“Because men need ’em, my boy. And what men need, they’ll pay for—handsomely. Like I told Mrs. Holster”—he grinned—“spades are trumps now. If there’s as much gold in the American as there seems to be, it’s going to be that way for a long time.”
Louis ran back to the other side of Portsmouth Square and reported to his mother. She thanked him, but her eyes didn’t seem to be focusing on the immediate surroundings. She acted much the same as she did whenever she discussed returning to Boston.
“You go help Israel,” she said. “I want to look over my account book—”
She left him. He scuffed the toe of his boot against the kitchen floor. Maybe living by herself—without a man—had something to do with these peculiar spells. Maybe it wasn’t entirely the fault of the gold—
Amanda always refused to answer Louis’ questions about his father. She put him off with a promise that she’d clear up the mystery when she thought the time was appropriate. Did that mean he was still too young? He assumed so.
Every once in a while he keenly missed having a father. Now was one such time. A man might help his ma keep a level head. A man who was around more regularly than Captain Bart might help cure his ma of the fever—to which Louis was convinced Amanda had succumbed, whether she’d admit it or not.
iii
That night Amanda completely forgot her son’s lessons. Captain Bart arrived for supper about seven, but the tavern was so busy, she had no chance to serve him until half past nine—which put him in another foul mood. Louis could tell from the sort of music the captain hammered on the piano before and after he ate—wild, noisy music, full of heavy chords in the bass.
Louis couldn’t sleep because of the racket. He pushed the curtain aside and asked whether he could go out to the privy. Amanda didn’t answer. She was seated at the walnut table, her pencil moving rapidly over a sheet of paper. She was doing sums, he noticed. Puffing on a cigar, Captain Bart stared out a window.
“Ma? Did you hear me?”
Without so much as glancing up, Amanda said, “What? Oh, yes, go ahead.”
Frowning, the boy walked toward the back door.
He sat awhile on the rough, splintery board. But the request had been a pretense. Presently he pulled his flannel nightshirt down and stepped out of the reeking little building. The night air was chilly, damp-smelling. Fog drifted. Out in the bay, blurs of light showed the location of Captain Bart’s clipper and a small steam packet that made coasting voyages as far north as Oregon.
A lantern was burning in Israel’s shanty. Captain Bart started pounding the piano again. Louis didn’t especially want to return to the noise. He walked across the damp ground and knocked on the shanty door.
He heard Israel draw in a sharp breath. “Who’s there?”
“Just me, Israel.”
“Oh—Louis. Come on in.”
The place was cramped but scrupulously neat. A table, a chair, a cot and a box for Israel’s few clothes comprised the furnishings. The tall man lay on the cot, one of the new books—Mr. Poe’s—propped on his bare stomach.
As Israel sat up, Louis caught a glimpse of the Negro’s shoulder blade. Like most of Israel’s back, the yellow skin there was a crosswork of hard brown scar tissue. Israel often said—with a certain air of pride—that he’d been whipped more than any other slave on the Mississippi plantation from which he’d run away when he was twenty.
“The captain’s music keeping you awake?” the ex-slave asked.
“Yes, that and—” Louis stopped, feeling vaguely foolish.
“And what?” Israel prompted.
“And all the craziness in town.”
Israel nodded. “Know what you mean. I heard almost a hundred more folks showed up today.”
“I just don’t understand the reason, Israel. Why is everybody so excited about gold? What can you do with it?”
The tall man reflected a moment. “The truth is, nothing much—except use it to replace a bad tooth. Gold’s not like iron or copper. You can’t turn it into needles or kettles or plows.”
“Seems to me it’s worthless, then.”
“No, you can buy things with it. They say it lasts a mighty long time. And it’s not found in very many places in the world. Guess that’s why it’s so valuable—there isn’t much of it.”
“I still don’t see why people would bother to hunt for it.”
“That’s because you don’t think like a grown-up, Louis. Some grown-ups put a lot of stock in being rich.”
“Is owning gold like owning people of color? The more you own, the richer you are?”
Israel’s gentle smile disappeared. “Yes and no.”
“What do you mean? What’s the difference?”
“For one thing, a human being can produce something—provided he’s scared bad enough. A lump of gold doesn’t think, either. Or shed a tear. Or have any feelings to speak of—”
He said it quietly enough. But his eyes were so somber, Louis shuddered.
“I wish they’d never found any gold at Sutter’s!” he declared finally.
“Could make California mighty prosperous, Louis. Could be even more important than that—it just might start this part of the country filling up with people like nothing else could.”
“But Ma’s thinking about it too much!”
“How do you know?”
“Well, she’s either thinking about gold or Boston. She’s hardly spoken to me since supper.”
Israel tried to smile. “I expect she’s caught a light case of the fever. It’ll pass.”
Louis shook his head. “I think she has a bad case. She wants money mighty strongly, Israel. You know how she’s always talking about going east—”
“Yes, I do, and I have a peculiar feeling that going there wouldn’t be good for any of us. I know I couldn’t abide the crowds. Guess it’s none of my affair, though. You better hurry back inside. You’ve been out here a while—”
“Bet they’ll never notice how long I was gone. Good night, Israel.”
“Good night, Louis.”
He left the shanty and crossed the foggy yard. Amanda glanced up from her sums as he entered. She said nothing. McGill sat at the piano, staring into space.
Louis walked to the cubicle, drew the curtain and threw himself in bed, feeling miserable. He could have stayed out half the night—he could have jumped in the bay or run off to the American—and she probably wouldn’t have said a word!
iv
The sandy-haired man walked into the public room about nine the following evening. Nine was the normal closing time. But it was already apparent to Louis that, with all the new arrivals, Kent’s could have extended its hours till eleven or twelve and done a brisk business in liquor.
He presumed the tavern would soon be open that long every night. But right now his ma was occupied with those scraps of paper on which she’d been ciphering last evening and most of the day. She was at it again, in the back, leaving Israel and Louis to hang out the closed sign, sweep and clean the place, blow out the lanterns and lock up. The Mexican girl, Conception, had already gone.
The public room was empty of customers but the front door was still open when the sandy-haired young man entered. Israel pointed to the sign lying on the table nearest the entrance. “We’re closed. I was just about to hang that up—”
“I’m powerful hungry,” the young man said. “Couldn’t I see a bill of fare?”
“Isn’t any,” Israel informed him. “For supper we serve salt pork, beans, biscuits and coffee—and what’s left is cold.”
The sandy-haired fellow glanced at the open front door. Nervously, Louis thought. Busy with the broom, he still didn’t miss the wood-handled bowie sheathed over the young man’s left hip. The stranger was in his twenties, with a homely face. His flannel shirt and trousers looked brand new. Hardly a trace of dust anywhere. The shirt bagged, much too large.
“Couldn’t you rustle up a couple of biscuits?” the young man asked. “I don’t care, if they’re col
d—I’m plumb near starved.”
Israel shrugged and headed for the kitchen. Presently he returned, and set a plate in front of the stranger. “You collect his money when he’s finished, Louis,” he said as he left again.
The sandy-haired man wolfed two biscuits and was starting on a third when he noticed the boy watching him. “What are you staring at?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Tend to your work!”
The abruptness of it—and the flash of color in the young man’s cheeks—alarmed Louis somehow. Ill at ease, he glanced down at the pile of sweepings. A horse clopped along the street. The sound stopped suddenly. The young man whipped his head around, staring through the door into the darkness. Perspiring all at once, he swabbed his forehead with the back of one hand—
He started when another man appeared in the doorway. A lean, severe-looking Army officer in his late twenties. The officer’s dark blue fatigue jacket and light blue trousers were powdered with dust. So was his face, which hadn’t been touched by a razor in several days. His reddish beard, wrinkled clothing and fatigued eyes were in marked contrast to the mint-bright barrel of the Army revolver in his right hand.
“Evening, Private Pepper,” the officer said. His glance shifted to Louis, then back to the young man, who looked as scared as anyone Louis had ever seen.
“How—how’d you track me so fast?” the young man asked.
“Do you imagine it was hard with you on foot and me on horseback? You had a good head start, but I don’t suppose I was more than half an hour behind you by the time you got here.”
“I—I know I didn’t leave any trail—”
“Where else would you be likely to come but the mouth of the Sacramento? I’d have shown up sooner but I had to stop and ask questions. I just came from the store where you bought those new clothes. You should have bought a hat to cover up your hair, too. I knew people would remember your hair if they didn’t remember your face—” A humorless smile curled the officer’s mouth. “I’m becoming very experienced at chasing deserters, Pepper. You’re the third in as many days—though the other two didn’t get as far.” He gestured with the revolver. “Come on, we’d better start back to Monterey—”
The young man sighed and stood up. The officer turned his head toward Louis. “Sorry to trouble you, young man—”
Suddenly the deserter leaped to the side and flung an arm around Louis’ throat. The next thing Louis knew, the long blade of the bowie was pressed against his throat.
“I don’t want to hurt this tadpole, Sherman. But I will if you don’t let me go.”
“My God, Pepper, what’s become of your brains? You pull something like this, Colonel Mason’ll order a whole troop after you!”
“Talking won’t change my mind,” Pepper said. Louis’ heart hammered in his chest. He gulped air through his mouth, feeling the deserter tremble. Any sudden move might get him the bowie through the throat—
“Stand clear of the doorway,” the deserter ordered. “And put your revolver on the counter.”
The officer remained motionless. Louis winced as the point of the knife dug his throat.
“Sherman, you do what I say or I’ll cut him!”
A board creaked. Someone was creeping in from the kitchen. The officer’s eyes jumped past the deserter, startled—
The younger man jerked his knife hand away from Louis’ throat and whirled, cursing, just as Israel swung an iron skillet.
Louis felt something warm and wet trickling down his neck. The bowie had pierced the skin. Israel tried to slam Pepper’s head with the skillet—and missed as the deserter sidestepped.
A look of panic crossed Pepper’s face. Off balance, Israel staggered toward him. Pepper shot his knife hand straight toward the tall man’s belly—
Louis jumped, both hands closing on Pepper’s forearm. The deserter snarled, lifted a knee and rammed Louis hard between the legs. The boy crashed against the barrels supporting the counter, clutching his groin and fighting back tears. Somewhere in the back of the building, Amanda cried her son’s name—
Israel regained his balance and darted forward again, both hands locked on the skillet’s handle. Pepper jabbed with the knife. It raked the iron bottom, struck sparks, skittered off. While the officer shouted for everyone to clear away so he could fire, Israel clenched his teeth, dodged another bowie-jab and swung the skillet at Pepper’s skull—
Still dazed, Louis heard the frightful crunch—then Pepper’s moan. He saw the bowie tumble from the deserter’s hand and impale itself, humming, in the floor. Pepper fell beside it, a stain darkening his trousers. Covering his face with his forearms, Pepper rolled his head from side to side, whimpering—
“What in damnation is going on? Louis!” Her Colt’s revolver clutched in one hand, Amanda rushed toward her son.
“My deepest apologies, ma’am,” the officer said, leaning down to free the bowie and pitch it onto the counter. “Things got just a trifle out of hand. But the young man was very resourceful—”
“He’s not hurt badly, Miz Kent,” Israel said as Amanda knelt, laid the revolver aside and took Louis’ head in her hands.
Despite the horrible pain between his thighs, the boy seconded the lie. “No, Ma, not bad.”
“Someone better explain why there are knives and pistols and fighting in this restaurant—and damn fast!” Amanda said.
The officer looked flustered. “I’m Lieutenant Sherman, ma’am. Lieutenant William T. Sherman, from the Monterey garrison. That fellow’s a runaway—”
“A deserter?”
“That’s right. We’re beginning to lose them at the rate of one or two a day. I imagine it’ll get worse. The struggle between right, and six dollars a month, and wrong, and a possible seventy-five or hundred per day, is a pretty severe one—”
Sheathing his revolver, Sherman dragged the cowed young man to his feet.
“You’ll wish you’d never touched that boy, Pepper, because the attack will go on the bill of charges.” He glanced at Israel. “Do you have any rope to tie him?”
Louis lost track of what happened next, busy fending his mother’s hands and answering her anxious questions. Yes, the man had seized him and pricked his skin and kicked him but, no, he wasn’t seriously injured; Israel had seen to that.
“Well, you’re coming straight back to bed,” Amanda declared. “I want you to take those clothes off so I can look at you. Israel, you lock up. Lieutenant—thank you for your courtesy, but I must see to my son—”
Louis limped a little; the pain in his genitals was still pretty fierce. The last he saw, Israel and Lieutenant William T. Sherman were lashing the prisoner’s hands behind his back. The youthful offender looked abject, his moment of crazed courage long past. Nothing remained except a doleful contemplation of the trouble into which his yearning for gold had gotten him.
It drives people out of their heads, Louis thought as Amanda helped him through the dark kitchen. It really does—
He was stricken anew with fear for his mother.
v
The next evening, Louis lay rigid in his curtained alcove, wakened from sleep by the harsh sounds of an argument.
“If you stay here one day longer, you’re a damned fool.”
“Bart—”
“Those are the only words for it—damned fool. It doesn’t take a biblical prophet to see what’s going to happen to this place. More and more drifters—riffraff—piling into town—and you’re willing to expose your son to that kind of existence?”
“Believe me, I’ve thought it over pretty hard—”
“And what have you decided?”
“I’ve decided to stay.”
“Jesus! Louis might have been killed last night!”
“He wasn’t. He came through just fine. He showed a good deal of pluck, Israel said.”
“Pluck isn’t worth shit if it lands you six feet under!”
“Bart, keep your voice down. Why are you so angry with me?”
“Because I want to see you safe! We’re sailing in the morning—come with me. I’ll take you and Louis—even that uppity nigger if you insist—straight to New York.”
“I thought you didn’t approve of my going east.”
“I don’t. But I like the idea of your staying here even less.”
“Well, I won’t go back without money—and there’s money to be made in San Francisco. A lot of money. Now what about the loan from the primage you’ll collect at the end of the voyage? You can easily spare a thousand dollars—”
“Am I supposed to do your damn shopping, too?”
“I told you I’d pay you fifteen percent on your money if you would. That’s twice as much as you get from the cargo—”
“How the hell can I inform the Ball brothers I’m loading a thousand dollars’ worth of pickaxes and iron pans for a female acquaintance? It’s against company policy. Besides, they’d think I was out of my head.”
“They won’t think anything because you won’t tell them. And you’ll figure out a way to hide the extra cargo, I know you will. Why are you so averse to profit all of a sudden? You heard what Sam Brannan’s doing. You know you’ll make your fifteen percent half an hour after you bring in the shipment—”
Louis lay utterly still, disheartened by the severity of his mother’s tone.
“I’ve never had a chance like this. Never in almost forty-five years. I’m in the right place at the right time. I can make something of myself! For Louis—”
“Pardon me if I say bullshit to that.”
“Please, Bart—”
“You’re not thinking of Louis. You’re thinking of that damn printing company—and how good it’ll feel to take it away from Stovall.”
“I’m losing patience with—”
“Fuck your patience! It’s true, isn’t it?”
“May I remind you this is not a New York dock? Your language—”
“Is no worse than what you indulge in when you’re mad. Isn’t what I said the gospel truth? Isn’t it?”
Silence. Louis dug his nails into his palms and shut his eyes, wishing they’d stop.