Reckoning of Boston Jim (39 page)

“I may have interest in shares,” Schultheiss says. “You are selling shares?”

“Not as yet, but you shall be the first to know of it when we do,” Eugene says.

Oswald is still standing. “I'm leaving, Otto,” he says, then turns abruptly and bangs into Schultheiss's chair. He grimaces, mutters a curse or two in what might be a humbled tone. Eugene thinks of Oswald's fiancée, the Miss Jessica Bell. She must see something good in the man.

“Oswald. May I ask your advice?”

“What the damned hell you talking about now?”

“Advice. We are wondering if a long tom would be a reasonable investment. The rockers are hardly adequate now.”

“Mary's tits. You mocking me?”

George stares horrified at Oswald. Schultheiss coughs into his handkerchief. Langstrom stares dreamily at the tin-plated ceiling.

“I am not mocking you. No, indeed. It is just that my knowledge of mining is somewhat wanting, as you yourself once pointed out. And yet I must make the best of this opportunity so that I may shower my Intended with riches.”

“Your fiancée?”

“Quite so.”

George stares at Eugene. “You're not married to her? But you said . . .”

“We are married in our hearts, as poets are, but not by the church, not as yet.”

George looks doubtful. Takes a good drink of ale.

“What's her name, then?” Oswald demands.

“Her name is Miss Dora Timmons. I confess that I am not good enough for her, though some would have it the opposite. For you see, she is of common stock. Her people sold patches of cloth in the market. She drops her h's so often the ground before her is strewn with them. And yet she waits, waits with the patience of the regal Penelope for me to return so that I may keep my promise of marriage, so that I may give her a life far removed from the trials of her youth.”

Eugene's words catch in his throat. What else might he confess? How he stole from the collection plate when he was a boy? How he lit a cow's tail afire?

Oswald looks at him suspiciously, though Eugene no longer takes offence. It is how Oswald looks at all things, animate or otherwise. “Who's this Penelope, then?”

“Ah, it is a reference to an old story, to a woman who waited years for her beloved to return from his adventures, who was assailed by suitors and yet still she waited, even though she did not know if he was dead or alive.”

“You're full of them fucknit made-up stories, ain't you, Hume?”

Eugene has to agree that he is.

Oswald sits down, allows Eugene to buy him an ale. “Need a steady supply of water for a long tom,” he says and then regales them for the better part of an hour with the minutiae of mining. Eugene, feeling hugely proud, hugely at right, nods occasionally, as if he truly is hanging onto every word. Later Oswald shows him a locket with a painted miniature of the famous Jessica Bell. She is buck-toothed, as plain as a boot.

“Lovely woman,” Eugene says.

“No she god-blamed ain't. I knows that. I got eyes. But I ain't fancy to look on neither. And she's good. Never met a woman so good. She gives to the poor, see, and teaches the black uns to read. Her Pa don't approve of me, the fucknit, but she said she'd wait no matter what.”

“Ah, such loyalty.”

“That's right, we swore to marry whether I got gold or not. Without his word a man ain't worth pig shit. Don't you forget that. Don't be forgetting your promise to your fiancée.”

How good is Oswald's advice. How true are his thoughts! He is a peasant philosopher, one of Rousseau's children of nature.

“I will not forget my Dora, I swear it as a gentleman,” Eugene presses his hand to his heart, the drama of the moment as apparent to him as if he were lit with limelight on a stage.

≈  ≈  ≈

By the time they reach the Saloon of the Occidental Hotel, the news has gathered force and a crowd has gathered inside and out.

“How much deep?” someone yells.

“How did you know where to look?”

“Come look at our claim, boys, we need advice.”

“Lend me a hundred quid. I beg you. It's all I need.”

A cacophony of requests, questions, demands. George is grinning foolishly and stumbling. Oswald and Herr Schultheiss have begged off, citing an early rising, of all things. Langstrom is oblivious to all but the ever bold Miss Anna. No doubt she hopes to lure him to the Denby saloon nearby. No doubt she is about to succeed.

It is up to Eugene. But then, is it not always? He holds up his hands. The crowd settles. “All I can state is this: look to the lay of the land, gentlemen, study the expressions of nature as if they were those of a beloved woman. Ask yourself. What truly lies there? What has been hidden from you? If you are correct you will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams.” The laughter is suitably ribald, suitably loud. And when Eugene clangs the bell that hangs over the bar and declares that he is standing treat for each and every man, the laughter turns into a great cheer, thunderous applause.

He calls to the barkeep: “Mountain Howitzers, good man. Chain Lightning. Scorpion Juice.” It is the same barkeep who ribbed him about jawbone not two weeks ago. Quite so, Eugene need ask no man for credit ever again.

The barkeep, well-tipped and obliging, brings out bottle after bottle. The men clamber over each other to reach the glasses. They cheer in a multitude of tongues. Never has there been such an admirable collection of toilers and adventurers! At this moment Eugene cannot believe that he is on the crumbling edges of civilization, for this seems the cynosure, the heart of the world.

A man in a drunken stupor sits on a Cariboo tipster chair. Such a mischievous invention, these chairs, found in most every bar and store. Eugene asks for bets on how long before the man is sent sprawling. The man's head nods toward his breast, now he is being dumped, is cursing in some foreign tongue. Twenty seconds. Eugene wins and with his winnings he buys drinks for the tumbled man and for all the others about.

The candles and lamps are now ablaze. Eugene throws back a brandy. Gasps like a man coming up for air. George is vomiting into a spittoon. Langstrom is nowhere in sight.

The saloon is as raucous as only a room full of drunken men can be. Voices stack one upon the other. Laughter erupts. The roulette spinner calls out bets. The piano pounds. Waves of song crash over the crowd that reeks of tobacco smoke, onions, liquor, the long-unwashed. The floor shudders under pounding feet as men start to dance. Eugene would not be surprised if the floor caved in and miners tunnelling below stared up in wonderment. Hadn't just such a thing happened at a livery? Certainly the barkeep is looking troubled as he pours still more drinks at Eugene's behest.

Langstrom has returned. Is imbued with a fire. Ah, the charms of Miss Anna! Like water to a man dying of thirst. Not that Eugene will indulge. No, indeed. Though surely sheep's gut overcoats could be found. If he could avoid infection. If he were careful. Ah, no.

Langstrom clambers onto the bar amid shouts of encouragement. He hollers in Swedish and does some kind of a jig. He waves a bottle of champagne. The men roar, and when Langstrom upends the bottle over their heads, they reach to touch him as if he were a saint.

“Off the bar!” yells the barkeep. He shoves at Langstrom's legs and Langstrom leaps into the crowd and disappears amidst a tangle of limbs.

“Young George!” Eugene yells. “George Bowson!”

‘“Misser 'ume!” The throng jovially pushes George from side to side as if he were a straw man in one of those queer village festivals.

“Easy there. Moderation is the key, I should have mentioned that. Here, wipe your face.” Eugene gives George his handkerchief and props him up against the bar, looks over the crowd for the Judge. Surely he has heard of Eugene's fortune and is even now making his way to the Occidental. Ah, no Judge, only a slew of half-familiar faces seen in the towns or encountered on the journey. Many, in any case, seem to remember him. “Show us the dead man's waltz!” someone shouts.

The dead man's waltz? Ah, yes. Tricky Ole Amos Mactavish at the Mactavish roadhouse. “Not unless you are prepared to meet your maker this night,” Eugene shouts back, pleased that his fame has preceded him, pleased that no matter what he says he is greeted by a gust of laughter. Is this how a king feels? A prince?

From the edges of the crowd a man is scowling at Eugene. He is of average height, has a reddish brown beard, a vicious countenance.

“You there!” Eugene calls to the man just as he vanishes into the throng. Eugene searches over the celebration, but already he has forgotten what the man looked like; he can only think how his own face must look: stunned and red-eyed, over-indulged, with a fool's manic grin.

George sags. Eugene props him up on one side. Langstrom, unharmed from his leap, props him up on the other. Eugene fights back uneasiness. The evening will not turn, no, not as long as he is standing.

“A song to revive my young friend, gentlemen! A song!” Eugene shouts and launches into “My Darling Clementine.” The crowd joins in a booming chorus. Even the foreigners seem to know it. And thus the celebration, with Eugene at the helm, sails on into legend.

The trade is down, Jim,” Illdare says. “How many times must I say this?”

Boston shrugs: “Animals hunted too much. Otters near gone. New headman.”

Illdare eyes Kloo-yah weaving there in the corner. It has been seven months since she came and the cool foggy damp of winter has turned to the warm foggy damp of summer. Since she came they have lived in a rough cabin beside the fort. Boston does not mind this in the least. Though he had his own partitioned area of the sleeping hall, he hated the proximity of the other men, their snoring and mutterings and laughter at evenings when they played at cards or bones. The cabin suits him far better. There is a rough stockade and a plot of potatoes and a wood basin for boiling clothes. There is Kloo-yah, quietly at her tasks, looking intently at him from time to time, warming his bed at night, just as she said she would.

“Indians claim the fort is haunted,” Illdare says. “Skookums and such nonsense. And the engagés can't but notice how she stares. They say she has the power of the evil eye. They say that is why Merrymont has fallen sick.”

“He were sick before.”

“And Fleury. They say she has afflicted him also.”

“He's old. Near dead anyway.”

“I agree, though the half-breed prick has been surprisingly tough until now. I am merely setting it out as the others see it, fools that they are.”

“Yes,” Boston says. It has been four years, three months and a day since Illdare spoke to him like this—as if he and Boston shared the same mind, the same space, separate from the rest.

“Come to my chambers at eight o'clock tonight, Jim. We have further matters to discuss.”

≈  ≈  ≈

The map of New Caledonia is now yellowed at the edges, the bearskin rug worn in patches. Boston counts four more books on the shelf, notes a new pipe in the rack. The pen set, however, is the exact same, and is in the same position as years ago. Neither has the table been moved, nor Illdare's chair before the hearth.

But Illdare has changed. His hair is completely grey and no longer does he have enough of it to comb over his scalp. Nor does he have as many teeth as he did. In all, he is smaller, more hunched, and though he wears gloves still, these are not the fine moleskin they once were, but cloth gloves tattered at the fingers and stained at the cuffs.

“Sit here.” Illdare gestures to the chair at the table, the one Boston sat at when he was a boy and Illdare taught him to cipher and to read. He sits and is half-surprised that his feet are solidly on the floor, near touching the padlock of the strongroom beneath.

Illdare pours himself a measure of brandy, then offers a glass to Boston. Boston takes it and drinks slowly while Illdare makes himself comfortable by the fire. For a few moments they say nothing. It is the same sort of silence that Boston recalls from their lessons. Peaceful, perhaps that is the word.

“We will not meet our quota for this quarter.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Quota's always been met. Always.”

“Yes, I was as surprised as you.”

“Must be a mistake.”

“Not on your part, I should think. Your books are impeccable, not surprisingly.”

“Trade changes. Value of things.”

“I agree, but that can be worked around. New trade goods have been introduced, have they not? No, the truth, and you know it, Jim, is that the presence of your woman has hampered the trade.”

Boston brings the glass to his lips, but he cannot swallow.

“
Pro pelle cutem,
” Illdare says and taps the company crest. Speaks of the quota in the same tones that Lavolier once used for his God. The quota must be attained. The quota is all. This is something Illdare has impressed upon Boston again and again, ever since he first arrived at Fort Connelly. What will happen if it is not reached? The world shatters. Boston can near see the shards of it at his feet.

Illdare clears his throat. “The Kwagu'l have asked of her again. She is lovely by their standards and young and strong. The noble who would have her will treat her well. He will take her to wife. He has promised me. He has upped his price considerably.”

“No.”

“The People will come back to trade if she were gone. You know it is not just because of the season, not just because the furs are scarce. And the price offered will be enough to nearly make the quota. I will make up the rest from my own pocket. You can leave it to me. She will be much better off. She will have status again. As will you. Ah, such a face. Come now. Turning off is the custom. Even Simpson has done it on several occasions.”

Boston stands without finishing his glass, without asking for permission to leave.

Illdare stands also and places his gloved hand on Boston's shoulder. “My mother bore sixteen children and nearly all lived. We slept five to a bed. There is no quietude once women are involved. Leave such a life to others. We are not as they are, the damned fools. . . . Agreed?”