The Seekers

by F. M. Parker

  He broke from the woods and out into a small clearing overlooking a shallow valley. He came upon a Rebel soldier puffed and bloated in death and lying in the grass. A hundred more bodies, all Confederate soldiers, lay flung about in awkward, grotesque positions. Caught in the open by cannon firing exploding canisters, the men had been scythed down like weeds by the murderous flying metal. Flies in a black fog swarmed and droned about the corpses, gorging themselves on the rotting blood and flesh.

  “Help me!” a weak voice called from a cluster of bodies. “For God’s sake, help me!”

  Levi spotted the source of the pain-filled plea, a soldier with his chin shot away and part of his neck gone. One of his hands was missing. The stump of the arm was tied with a crude bandanna tourniquet. He was a man who should have already died from his wounds.

  Levi knelt beside the Confederate. “I can’t help you. Only a surgeon at the hospital can.”

  “Even a surgeon can’t help me. I’m a dead man. Be a buddy and load my rifle for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Load my gun. And lay it here next to me.”

  “I don’t know,” Levi said reluctantly. “Are you sure?”

  The man raised his good arm in a pleading motion. “I’m sure. Hurry and do it.”

  “All right,” Levi said and nodded with understanding. He took a cartridge from the man’s bullet pouch, bit off the end of the paper wrapping, and shoved it into the breech of the man’s rifle. He closed the breech and laid the weapon close to the man.

  The Rebel soldier cuddled the weapon against his side. His thanks showed in his eyes that steadily watched Levi.

  “Go,” the soldier said. His finger sought and found the trigger of the rifle and began to caress the cold metal.

  Levi whirled around and sped away. He did not want to see the man die.

  Before Levi could run from the clearing, the rifle cracked. He cried out and ran faster.

  He continued to travel over the battlefield of the previous fighting. He moved at a steady pace, hanging in the patches of woods as much as possible. He was always alert for bands of Confederate soldiers. In the brush thickets he saw bodies that had been missed by the dead wagon. Now and then he spotted furtive forms slipping soundless among the trees. The way the men moved meant they too were deserting, or were scavengers robbing the dead.

  As Levi stole across a dirt road, a horse nickered in the woods ahead. He peered hard in among the trees. A black horse, its ears thrust questioningly forward watched him from a tangle of brush. A cavalry saddle was upon its back. A Sharps carbine was in a scabbard, and two pistols were in saddle holsters hanging over the pommel. A dispatch case hung beside the pistols.

  “Hello, old fellow,” Levi said to the horse. “You’re just what I need.”

  The horse tugged at something holding its bridle reins on the ground. Then it stood with alert brown eyes watching Levi draw closer.

  Levi stretched out his hand and took hold of the bridle. “Easy, fellow, easy now.” Levi talked soothingly to the animal. He rubbed the horse’s strong back and patted its withers. He looked down to see what held the bridle reins.

  A young, dark-headed Confederate lieutenant stared up vacantly at Levi from the ground. His eyes were glazed with death. The leather reins were gripped tightly in his hand. Even in death he had not released his hold on his mount.

  The lieutenant was but a little older than Levi. He would not grow any older. Levi was glad he had not been the one who had slain the man.

  “Neither you nor I will fight any more battles,” Levi said, humbled by yet another of the number of dead. “I don’t think you would care if I borrowed your horse, and perhaps your jacket. I have no pistol, so I’ll take yours. I apologize most deeply for taking your belongings.”

  Levi stripped off the officer’s four-button field jacket with the gold insignia on the shoulders. He tugged it on. He donned the man’s hat with the jaunty feather spearing up. An officer would be less likely to be questioned as to why he was leaving the battlefield, especially if he carried a dispatch pouch. He replaced the lieutenant’s Sharps carbine in the scabbard with his Spencer, then climbed astride the horse.

  Something held Levi there beside the dead man in the silent woods. A horrible black feeling fell upon him that he should be the one lying lifeless. But he was not dead and now every man alive, had he discovered what Levi had done and was going to do, would call him a coward and a deserter. And even worse, a scavenger who robbed the dead.

  Levi believed he was different from the scavenger and the coward. He did not look for gold and silver or jewelry. And he was no coward, for strangely he had not thought of dying until this moment. Further he had killed far more than his share of the enemy. It was the killing that he thought useless that was destroying him. He could not endure more of the slaughter. But should he remain in the battle, he would be forced into situations where he would have to kill. It was better that he go swiftly from the bloody battleground.

  Levi reined the horse away from its dead master, and looking keenly ahead, went up over a low ridge and down the far side. The woods were soon left behind and he picked up a dirt road leading west over farmland.

  A company of fresh Confederate foot soldiers marching at the double quick and sweating heavily, came past Levi. He saluted the captain commanding the soldiers and hastened onward.

  He spoke to the lieutenant’s horse. The strong beast picked up a swinging lope. When the road veered north, Levi held a course due west. He would go as far as possible from the battlefields of the cruel war. All the way to the Pacific Ocean, all the way to California that he had heard so much about.

  Chapter 3

  San Francisco, California.

  Brol Mattoon leaned on the end of the long mahogany bar and ranged his view over the Porpoise Saloon. It was a huge place with tables for two hundred patrons, a dance floor where twenty couples could swing and promenade to music without being crowded, and thirty poker tables that he rented out by the week to professional gamblers. There were rooms upstairs for the saloon girls to entertain their male customers.

  Mattoon was a large man, thick in chest and legs. His face was darkened by a two day’s growth of coarse black beard. He was dressed all in gray, wool trousers, broadcloth shirt and a jacket. His jacket was cut to fit so there was space for the .36- caliber Colt revolver in a shoulder holster, and so he could move freely and quickly.

  It was late at night and the throng that had crowded the saloon earlier had left. Only the bartender filling shelves with full bottles for the next day’s customers, and Sadie, a tall blonde woman who managed the Porpoise for Mattoon when he was away on other business, which was most of the time.

  Sadie was one of the prettiest women he had ever seen—and also the most deadly. For that reason he had never bedded her, though he knew he could if he wanted to. Best to use her kind of woman strictly for business. He knew she was skimming a substantial sum of money off the top of what the Porpoise brought in. The time would come when she stole more than her services were worth. When that happened he would shanghai her off to China. With her blonde hair and white breasts, and the white other parts of her, some rich Chinaman would pay a fortune to possess her.

  He prized the Porpoise Saloon, located on The Embarcadero, the main street fronting San Francisco Bay, the most highly prized of all his possessions. From the Porpoise he sent out his men to collect monies for the protection of waterfront businesses. He had little concern for trouble from the police. Though San Francisco was a lusty, rapidly growing city of 150,000 people, its police force consisted of but 130 men. No more than fifty men were on duty at any one time. Rarely did one of them venture onto the waterfront at night or to the wild Barbary Coast where he had several sailors’ boarding houses.

  Mattoon was proud of the fact he shanghaied more seamen than any other crimp in the city. The live body of a strong man was worth several hundred dollars to a ship’s captain heading out to sea on a two, or thr
ee-year whaling or sealing voyage. The pimps and their whores who plied their trade in the bawdy houses and on the streets paid Mattoon for protection. The businessmen on the waterfront, and the owners of the tugboats on the bay paid protection money, and it was a rare ship that brought cargo to San Francisco and got off again without its captain paying Mattoon’s gang of collectors.

  “Be certain to lock everything up tight,” Mattoon called out to Sadie.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I’ve got other business to take care of.”

  “When will you be back?” Sadie asked.

  “What the hell difference does that matter?” Mattoon snapped, instantly angry at Sadie’s prying question. “Just do your job.”

  The woman backed up a step, knowing she had overreached herself. Her eyes became hooded, and keenly alert. She had witnessed Mattoon’s quick temper before, a flash of anger that was often immediately followed by a blow from his fists. The fact she was a woman would not protect her, she was sure.

  Mattoon saw Sadie was wary of him, but not afraid. However if she ever realized he had discovered she was skimming money off the top of the saloon’s take, she was vicious enough to take action to protect herself, even to try and kill him. He decided at that moment to send her on the long voyage to China in the very near future. He smiled at the thought. Sadie, seeing the smile, gave a tentative smile in return. He widened his smile and watched her relax. Fool, you won’t like what I have in store for you. He turned and went across the saloon and let himself out the door onto the street.

  Fog had joined with the night to make The Embarcadero full of cold, damp darkness. The streetlamps, spaced every two blocks, were but small, yellow pools in the murk. Mattoon moved off without hesitation.

  He reflected on the task yet to complete this night, and the payment that would follow. With pleasant anticipation, he began to whistle as he strode along.

  * * *

  Captain Groton, master of the clipper ship Roamer, matched the stride of Brol Mattoon as they went swiftly through the foggy night. The captain heard the muffled tread of the felt-shod feet of the fifty-six Chinese virgins as they hurried close behind them. Louder still came the thudding bootfalls of Mattoon’s six armed guards flanking the virgins on both sides and bringing up the rear.

  The time was an hour before dawn, when the government harbor officials would be asleep and the streets deserted. With luck the transfer of the girls from his ship to Chung Pak, the noted Chinese auctioneer, could be made without detection. The girls would be hidden in a secure place until their sale.

  Even with Mattoon’s men the captain still worried about the Chinese tongs for he knew that they would be aware of the arrival of his ship late in the evening and the beautiful virgins hidden below decks. The tongs always knew everything that happened in the Chinese world of San Francisco. Without Mattoon it was a certainty that a band of the tong fighters would attack out of the darkness and carry off the captain’s valuable cargo.

  The virgins were the most prized cargo that he could have brought from the Orient. He had been very fortunate to discover the dealer in women in Canton. The man had just returned from the inland provinces with a collection of unbelievably beautiful girls. Groton had used all his money to purchase a portion of them, selecting only the most lovely. The price had been high, four hundred dollars for each girl. He had guarded them vigilantly from his female-starved crew during the long voyage from China. Now they would be quickly sold to the rich and lonely Chinese merchants in San Francisco for large sums of money. The most beautiful would bring at least three thousand dollars. He stood to make a fortune from the girls, and he did not want to lose them, not even one.

  A stiff ten-minute walk ended when Mattoon halted at a large warehouse. He opened a heavy door and entered the building. The procession of girls and their guards followed him inside.

  Mattoon found a lantern hanging beside the door, raised the globe and lit the wick with a match. He lifted the lantern so that its yellow light washed over the assemblage of people.

  “Groton, are all your girls here?” Mattoon asked.

  “I’ll check,” said the captain. He made a quick count of the frightened ivory faces. “They’re all here,” he said.

  “Vetter stand watch,” Mattoon ordered one of his men. “I don’t expect any trouble now that we’re inside but stay awake.”

  “Right, Brol, nobody’ll get past me,” Vetter replied. He closed the door and put his hand on the butt of the pistol stuck under his belt.

  “Come with me,” Mattoon said to Groton. He led on past huge piles of goods in boxes, crates, and barrels toward a distant, lighted comer of the warehouse.

  Mattoon slowed as he approached the Chinaman sitting at a table upon which rested two brightly burning lanterns. The man was aged, and very gaunt with a sparse, gray beard. He was dressed in the most plain brown silk clothing, trousers, shirt and simple jacket with its collar turned up as if he was cold. Two wary young Chinamen, strung taut as bow strings, stood close behind the old man. Their hands were inside their loosely fitting, brocaded silk coats. One of the men wore maroon and the other black. A flat-crowned hat of matching color sat upon each man’s head. Their long, braided queues hung from under the hats and reached down below their shoulders.

  Mattoon halted and glanced briefly at the seated Chinaman, Chung Pak. Then his view swept over the two standing men. He knew the men represented the two strongest fighting tongs in San Francisco, the Chee Kong Tong and Kwang Duck Tong. Each man would be armed with a revolver and knife. The tongs were the only worthy competition Mattoon had. When laced with opium and their blood pumping wildly, the tong fighters were totally fearless. Men without fear were the most dangerous animals in the world.

  The old Chinaman arose and bowed very low to Mattoon and then to Groton. “It is a pleasure to see you, Brol Mattoon. And you also Captain Groton.”

  “Hello, Chung Pak,” Mattoon said. You lying, yellow bastard. Glad to see me, my ass. You and your kind are my worst enemies.

  “It’s my pleasure to meet you again, Chung Pak,” the captain replied.

  Pak focused his black eyes on Groton. “The message that your seaman brought requested that I meet you here. So I have come.”

  “Thank you.” Groton was pleased that Pak had accepted. Through his hands passed nearly every Chinese woman that arrived in the city. The master of every fighting tong needed the assistance of the trusted auctioneer to such an extent that once the virgins were placed in his custody, they would be totally safe from being stolen. Any tong member who broke the cloak of protection given Chung Pak would be put to death in the most horrible manner. The two tong fighters with Chung Pak were there to show the protection still was in effect. They would be the strongest, and most fierce fighters the two tongs had.

  “‘I have brought fifty-six young virgins from your land that lies so far away. They are very beautiful and should end the loneliness of some of your countrymen who now live in America. I wish that you would arrange their sale to men who will be kind to them.”

  “Maybe you have only fifty-five virgins to sell,” Mattoon said in a coarse voice. He ran his eyes over the girls.

  “Maybe so for I must pay you for your protection,” Captain Groton said, trying to keep his dislike for Mattoon out of his voice. The man ruled the underworld of the waterfront, with his own motley army composed of scores of head-knockers, murderers, riffraff spawned in a dozen countries and now washed upon the San Francisco shore. Ship owners paid bounty to him to see that harm did not come to their cargo or vessels. Unlike Mattoon, the tongs of the city never directly attacked white men, though they would steal newly arrived Chinese girls from them if the opportunity presented itself.

  In those first months after Mattoon’s arrival in San Francisco eleven years before, a few ship captains had refused to pay his collectors when they came with hands out asking for money and promising nothing except to leave them carry on their business in safety. When denied his
tribute, Mattoon never made a second request, or threatened reprisal. In the night a swarm of men would rush aboard the ship, overpower the crewmen and set fires at several locations. The landward end of the dock would always be blocked with mounds of cargo, placed there by Mattoon’s men from elsewhere on the waterfront, to slow the fire engines. The ships often suffered severe damage, and one had burned to the waterline and sunk at its mooring. All during an attack, Mattoon would be in some saloon drinking with a dozen men who would be his witnesses that he had no part in the fires.

  “One thousand dollars in gold, or one of the girls, wasn’t that your price?” the captain asked, hating Mattoon and fearing which option he would choose.

  “That’s my price, and a damned fair one too.” Mattoon chuckled at the tone of Groton’s voice. Why was the man angry at the price? Mattoon had given protection as promised, guarding the girls until they could be put under the care of Chung Pak. Further, the sale of the slave girls was unlawful and carried risk beyond that which might come from the tongs.

  “Which do you want, the gold or the girl?” the captain asked.

  Mattoon spun around and swept his eyes over his men bunched in the edge of the lantern light. He called out to them. “What’ll be your pleasure, lads, the gold to divide among you, or one of these beautiful heathen virgins to share?”

  “You always take most of the gold leavin’ only a little for us to divide,” a stoop-shouldered Italian with a pockmarked face called back. “I’d get the same thing you get if we took a girl.”

  “I agree with that,” said a broad faced German. “We all do, don’t we fellows?”

  The remainder of Mattoon’s men shouted out their agreement. All were grinning with wolfishly anticipation.

  “You’ve had your say,” Mattoon replied. He turned back to Groton. “You heard the lads. Line the pretty girls up and let me look them over.”

  “I’ll choose you one,” the captain said hastily.