Reckoning of Boston Jim (29 page)

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“Keep going east,” the Cornishmen advised just after they told him he was slowing them down, just before they tromped off without him. The youngest, a boy no more than fourteen, gave him bannock and a fill of water from his own flask and then that frank look of pity that children sometimes bestow upon the cursed.

He spent that night under the protection of some fallen trees. He huddled in his bedroll, wondered where his splendid luck had gone, where the way houses had gone for that matter. They existed on the route. He had heard that. What he would have given for a bed, even one infested with vermin. Ah, but he was too slow, always too slow. And now it was not all Arie's fault. His feet were as heavy as if his boots were filled with lead shot. His head ached as if held in a steel clamp.

She is up to her chest now. Her breathing is harsh. She has not brayed for some time.

Addendum

If the Gentleman should find himself trapped in the Quagmire of Despair he is advised not to thrash as thrashing will only encase his limbs in the putrid mud & if he does thrash, he should then be advised to say his prayers & if it is only his pack animal that has succumbed to the embrace of the bog, then he should be advised to carry on regardless. For what is a pack animal? Or let us be specific, what is a mule? It is, good sirs, a creature without a soul, a beast of burden created by God for our use & thus I recommend that you leave it where it lies with no thought of rescue, for any rescue may needlessly endanger yourself.

Eugene is sobbing only because he is exhausted. Lost. Only because his splendid luck has deserted him entirely.

The light itself seems muddy, difficult to move in. He fumbles at his revolver. Clenches his hands to stop them from shaking. Ariadne stares at him. Her eyes are filled with flies.

At the shot the birds wheel upward like ash from a fire. There is a roaring in his ears, a pounding in his skull. There is a sense that he must escape at all costs.

The steamer plies the water to the mainland. On the wharf a crowd waves goodbye, white handkerchiefs flitting in their raised hands. Now it is only grey sky above, grey water below. Off the starboard rail the monstrous blackfish leap from the waves and show the white of their great bellies before crashing back. The People near Fort Connelly hunted the blackfish in the month of the ripe salmonberry. The women slice at the corpse that is drawn onto the shore. The headman takes first share and then the shaman takes his and then the nobles and then commoners and then the slaves. There are rivers of blood. Strips of flesh as long and thick as trees.

The blackfish plume and vanish into the deep. A man vomits over the rail. Boston hunches in his coat and pushes down his own nausea. He does not go below. He does not like to be sealed up within a boat. Does not like boats at all, not even canoes, though he uses them when he needs to. Feels uneasy in the territories of the salmon people, the whale people, the seal people, and all those creatures of the between worlds in which he half-believes. Not only that. Boston presses his knuckles to his forehead. The remembering comes unbidden once again. He is crouching behind barrels, backing away from an arm that gropes for him. The hold rocks; a barrel tips. The arm grasps his long and matted hair and hauls him out. The arm is thick-muscled. Sinewy. Blue tattoos of a turtle, a bird, of whorls, a cross. What else? It is beyond. In the time before. He struggles and bites. Laughter. Is held up. A lantern blazes into his eyes.

“And when did you sneak on board, you damned little wharf rat, eh? When'd you start thinking you could be eating up old Milroy's stores, making him look the fool, eh? Well, now. You owe me, boy. You owe.”

Hold his head. We must not let him gag.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Where?”

“Be easy now. Lie back.”

“You're Negroes? What?”

“Shit, and here's I thought we was lily white. Sure is a revelation.”

“Yes, it certainly is, Lorn. Sleep now, Mr. Hume. Sleep is the finest of remedies.”

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The red eye of a stove glows red then clanks shut. Warmth of furs against him. Dora? Is he home then? Has he dreamt? But why two beds and not one? Ah, yes. The goldfields. The road. The Negroes. Placidly he watches them. They are eating at a rough table. A candle is between them. On a shelf above them is a line of bottles, a mortar and pestle, two chipped mugs and four neatly stacked books. Drying plants hang from the rafters. Though the cabin is scrupulously clean and well-appointed it does not look a place that one would call home for long. No woman's touch, that is the trouble.

One of the men stands and becomes so thinly tall his head nearly scrapes the roof.

“Good, you are awakened. How are you feeling? Any palpitations?”

Eugene croaks out a
no
. The tall man hands him a mug of water from which Eugene gratefully drinks.

“Visions of any kind?”

Eugene manages a smile. “Visions, no. You, indeed, seem real enough. Though it would help if I knew what I may call you.”

“I am Napoleon Beauville.” He gestures to the man still sitting at the table. “And this is Lorn Hallwood.”

The second man sneers mightily. “I had a fever once and I thought the angels themselves were sitting around, gossiping and playing tiddlywinks and whatnot.”

“Do you know your name, sir?” Napoleon asks.

“Yes, of course. It is . . . is . . . Eugene Augustus Hume.”

“Excellent. I believe you are recovering.” He hands Eugene a cup of syrup. Eugene nearly gags. It smells of mould and vinegar and of something putrefying.

“I cannot. I apologize.”

“It will help.”

“He knows his remedies,” Lorn says. “He fixed up a family dying of the fever and whatnot. I saw it myself. And he fixed me up right, didn't you, Nap?” Eugene now notices that Lorn is not sneering. He only seems to be sneering because of a scar that has pulled up the corner of his top lip and exposed his teeth and gums.

“I did my best,” Napoleon says modestly.

“You are a physician. I see, quite so. I am most lucky then.”

“I suppose you could look at it thataways,” Lorn says. The scar has slurred his speech, has made him sound as if he has been drinking. Curiously, spirits are not something that appeals to Eugene at the moment. Not even brandy, that fine cure-all.

“Drink the syrup slowly. And you must take more water with it.” Napoleon's hair is grey at the temple. His face grave. He certainly seems the sort who knows of what he speaks.

Eugene sips as docilely as a patient should. “I feel its benefits even now. My thanks. Pray tell me, how long have I been here?”

“Three days,” Napoleon says.

“Three days?”

“Yes. And for several more you must not exert yourself. I believe you have mountain fever. It has killed many men in these parts.”

“Good Christ! Will I . . .? That is . . .”

“Settle yourself, Mr. Hume. The worst has past. You will not die of this occurrence.”

“What of contagion? Do you not fear . . . ?”

“I have observed that the mountain fever thrives only where there is filth and vermin. Cleanliness is what keeps it at bay.”

Eugene now notices the cleanliness of his own hands, that he no longer smells ripe. These good men must have cleaned him while he lay senseless. “My thanks again, my thousand thanks.” He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Winces as he puts weight on his blistered, swollen feet. He is wearing a clean night shift of coarse linen. It is not his own. A panic grips him. “My boots? Damnation if . . .”

“Here by the fire,” Napoleon says. “Do not trouble yourself. Your money is safe.”

“Ah, quite so, of course, I did not doubt . . . and my apparel?”

“Washed and drying outside,” Lorn says as he jams a log into the stove.

“Sirs, I have to, I must immediately.”

Napoleon hands him a bucket. Turns his back.

Lorn glances over. Difficult to believe that he is not sneering at Eugene's incompetence, his stupidity, his struggle to piss.

When he is done Napoleon gazes into the bucket. “The colour is too deep. You need well-boiled water. Two quarts a day at the least.”

“Should I be bled?”

“I have never seen it help a man or woman. It only serves to weaken them. Your guts are dry. Simple water well-boiled, more restorative syrup, as well as tea with a suffusion of willow bark and balsam fir. Bitterroot would not be amiss, but none is to be had, unfortunately.”

“As you have cured me thus far, Mr. Beauville, I will comply. I must, however, I must search for my supplies. I . . .”

Lorn gestures to a dim corner. Eugene's two trunks and assorted sacks are there. Filthy, but there.

“Again, my thanks. How the devil did you find them, or me for that matter?”

“I heard someone shouting in the bush.” Lorn says. “Found you crawling 'long a deer path. You were so filthy you looked as black as us, and some awful, too, all splattered with blood and whatnot. We figured from what you were raving on about that you'd got yourself caught up in Iverson's Bog. It's not so far from here. We thought this Ariadne was your woman, so Nap hauled you here and I headed straight off. Didn't find no woman, just a fresh dead mule, and your stuff half-ripped up by birds and whatnot.”

“My mule served me well. I must apologize. I hope my delirium was not too disturbing.”

“Do not trouble yourself for it. I am certain that you would do the same for us,” Napoleon says.

Eugene assures them he would. He is not one to judge a man for his colour. What matters is his bearing, his deeds.

Napoleon folds himself into a chair and studies the roof. Lorn looks at him with that false, mocking sneer. Eugene's voice winds down. He is miring himself, thrashing about for some appropriate phrase, and they are content to let him do so. He falls quiet. A log sizzles and snaps. A night bird trills out. Lorn chuckles. Napoleon smiles gravely. Eugene laughs, feels as if he has not laughed in a century. An age.

Later Napoleon gives him broth and mashed beans and then his remedy of bark tea. The strength pours into him, and with it a sincere gratitude. Indeed, he would save them as they saved him. Ah, better. When he has his fortune he will buy them something fine. Clothes. White shirts to set off the walnut dark of their skin. Embroidered waistcoats. He had seen a footman of their hue wearing one. How remarkable he looked.

“I am writing a gentleman's guide to the goldfields, gentlemen. I will make mention, no, write reams of your generosity.”

“A gentleman's guide,” Lorn says. “Good idea. Lots of gentlemen around here could use some directions and whatnot. Need more than a title, mind.”

“I have more than a title.”

“Not from what we saw,” Lorn says.

“Saw? Where? My journal? You read it?”

“Not me. Napoleon, he's got the knack for it.”

“My apologies, Mr. Hume. I needed to discern your name and any information that would give a clue to your affliction.” Napoleon pauses. “You made a note of lice racing. Mountain fever might well be associated with such vermin. As such it was perhaps not the wisest form of entertainment.”

“Quite so,” Eugene says.

“Yup, need more than a title for that guide book of yours.” Lorn says. “Title won't get you far, even one as long as yours.”

“I have been making notes in my head. When I have a spare moment I will write them down. For now, they are safely here.” Eugene taps his skull. Winces. Sinks back against the furs, now recalls the gory mass of Ariadne's head, the blood on his hands and face, recalls the brush tearing at him like witches' hands, and how the world shifted between black and grey as he floundered. Poor Ariadne. She had not lived up to her name. She had not lead him through the labyrinth at all, but had fallen victim to it herself.

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He sleeps in one bed; they in another, head to toe, Napoleon's long legs dangling over the side. The next day Eugene feels much stronger and so asks to be outside. Napoleon takes his pulse, looks into his eyes. “Yes. But you must remain bundled and you must not move.” And so Eugene, swathed in blankets, watches from a bench as they work with a dedication that he can only admire. Their cabin is in a stand of poplars near a puny creek, which, though it gurgles with charm, does not seem big enough to hold a motherlode. It seems unlikely, indeed, that they have found much gold at all, otherwise they would not trust a stranger to be on their claim, in their cabin.

Lorn swirls a pan, then prods at the remaining sand with tweezers. Napoleon works the rocker. His expression is distant. No doubt he is dreaming up some fantastic panacea. A squirrel dashes over a man-high pile of tailings. Sunlight spatters through the poplars. It is almost hot this day, almost tranquil. The hellish bog might have existed only in Eugene's fecund imagination if not for the scratches on his hands and face, for the lack of Ariadne.

On the night before he is to leave, Eugene tells them of Dora, his Intended, his beloved. He asks if they have wives, children, family of some kind. They glance at each other, tell him little, except that they intend to bring what is left of their families to the colony of British Columbia whether the Rebs win or lose, whether Lincoln keeps his promise to free the southern slaves or not. There are ways, Eugene learns to his surprise. There are people, white and coloured, who risk their lives to help escaping slaves. But what it comes down to, truly, is money, gold. For that can buy near anything.

It is a Saturday when he leaves. He takes only his rucksack and what supplies he can fit into it, as well as his revolver and rifle. The rest of his supplies he leaves with them until he can return. He thanks them and praises them so profusely that Napoleon shifts his ever-grave expression to one of embarrassment and Lorn says Mr. Hume might consider being a preacher instead of a writer of guidebooks.