Applewood (Book 2): Fledge

by Myers, Brendan P.

  That same year, word, spread like wildfire of the gold strike in California. The Mexican War had ended just the year before, and California was then — like now — a land of golden dreams. By this time, my father had become a lonely and bitter man who cursed God at every opportunity. Having buried most everything he loved in the now befouled soil of Ohio, he sold off our meager belongings and bought us a place on a covered wagon. In April of that year, we packed up what little remained and headed west, through Indiana and Illinois and on to Fort Leavenworth, where the caravans gathered to take the northerly route to California along the Oregon Trail.

  Our party followed the Platte River through the unorganized territories, keeping a close watch for the murderous bands of Indians we had heard so much about. And though we did see an occasional burned out or busted up Conestoga, whether it was because of Indians or just plain bad luck we could not tell. We did see small groups of them from time to time, staring out at us through the woods like chimera, but the Indians were no bother to us. It was the damn cholera that plagued our journey, taking half of us by the time we reached Fort Laramie, where word reached us that the dread disease had taken none other than President Polk himself. We stayed a few days there to nurse our sick back to health, and after a short journey of another week or so, we found ourselves in Independence Rock.

  It was late July by the time our group finally set off on the most precarious part of our journey, through the southern pass of the Rocky Mountains. It was an arduous and backbreaking passage of thirty days time, but most of us made it safely to Fort Hall, where the Oregon Trail branched into the California. There, we said our goodbyes to those in our party who were headed north to the Oregon territory. When we left the Fort a week later, we were thirty-eight souls crammed into twelve wagons pulled by eighteen oxen and four mules. More than half our party was made up of close-mouthed single men going west to make their fortune. They all had a gleam in their eye we had come to know well as gold fever. My father warned me in hushed German to keep my distance from all of them.

  Among us too were families with womenfolk and children. I made friends with a boy of about my own age named Gustaf, son of the Reverend Haggstrom, who had been called by God Himself to go west and see to the salvation of the newly minted gold millionaires. We drove our caravan across the parched desert wasteland of the Utah Territory, only to see the next formidable obstacle that lay ahead: the Sierra Nevadas. It was well known to us all that only a few years before, while heading through these same mountains, a group of settlers met with foul weather and had to resort to cannibalism. With boyhood bravado, Gustaf and I swore to each other that if it ever came to that, we would and could do the same.

  It never did come to that, and we felt ourselves fortunate to lose only another half-dozen along the way, though one of them was Gustaf’s beloved mother. The two of us helped dig her grave and bowed our heads when the Reverend spoke, calling it the will of God. My father — who took every opportunity to mock and disrespect the Reverend and his beliefs — held his tongue. He stood by silently and doffed his cap.

  Once safely over the Sierras, it was every man for himself. I said goodbye to Gustaf, whose father planned to build his church and congregation in the nearby village of Sacramento. My father and I joined up with a few of the single men who were headed to a place called Coloma by the shores of the American River. Upon reaching the outskirts of that bustling town, my father and I encamped in the woods, and it was there I first noticed the gold fever in my own father’s eyes. We’d both heard the tales of the Murphy brothers, who struck gold their first few days only a few miles from where we were now. We’d heard of seventeen thousand in gold pulled from Weber’s Creek in a single week. As I fell asleep that evening, I thought that maybe it was time for my father’s luck to change. Out of respect for him, I did not pray for it.

  Our first few days were spent lazily wandering along the river, to watch how exactly the gold was mined. Sometimes, it was a group of men working together, wading hip deep in the river, passing bucket after bucket of heavy river bottom to the man next to him, who passed it along to a man next to him. Other men waited along the shoreline to carry the endless stream of buckets up a small hill to large wooden barrels for washing. Further downriver, we encountered lone men who crouched by the shoreline with only a pan in their hands. Reaching down for their own piece of river bottom, they swirled the sand and earth back and forth in the pan while searching for what seemed inevitable to every man there: a golden gleam.

  What I remember most from those first few days was the smell of the place, the stink of unwashed men blended with the smoke of campfires and open latrines. And dear God, the hammering — the relentless hammering, hammering, hammering — that went on day and night as the small town built new shops and stores, and the more ingenious among us built long sluices to automate the panning. The land itself was populated by all manner of men. I saw my first Chinaman only my second day there. The air was filled with the musical sound of a dozen exotic languages from all corners of the earth. To my young eyes, the place was both exciting and frightening. There were no courts or laws to speak of, and it was in only our second week we saw the first of what would become a familiar sight: a man hanging from the end of a rope just outside of town. His eyes bulged from his purple face. The note nailed to his body had but two words on it in what looked like a child’s handwriting: “Claim Jumper.” My father turned my head away and we continued into town for supplies.

  I should say that one of the things I learned along our passage — and I saw again coming true in this ever burgeoning town — was that those who seemed to prosper most from the gold were the ever present merchants. I noticed it first as we passed through Nevada, where men with water stations charged whatever the market would bear for a sip of water to those poor souls who had not brought enough. We heard tales of a single cup costing one hundred dollars, and more than a few who were willing to pay it. And in Coloma, though I suppose there were some who had struck it rich in gold, it was the shopkeepers and the merchants and the bar owners who wore the finest silk.

  That day, my father purchased what supplies we needed and the two of us finally set off to stake our claim downriver, at a place he had picked out near where the river forked. There was some evidence it had been worked before: old campfires and slit trenches and well chewed bones. But he selected it because it was about a mile downriver from where most of the Argonaut activity was located, and there was a pretty plot of land beneath tall pines near the river where we could build shelter. From that day forward, my father set off each morning to hunt gold while I set off to hunt rabbit and squirrel and firewood. I went into town occasionally, returning with wood discarded from the large crates that brought the merchandise to the shops. From that, we built ourselves a small lean-to shelter. I made sure there was a fire burning when my father returned home each evening, for winter was approaching and the nights were cold. There would be some smoked meat or rabbit stew awaiting him. But as the weeks wore on, he returned home each evening with nothing but a bad temper and sometimes a jug of whiskey he had purchased or bartered.

  It was on a cold evening in early December of that year he returned home in yet another foul mood. By then, he had worked his claim for close to two months with nothing to show for it but bad knees and a heavy cough. I remember he yelled at me for the condition of the campsite or something. I don’t remember exactly what it was. I looked down to avoid his haunted eyes and handed him his stew. Sitting beside him at the campfire, I was staring at the ground listening to his slurps when I felt something fall between my legs. I started and spilled some soup. Moments later, it happened again. I looked up to see my crazed father was throwing things at me. He threw another, and another. I dodged them as best I could, but soon, there was a small pile of blackish rocks at my feet.

  Bending over, I picked one up and looked closer. Reflected in the firelight, I saw streaks embedded within the rock that gleamed dully. My mouth opened. I turned s
lowly and looked into the face of the broken man who was my father. He was smiling. Suddenly, he raised his head and let out a whoop that would have curdled milk, if we’d had any. I had heard those same sorts of whoops occasionally echo throughout the valley while hunting rabbits down by the river. But never in my life had I heard my father express such joy. I looked again between my legs and then back toward my father to see he had tears in his eyes.

  “Those are yours,” he said, his German accent thick. “I want you to have them. They are the first.”

  I reached down and picked up the largest and heaviest and brought it nearer the fire. While staring mesmerized at the dull sheen within the black nugget, I began to understand for myself exactly what had brought all these men here. I got my first taste of gold fever.

  Seven days later, my father and I set off into town to see the assayer. We left his office with just over a hundred dollars in banknotes, an average of about sixteen dollars a day, huge money in those days. And though we never talked about it — he warned me sternly to hold my own tongue — I knew there was more where that came from. Far more. We stopped by the store for supplies, where he bought us both thick wool coats and new shoes. Afterward, we stopped by the lumberman to ask about the price of wood so that we might begin building our very own house. We didn’t know it then, but that was the last gold my father would ever see.

  He was awakened the next morning by the clip-clop sound of hoofbeats entering our encampment. By the time I awoke, he had already donned his coat and was putting on his shoes.

  “What is it?” I asked. He shrugged and warned me in German to stay inside. But I was young and curious and nothing would have kept me inside. I threw on my own shoes and coat and followed him out.

  There were three of them on large horses. The oldest of the three wore a makeshift badge. The other two were hard, rough-looking men whom I recognized right away to be brothers. Unshaven, the younger of the two looked at me with piggish eyes and a cruel smile before turning away to take in our small homestead, as if assessing it for his own use.

  “What do you want?” my father asked the man with the badge. He looked less cruel than the other two, but only a little.

  “You Kummler?” he asked absently. My father nodded. The man reached into his pocket and removed some papers. After unfolding them, he began reading aloud.

  “I am authorized on behalf of the arbitration panel of the American River Association of Miners, South Fork jurisdiction, that you are in violation of another man’s claim, said complaint being made by the brothers Robert and William Smithson. A hearing on this matter will be held at two o’clock P.M. today, December 14, the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty nine, said hearing to take place in the Jackson Saloon at the appointed hour.”

  The man folded up his papers and put them in his pocket before turning his horse and kicking it with his heels. The brothers stayed another moment, one of them taking the time to spit brown tobacco juice at my father’s new shoes before they too turned and rode away. My father stood his ground a while before I saw him lower his head and begin shaking it.

  We went together to the saloon where the arbitration panel held court. I have already mentioned that California at this time — the mining communities in particular — was an especially lawless place. Although technically a “possession” of the United States, California was not yet a state or even an official territory. It was ostensibly under control of the military, but they had no interest in settling disputes between miners. In the absence of judges and courts, it was the miners themselves who settled their own disputes. It was because of that, my father and I had to sit there and listen to the Smithson brothers’ lies.

  They presented solid evidence that proved they were the ones who had worked the claim before us, so there was no disputing that. They were the ones who had left behind the cold campfires and the slit trenches and the well-chewed bones. But they went on to claim it was never abandoned. The older of the two, Robert Smithson was his name, claimed he had merely been away hunting. The younger brother said he had come home only last week from a two-day drunk to find my father and me on their land. The older brother said he tried to work things out peaceably with my father before taking it to the panel. He claimed that my father had threatened him and became violent.

  My father took the stand to tell what had really happened in his heavily accented English, while the two brothers laughed and jeered.

  “I cain’t understand ya!”

  “You wanna repeat that?”

  “Why, he ain’t even an American!”

  My face burned with shame and hatred, yet even so, I had never been prouder of my father. When the assayer — a man named John Windham — took the stand to tell of us coming in only yesterday, he wouldn’t look at us, and that’s when I knew the fix was in. It was he who had talked of our find, spread the word around town. Whether he knew the Smithsons, or word had otherwise reached them that gold had been found on their abandoned claim, I didn’t know and didn’t care. He was the one who had set the events in motion.

  The arbitration panel listened quietly and asked no questions. The whole thing didn’t last more than fifteen minutes, for even as my father was giving his testimony, other men with arbitration claims were lining up in the saloon or taking courage at the bar. When all testimony had been given, the men just pushed back their chairs and whispered among themselves. They announced their ruling immediately. My father and I were to vacate the land and be off our claim by noon tomorrow. We were also to pay a judgment of fifty dollars to the two brothers from the one hundred we had taken from the ground and be grateful it wasn’t more. I looked over at the two brothers and burned their faces into my memory. But even as I sat there, I knew my father would never vacate his claim. He had traveled too far and suffered too much. We both had.

  We walked in silence back to our hard won property by the shore of the river, property that by all that was holy was ours. The next afternoon, when the brothers returned, they brought four hard faced men with them. My father was there to greet them.

  “Liars!” he shouted at their approach. “Liars! Why you not find your own claim? Why you come steal ours?” He cursed in German while kicking dirt in their direction. “We not leave, you hear? This our place! You cannot have!”

  It soon became obvious the four rough men hadn’t signed up for this. They backed their horses away from the crazy German. Even the two brothers seemed uncertain what to do next. With my father still kicking dirt and cursing, they turned their horses and rode off into the woods. Of course, we both knew they would be back. My father had only bought us some time.

  That evening, I cooked the last of the rabbit and made a fine stew. My father seemed more content than I ever remembered, even going back to Ohio when my mother was alive. He smiled and joked and told stories in German of his own father. For just this one evening, his American dream had come true, and if it all came crashing down tomorrow, he was going to enjoy it this night.

  He turned serious again just before we went to bed. He handed me the last of the banknotes “just in case” and had me bundle up those first chunks of gold. We went to sleep that night at peace with ourselves and each other. But I was the only one of us who slept. He woke me when he heard the hoofbeats. While I had been sleeping, he had put my shoes on my feet and packed my things. He slung my new coat quickly around my shoulders and handed me a small bag before telling me to run off into the woods.

  “You watch now, boy,” he said. “You witness what they do to me. You see just how cruel people can be, an’ never forget. Okay?” I nodded my head and hugged him awkwardly before creeping beneath the canvas and crawling off into the woods.

  Just as I reached the edge, men on horseback came into the clearing. My father gave me time to escape before he came into the open. Once again, he started shouting and cursing, but this time, the men would not be stopped. The taller of the two, older brother Robert, got off his horse and walked over and punched my father in t
he mouth. He fell to his knees. Younger brother William got off his horse and gagged him and tied his hands behind his back. A third man got off his horse and tied a rope around my father’s legs. Robert walked to our lean-to and swept open the canvas flap.

  “Where you at, boy?” I heard him say.

  He dropped the canvas and looked around, even stared at the exact place I was hiding. But it was still dark out, with dawn more than a half hour away, and of what harm was a mere boy? He seemed to just shrug before walking to his horse to remove a shovel from his pack. Taking it to the still smoldering remains of our fire, he reached in for a shovelful and threw it on top of our shelter, then waited for the wood to start burning before turning away. The cheap wood of the old crates we used to build it soon caught, and it was only another second before it became a conflagration. There, by the light of our burning shelter, on the shores of the American River, I watched them drag my hogtied, bound, and gagged father away.

  I stayed in my hiding place the rest of that night, watching our shelter burn along with my family’s dreams of a better life in America. Later that morning, as the sun began to rise, I walked into town and saw they had hung another claim jumper.

  His face was purple. Scrapes and abrasions and torn clothing evidenced the long drag he’d been taken on. His wide-open eyes bulged out from his bearded face. Out of respect for him, I did not offer a prayer. I simply turned and walked away, out of foul Coloma, that place of golden madness.”

  6

  Dugan listened with rapt attention as the man told his tale, through all of that evening and into the next. He hesitated to interrupt for even a moment, to ask him to verify something he thought he heard, or to explain something he didn’t quite understand. He decided there would be plenty of time to investigate those things on his own. Further, he was certain that if Julian thought he had told him something important, he would have made sure himself to clarify the point or to explain it in more detail.