Reckoning of Boston Jim (11 page)

The young man loses the first game, plays another for free and wins. Now is the time. Yes. The tosser suggests a small wager. A mere quarter dollar. Shillings acceptable as well. The young man is fumbling in his pocket. Is humming a cheerful tune when Eugene steps up. My God, he may know little of mining, but he has spent enough time slumming to know of sharpers and their tricks.

“I would not recommend it, young sir. You will not find the lady. You will never find the lady.”

“Mind your own affairs there,” the tosser says.

“You have already been duped. The player before was an accomplice, a shill as it were. Another two are on the lookout should an authority come about and question the dealings.”

The tosser stares at Eugene. “You calling me a cheat?”

“My father won a quid at Find the Lady once,” the young man says. “At the fair it was. He bought us taffy and caramels. It was right jolly.”

“Indeed? Well, I assure you, young sir, you are more likely to find the Lady of the Lake than the lady of the cards. They have many tricks, these men.”

The young man looks to him wide-eyed. He is stroking his ridiculous beard as if it were a cherished pet. Has Eugene met him before? Perhaps, though likely it is merely that particular gullibility of youth that is familiar.

“Here, it's only a bloody quarter,” the tosser says.

“And then a half dollar and then a whole. And then the man's entire purse, and if he is unwilling to part with it, strong encouragement to give it up, eh?”

The tosser stands. The squatter on the bank stands. The figure by the stable shifts so that he is no longer leaning. Squares of light fall into the street as doors open and shut. Spinet and fiddle. Shouts and catcalls.

The man from the bank approaches, bringing with him a smell of onions and ale. He has the bulk of a wrestler and is likely armed. Eugene is tempted to let the young fool learn his lesson, be pummelled to bloody bits. Courage, Eugene Augustus, do not cut and run, not from this engagement.

“I advise we walk on,” Eugene whispers. The young man stumbles to one side. Eugene rights him.

“Where's my lady, eh? My father found her. A quid he won. It was right capital.”

The bank man stands behind the tosser, sucks his breath through his teeth. Why should Eugene risk his neck for a stranger? He takes one step back. Two. Half turns. His heart pounds. The man from the stable blocks his escape. He is the tallest man that Eugene has yet seen in the colonies. His shoulders are as wide as a door. His hat, a wide-awake, shadows one eye. Indeed, he is well-dressed for a muscle man, has a frock coat and high boots that gleam even in this derisory light.

“I should warn you,” Eugene says. “I am an Englishman, and a soldier of the Crimean, and . . .”

“And full of the Dutch courage, I'd say.” The voice is the sort that could command the trees to bloom, waters to part. It seems to have an echo of its own. The bank man backs off. The tosser stuffs his pockets with cards. Tips over the lantern in his rush.

“Arthur. This is unlike you entirely. As for you, sir.” The man comes closer, looms over Eugene. Few men can loom over Eugene. It is not something he likes. “My thanks for trying to save the pockets of my clerk. And now Mr. Kinnear and Mr. Jevowski, is it? Either cease your nocturnal swindling or be gone from this town.”

“ 'Course, your honour, 'course,” says the tosser, Mr. Kinnear. “Just a game. Not a swindle. Not this one. Didn't know he was your clerk. Didn't know. 'Course. Good evening to you. Good evening.”

A full moon is rising over the hills and flushing its light down the street. Arthur is singing “Beautiful Dreamer.” The tall man is inviting Eugene for a coffee at Captain Powers's Hotel and introducing himself as Matthew Baillie Begbie, High Court Judge. Kinnear and Jevowski are nowhere in sight.

≈  ≈  ≈

They sit in upholstered chairs in Captain Powers's front room, their legs sprawled out toward the fire. The chandelier lamps are lit. The Judge's hat sits on a wrought iron table. His hair is black, thick and richly oiled. His eyes are a remarkable blue. He wears a Van Dyke beard, moustaches waxed to tasteful points.

The noise from the saloons is muffled by distance. Arthur has gone off to bed. Eugene knows where he saw him now—at Governor Douglas's table nearly two years ago, on the occasion when Eugene was ushered so ignobly out the door. Arthur's face was less enveloped with hair then, which is why Eugene failed to recognize him. Wasn't young Arthur married to one of the Governor's daughters? Yes. To one of the
les belles sauvages
, as Eugene has heard them called. Ah, at least this evening is turning out splendidly, just as Eugene felt it would. They are smoking cigars, the Judge's own, and sipping coffee from China cups. They have exchanged pleasantries on the weather (promising) on Captain Powers's coffee (excellent) and on the war raging in America (tiresome).

The Judge blows a white ring that blooms against the window pane. Eugene attempts the same, coughs. He has never acquired a taste for tobacco. Still, he could hardly turn down the offering of a cigar from such a man; it would be alike to turning down the offering of his hand; it would be disrespectful of their common bond. For they are both Englishmen, they both prefer their coffee black. Most importantly they both attended Cambridge, though when the Judge, delighted, presses Eugene for dates and reminisces about this doctor or that, Eugene regrets that he had brought the subject forward. No point in explaining to the Judge that he would have completed his three years, certainly, but there had been the problem of the money, the problem of being unfairly sent down. The bulldogs, those greasy wardens, took a special delight in tracking him when he and his companions were out enjoying an evening. They hardly cared that one could not merely snap one's fingers and so be transported across the environs.

Eugene decides it is as good a time to piss as any. “If you will excuse me. I must step outside. The coffee. I am not accustomed to such excess of liquid this time at night.”

He pisses against a wall and as he does a dog slinks past, staring at Eugene over its shoulder, as if there were a price on its mangy head. Eugene belts his trousers and now notices that the clouds are in retreat and the moon is looking low enough to roll down the street. It is full round and the patterns upon it are as delicate as lace work, astonishingly clear. To Eugene's delight a line of poetry ambles into his recollections. He had read it in some English periodical, and then again on the wall of a necessary here in the colonies.

Eugene returns and takes up his cigar. “Ah, Bright wandering coquette of the sky, whom alone can change but always be adored.”

“My pardon?”

“It is a fragment from that incomparable poet, Percy Shelley. It has only just been discovered and published.”

“Ah, but was it not: Bright wanderer, fair coquette of Heaven?” the Judge asks.

“Possibly.”

“And then: To whom alone it has been given to change and be adored forever. I could be in error.”

“No, those are the correct lines, now that I think on it. Quite so.”

“I am glad to meet a man who prefers poetry to gambling.”

“Indeed, sir, I swore an oath to my dying mother that I would touch not the cards, nor the dice, nor approach a gaming table. I will honour that oath.”

“
Ad praesens ova cras pullis sent meliora.
”

Something about chickens and eggs, which comes first. No, that it is better to have an egg than a chicken. “Quite so,” Eugene says.

“But what of searching for gold? Is not that a gamble?”

“In a manner, yes, but the differences bear analysis. For it is due to one's own exertions that gold is found, it does not merely rely on the turn of a card or a dealer's honesty.”

“That is true,” the Judge admits with a small smile. He adds more coffee to Eugene's cup and then his own. “And you served in the Crimean?”

“Yes.”

“A noble cause.”

“Yes.”

“Who can forget that brave charge by the light brigade?”

“Not I.”

“Although it was said to be not wholly necessary. But then,
errare humanum
.”

The whole war was unnecessary, Eugene thinks. The whole war was full of human error. It was foolishness that masqueraded as courage and best not spoken of. “Quite so,” he says.

The Judge presses with more questions. Has he met the Governor? Has he not letters of introduction? A man of his standing and experience must. “I would be pleased to see them.”

“I thank you. It would be an honour, your honour. It is just that I have left them with my wife.”

“Ah, perhaps at another time. When we are both in Victoria.”

“Yes,” Eugene says.

“It is astonishing how many are forged, and so poorly at that.”

“Astonishing,” Eugene says.

“Indeed,” says the Judge and thankfully now speaks of French poetry, the moral role of princes and kings, the theories of Mr. Darwin. “You must have attended a great many interesting lectures while in London.”

“Certainly,” Eugene says. London lectures. They always started out well. Soon enough, however, the endless extrapolations, explanations and examples sent his thoughts drifting over the student watering holes like a lost soul.

The Judge is now speaking of the rights of the populace, states strongly (as Eugene was finding he states all things) that British law be equally applied to all, whether the man be red, black, white or yellow. “The law is colour-blind,” he says.

“Quite so. That is why she is blindfolded. Personally I have always found the image appealing.”

“It makes no difference if she is blindfolded, metaphorically or not. She does not differentiate the yellow from the brown or black.”

Eugene agrees, for he would like this to be a most agreeable evening. In any case, the Judge's theories make a great deal more sense than those of that damned barrister from Bath whom he met on the passage over. The Judges theories are simpler, easy to recall. His stomach tightens. What if the Judge has heard of his evening at the Governor's? His disgrace? No other word will suffice. Thank Christ that this Arthur Bushby did not recognize him, though did he not wink before he stumbled off? Surely not.

Eugene hastily offers up Dora, how she is alike to the ruddy-skinned, strong limbed women painted by that Flemish chap.

“Rubens?”

“Exactly so.”

“Good that you are happily married, Mr. Hume.”

Eugene admits wholeheartedly that he is. They continue with the topic of women, the absurdity of crinolines, the darling manner with which women peel an orange, their unfortunate lack of rationality. “Yet this is the thing,” Eugene says. “A man must make his fortune first. He must settle in the world before he binds himself. For women it is different. They are older creatures than us. Yes, I think this is so. They are as wise at eighteen as we are at thirty. They have no need to go off travelling the continent, no need to be studying geometry or philosophy. They are prepared from the cradle to get on with the business of life. Dora, that is, Mrs. Hume, is never plagued with doubts, never sleeps poorly. She chatters cheerfully from morning till night. Sometimes I wonder whether she knows if it is I standing there or merely a wooden post. Sometimes I wonder if I sent another man in my place if she would even notice.”

“She would, I do not doubt. Women notice much more than we credit them.”

“Indeed. Are you planning marriage? If I may be so bold as to ask.”

“Not as yet. I have much work to do before I can contemplate such a state.” At this the Judge looks at the mantel clock. “I must to bed now. I continue my circuit come morning.”

“If you are needing companionship . . .”

The Judge is not. The Judge will be halting at near every roadhouse and ensemble of men, trying cases both petty and severe. He and his small party will be on forest trails, breaking through snow.

“Snow?”

“There is snow in the high country. Have you not heard?”

“Yes, but it is now June.”

The Judge smiles. “You will find the weather here quite inconstant. Take it up as a challenge.”

He stands and offers his hand. Eugene likewise stands. The coffee has worked its magic; he is steady.

“Good night then, Matthew,” Eugene says, for somewhere during the evening they exchanged their first names. Somewhere in the evening that kind of a bond was forged. “I trust we shall meet again.”

The Judge smiles sagely, warmly. “We shall indeed, sir. There is only one destination after all.”

"Have you ever been to London, Mr. Jim?”

He said no, thought again how she asked the oddest questions. London? Why not Africa? Why not the sun?

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1862
. The new Westminster Bridge is opened with great ceremony. At the zoological gardens in Regent's Park an infant giraffe stumbles upward to the urgings of the crowd. And in South Kensington preparations for the International Exhibition have begun. It will be as great as the Great Exhibition of '
51
and all London talks of it. Even Dora talks of it, though she doubts she will see much of it. In a cramped, windowless room off Bond Street Dora and a dozen-odd other women are far too occupied with sewing gowns for the quality. Her skills are not fine enough for the tailoring, not even for the making of ruffles and bows, the edge-workings of lace. Her fingers are not the lily stems of Marie, barely twelve, nor the deft blur of Miss Grower who at thirty looks to be fifty. No, Dora's clumsy fingers are fit only for the sewing on of buttons and large beads. Even then the sweater, Mr. Haberdale, frowns at her work. He is pot-bellied and scoured with wrinkles and is everywhere at once. At the end of the day he tells the women to open their mouths so that he may inspect for buttons hidden beneath their tongues. Women, young and old, have been known to steal in this manner. He explains this to Dora and inspects so closely, for so long that Dora would love to spit a button into his rheumy eye.