Reckoning of Boston Jim (18 page)

The conversation turns to the road itself. It is as if the wagon road is a country of its own—a long, thin country that is raw and new and ever-changing, certainly, yet at the same time complete with its own customs, costumes, legends, laws, and expressions, all of which are passed on to newcomers at these roadhouse gatherings the way such things are usually passed on at a mother's knee. And Eugene is part of it now. He finishes his claret. “I will tell you a story of the road.”

The voices do not abate. The Dane is speaking of mule trains. Spitting Bob of remedies for scurvy. A good number are discussing the charms of Indian women.

“It is about a man named Injun Hank. It is about Indian graveyards, betrayal and sacrifice.”

The gathering grows quieter; a log falls in the fireplace.

“You didn't see him, did ya?” Thunderman asks, for once his voice held low.

“I did assuredly. Why?” Eugene asks with a smile, then wishes he had kept silent. This curiosity. This restless seeking mind of his. It is a flaw, a fatal one perhaps. Of course if the wagon road can be seen as a country then it follows it will have its own ghosts and superstitions as well.

“Everyone who has seen that man has had naught but bad luck,” Red Olsen says.

“Ain't even clear if he's alive,” adds in the skinner of the freight wagon. He has been quiet until now. “Some say he's a ghost himself. That's why he can't see us. I warned you 'bout him, I did. I told you to keep your eyes on the road.”

“I didn't hear you, sir. In any case, the warning would have come too late.”

Too late indeed. An Irishman who saw Injun Hank near Rombrot's fell into a ravine not two days after. Before the road was built three Greeks saw just the shadow of him. They lost their way in the woods the next day. They survived the ordeal but the one could not cease shaking, the second hanged himself, and the third died of a mysterious sickness in Richfield that autumn. And then there was the Chinaman. Injun Hank stared at him as he was drinking from the river. A week later the Chinaman complained of stomach cramps and died spewing out black bile.

Eugene asks Salter for more mulled claret. Duteau might have told him of this superstition instead of merely exchanging nervous glances with his wife. As for Mrs. Duteau, she was not being solicitous because of his manners and bearing. She pitied him. Thought him a dead man walking.

The talk shifts back to mining. He borrows a candle lantern and steps outside. Ariadne is sleeping upright in the stable with three other mules. Their sighs are like those of souls in purgatory. He leans against a post. A horse stamps and neighs. Manure and earth. The smell of his own sweat. He looks at the black wind of the road beyond which who knows what lies. Imagines resting his head on Dora's breast. She strokes his brow. “There, there, my love.”

“It's all stories, man.”

“What! Ah, Mr. Salter.”

Salter checks on the feed, then slaps Eugene on the back. “Men here drop dead regular as horses drop shit. All kinds of dying possible. One thing you can't depend on is old age. That thing with Injun Hank, it's a whaddayacallit, a coincidence. Been plenty men who saw him and didn't die. I know a few. But who wants to know about them, eh?”

“No one. No one at all. I quite agree. Exactly so.”

They walk back to the roadhouse in companionable silence. At the door Salter says: “The trouble is, 'course, if he saw you. Looked at you.”

Eugene attempts a laugh. “Ah, quite so. Are we speaking as old wives do, of evil eyes and such?”

“Evil eye in this case. He's only got the one.”

“Quite so. Ah, he did look at me, yes. His eye, that is, was fixed upon me, though he did not seem to see. Sir, Mr. Salter, he is merely an unfortunate soul left to wander the earth with heathens. You do not truly believe . . .”

“No, of course not. Hume, was it? I'm to bed now. I advise you get some shut-eye, too.”

“My thanks, but I may enjoy the stars for a time. They are remarkable.”

Salter looks upward, puzzled, then ducks through the doorway.

Eugene tilts his head back. There is Orion the hunter, slain by the huntress Diana. There is Cassiopeia who boasted too much of her daughter's beauty. And there the Seven Sisters. What is their story? He can't recall and does not wish to. The starry heavens are full enough of the outcast and the damned.

At the crossing of the equator Captain Gringshaw invites the entire party of women up on deck. They are in time to see Neptune clambering over the side. He is dripping seaweed and holding a trident and is surrounded by all his seaman helpers.

Boston scratched his ear. “A God, was it,” he said because he had said nothing for a long time now.

Dora laughed. “Oh, no, don't worry, it weren't the real Neptune but a petty officer all got up. And the tribute, you know what that was? No? Beards! The soap smelled something horrible and had tar in it. They grabbed a young man first. Afterwards his face was all covered with bloody nicks, ah, but he was a fine sport and said he never had a better shave. Next they got a hold of some gentleman who had a coppery beard right to his belt. He was livid and kicked and yelled and said what a disgrace it was. Neptune showed no mercy at all. But that's fitting for a Sea God, aren't you thinking? And so off came the beard, and don't you know it but the gentleman actually wept.”

Mr. Scott is also held down and shaved. This does nothing for his mood, which has been growing more foul by the day. No, they would not be allowed up for that evening's festivities. Later they hear the thump of dancing feet, an accordion, a fiddle, the hoots and laughter of the passengers and crew.

Miss Hutchins: “We should be let up. We ain't livestock.”

Miss Paul: “It would not be unpleasant.”

Miss Joanna: “We need good clean air.”

The Widow Dall: “Air? We need men is all. Ain't that why we're here?”

Mrs. Farthingham sets off to ask Mr. Scott for his permission. She returns after an interminable wait. “He relented, my dears, after a long assault. But he says he will not attend. He says, indeed, that he is no longer the champion of your virtue. I, however, have every confidence that you can champion your own.”

The women clap their hands. Some even
hurrah
. Now Dora envies those who have brought their hoops and left them hanging like great birdcages at the end of the hold. Such a delight it would be to have them bump and sway as she danced. No matter, Dora is determined to enjoy herself. Never has she seen such a radiant moon. Never has she heard such a hearty cheer as when they come out of the hold, as gracefully as the ladder allows. Mrs. Farthingham is soon enough dancing with Captain Gringshaw and takes little notice of what is happening to her charges who are as fuel to a fire. The Misses Finch, Hutchins and Law dance without ceasing with the sailors and gentleman passengers alike. The Widow Dall holds court with three gnarled sailors. A bottle glints in the moonlight. Well and so, Dora is not one to point fingers. The Widow Dall seems happy enough in the part that has been allotted her.

Dora dances until her feet ache. She dances with the first mate, the cabin boy, the midshipman, and then with the young man who was so sporting when shaved by Neptune. And she dances with Isabel, dearest Isabel.

“How can I tell you what came next?” Dora said to Boston. “Oh, it is terrible, terrible sad.”

How to tell? Let the words pour out of their own accord. It seemed to have worked until now. Boston studied the crescents of dried mud 'round his boots. Dora sniffled. He had nearly risen when she said: “The Horn. That's what they call it. The cauldron of the earth. Oh, I had never imagined such skies. The clouds were all purples and browns and sickly yellows, and the winds were moaning, and the sea heaving. It was like the very world were bruised and raging with fever.”

Boston sat back down. He was mildly curious as to what happened next. There would be a death, he presumed, or several. And then he would leave. The sun was still above the trees. There was still time before dark.

Had he heard of the Falklands? Yes? Rocky scatterings in a slate-grey sea. Blacky men paddling low, thin boats. A stubby-winged bird that flies through water but cannot through air.

They are allowed off ship for the first time in months. They gawk at the wares in the streets of Stanley. At the Governor's mansion they feast on mutton, oysters, trifle, tripe. Afterwards Isabel holds her stomach and groans. She proclaims that she has never been so happy.

“Ah, now, there will be much more of this happiness business,” Dora assures her. “Now sleep, dearest Issy.”

It is while at anchor in the Falklands that a gold watch disappears from the cabin of Mr. and Mrs. Parfield, passengers en route to San Francisco. Mr. Scott orders Mrs. Farthingham to search through their charges' belongings.

“My girls are not thieves,” Mrs. Farthingham says. Mr. Scott glares at her askance. He raves. She holds her ground until the victory is hers.

“You may bear responsibility for bringing pickpockets and thieves to the colonies, then, Mrs. Farthingham. I shan't and that's that.”

They leave the Falklands on a calm day, under a sky the colour of champagne. Dora knows champagne now, having drunk it for the first time the night before. That Sunday they gather on the foredeck to hear the sermon of the good Reverend Holt. He speaks of God's love while clouds amass overhead and a wind tears at his beard.

Now the sailors are lashing things down and clambering in the rigging. The first mate bellows orders through a speaking trumpet. The cabin boy crosses himself.

“Passengers to your cabins!” orders Captain Gringshaw. “You women to your hold!”

They descend into wobbling pools of lantern light. Mrs. Farthingham's fearless voice tells them to have faith in the worthy Captain, in the good Lord. She has lived through storms and battles. This is nothing. “Come now, we must prepare.” They secure everything that might shift, then lash themselves to their bunks with sheets. Now Mrs. Farthingham extinguishes the lanterns, citing a danger of fire. She does this quickly, but not before Dora sees her white face, her trembling hands.

Tempestuous. Basterous. Dora understands these words now. A trunk jars loose and hurtles against the walls, exploding out petticoats and underthings. Above is a hideous screaming. “Just the rigging in the wind, just the rigging in the wind,” calls out Mrs. Farthingham. The women weep and pray. There is the abrupt stench of vomit. Rats scuttling down the passageway are tossed high. It is no longer like a swing. There is no certainty of being pulled down each time, no glint of sky and glory. The rolls are so great that the ship stands near on end. It shudders and lurches. Dora longs for some light to hold back the darkness. What is it like below the seas? She cannot imagine the depths. How very cold it must be. How cold she is now. “You must have sea water in your veins,” Mrs. Farthingham said. It made Dora proud, now the thought only terrifies her, as if the sea were coming to claim her for its own.

Isabel clutches at Dora. Dora checks the knotted sheets. “Hush, dearest. Think of your fine house. Think of apples, of mutton and meat pies.” She tries to say more but her throat is too dry. If she survives she will never leave land again.

For two days' entirety they are heaved and tossed. Finally an hour of calm, a harbinger that they have passed through the worst. “Praise God,” someone says. Is it her? She is not certain. She is only certain that something is wrong. Her hands are sticky, as if covered with blood. Her eyes flicker with pain. The swing lifts her high. She kicks at the clouds. They break apart and scatter.

≈  ≈  ≈

Three of the women take sick, five of the regular passengers, two of the crewmen. The ship's doctor orders calomel and bleeding to flush out the fever. The air of the Falklands is blamed, the food at the Governor's table, the storm itself for bringing malignant air from heathen lands. Dora's throat is made of wool and straw. The cloths on her forehead are heavy as bricks. Mrs. Farthingham murmurs encouraging words. Isabel caresses her cheek. Her face is pale and shimmery, as if submerged in water. “Take this, Miss Dora. Take this. It's for you. It's my best thing.”

The object is smooth, round, has a coolness. Mr. Parfield's watch!

“No!” Dora shrieks. “No, I don't want it! I'll be blamed! I'll be blamed! Go away. I don't want you here!” Isabel is crying from far off. Dora remembers little after that. Did she call poor Isabel a thief? She might well have. When the hold finally settles into solid form, Isabel Lund is nowhere to be seen.

Mrs. Farthingham's strong voice wavers as she tells her: Isabel caught the fever not long after Dora did. She died the previous day. The Misses Finch, Hutchins and Law glare at Mr. Scott as if he were to blame. Miss Joanna is again lamenting for the green fields of Wiltshire. Miss Paul says she had never known such a fine pupil as Isabel, nor one as pleasant. The other Grinstead orphans sob and cling together, terrified that they might be next. Dora weeps and weeps. She says nothing about Mr. Parfield's gold pocket watch, though fears it will soon be discovered among poor Isabel's things. Perhaps Dora should not have refused it. She could have taken it and then returned it quietly to Mr. Parfield. She could have said she found it. Ah, she would not have been believed. She would have been keelhauled, her prospects ruined, the clear path to happiness blocked.

Most of the passengers attend the funeral, as do most of the crew, and all the women, and a vast quantity of birds that bob behind the ship like a procession of hired mourners. A light—silvery and lambent falls upon the ship just as the Reverend Holt consigns the body to the waves in a wrapping of sail. All agree: never have they seen such a peculiar, beautiful light.

≈  ≈  ≈

“We arrived that September,” Dora said, her voice halting. “How I longed for Isabel. I missed her so greatly and felt so badly. I hardly cared to hear the cheers when Esquimalt was finally sighted.”