by Peter Corris
Perry found her smile hard to interpret. 'You're right. I want you to think well of me.'
'I do think well of you. The pastor says you're going off again to get us more money. Where are you going?'
Perry had an aching need to touch her. He seized both her hands roughly and pulled her to her feet. 'America. Come with me, Sarah.'
They were standing close together. He was half a head taller and she looked up and saw the passion in his face. She opened her mouth to speak and he bent and kissed her. Utterly unpractised, she leaned against him and returned the kiss. Perry felt himself becoming erect and broke away, holding her fiercely by the hands but forcing a slight distance between them.
'John, you're hurting me!'
Perry released her and put his hands on her waist, still preserving the distance, fighting for self-control as his arousal continued. 'Please, forgive me. I had no right to do that.'
She touched a finger to her lips. 'I liked it. Do it again, more gently.'
Perry leaned forward and kissed her softly. Then his tongue felt thick and slow in his mouth and his voice was a harsh whisper. 'Will you, Sarah? Will you come with me?'
Sarah broke away and sat. Perry stood looming over her, almost threateningly. She lifted her hand as if to ward him off. 'Sit down! Don't stand there like a great giant. You frighten me.'
Perry collapsed into a chair. He reached for his wine glass and gulped down the dregs. 'I mean I want to marry you,' he groaned.
'You sound as if the words are choking you.'
'I've never said them before. I didn't think I'd ever say them.'
'I can't marry you, not now. I can't go away with you.'
'You don't care for me.'
'I haven't stopped thinking about you from the moment I saw you. I dream about you. I cried for days after I heard about Mrs Drewe. I didn't think you'd ever come back. When the pastor said you were here tonight I almost fainted.'
'Sarah …'
'I can't leave now. There are too many people sick. He needs me. You've brought hope, John Perry. You say the doctor will come and there's money for medicine. Perhaps everything will get better.'
'It will. And then you could marry me?'
'There's one thing more.'
'What?'
'You said I seemed disappointed. I was, although I was so excited to see you. The land. You said you would help us to get the land and I haven't heard anything about that from you.'
32
Wesley Lincoln moved from Fisherman's Wharf to the Brewster Hotel on Powell Street where he took a businessman's suite. He bought clothes and shoes and had himself expensively barbered. He deposited most of the $6000 in the First National Bank, after ascertaining that it had a branch in Fort Stockton, Texas, and could effect the transfer of funds by telegraphic wire. He had to wait several days but through his persistence managed to secure an appointment with Colonel Dr Grant Tyrrell, San Francisco's most eminent surgeon and an expert on the treatment of war injuries.
Lincoln was a stylish figure in a grey suit, double-breasted waistcoat and plum-coloured tie when he presented himself in the medico's rooms. Tyrrell was an imposing figure himself, stout rather than fat, with piercing dark eyes, cropped grey hair and a brisk, businesslike manner. Lincoln peeled off his glove and laid his clawed hand on the doctor's desk.
'I want to know if there's anything you can do about this, doctor.'
Tyrrell's hands were cool and surprisingly gentle as he examined the fingers and damaged palm. 'How old are you, Mr Shelby?'
'I am twenty-six. Just turned.'
This a war wound? You've been wearing that glove ten years or more.'
'Nigh on twelve. No, sir. It was an accident. A pistol blew up in my hand. Local doctor fixed it. I guess he did the best he could.'
Tyrrell turned the hand over and probed the puckered flesh. He jabbed with a hard forefinger and noted the reaction in Lincoln's tensed knuckles. 'The man was a butcher. You're damned lucky you've got movement at all. Just a boy, must've hurt you some. Where was this?'
'West Texas. I was drunk. I don't recall much, 'cept that I held a knife on him and told him not to cut off the hand the way he wanted to.'
'That was smart, Mr Shelby. Likely you'd have bled to death if he had.' Tyrrell went on with his examination and Lincoln winced several times as the ligaments in his fingers were stretched. At last the doctor unhooked his spectacles and got up. 'Do you get much pain, Mr Shelby?'
'Some. If I have to use the hand more than usual, or if it gets bumped. Sure is stiff and sore of a cold morning.'
'I imagine so. Well, there's a certain amount I can do. A couple of the broken fingers have set badly. They could be broken again and reset. That'd give you some more movement and cut down on the soreness. There's scar tissue that could be cut away and I can give you a set of exercises that'll free it up if you do them regularly.'
'When can you do it?'
Tyrrell looked at him closely. 'There'll be some pain and it'll cost you some money. It'll look a bit better but it won't ever be your best feature.'
Lincoln smiled. 'When?'
The surgeon performed the operation two days later and Lincoln spent three days in the Ashbury Hospital. He was given chloroform and on the first night experienced troubled dreams in which Jubal Bass and his father quarrelled over who was to beat him. Then he was back in the Durango alley with Aaron Nestor, except that Nestor turned into Daniel Bracken, surprising Lincoln so that he dropped his knife and Bracken shot him in the chest. He woke up shouting and straining at the straps that held his left arm immobilised. The nurse soothed him and gave him a strong dose of laudanum which calmed him and sent him into a deep and restful sleep. He dreamed of hard, pointed tits of the Mescalero women and of Pauline Drewe's soft white breasts and a brown face, exquisitely shaped, which he could not identify.
The next night he was restless but not in severe pain. Remembering the relief of the previous night, he shouted for the nurse and thrashed. She administered the dose and Lincoln floated away on a soft sexual cloud where females—his mother, Burgos cousins, whores, Thelma Blaxland, Margaret Fanshawe and the mysterious dark woman—pandered to him and fought to kiss and caress his damaged hand. The men lingered on the periphery of his consciousness— his father, Cecil Treece, Jack Clancy and Jubal Bass, Daniel Bracken and Henry Fanshawe. But the women carried him through to a point beyond pain and worry, to a place where bodies blended in an ecstasy beyond anything he had experienced in life.
On the third day of Lincoln's hospitalisation, Dr Tyrrell removed the bandages and examined the hand. It looked raw and pulped and was intensely sensitive to the touch. The surgeon required Lincoln to move the fingers that had not been treated and to flex the hand as much as he could. 'Good, good,' he murmured. 'That's coming along well. I think we can look forward to a good result.'
'I'm getting a hell of a lot of pain, doctor. Finding it hard to sleep.'
Tyrrell examined the chart at the foot of the bed. 'So I see. Two measures of laudanum last night. Well, no harm in that while you're mending. I'll give you a prescription. I think you can leave here tomorrow and I'd like to see you in a week. Then I can give you a pamphlet on the exercises. Wrote it myself. This kind of injury's been a study of mine. Don't know how many muskets blew up in men's hands during the war.'
Lincoln left the hospital and returned to his hotel suite. The prescribed dose of laudanum failed to help him sleep and he doubled it, topping up with a few glasses of brandy after dinner. On the third night he awoke to find himself clawing at the bandages and feeling pain in other parts of his body—in his legs and shoulders. He abandoned the glass measuring dropper and took a large spoonful of the opium syrup, chasing it with a solid jolt of brandy. That night he experienced luridly coloured dreams. He heard music, a blend of the church hymns sung to pump-organs of his youth, the wild guitar rhythms of the gauchos and the music-hall songs to piano accompaniment which had been part of the entertainment aboard the Blue Jacket.
He awoke to find his face wet with tears and his hands trembling. A dose of laudanum helped him to find a sense of balance, made him forget the disturbances of the night and dulled the throbbing ache in his hand. He walked in the streets of the city, caught trolley-cars over the steep hills and gazed at the blue waters of San Francisco Bay. His bandaged hand was held in a sling and, instead of being an object of curiosity or fear, Lincoln found himself attracting sympathetic glances from the solid citizens of the town. He stopped carrying a gun, had his hats brushed daily and his shoes shone.
The nights, however, did not match the days. The hand began to ache about dinnertime, requiring the consumption of considerable amounts of alcohol to still the pain. He attended concerts and musical shows and saw that there were ample opportunities for a presentable man with money to meet the long-legged, deep-chested beauties of the San Francisco stage. For some reason he held back, missing the moment, until his confidence and interest ebbed away and his thoughts turned to his room in the Brewster with its deep bath, soft mattress and the laudanum bottle beside the bed.
He took to sleeping late, pinned down to the pillows and sheets by the ever-increasing doses of opium and reluctant to surrender the dreams. The good dreams were more vivid and interesting than life and even the bad ones had a capacity to excite him although they mostly ended with him thrashing about, twisting in the sweat-soaked bedclothes and crying for help. The only help to hand was the laudanum bottle. He quickly exhausted the doctor's initial prescription and applied for another which he took to two different druggists and obtained a double supply. He was consuming a bottle of brandy each day, sometimes more, and eating little. His digestion was poor and he was subject to constipation and cramps.
Two days before he was due to see the doctor for a final dressing of the hand and instruction about the rehabilitative exercises, Lincoln attempted to shake himself out of his torpor. He reduced his liquor and opium intake and walked for hours until he found sleep through sheer exhaustion. The following morning he forced down a large breakfast, hired a horse and went riding in a park beside the bay. His skills had not deserted him and he found no difficulty in controlling the hack one-handed. When he presented at the doctor's rooms he was still ruddy-cheeked and apparently invigorated although he could feel the energy draining from him.
'You seem to be in good spirits, Mr Shelby,' Tyrrell said as he unwrapped the dressings. 'I'll be presenting my bill today. I surely hope it doesn't dampen them.'
'I'll pay my dues, doctor.'
'Let's see, then. Hmm, well …'
'What?'
'I had hoped for better progress, better blood flow especially. Have you been eating properly?'
'Sure. Eating like a hog, walking all over this fair city and I've been out riding today. I feel fine.'
Lincoln looked thin and worn to the doctor but he made no comment. He produced a copy of the pamphlet he had written and took his patient through the flexing and stretching exercises, emphasising the need for regularity and a slow increase in the repetitions of the movements. Lincoln found it increasingly hard to concentrate. His sense of smell seemed to be overactive and the scent of carbolic and rubbing alcohol lingering in the air almost nauseated him. He performed the painful actions dutifully. He paid Tyrrell's substantial bill and shook the surgeon's hand.
'Just one thing, doctor,' he said as he was about to leave. 'I've got a mighty long trip ahead of me and I'm not expecting to sleep comfortable too many nights. Could you write me a note for some more of that mixture?'
Back in Melbourne, Perry went to the State Library and began scanning the passenger lists published in the daily newspapers for evidence of Lincoln's movements. It was a slow process and not initially rewarding. On his third visit, by accident, the attendant gave him a batch of older papers and he read through them idly while waiting for the ones he had ordered. His eye fell on an item taken from the Colac Advertiser about the accidental death by shooting of Edward Blaxland. The coroner had severely criticised the carelessness of one Thomas Shelby, a Canadian who worked for the dead youth's mother in her stables.
Shelby, who had allowed the boy to use 'a shotgun modified in the American manner', was described as in his mid-twenties, tall with light eyes and wearing a black leather glove on a severely damaged left hand. The coroner had remarked that Shelby, whose own injury resulted from a gun accident, should have had the commonsense to keep such a dangerous weapon out of the hands of a child. Perry checked the date and found the incident had occurred some months before Lincoln's arrival in Wilding.
'That's him!' he exclaimed, drawing disapproving lookes from other readers in the hushed, wood-panelled room.
He reordered the previous papers and began his search again. After several hours he found the name Thomas Shelby, American, as a passenger aboard the steamer Blue Jacket, bound for San Francisco. The ship had departed six weeks previously. Perry's elation at his discovery was tempered by the thought that Lincoln would have reached the United States by now and would be hard to trace in that vast country. Still, he hurried to a Bourke Street agent for several shipping lines and made enquiries about sailings to the west coast of the United States. The booking clerk was inclined to be supercilious about Perry's colour and hesitant about the sort of accommodation that could be offered. Privately, Perry amused himself with the thought that he could have presented as Prince Asias Asawar and talked about staterooms and berths for servants. Instead, he laid a wad of cash on the desk and told the clerk he wanted the fastest passage possible, whether first class or steerage.
The clerk's eyes opened at the size of the bundle of notes and he rechecked his charts. 'Alabama Lass, auxiliary steamer, leaving tomorrow and going direct. Passenger vessel with mail and light cargo.'
'Good. Berths available?'
The clerk played it safe. 'Second class.'
'Can I board a horse?'
The clerk consulted the manifests. 'No.'
'Pity, but very well, I'll take it. Here, let me fill that in.' Perry took the passenger departure form from the clerk and supplied the details: 'John Ivory Perry, British subject, 31 years, born Bridgetown, Barbados, pugilist.'
'Pugilist?' the clerk exclaimed. 'You're not 'Black' Perry?'
'The same.'
'Mr Perry, my humblest apologies. I had no idea. I'm a great follower of the prize ring. I put the mufflers on myself, from time to time. An amateur, you understand. But I've boxed with Foley. We were all hoping we'd see you in the ring with him at some time.'
'Would you prepare the receipt, please. Foley? A little chap, I understand. A welterweight or thereabouts.'
The clerk scribbled agitatedly. 'Small he might be, but he's a powerful fighter. Why he licked … '
'I know, I know. Men twice his size. Good luck to him but I'm off to America. Perhaps I'll accommodate him when I return, and Mr … '
'Jessup, sir. Ronald Jessup.'
'Is there anything available in first class?'
Next, Perry arranged and paid for the stabling and exercising of Jamaica for the four months with the understanding that he write with further instructions. That night in his hotel room he composed a letter to Sarah Braun:
Dearest Sarah
I am leaving for America tomorrow on a ship called the 'Alabama Lass'. I will write to you from points along the way, but I fear the letters will be slow in reaching you and I can give you no reliable means of reply.
When I say I wish you were going with me I do so not to distress you because I recognise the honesty and strength of your resolve. You will be in my thoughts at all times—in a way you will be with me. I confess, also, that I worry about the health of the people at Hertzberg but selfishly. Please, my darling Sarah, take every care to protect yourself from the sickness. Dr Price has promised to visit often and advise you and I trust that things will quickly improve.
It may be a vain quest I am on—to find one man in a country the size of America. But I am hopeful of success. Rest assured that I wi
ll abandon the search if it looks beyond my powers—I have no intention of letting it consume my life. I have my eyes firmly set on a further prospect—our future together.
Tell Adolph Jamaica is in a comfortable billet in Melbourne and he may look forward to riding him again. Give my respects to the Pastor.
I am packing my traps and will be off to the ship in the morning. I trust you will be thinking of me but above all, consider your own health and strength and do not tax them.
Yours with all my love,
It was the first love letter Perry had ever written and he was far from satisfied with it. He read it over many times, shaking his head, before he signed it and sealed and addressed the envelope. It would have to do. Perhaps a spell aboard ship and the reading of some novels would inspire him to a better effort.
33
There was no way for Wesley Lincoln to avoid travelling through Arizona, as advised by Sun Ching, but he calculated that the fastest and safest way to do it was by railroad. He travelled in a Pullman berth where available, but the going was rough on some sections of the line that took him through southern California, across the lower reaches of Arizona to El Paso. He felt an odd sense of triumph when he crossed the border into his home state. He was surprised to see how much the bluish haze on the sagebrush and the white dust of the cattle trails, visible through the Pullman window pleased him.
'The prodigal son returns,' he said.
'I beg your pardon?' A woman travelling in the day coach glanced sharply at him.
Lincoln smiled and tipped his hat. 'Nothing ma'am. Just glad to be home.'
The woman nodded and returned to her book. She had not even meant to speak—the strange-looking man, with his bitter dark face and light eyes had alarmed her from the first. She had seen him sipping from a small black bottle and endlessly massaging an unpleasant-smelling cream into his left hand. She was a schoolteacher and a believer in spiritualism who prided herself, not only on her powers of observation, but on her sensitivity to people's auras. She knew that this man was heavily armed and had been nervous for most of the past few days. He looked relaxed now for the first time, but she determined to keep a distance from him on the passage further east—his aura had a fragmented aspect that spoke to her of danger and death.