Native Gold (6 page)

Not Hardwicke, she corrected. Harrison. It still rattled her to think about the rash decision she’d made in choosing a husband, sight unseen, for better or worse. But it was too late to do anything about it now.

"I told you we should have skedaddled while the gittin’ was good," Zeke muttered, spitting out a thin stream of chewing tobacco that almost didn’t clear his beard. "Everyone else had the good sense to go work their claims today."

"Damn it, Zeke!" Swede said, whacking his hat on his meaty thigh.

Zeke narrowed one warning eye at him.

"Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am," Swede apologized again, and then turned back to Zeke. "
Someone
had to stay behind and tell her."

"Tell me what?" Mattie asked politely, though her patience with the two men was beginning to wear thin.

Despite her good spirits, she’d come a long way, and she looked forward to settling in, especially after the harrowing ride up the ridge. It was a wonder there was any blood left in her knuckles, since her nasty-tempered mule had delighted in braying loudly at the most unfortunate moments. More than once, she was sure the beast planned to buck her off the narrow trail and send her tumbling down the treacherous gorge.

But she’d arrived, safe and sound. She’d made it to California, to the land of gold, despite all odds. She’d escaped the cholera, which had claimed a number of sea-faring Argonauts like herself. She’d managed to subsist well enough on the spare rations on the voyage, though by the looseness of her dress, she was probably closer to the size of her lissome cousins than she’d ever been. She’d survived the conniving of a murderous mule. And though the voyage had cost far more than she’d expected, she’d had enough coin left over to launder her dirty clothing in Sacramento before her arrival, so she could greet her husband-to-be looking like a proper lady.

But where was he? True, she was surrounded by about all her senses could take in at the moment, what with the lovely clearing, redolent of pine, and its darling creek running past all those quaint little storehouses. But she was eager to see Paradise Bar proper, and she was anxious to meet her husband-to-be, to see his farm or wherever it was he’d had the altercation with the bucket.

"Maybe we should just show her, Swede," Zeke said.

"Shit...shoot, you old fool." Swede tugged his hat back down over his ears and kicked awkwardly at the dirt. "You can’t just..."

They cut their quibbling short when they heard someone coming through the trees. Mattie squinted in the direction of the noise, against the orange light of the setting sun. She could make out the silhouettes of a pack of men, pickaxes slung across their shoulders, hats slanted atop their heads. They kicked up little clouds of rust-colored dust as they came, their noisy arrival punctuated by barks of laughter and the clank of gold pans.

Mattie straightened and nervously chewed at her bottom lip.
He
must be with them, she thought—her new husband. Her eyes flickered over the band of prospectors, searching for the face she’d drawn in her mind a hundred times.

The lead man stopped abruptly when he saw her, and all the others bungled into him, tainting the air with clattering tools and cussing. Then they grew quiet, keeping their distance, but spreading across the path so everyone could get a good look at her. A few of them had the presence of mind to doff their hats.

They were the sorriest bunch of souls Mattie had ever laid eyes on. Their clothes were filthy. Most of them were soaking wet from the thighs down, and their march through the dust had made a muddy, brick-colored mess of their pants and knee-high boots. Their wrinkled shirts bore dark sweat stains along the collars and deep under the arms, and their hats were as lumpy as the crust of an overstuffed pie. Those who could grow beards had done so, it seemed, with nary a scissor or comb to keep them the least bit presentable.

"Well, don’t just stand there like a bunch of no-counts," Swede scolded. "Where’s your manners?"

Mattie froze to the spot, though she wanted to turn and run. She’d just as soon not move an inch closer to the growing mob. If they looked that foul, God only knew what they smelled like.

But her father had raised no shrinking violet, to faint away at the slightest insult to her sensibilities. After all, Lawrence Hardwicke had rubbed elbows with pirates and ruffians and all manner of savages. If he could do it, so could she.

Summoning up a brave smile and holding her breath, she stepped forward to greet her new neighbors, feeling as out of place as a mouse in the parlor. "How do you do?"

They only stared at her, silent, awestruck, as if she’d just stepped off of a cloud into their midst. There were about two dozen in all, mostly young men, a few old enough to be grandfathers, a couple of olive-skinned lads, a man as black as a crow, and one who looked suspiciously female.

"Well, dang it," Swede said, crossing powerful forearms across his belly. "Ain’t anyone gonna say hello? Where’s Frenchy?"

"At your service." A handsome, stubble-chinned man with a feather in his hat stepped forward like an elegant fop asking her to dance. He took her gloved hand in his callused one, roguishly winked one of his brandy-brown eyes, and bent over it with the suggestion of a kiss. "Allow me to apologize for these mannerless pigs," he said, his voice thick with a French accent. "I am Lucien Lafayette,
ma cherie
, known as Frenchy to
mes amis
. Welcome...to our little slice...of Paradise." He seemed surprised and pleased with his awful rhyme, and Mattie had to smile.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Frenchy lifted one brow in challenge to the rest, and they edged forward to make her acquaintance.

She met young Billy and Bobby Cooper, whose hands shook as they tipped their hats, Jasper Colton, who looked as dangerous as a gunslinger, and Red Boone, who sported a fiery beard. She met two Welshmen who gave her a Gaelic greeting she couldn’t decipher. Four strapping lads introduced themselves as the Campbells. Amos, the black man, contented himself with a polite, but cautious nod. And Granny, the only other woman in the camp, showed her with a stern glare that there’d be no feminine camaraderie between the two of them.

She met them all and remembered about a quarter of their names. None of them were Dr. James Harrison. She was about to inquire yet again as to her husband’s whereabouts when out of one of the less dilapidated shacks stepped a nattily-dressed man.

Dr. Harrison. It had to be. He was somewhat shorter than she expected, but he was well-groomed, as a physician should be, with a neat brown mustache and close-trimmed hair. His black coat was only slightly dusty, and the derby perched on his head gave him a jaunty air. She could see by the wrinkles about his eyes that he was a cheery man, a kindly man, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief.

He raised his brows in greeting and tugged down his vest before stepping off of the makeshift porch.

"Ah, ye must be Miss Mathilda Hardwicke then." The man’s brogue was as thick as Irish mist. "I’m Tom Cooligan, mum, pleased ta meet ye."

Mattie hoped her disappointment didn’t show. So far, Tom was the only man who even slightly resembled the husband she’d sketched for herself.

‘Tis sorry I am ye’ve come so late," he said, his eyes taking on a melancholy cast, "but I hope ye’ll be likin’ my work."

She frowned. What did he mean?

He caught her by the crook of the arm and led her back toward the shack, chattering away. The rest of the town, apparently unwilling to be left out of the excitement, trailed after them.

"Ye see, we’ve a shortage o’ real tradesmen here in the camp, so I’ve become the local barber."

Ah, he must have given the groom a fresh shave and haircut in her honor.

"Though, sad ta say," Tom continued, "my barberin’ talents are seldom called upon by this sorry lot."

"Uh, Tom..." Swede interjected.

"Well, all right," Tom allowed. "Swede here comes once a week, on Tuesday, ta have his shave, but the rest of ‘em—“

"Tom!" Swede blurted out.

The Irishman waved him away and opened the door of the little shed.

"Ye know, mum," he confided, "we don’t usually go ta so much trouble, but what with ye comin’ an’ all, an’ tomorra bein’ Sunday..."

He swung the door wide and ushered her in.

"Anyway, I hope ye like what I’ve done with him."

Mattie looked up and froze in her tracks.

She could honestly say she liked almost everything about her husband-to-be. He looked remarkably like the drawing she’d made. He was good-sized, not too plump, not too spare. He had a thin, but freshly cut crop of chestnut hair and a tastefully scissored mustache. His face, though weathered a bit from exposure to the elements, was not overly ruddy, and his hands were suitable to his profession, pale and slender. He was attired in a black, embroidered silk waistcoat with a fairly clean white shirt, along with creased pants, a well-tailored cloth coat, and boots so shiny she could almost see her reflection in them.

He was perfect. Tom had done an admirable job. In fact, the only thing she didn’t like about Dr. James Harrison was the fact that he was as dead as a doornail.

"Farm?" Mattie repeated, wrinkling her freckled nose as she beat the dust of the final trail to Paradise Bar from her skirts. "Are you saying my husband-to-be,
Doctor
James Harrison, has become a farmer?"

She supposed she shouldn’t be astonished. After all, her long journey west by steamer and bungo, mule and riverboat, had been nothing but a series of surprises.

Mr. Ezekiel Jenkins’ cornflower blue eyes pierced hers with an odd sort of bemused fascination, as if she were some creature the skinny old prospector had never seen before.

His companion, a giant of a man called Swede, with a chest that strained his suspenders and a face so rosy it looked as if he scrubbed it a dozen times a day, irritably cuffed the smaller man, nearly knocking him down.

"‘Bought the farm’?" he asked Zeke, shaking his head in disgust. "Ma’am, what my friend here means to say is the doc, well, he..." He raised the hand holding his felt hat to scratch at the blondest hair Mattie had ever seen. "That is, he..." He stared at her for a long while, hesitant to speak. "Well, shucks, ma’am, I’m afraid your husband-to-be...well, he kicked the bucket yesterday."

Mattie glanced blankly from one man to the other. She had no idea what they were saying, between their fanciful talk of farms and buckets and their outright butchering of the English language. But she was already imagining the wonderful portrait she’d make of the two prospectors, here among the ramshackle lean-tos that must serve as storage sheds for the residents of Paradise Bar.

Zeke was as wrinkled, salty, and lean as a stick of jerky. Long gray waves of thinning hair hung over his protruding ears and draped his bony shoulders. His nose had a slight bend in it, as if he’d stuck it once where it didn’t belong and found the wrong end of a fist. His lips all but disappeared into a beard that looked like a fracas between a kitten and a dozen spools of multi-colored thread. The map of wrinkles etched in his sun-weathered face told of hardship and laughter, bitterness and hope. But his eyes—they’d be the focus of the portrait she’d do of him one day. Twinkling with wisdom one moment, snapping vexedly the next, those eyes had witnessed the good part of a century.

Swede’s face was bare, save for a faint peach fuzz of blond whiskers. The black hat jammed over his head a moment ago only accentuated his sunburned ears and the startlingly bright, bone-straight hair that stuck out around them like straw. Though he spoke in all seriousness at the moment, the crow’s feet at the corners of his indigo eyes and the waves across his high forehead reflected a life of mischief and glee, and his wide mouth seemed made for laughter. He had shoulders as broad as an ox, and ham-like hands that she suspected could tenderly milk a cow as well as throw a mean punch.

"Aw, she don’t get it, Swede," Zeke decided, scratching at his scraggly beard.

"Well, shit! I mean, shoot!" Swede quickly corrected. "Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am."

Mattie bit back a smile. These two were far more interesting than the proper, simpering gentlemen of New York. Oh yes, she thought, she was going to like it here. It was colorful, just as her voyage to California had been.

Her portfolio was bulging with sketches she’d made of the journey. There was a rendering of the ship she’d boarded in New York, its twin stacks exhaling clouds of steam, passengers crowded along its whitewashed railings, their faces bright with promise as they gazed across the white-capped sea.

And there were sketches made days later of several of the passengers: a nervous young minister clinging to his Bible like a tot to a favorite blanket; four beardless prospectors in flannel shirts and heavy boots as new as their faces; an old sour-faced woman in cropped hair and men’s trousers with a pickaxe slung over her capable shoulder; a sparkle-eyed Irishman with a missing tooth and more patches in his coat than coat.

She’d sketched their lodging at the mouth of the Chagres River in Panama—a thatched hut where gentlemen stretched out beside beggars and Mattie learned that if a young woman was weary enough, she could indeed fall asleep in a room crowded with strange men.