The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters (Arbor House Library of Contemporary Americana) (54 page)

It appeared to be on in good shape, so he took up his hat, hunched his shoulders a few times, to get the kinks out, and turned to leave.

On this night, Mr. Coe had placed his blankets and rubber poncho under his wagon; now I heard him say:

“You really mustn’t, Kissel. My job entirely.”

The talking woke everyone, and we turned out.

“What’s this, what’s going on?” cried my father.

Mr. Coe smiled. “I’m very much afraid that our esteemed friend,
Matthew Kissel, was about to employ his superb axmanship on an especially foul specimen of the tribe Gallic. I awoke in time.”

“What’s the meaning of this, Kissel?” said my father.

“Figured to clean out that bunch tonight,” replied Mr. Kissel. “Then get on with the digging in the morning.”

“I’m glad you didn’t get away,” said my father, “though I must admit it’s tempting. Let’s go back to bed. Maybe something will happen before noon.”

“I hope not, doctor,” said Coe. “It wouldn’t do to knock me out of my fun.”

He really was a curious fellow. Before I went to sleep, I heard him snoring away under his wagon as calmly as if he was about to be knighted. And what a gaudy to-do the next morning! We’d never seen him so stimulated. I understand now, after the passage of time, that Mr. Coe, a second son, a terrible position under the English system, as my father said, at last felt that he was being of some real use in the world. This was his hour of service, as melancholy as it was when you examined things, and he intended to make the most of it.

Right after breakfast he began to get dolled up in his best clothes. But first he took a bath in the stream; then he put on clean underwear, a white silk shirt, and a pair of fine gray broadcloth trousers, and afterwards he brushed his jacket carefully. He must have spent an hour on his hair and moustaches alone. And all the time he hummed and whistled and even sang, while we sat by feeling miserable.

They had what was called a British Association here, made up mostly of tradesmen and merchants and others of that class, and in the middle of the morning a boy came over with a handsome sword. He also carried a note that said, “Hearing you had none, we took the liberty of finding a meet and proper weapon. Cheerio, best of luck, kindly call on us for any services. Henry Ruxton, Pres. B.A. in Calif.”

Mr. Coe drew the blade from the scabbard, poked it here and
there awkwardly, and said. “Capital, capital. I should cut quite a figure.”

“See here, Coe,” said my father, breaking out again. “I certainly don’t mean to be offensive, but have you had
any
experience with this sort of business? Have you done anything athletic at all? Are you a horseman, for example?”

“I never cared for it. Never liked jumping, you know. One always runs the risk of landing on one’s neck at a hedge. Never liked games, either, even as a child.”

“Well, damn and blast and confound it, what do you mean sailing out there to cross swords with an expert duelist? Doesn’t your Church have any feeling about suicide?”

Mr. Coe had hung a piece of broken mirror glass on a tree, and now he inspected his head anxiously, first one side and then the other.

“Immodest, but I rather fancy that hair arrangement. You’ll act as second, of course, doctor.”

“Very much against my better judgment.”

At eleven o’clock, Mr. Coe said, “Well, then,” and stood up. He’d been sitting on a log reading from a book of poems to Po-Povi, who sat looking down in silence. “We’d better be getting along.”

None of us stayed behind. Jennie and Mrs. Kissel took the children, and Jennie carried a shotgun under her arm, besides. The rest of us had all the weapons we owned, and I reckoned it’d be the last day we’d ever get to use them. I couldn’t see anything but trouble in this encounter.

When we got to the glade there was a crowd of nearly two hundred there, miners from the nearby diggings, people from town, wagon-train folk and others, and a number of boys had climbed up the very selfsame oak beneath which the fight was about to take place.

The Frenchman was already on hand, with his seconds. He was dressed entirely in black, and was in fine, merry shape, hopping around and making jokes with those in his vicinity. He had his
sleeves rolled up, and his arms were hairy and corded; he reminded me of Brother Muller, but with a lot more polish.

When the people saw Coe coming, a big shout went up, and one of the boys came within an ace of falling out of the tree. The shout was followed by a few titters, and I must admit that he didn’t show up to advantage beside Le Chat. To begin with, he couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds.

This Mr. Ruxton of the British Association was there, along with a French doctor, a little less villainous-looking than The Cat. They did some introductions, sober and grave, but nobody shook hands; they only nodded curtly.

My father, for once in his life, wasn’t thinking about spreading himself personally but seemed worried and cautious about Mr. Coe’s welfare. They discussed the ground, and my father objected to one place that had a furrow in it, and then picked up some trash from another they finally decided on.

“Ordinarily,” said the French doctor, who spoke perfectly good English and appeared intelligent, “the code duello would call for black silk bandages to protect the vital organs, but it has been agreed, I understand, to conduct this regrettable affair
à outrance.”

“Oh, quite,” said Coe. “Only way possible as I see it.”

My father started to protest, but The Cat said something scornful, then whipped out his weapon and made it sing through the air. It sent a chill clear down my spine. I could feel my heart thumping so hard against my chest I thought others could hear it, too.

“Mr. Coe,” called Jennie suddenly. “Don’t do this. We ask you to stop it for our sakes.”

He waved languidly, and blew her a kiss. I never saw a condemned man enjoy himself with such an outrageous lack of concern.

“Very well, then,” said the French doctor. “Take positions, please.” Mr. Coe removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and picked up his sword. One of the British Association now stepped forward again, in an effort to make what they called “a reconciliation
with honor” at the last moment, but Coe dismissed him good-naturedly.

“En garde!”
said the doctor, looking very serious, and they brought up their blades. I saw Po-Povi turn her back; then came the cry, “Duel! May God attend you.”

The Frenchman made a wild lunge and cut savagely across the air, but our frail Mr. Coe wasn’t there. That is, he wasn’t within range. I rubbed my eyes to be sure I was seeing right.
Was
this our Mr. Coe? He was dancing over the greensward like a man on a ballroom floor, and the blade he had seemed attached to his body. I never saw anything like it, and I realize now, after these years have passed, that I probably never will.

I heard my father breathe, “Lord above! I should have known.”

The Frenchman stopped short, and his thick black brows went up in surprise. Then he gritted his teeth and leaped back in to attack. But it was wholly useless. For the first time in his life, probably, he had run up against something he couldn’t deal with. The sweat began to pour off his face, and his black shirt clung wetly to his hairy chest. And in a moment he began to pant, almost sobbing in his effort to keep up the pace, and now he made a series of headlong lunges that only kept Mr. Coe dancing back lightly, parrying as if bored, feinting, thrusting halfheartedly, outmaneuvering, outguessing, and outfighting this dishonest bully in every way you could imagine. It was gorgeous, and awesome, too.

The Frenchman screamed something, lunged, stumbled forward, and then dropped his sword. The end of Mr. Coe’s blade was sticking out at least a foot from the back of his shoulder, having run him clear through. It was withdrawn quickly and the point placed under his chin.

“Now listen to me, you thieving blackguard. Unless you and your gang have decamped this area by nightfall, never to return, I’ll serve you as I ought to serve you this minute. Do you
quite
understand?”

The great roar that went up from that rough crowd made it pretty clear that the conditions would be kept, if they could help it.

I have a feeling that very few people are overly bold when staring death directly in the face. The Cat nodded, still laboring for breath, with one hand on his wound, now, and then turned away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

The duel was finished.

As many as four dozen people came up to pound Mr. Coe on the back. He was about the biggest hero this area had ever seen. Nearly all of these men had suffered at the hands of the Frenchman, one way or another, and they were tickled to death to see him humbled.

We made a very gay procession home, and that evening at supper we sat around in the highest old humor. And my father, before it started, tramped clear into town and came back with a fine bottle of wine, but the wine dealer refused to let him pay for it, and for once, he didn’t start on a drunk—it didn’t affect him at all, besides loosening his tongue, which had been on a kind of swivel to start with, you might say. But he made a great number of toasts, and even put a few drops in a glass, with a little sugar, for Po-Povi and me.

“Coe,” he said at one point, “it was the greatest exhibition I ever witnessed or hope to witness. Now why in the devil didn’t you let us in on it? Why couldn’t you tell us you knew how to handle a sword like that?”

“It went off rather well, didn’t it?” said Mr. Coe. “On the whole, I’m satisfied. Still, you know, I wasn’t certain it would. I never fought an actual duel before, if you know what I mean.”

“Aha,”
said my father, chuckling, “you needn’t try to tell us you’re inexperienced, my boy. In the fencing line, that was
class
, pure and simple. An ignoramus could see it. Why, I’ll bet they’re drinking your health in every saloon in Marysville this very minute.”

“Oh, I’ve had a good crack, one time and another. Only thing of the sort I actually enjoyed when I was younger. The old gentleman had a tutor around there for several years, a language master, Italian, actually—the old gentleman never could stand him, called him a Dago behind his back—and he showed me how. He was terribly good at it, and I rather think he’d killed a good many people,
dueling. Used to hint at it, you know. When I finally got to the point where I could hold my own, my father tried to bribe me to stick him. I remember the scene very well, probably because I never saw much of him, normally. He was standing behind a rosebush and he hissed. Made an actual hiss at me, so he wouldn’t be seen. ‘See here,’ he said when I went over, ‘you’ve been fencing with that Dago, eh, my boy?’ I replied that I had, and he pulled out a gold-cornered wallet. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘here’s a fiver if you pull the button off and stick him in the stomach.’ I must have looked horrified, because he said, ‘Oh, don’t kill him. Get him over toward the side, near the hipbone—lay him up for a while. Look here—we’ll make it an even ten quid. Now what do you say to that?’

“Naturally, I turned it down. You can’t go around just sticking people, even Italians.”

My father spoke up to inquire, “Coe, if it isn’t too prying, what does your father do over there? You’ve never mentioned it.”

“Well, I hate to say so, but he doesn’t do much of anything. He just potters around. I suppose you might say he’s a farmer by trade.”

My father shook his head in sympathy. “Ne’er-do-well, is he? I know the breed, if you don’t mind my saying so. Both of my uncles in exactly the same boat, and most of my cousins.” He shook his head again, then roused himself to observe, “However run-down your family, Coe, nobody could ever call you, personally, a loafer. You’ve contributed your share of energy and resolution to this expedition, and more. And I’ll just take the liberty of proposing one more round to St. George and his distinguished triumph over the California dragon.”

“Amen!” said Mr. Kissel, who had broken his teetotaling custom by drinking a whole glass of wine. “It was a wonder to behold.”

After supper we had a setback when Mr. Coe announced that he must make a trip to San Francisco, to pick up the mails. My father sighed and said yes, he himself had been going to suggest that one of us perform that errand soon.

“A year,” he said, “one whole year without word from home and loved ones.”

They fixed it that Mr. Coe would leave for Sacramento the next day and take a steamer for San Francisco. The entire trip, there and back, would require about two weeks. We would be sorry to see him leave, but it made me excited to think of news from my mother. My father and Mr. Kissel each prepared an “authorization” for Mr. Coe to pick up letters for us, then wrote some letters to be mailed, and I went to bed, homesick all of a sudden. It had been an exhausting day. And a funny thing, I dreamed practically the same dream I had the night before we left—about the prairie, and Indians, and my father practicing medicine—only this time when I awoke, we weren’t on our way to California. We were here, and gold lay just up these green wooded valleys.

We got our claim signs back up and went on working with the cradle. I rocked while my father and Mr. Kissel poured in the dirt and water. We took upwards of fifty dollars before nightfall—better than three ounces—and nearly that much the day following. But after this the ravine commenced to run thin. We scratched all around up above, where my father said the gold was coming from, but we failed to find anything good near the surface.

The pity of it was, this ravine had more gold in it, but the cradle was so slow we weren’t washing enough to justify the time we spent.

“What we need’s a Long Tom,” my father said. “With that, we can sift ten times as much dirt in the same time.”

He and Mr. Kissel talked it over at supper; then we went in the next morning, taking the dust we had saved, and bargained for a used Tom in fair condition, trading in our cradle. It had belonged to some Chileans who had made a new strike in a canyon that had a steep descent, so that they changed over to sluicing.

We set up the Tom in the lowest part of our ravine and attached a piece of canvas hose to it from a spring higher up. These things vary in length, but the one we bought was about twelve feet long, an oblong wooden trough, open at both ends, eight inches deep, narrower at the top than at the middle and lower end. A perforated iron sheet just like the cradle, only heavier, formed about four feet of the lower end and sagged in the middle, making a kind of cup. With, of course, a “riffle box” below to catch the gold. My father and Mr. Kissel spaded in dirt at the upper end of the trough, and
I stood at the lower end to shovel the big stuff, rocks and gravel, off the iron. The sand and fine dirt and gold all fell through into the riffle box, and the worthless part, called the tailings, washed on out the end over the riffle bar, leaving the heavy gold behind.