew right off his head, down the street, across the river, and out of sight, while the Gent stumbled swearing after it. He returned later bareheaded and bad tempered.
Prairie and Sierra were hot and fidgety, so I sat with them under a tree and tried to turn "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" into a story suitable for youngsters.
"I don't want that story," said Sierra. "Tell me about Pa."
"Well," I said, "Pa was the skinniest man I ever saw, with red hair and a big laugh—"
"Not that, Lucy. You always say that. Tell me something else about him. Were his ears big or small? Did he have freckles? All his teeth? Did you ever see him cry?"
I dumped Sierra roughly off my lap and stood up to shake my skirts and get cool.
"What'd I say to peeve Lucy?" asked Sierra.
Prairie looked up from her mending and said softly "I think she doesn't remember."
"I do so remember," I said, marching the girls back into the house so Mama could deal with them for a while.
Suddenly the sky grew darkish, and the wind roared with a noise like thunder, blowing under the tents, through the cracks in the cabins, around windows and doors. Something was wrong. I could feel it in my bones. Minutes later I heard the first cries: "Fire! Fire! Fire in the town!"
Jimmy said later that it started in Billy Parker's restaurant when a lantern was blown over and ignited the canvas of the tent kitchen. From there it was blown by the wind to the blacksmith tent, then to the general store, the saloon, and the rest of the town. Tents and cabins and trees exploded into flame. The rows of wooden buildings on the streets caught fire quickly. Their skeletons stood for a while glowing red before tumbling to the ground.
The wind blew the fire through the west side of the ravine, so folks mostly scattered east across the river and up into the trees, carrying whatever we could to safety. Mama brought her coffee grinder and a picture of Pa, Milly her hat with flowers and a bottle of scent. Jimmy Whiskers had his tin plate with breakfast still on it, and Mr. Scatter his canary. I, of course, grabbed my pickle crock and the first book that came to hand. Prairie had a whistle Butte had whittled for her. Bernard could bring nothing of his own, for he carried Sierra.
The air was stifling hot, the sky dark with smoke, and the sun blood red. It was like The Ancient Mariner come to life. Covered with cinders and ashes, we stood under the shelter of the trees watching the fire gobble up everything it touched, roaring louder than a train. It took thirty-three minutes by Mr. Scatter's pocket watch for that fire to burn down the town. Took a bit longer for it to reach the tents along the river and then clamber up the ravine into the woods, where it raced away from Lucky Diggins with a deafening roar. But it was many hours before we felt safe enough to come creeping back to see what was left, hoping in our heart of hearts things weren't as bad as we feared.
They were. One wall of Mr. Scatter's saloon and an acre of ashes—that's what was left. Everything else was gone. The saloons, the general store, the smithy were gone. The boarding house and all my books but the one I carried were gone. The town was gone.
We gathered together before the one remaining wall of the saloon. That place had been much more than just a thirst parlor to the folks of Lucky Diggins; it had served as post office, gambling den, dance hall, livery stable, courtroom, church, assay office, social club, and extra bedroom on a number of occasions. Its charred wall was the only familiar thing in town, and, stunned and overwhelmed, we huddled against it for comfort. There were Mr. Scatter and his canary; Mama and Prairie and Sierra and me; Bernard Freeman; Mrs. Flagg with Lizzie and Ruby Ramona; Milly from the saloon; Amos Frogge, the blacksmith; Snoose McGrath, who did odd jobs; Poker John Lewis from the other saloon; Billy and Beppie Parker from the restaurant; King Luke, who ran the supply store; Ripley Gurgins and his pants-wearing, pipe-smoking daughter Nessa, who were prospecting at Owl Creek; Jimmy Whiskers; the Gent; a couple of other miners who had been caught in town when the fire started; and three scared mules.
What were we to do now?
"This town, it's done for," said Amos Frogge.
"It's finished," agreed the Gent.
"It's over."
"Gone."
"Through."
"Kaput."
Defeat and hopelessness were so heavy, I could almost smell them over the smell of burning and ashes and pines. I thought this might be a good time to talk about going home to Massachusetts, but one look at Mama's face shut my mouth fast.
Lizzie was so distressed, she let me hug her. Prairie just stood quiet, her hand in her mouth, while Mama tried to soothe Sierra, who was shaken all to pieces and kept crying about the monster, as if the fire were a roaring red dragon that had devoured Lucky Diggins. Mama kept looking up at the blazing hillsides and muttering about Brother Clyde wandering out there where the fire was. Me? I felt like all the air had gone out of me. Lucky Diggins wasn't much, but until I got back to Massachusetts, it was all the home and safety and certainty that I had. And now it was gone. Everything was gone, and we were stranded in the wilderness with nothing but a few trinkets and the clothes on our backs.
I didn't cry, just sat dry-eyed and stared at the ashes, until I heard Billy Parker, his face red and dangerous, shout at Bernard, "We ain't had but bad luck since you came here, feller. Gold runnin' out, bad weather, now a fire. I think maybe yer a Jonah, bringin' hard times our way."
King Luke and Poker John Lewis came up behind him, muttering and swearing, and I grew afraid. "Mama?"
"Calm down, Miss Lucy," Bernard said. "Words don't hurt nobody none if they just stay words." Bernard started to walk away, but Billy stepped in front of him.
Mama went right up to Billy and grabbed him by his red suspenders. "Don't we have enough trouble with the weather and the wind and the fire?" Mama asked. "Don't you have anything better to do than bait a youngster over things you know ain't his fault? Billy, it was your place where the fire started. I don't see anybody blaming you. Go with John and King and see what help you can be instead of trouble. Go. Shoo!" To my amazement, the men went.
"That was right brave, Mama," I said. Bernard nodded slightly in agreement and went off by himself.
"Not hardly," said Mama. "Those ruffians don't have the guts of a rabbit when they're not liquored up."
"Why did you call Bernard a youngster? Isn't he old?"
"Hardly older than you, girl. You mean you never noticed that?"
"Must be the beard makes him look old," I said, "or his sad face." I was a little ashamed that I had never
really looked at Bernard as a person but more like a plaything, something I found up by Ranger Creek, called by my father's name, and brought home to play with.
While the men of Lucky Diggins stood and argued about what to do next, we women set about gathering what branches and brush we could for shelter and beds. Whatever the men decided, we weren't going anywhere for a while. The fire had made the trail into Lucky Diggins a tangle of stubble, half-burned branches, and ash. No one was going to be passing over, under, or through that anytime soon.
"How old are you, Bernard?" I asked later, as we hunted nuts and seeds and spring greens that had escaped the fire to serve as a supper of sorts.
"Don't rightly know, missy. I ain't twenty yet, I know that. Mr. Sawyer, he used to beat all his slaves when they got twenty so's they didn't get any ideas about being grown-up and independent. And I never got that beating."
"You look older. Old, even."
"Mr. Sawyer, he's looking for a young runaway slave. Better I look old. Plenty of time to be young when I'm free."
"Bernard, I was thinking." I looked down and chewed on my lip. "I was thinking, maybe it wasn't right of me to name you, like a doll or a dog or something. You're a man—maybe you should be choosing your own name."
"I agree, missy. I agree. And I'm choosing the name a friend offered. Bernard. I'm proud to have it."
"Mr. Sawyer will never think to look for an old man named Bernard. I guess you're pretty safe here."