Reckoning of Boston Jim

by Claire Mulligan

  “It is not played out.”

  “I heard it’s emptier than an old whore’s heart.”

  “It is not.”

  “Find the god-blamed gold did you?”

  “Not as yet. There is gold. I saw it. It is only a matter of time.”

  “Christ’s turds. Never heard of spiking, Hume?”

  Eugene is silent.

  “Wouldn’t catch me crapping in that hole, never mind going down it. Mouse fart got more chance of holding up in a storm.”

  “Go it easy, Os. He has hard time,” says Schultheiss.

  “It was vouched for,” Eugene says, louder than he intends. “It was vouched for by two others, no less. They had no interest in the mine.”

  “You can pay a man to vouch for fucknit anything, can’t you? Shoulda asked me.”

  Eugene snorts. Asked Oswald? Cussy Os as he is being called? This troll?

  He excuses himself, dashes down the whiskey, then slams the glass on the bar to show that he is not to be trifled with. The short bark of Oswald’s laughter follows him out the door.

  “Good day, Mr. Hume!” Schultheiss calls out, sincerely enough.

  Damn Oswald. He is right, of course, the Dora Dear is a miserable mine. She is plagued by quicksand and flooding and weak-timbered shafts that groan and weep as though the earth itself were in torment. But it is not as if Eugene threw himself into it with no consideration. Indeed, he had been about to tell the Greek and Holy Dunmore that he was no longer interested in their claim. Then he overheard two men, hardened miners by the look of them, discussing the claim in a saloon and saying how they wished they could buy the majority of shares in the Praise to God. The mine was yielding some now, and would soon enough be showing pay dirt. Lucky for someone the Greek’s wife died and he had to return to his ten motherless children. Lucky for someone that Holy Dunmore is a holy fool for selling the mine so cheaply. This was in late July. Eugene had met up with George Bowson and Langstrom and the three of them were working a surface claim far from the major, known-yield streams as these were unfortunately already staked out. On their claim they found only enough flecks of gold to keep them from starving. He told Langstrom and George what he overheard and they agreed in due course that the Praise to God seemed their only chance. The Greek and Holy Dunmore were asking eight hundred dollars for the paying claim, the cabin included. Between the three of them they had only five hundred and ten dollars, provided they could sell their claim, which they did, though for less than they had hoped.

  Lorn and Napoleon were less easy to convince. Even after they saw the gleam in the sand dug from the shaft. Even after the Greek and Holy Dunmore showed Napoleon the books and swore on the Bible that the claim was honest.

  “Surface mining is not the way to riches, men,” Eugene told them. “We have learned that. Let us now band together.”

  Napoleon and Lorn looked at him doubtfully. In the end he promised that if the mine did not yield enough to cover their outlay before the season was out he would repay them in full. When they questioned how he was to do this, moneyless as he was, the lie came to him unbidden. His rich widowed aunt—the very one who gave him five hundred dollars to journey to the colonies—was sending a draft note for one hundred pounds to the bank in Richfield. It would be the equivalent of another five hundred. He was expecting it by September. And so it was decided. Lorn and Napoleon would sell their claim and buy into the Praise to God. “You wouldn’t fool the men who saved your skin and whatnot?” Lorn asked. No, Eugene assured him, he would rather die, then wondered if he truly should write a beseeching letter to Aunt Georgina, that harridan. He soon shook off the notion. She had given him the money to travel to the goldfields only if he promised never to darken her door again. She had then made a promise herself, which was to feed any letters from him to her hounds.

  They agreed to rename the mine the Dora Dear. Eugene, after all, was the one who had convinced them all to buy it. Eugene was the “lucky one,” as Langstrom said so often that Lucky Hume nearly became his nickname. In retrospect he should have chosen a less sentimental name, as so many others seem to. Now he understands why. The Cowshit Claim. The Sheep’s Balls Claim. The Whore’s Hole. Such names suit an endeavour likely to bring only curses.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  He makes his way back to Tang Lee’s. Only a few weeks’ more credit, sir, he practices silently. My word as a gentleman. He is nearly there when his path is blocked.

  “You have been asking for me, sir?” The Judge is looking at him strangely. He takes Eugene’s proffered hand. His dirty paw.

  “Your Honour! Matthew! I am pleased. So pleased.”

  “Have we met?”

  “Yes, yes. At Yale. In June. I helped your clerk.”

  “Ah, of course, Mr. Toom was it?”

  “Hume. Eugene Augustus Hume. It is understandable you don’t recognize me. My appearance has altered. It seems I am accommodating myself to this place rather too well.”

  “Do not apologize for the evidence of honest labour.”

  “I saw you. I shouted.”

  “There is much shouting in this town.”

  “Quite so. It is good, excellent, in fact, to see you. May I stand treat for a coffee? Or perhaps a refreshing draft of some kind.” Is the Judge one for spirits? Three pounds and some odd shillings is all Eugene has left in his pocket, is all he has left in the world.

  “You have a legal matter to discuss?”

  Legal matter? Another understandable mistake. Eugene is twisting his hat in his hand like a supplicant. And the Judge is a busy man, a man immersed in legal minutiae. Let them first talk of legalities then, if that is the way things must be done, for Eugene does, in fact, have a grievance. “My claim. I believe it was spiked. I believe they altered the books. I, we, bought it in good faith.”

  “And when did you put your good money down?”

  “The mid of July.”

  “Did you report your suspicions immediately to the gold commissioner’s office?”

  “No, I would not say immediately. It took some time to realize that, well, that . . .”

  “That a mistake had been made?”

  “Quite so, exactly so,” Eugene mops his brow with his sleeve, grateful for the Judge’s tact, that he need not admit that he, they, have been made fools of, have thrown their money down a bottomless pit and that never has an analogy been more apt.

  “They are surely long gone,” the Judge says. “Caveat emptor and such.”

  “I was told by others, you see. It was in their opinion.”

  “A man should not be easily swayed by the opinions of others.”

  “Quite so. I agree entirely.”

  As they speak, men jostle past Eugene but part around the Judge like water around a stone. They tip their hats, say good morning to him in German, French, Spanish, Gaelic. The Judge replies in kind. It is not surprising he barely recalls Eugene. He must encounter a hundred men a day. Must hear constantly of their dilemmas.

  “Mr. Hume?”

  Eugene’s knees buckle. “I am . . . it is just, just that . . .”

  The Judge grips his elbow and steers him toward the New England Bakery and Saloon. The waiter calls out his pleased salutations, shoos away a table of dawdlers, helps ease Eugene into a chair. Such solicitousness. Such vicarious respect.

  “Two plates of your flapjacks, Mr. Wilkins. Ham and potatoes, coffee, and some of your ambrosial pie to finish. I take it, Mr. Hume, that you could use a meal? Do not worry, I am standing treat.”

  “Thank you, yes,” Eugene whispers. “I will repay the favour. On my honour.” He pats his breast as if searching for something.

  “Do not trouble yourself. You were of help to my clerk when he was in his cups. I have not forgotten. Such things have a way of coming full circle, much as justice does.” He folds one of his long legs over the other and stuffs his pipe. Appears quite at home, even in the cramped space of the New England.

  The waiter sets down the steaming plates. Eugene dr
edges up his manners. How quickly they have fallen by the wayside. He must not stuff his mouth full, though he would like to, though it seems he has never tasted a finer repast.

  “You will find it difficult to believe the misfortunes I have had,” Eugene says after a time.

  “There is little I find difficult to believe,” the Judge says and instructs the waiter to bring them more coffee, more pie.

  Such a relief to have such a sympathetic ear. Eugene tells of his encounter with the camels, of being robbed, of having to labour on the road gang, of Ariadne’s gruesome death. His fever. The kindness of Lorn and Napoleon. He tells how after a day in the mine he feels as one who has been locked in the stocks and pelted with apples. He mentions his guidebook. How it had once seemed a grand plan that would bring him some notice, some respectable earnings. Now it seems all folly. The Judge is nodding. It is as if he has experienced similar deprivations, or at least has heard of them. He seems different from the man Eugene met in Yale. He was more aloof then, more keen to show his learning and not his heart. Amazing how the frontier can change a man. But then Eugene himself has changed. The peevish tone in his voice is something new entirely. He who was never one to complain. Who could liven a graveyard, as Dora once said.

  “And then this mine. This pit. This, ah. But you see, I had been lucky. At one point I could see my fortunes turning sure as the tide. Lily, that is . . .”

  “Lily is your wife?”

  Eugene notices again the immaculate state of the Judge’s attire, the cleanliness of his person. The man must bathe at least once a week. “No, my wife’s name is given Dora. Lily, well, it is of no importance.”

  “Dora, that is it. I recall now. I recommend caution, Mr. Hume. There are certain women who are best avoided in this town.”

  “Yes, of course. It would not occur to me, not at all. Lily was not a woman, but a . . . a lucky charm of sorts, not that I hold with such superstitions.”

  “Of course not, and thus, your dear wife, how is she faring?”

  “She was well the last I heard from her, though I am planning this afternoon to wait once again in that purgatory of a post line. It troubles me not a little, I must confess.” Eugene sighs. Fortunate that he is fortified with food or he might well begin to weep.

  “The line troubles you?”

  It is difficult to tell if the Judge is jesting. Eugene smiles obligingly, just in case. “No, that I have not heard from her lately. She is alone, you see, in the Cowichan. Not all alone, of course. She has paid Indian help and neighbours close at hand.”

  “The post is not the swiftest as yet. However, I am certain you will be rewarded for your efforts and that you will hear from your charming wife. And so, Mr. Hume, I will not keep you any longer from your duties. I wish you the best of luck and God’s Grace. As for myself, I have a great number of matters to attend to.”

  The Judge stands. Eugene stands. The waiter rushes over, takes payment from the Judge only after much prompting. Eugene elects to stay where he is. His chair near the stove is pleasantly warm, the odour of fresh baked bread and brewing ale most comforting. He stares into his coffee cup. He has heard of women who can read one’s destiny in the dregs, though to him it looks like all the same black sludge.

  Good that he did not ask the Judge for a loan, even the smallest of ones. The mention of money would have tarnished their friendship, though what, after all, are friendships for if not mutual assistance?

  Addendum

  If the Gentleman should find that he has miscalculated his opportunities and finds that he is missing his beloved wife, that he is longing for a helping hand, a charitable ear, then he should be well advised not to despair but to recall Errare human.

  Or Errare humanum? Yes, that is it.

  Twenty-Five

  Beyond Fort Connelly is the village and the forest and the sea. It is two months after Boston’s arrival before he ventures outside the gates. With him are Lavolier, James Thomson, and Peopeoh. They have been sent out hunting, the People having brought no meat to trade for some time.

  Peopeoh grips his musket and look sadly upward. “Sky,” he says.

  Boston looks up also, at the vast mossy branches of the cedars and firs. The bit of sky is a mere platter for these towering trees with their trunks as wide as five, six men abreast. And the moss. It covers all. It mutes their voices and their steps, has made soft forms of rocks and fallen trees. Great fringes of it hang from the branches, become entangled in their hair as they walk along a faint path to what might be called a clearing, though it seems more like a green cave, so dense and over-arching are the trees about, so muffled are all sounds, and so odd is the light, denser somehow and green of itself. The glimmer of the sea is gone entirely. James Thomson points to a group of knobbly forms that are thickly covered with moss. “Don’t it look as if some family sat down to rest and then waited too long and were done for?”

  Boston stares.

  “Don’t see them?” Thomson asks, half-smiling. “It’s what happens if you sit too long. The moss creeps over you and chokes you. It’s true.”

  Boston still does not see the family, sees only a totality of green, a place where they do not belong.

  “Taisez-vous,” Lavolier whispers. He points to a shadow. A movement of ferns. Raises his rifle; the shot resounds. They clamber to where the deer is thrashing, its blood seeping into the green. Lavolier thanks Christ and Mother Mary, then cuts the deer’s throat.

  “Bloody hell,” James Thomson says when they come into sight of Fort Connelly. Lavolier half raises his rifle, then eases it down. Just outside the fort gates is Anawiskum Tulane. He is tied to a post, his bare torso striped with blood. A whimper escapes from his gritted teeth. A number of the People look on, as do all of the engagés. Illdare holds a whip in his gloved hand. His breath trails in the chilly air.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  “It is not to be tolerated,” Illdare tells Boston that night. “He can say what he wishes of me, but he cannot steal from me nor from the company. Not even rum. Everything must be accounted for. Everything must be balanced. Every action countered. Every item paid for. And the punishment for infractions must be witnessed by all. Does that make sense to you, Jim?”

  Boston is sitting at his customary chair at the table. He nods.

  “And what happens if these rules are ignored?”

  “The world falls apart.”

  “Yes, our world cracks into great unequal pieces. You remember. Excellent. Now tell me what you have heard.”

  Boston tells him what Lavolier has told him, of Solomon and his wisdom, of Jezebel and how she fell and how nothing was left after the dogs had at her but the soles of her feet and the palms of her hands. He repeats the Latin Lavolier taught him: Quia tu es, Deus, fortitudo mea; quare me repulisti, et quare tristis incedo, dum affligiti me inimicus.

  “He goes about in sadness does he?” Illdare says. “While the enemy harasses him. Hah! Here, lad, this is all the Latin you need.” Illdare taps the motto under the company crest. “Pro pelle cutem. For skins we risk our skins. Don’t forget it. Well . . . look upon it.”

  Boston does so, then glances curiously at Illdare. For why should he look at the crest and motto, since he has seen it before?

  “What else? What has McNeal said, or Thomson?”

  “Don’t speak of you now.”

  “Ah, they suspect that you inform me. Well. What are we to do with these evenings then?” He looks hard at Boston.

  “Sit here while you write, sleep. Won’t be a trouble.”

  “No, I shouldn’t think you would. But would it not be better to learn something of use besides Lavolier’s Latin and foolish Bible tales? Would you like that?”

  “Would like that. Yes.”

  “I would as well. It is good to have someone to speak with of an evening.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  It is three months later. Illdare taps the map of New Caledonia. “And here is our island. Named for Captain Vancouver. It is near the exact l
atitude and longitude that Swift placed his Brobdingnag, which was?”

  “Land of the giant people.”

  Illdare paces the sitting room. It is late in the evening. The fire burns low. Illdare’s bottle of brandy is empty, as it always is by the end of their lessons. The pipe rack, the writing set, the books, all are in the same arrangement as they are every Thursday and Tuesday evening. It gives Boston comfort, this sameness.

  “Exactly, the land of Swift’s allegorical giants. It is why I was drawn to take the command here. Not, hah, that I believed I would discover giants, but that I might see something of Swift’s mind. He knew Man and of what he was made. It is why he lived alone. Why I do as well. Why I do not like others about me. You know, I am often plagued by a dream of a young man. It is not me. Perhaps it is the man you will be. Hah, don’t look so Jim, I am jesting. This young man is on a narrow, treacherous path that is cut into a cliff. Behind him are icy mountains, and though I never see what is below, I know the abyss is endless. His journey is of utmost importance, but he cannot find the way forward, nor back, not that it matters, for he is the only soul left in the world. What do you make of this?

  “Don’t know. Don’t dream.”

  “Truly? Well, you are a singular creature then. Truly, Jim, I do not know how you came into this world, though oftentimes I doubt you were born of woman. Perhaps you were shaped by this James Milroy out of sand and sea water, given then to me as both a gift and a curse.”

  “Not a curse.”

  “No, I am rambling.” He lifts the empty brandy bottle and sets it back on the table, precisely in the same spot. “How disappointed I was when I first arrived here. No respite for my melancholic mind. Not here. People pressing all around. Tighter than if I lived in Edinburgh or in London. But I have found some comfort in the thought that I might write a book of the island. It would suit my temperament, to be a writer, to sit alone in an empty room with only a candle and a page. Many have been here, did you know that, Jim? We Englishmen believe nowhere exists before we set our boots upon it, spear our flag in its soil, and claim it for the monarch. But we were not the first. The Indians, of course, they have been here since before time. But there is evidence of others who have washed up, as did you, on these treacherous shores.”