American Alchemy: Quicksilver
Oliver Altair
I
Jonathan stared at the sparkling droplets with silent curiosity. A gust of wind blew through the open window, swaying the white drapes. The gray bubbles around the broken thermometer shook like curled-up roly-polies.
Jonathan’s finger trembled as it approached the string of silver drops on his father’s old desk.
“Don’t.”
Doctor Everett Tucker stood by the doorframe, his expression as hard to read as the skeleton hanging in the corner. Outside, a horse neighed as it trotted down the graveled street.
“How many times have I told you to stay out of here?”
The boy lowered his head. “I’m sorry, papa.”
Doctor Tucker sighed. He walked to the table, sat on a stool, and placed Jonathan on his lap.
“At least let’s make this a learning experience. What you see is mercury, a metal. Also known as quicksilver. It grows bigger when it heats and smaller when it cools down. Inside the thermometer, it could only move up and down, you see?”
“Why did it melt?” Jonathan asked, raising an eyebrow.
The doctor mussed his hair. “It didn’t. That’s the way it is.” He picked a cotton ball from a tall jar and pushed the small bubbles of mercury into a bigger, gleaming sphere. “Quicksilver has been used in medicine for hundreds of years. Healers in ancient China believed a mercury concoction would give you eternal life.”
He rolled the liquid metal to the edge of the table with the tip of the cotton ball, then pointed to an empty, glass vial. Jonathan promptly handed it to him with the utmost care.
Doctor Tucker uncorked the vial, placed the quicksilver inside, and corked it back, pressing the top hard with his thumb. “They were wrong. Instead of curing people, they were poisoning them. Mercury is toxic.”
Jonathan jumped off his father’s lap and put his small hands and chin on the table, eyes fixed on the sparkling quicksilver. “It’s pretty.”
“Ancient alchemists called it the first matter. They thought it held the key to transmutation, to create anything their hearts desired, even pure gold.”
“That’d come in handy.”
His father laughed. “Oh it would, would it?”
“If we had all the gold in the world, maybe we could stay…”
The doctor said nothing. Instead, he walked to a birch medicine cabinet and opened its glass-paned double doors. He put the bottled mercury inside, among the rest of his imbibes and remedies. Then he locked the cabinet and dropped the small key into the pocket of his linen vest, giving it a little tap afterwards.
Jonathan lingered. “Why do we need to go?”
Doctor Tucker crouched and placed his hands on his son’s shoulders. “Do you remember what Mama used to say about helping the ones in need?”
“Yes,” he answered, shutting his eyes tight to hold off the tears.
“People in Souls Well get sick all the time. Don’t you think we should help them?”
The boy nodded, unable to betray his father’s gentle gaze.
Doctor Tucker hugged him. “You’re a good boy. You’ll achieve great things, I’m sure of it.”
Miss Squib knocked on the ajar door, her plump, red face peeking inside, chestnut curls showing under her bonnet. “Doctor? Mister Folsom is here to see you. He has one heck of a cough, the poor man.”
“Thank you, Eliza. Send him in. Go help Miss Squib with the packing, Jonathan. The stagecoach for Silverton gets here in two days.”
Jonathan paused on his way to the door to take one last look at his father’s medicine cabinet. He admired the shining bottle of quicksilver with awe until he saw Miss Squib’s round cheeks reflected on the dusty glass.
She cocked her head and smiled. “What a curious little chipmunk.”
He looked at his father, standing by the window, shadows crossing the doctor’s face as the evening darkened.
“When I grow up, I’m going to save people’s lives. Like my papa.”
Miss Squib squeezed his palm with her warm, fleshy fingers. “Of course you will.”
Jonathan softly closed the door behind him, afraid of breaking the memory of that moment with a careless slam.
II
Jonathan abandoned the main road, turned left, and rushed through the narrow path between the firs, his pickaxe bouncing on his back, crossed with a leather strap. He was late, again.
He’d left his house in the middle of another heated argument with his father. They hadn’t seen eye to eye since he turned seventeen, when he’d joined Obadiah Whitlock’s mining team.
Doctor Tucker couldn’t and wouldn’t understand why Jonathan would rather break his back working in a mine than continuing his studies. He’d spent countless hours homeschooling his progeny, hoping his son would pursue a higher education as a grown man. But Jonathan’s hunger for adventure weighed more than any argument his father could make.
The scarce travelers that passed by Souls Well on their way to Silverton or Lake City brought exciting news from all around Colorado and beyond the Rockies. After the triumph of the railroad, the West was waking up to a new era, and young Tucker wanted to be part of it. The more his curiosity grew, the more he resented his father for dragging them both to that remote mountain town after his mother’s passing.
Jonathan needed to save enough money to travel, and the fastest way was to work for Souls Well’s richest and most powerful man. Most of the townsfolk secretly hated Obadiah Whitlock, but hard work in his silver mine was a small price to pay for a young man to gain his freedom.
The path through the forest pitched upward. Jonathan shivered as the crisp air of the mountains caressed his cheeks. The pines and firs never changed their pale-green color, but the scattered aspens were spotted with fiery red and orange leaves. Where had the summer gone?
He could endure one last fall, but one more winter in Souls Well would drive him insane. He had to leave before the snow and isolation fell again upon the town.
Jonathan mentally counted his current earnings as he trekked between the firs. Just two or three more weeks and he’d be able to afford a passage all the way to the golden coasts of California. He’d be in a place where people looked into the future, not receded into the familiarity of the past.
When he reached the silver mine, two groups of miners faced each other in front of the wooden archway that marked the entrance to the tunnels. John Hickok, the burly foreman, lead the larger one. The rest of the men stood behind the shorter but equally hot-blooded Buford Jenkins.
Jonathan sneaked into the multitude, pretending he’d been part of the commotion all along to cover his tardiness.
“Morning,” Clinton Eadds whispered when he came close. He was the youngest of the miners and always in a cheerful mood, rain or shine.
“What’s going on here?” Jonathan asked.
“What do you think?”
“They’re worse than a bad marriage.”
Clinton covered his mouth to hide his giggle.
Jenkins glared at them. His bushy eyebrows formed a wide v on his big forehead. “Whitlock gave us an order.”
Hickok crossed his bear-like arms over his chest. “Are you hard of hearing or just dumb? I’m telling you no man’s going near the South Chamber.”“Do you want to get us all fired? I don’t know about y’all, but we here need our salaries.” Jenkins pulled the worn-out coat he wore on top of his overalls, revealing a hidden revolver.
The foreman scoffed. “Who the heck do you think you are, Buford? Jesse James?”
Jenkins placed his hand closer to the gun, but did not draw. “I know how to get men moving.”
Hickok took a step towards him, his broa
d chest upright. “Let me see you try, scamp.”
A polite, throat-clearing noise broke the stand-off. Obadiah Whitlock stepped between the two men, appearing out of nowhere.
“Is everything all right, Mister Jenkins?” Whitlock asked.
The miner took a step back and covered the gun with his coat’s flaps. “That cavern we found down the shaft. No one wants to go inside, Mister Whitlock, sir.”
“If you’re so curious, be my guest.” Hickok smiled wide beneath his bushy beard.
Jenkins raised his fist, but Obadiah stopped him with a slight raise of his bony hand. “Why are you allowing such disobedience, John? You’re my foreman, my eyes and ears. After all these years, I’m truly disappointed.”
Obadiah’s voice always carried an unsettling hiss.
“The men are scared, sir. That cavern seems far from safe. And weird sounds come from the hollows.”
“We believe in ghosts now, do we?” Whitlock studied the miners’ faces, one by one. No man could hold his icy gaze.
“There’s also the rumbling, Mister Whitlock,” Hickok continued. “It’s louder every day. I fear what can happen if we keep widening the tunnels.”
Obadiah nodded. “I trust your judgment, John. I always have.”
He put his hands behind his fur coat.
“You told me you found traces of silver all the way down the shaft, did you not?”
The foreman nodded reluctantly.
“If only there was a way to establish the safety of the dig site. And clear the mystery of that howling cave. The South Chamber, as you so picturesquely describe it.” Obadiah picked a pristine handkerchief from his coat’s pocket and cleaned his silver spectacles. “If I was younger, I’d go down there myself. My thrill for exploration made me who I am today. Life’s only generous to the brave.”
The miners fidgeted, silent. They either looked up at the sky or down at the tip of their dusty boots. But Jonathan wouldn’t miss the chance to fall into Whitlock’s good graces. Obadiah could put him out of Souls Well and on the right track to success with a snap of his fingers. Humoring the man in his childish test was but a trifle. Even if it rattled the rest of the pack.
“I’ll go,” Jonathan said.
The silver mogul grinned. “Young Mister Tucker. Come closer, my boy. How’s your father?”
Jonathan cut through the group of petrified miners. “He’s well, Mister Whitlock, thank you.”
“I appreciate your courage. Never lose that grit, it’ll take you far in life.” Obadiah shook his hand. His touch was cold as a corpse. “Now, gentleman, you’re not letting Mister Tucker go all by himself, are you?”
No response from the crowd.
“Sure, why the devil not?”
Tim Sullivan leaned against the mine’s archway, a smoking cigarette in his lips. He stubbed it out on the wooden beam, leaving a black mark, combed his black hair with his hand, and joined the astonished group.
He clapped Jonathan’s back. “God knows Jonnie here still needs a wet-nurse.”
Sullivan was a notorious trouble-maker, but his high cheekbones, firm lips, and big, muddy-green eyes, radiated a magnetic charm that got him out of every brawl unscathed, and under every skirt as the purest of saints. He only showed up at the mine when he needed a handful of dollars to gamble or to pay his respects to one of the girls at the Silver Moon saloon. Doctor Tucker disapproved of Tim’s smug recklessness, which was the biggest reasons Jonathan had chosen him as his best and closest friend.
Obadiah greeted him with a polite nod, but did not shake his hand, turning to Hickok instead. “Do you reckon it safe to work around our old tunnels, John? No new passages, and no digging in the South Chamber until Mister Tucker comes back with his report.”
Hickok shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”
“That settles it then. Off you go. That silver will not dig itself out. Mister Tucker, walk with me, if you please.”
Jonathan accompanied Obadiah to the beginning of the path downhill. “Tell me boy, are those rumors I hear about you leaving Souls Well true?”
“They are, Mister Whitlock.”
Obadiah patted the young miner’s hand. “You’ll be missed and it’ll break your father’s heart. But I understand. I was young once too. I wanted to see it all.”
He smiled, lips tight. “Come to the manor later. Let us discuss how I can be of assistance. Don’t think your hard work has gone unnoticed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Obadiah walked away. The back of his gray hair joined the collar of his fur coat, giving him the aspect of a seasoned mountain lion as he trekked between the trees.
When Jonathan returned, most of the miners had already gone into the tunnels, but Hickok had stayed behind, waiting for him.
“I can’t in good conscience let you go tinker in the South Chamber, Jon. Your father would never forgive me if something happened to you.”
“My father doesn’t believe in ghosts and neither do I.” Jonathan scowled.
Jenkins demanded the foreman’s attention, poking his shoulder repeatedly. “All right Hickok, who are you sending to the second level? That’s just a spit away from the South Chamber.”
“You just volunteered.”
“Me? Why the heck do I need to go?”
“You want that salary? Earn it.”
“Let’s leave the ladies to their bickering,” Tim whispered in Jonathan’s ear.
He stole his friend’s pickaxe, placing it behind his neck, arms hanging. “Ready for some treasure hunting, chum?”
III
Tim sang at the top of his lungs with his smooth, baritone voice as they entered the dim tunnels, using the echo as his chorus.
Two mountain men went up, oh Sally Mae, Two mountain men up they went… They went… went…
But only one would come down, oh Sally Mae, But only one would remain… Remain… main…
To claim your heart, oh Sally Mae, Your heart he would soon claim… Claim… aim…
Jonathan heard a rumble coming from the mountain up above and elbowed him when they got closer to the shaft.
“Shut it, would you?”
Tim smirked. “You’re just jealous of my pipes.”
The mine was divided into three levels connected by ramps and ladders, each landing opening to different tunnels that followed the streaks of silver on the walls. Torches and oil-lamps gave the surroundings a coppery gleam.
A wooden cage, no more than an oversized crate, hung above the mine’s shaft, at the end of a chaotic system of ropes, pulleys, and sandbags. Jonathan glanced at the crude construction swaying above the blackness, under the torchlight.
“A traveler told me other mines are using steam elevators to move people and equipment. Machines are popping all around the West. Everywhere but here.”
Tim snorted. “Whitlock’s nothing but a cheap son of a gun. There’s no way he’d spend a nickel on trinkets.”
“They’re no trinket. Sometimes I feel time doesn’t move forward in Souls Well. It’s choking,” Jonathan stated, reaching for a ladder.
“Taking the scenic route again, Tucker?”
“There’s no way I’m riding that thing.”
Tim shrugged. “Up to you if you don’t wanna rip your stockings, m’am. But the sooner we get down there, the sooner we’ll be back.”
The set of hand-ladders, steps chiseled on the rock, and narrow ramps seemed to vanish into a well of black ink. Jonathan met his companion in front of the oscillating cage.
“Then one at a time.”
Tim pulled the hanging rope and brought the cage closer to the edge, then made an inviting bow. “After you.”
When Jonathan stepped inside, the old pulley screeched like a baby’s whine. The floorboards creaked and the cage free-fell a couple of inches. He breathed in.
“Keep an eye on the rope from up—”
No sooner had he found his footing, Tim leaped inside the cage beside him. The elevator swayed wildly, but the rope held. They stood che
st to chest in the tight space as they plummeted down, sandbags darting up, Jonathan stiff with fear and his friend howling like a madman.
The elevator came to an abrupt stop, its floor slamming against the stone beneath and spitting the two men onto the landing. The splintered crate zipped back to the top as the counterweight hit the ground with a loud thud.
Jonathan landed face down on the sand. He sat upright and brushed his scratched palms on his overalls, tasting blood. He dusted himself off, then leered Tim, who wouldn’t stop laughing. Jonathan kicked him hard enough to make him stop.
“You wanted to break our necks or what?”
Tim rolled to his side and tapped Jonathan’s ankle. “Come on, Jonnie. Don’t tell me that didn’t get your heart pumping.”
Jonathan grumbled and walked to the center of the cavern. His pulse was racing, and he enjoyed the bittersweet aftertaste of the thrill, but he would never let it show and prove his partner right.
The remains of the wooden elevator swung over their heads.
“You broke the damned thing, Sullivan.”
“Good. ’Twas a deathtrap anyway,” he replied while standing up.
The torches on the upper levels were but a twinkle at the bottom of the shaft. Jonathan picked up a matchbox and a small candle from the front pocket of his overalls. He took off his cap, attached the candle to the small, metal hook on its front, then lit it and put his cap back on.
He glanced up. “That thing almost killed us both.”
Tim lit his own candle and attached it to his metal hook without taking his cap off.
He wrapped his arm over his friend’s shoulders. “Almost is always the word!”
Jonathan nudged him on the ribs. “You might have a death wish, but I want to live long enough to escape this godforsaken town.”
“Is that why you’re licking Whitlock’s boots?”
“I’m not licking anyone’s anything.”
“Even if the old curmudgeon hinted some dinero, I wouldn’t trust a word he says. He’s bad medicine.”
“Look who’s talking.”
American Alchemy_Quicksilver Page 1