Auraria: A Novel (25 page)

“We’re not profiting any by jawing,” said Moss. “Now, Holtzclaw, are you going to pick up a shovel? Or are you going to go away?”

Holtzclaw demurred. If there were no nuggets or coins or ingots, then his daily wage from Shadburn was greater, and the promise of the new land was richer still.

#

The next day, Holtzclaw accompanied Lizzie Rathbun up the ridge to survey the land that he had acquired for their side bet.

She clasped her hands. “Oh, Holtzclaw, it is perfect! You didn’t even have to compromise your moral principles very much to get it.”

“Better land could be had, I suppose, but not so cleanly. I put only your name on the deed, Ms. Rathbun. It gives me a measure of deniability in case Shadburn should run across it.”

“It’s not necessary, but I think it’s wise,” said Ms. Rathbun. “Now, this piece of land—it will be a part of the lake shore?”

“By my projections, we are the owners of a future peninsula.”

Ms. Rathbun and Holtzclaw promenaded the length of the promontory. She continued to the very edge, a point of land that jutted above the steep slope of the valley.

“Is it large enough, do you think, for building?” said Holtzclaw. “I suppose our enterprise will have to be suited to the land, rather than vice versa. I doubt we’ll have another property fall into our laps.” He dropped to his haunches and examined the terrain. He had done this before with more care, but he made a show of it now. “We can’t build upward. The land isn’t stable enough to support it. A guesthouse and tavern of no more than ten rooms. We can charge a premium for the intimacy and proximity to the lake. It is modest, but I could be happy with that.”

Ms. Rathbun laughed. “That’s not ambitious enough! Your employer, despite his other flaws, at least dreams big.”

“Ambition cannot exceed the extent granted by Nature.”

“But we can!” She gestured out into the emptiness of the valley. “We’ll float our hotel. We only need a dock on the promontory. We’ll build a steamship, larger than any of the barges on the Mississippi. Stately cabins, dining rooms, and gaming areas. The novelty! A white and brass mansion reflected in the crystal waters of a mountain lake, cheery white steam puffing above like clouds, and the sound of soft paddling, laughter, and the clink of glasses filled with fine spirits. That’s ambition! Not some tiny guesthouse, but a floating palace.”

Holtzclaw tried to envision the result, but he couldn’t. There was an essential flaw. “How can we build it?” he said. “There is no room here for a dry dock, and we could not bring in the boat from upriver or downriver. The cataracts to the north and the gorge to the south isolate us from navigable waterways.”

“We build the base now before the lake is made,” said Ms. Rathbun. “When the floodgates close, our floating hotel will rise with the lake waters. It need not all be finished. Just enough structure to make it seaworthy. All the furniture and supplies and decoration can be added when the hotel is floating at the dock.”

It was such a simple solution—perhaps that’s why he’d missed it. Her vision was clear and shimmering; all the same words described her eyes. Holtzclaw was glad he didn’t tell her that in so many words.

“Think, Holtzclaw. No—don’t think. Imagine.”

Her raptures tugged at sinews inside him. He could not help but read in her enthusiasm for the project an enthusiasm for the partnership, and his thrill at the latter infused the former.

“Shadburn may even consider it a favor,” said Holtzclaw, striding to the end of the bit of land. “If we built a modest hotel, it would not much help, but a larger project, with its own advertising, could make a significant contribution. The whole area would be given a boost.”

“You see?” said Ms. Rathbun. “The success continues to flow without a single threat to your moral principles or loyalty.” Then her brows fell, and a watery substance like tears gathered at the inner corners of her eyes. “Only, I fear, a project of this nature needs more money than we have at present. What we have between us, Holtzclaw, is enough to get started, even to finish out the frame of the boat and float it up to the dock if we are careful, and a dock is not expensive. But to finish out the inside in style …”

“Needs a far greater investment,” said Holtzclaw.

“How shall we get it, then?”

“Give me a little time, Lizzie.”

“There is so little already, Holtzclaw. Like money, we have none to waste.”

And now Holtzclaw could see the white and brass mansion floating on the lake, puffing cheery steam into the air. He had seen himself, the master, reflected in the crystal waters.

Chapter Sixteen

Holtzclaw’s traveling satchel, while it still held half a bottle of Effervescent Brain Salts and a dusting of Pharaoh’s Flour, had run out of currency, both gold and federal notes. The railroad twins had needed an immediate payment toward day laborers. He needed to resupply from Shadburn’s stock.

In his offices, Shadburn was consumed with letter writing. “I am putting out our advertisements,” he said. “All the major Eastern publications will have announcements. We’ll have a full complement of the best people in our resort for the upcoming season.”

“Your yet unnamed resort?” said Holtzclaw.

“No longer! I have the perfect solution. We’ll borrow a native name and apply it to the lake, village, and hotel, like Saratoga or Chautauqua. Colors of ancient mystery. The hotel will be called the Queen of the Mountains on the shores of Lake Trahlyta.”

“Have you asked permission from the owner of that name?”

“I would think she would be flattered.”

A red woolen blanket covered two dozen strongboxes stacked in a corner. Holtzclaw removed the covering with a flourish and broke the wax seal on the front of one of the strongboxes. When he opened it, he was astounded. It was filled with sand, and on the top was an envelope.

“Shadburn, you have been honey-fuggled! Sandbagged, or sand-boxed!”

Shadburn didn’t look up from his correspondence.

“There’s a letter, perhaps from the culprit,” said Holtzclaw. It was sealed with wax, too, and marked “To H.E. Shadburn—Personal and Confidential.” Holtzclaw opened it.

“‘Esteemed Mister Shadburn,’ it says, ‘your request for withdrawal from deposits held by our institution cannot be completed. Your account was closed and the full balance delivered over three years ago. Copies of correspondence and bills of travel and transfer are included. We send this weighted strongbox in lieu of actual currency to spare you any embarrassment that might result from an unanswered request for funds. We appreciate your past patronage and anticipate future deposits, which we will hold in the strictness security and confidence. Yrs truly, and with profound regards, etc., Absalom Fredricks, President, Second Sportsman’s Bank of the Mountains, Springfield.’ Shadburn, this is extraordinary! You have been robbed at the bank. I know that the Second Sportsman’s Bank account held at least twenty thousand dollars. I wrote this request myself after verifying it against the account books.”

“Oh, did you?” said Shadburn.

“This correspondence is dated three years ago. We were working on the Calhoun lumber project at the time, near Waycross, and that’s where the deposits were delivered.”

“Was that the sawmill in the swamp?”

“Yes, the cypress and pine on some of the Okefenokee islands.”

“Then I know where the funds were spent. There were some immediate concerns about transportation and flooding from Calhoun’s backers, and the deal was dying. Money was needed to drain a few canals and to build a plank road for the importation of machinery. I invested in the project so that the deal would not turn sour.”

“So you spent twenty thousand more than the ledgers showed? We cleared eleven thousand on the project, and I thought it a triumph. These new expenses would place the project at a nine-thousand-dollar loss.”

“So it would, by the rules of arithmetic.”

“You lost money.” Holtzclaw waved the letter at his employer.

“Is it a crime? You should have realized by now that not every project can be perfectly profitable.”

“How many of these strongboxes are empty? How many times have I reported a profit for a project when it was actually a loss?”

Shadburn’s mouth moved faintly. A cloud fell across his face. “I can’t remember. There have been a few. Honestly, Holtzclaw, the redness in your face is an overreaction. Did all of Vanderbilt’s projects pay off? Was there not some land deal gone bad? I am not an infallible Midas, whose every work is golden.”

“On paper, you are.”

“What shall I do, Holtzclaw? Issue an apology? File amended paperwork? We have no investors that have been misled.”

“No investors?” Holtzclaw threw up his hands. “Shadburn, I am an investor! I’ve put in the best years of my life.” He walked to the edge of the little room toward the fireplace. “Do you remember the silkworm land you bought from me? In Canton? What happened there? Did you pay for that dam?”

Shadburn relaxed in his chair and looked up at the history writ on the ceiling. “You and your kind were wasting your lives in silkworms, these little foreign pests. Their sole use is that their excretions are fancied by the rich. You toiled away, and for what? Dead bugs! You, Holtzclaw, most of all, should be thankful that I turned you to productive work.”

“I didn’t need rescue,” said Holtzclaw.

#

“He is stuffing the Lost Creek Valley with gold,” said Holtzclaw to Abigail as he studied his reflection at the bottom of a bottle of claret.

“The valley doesn’t need stuffing,” she said. “It’s already overflowing.”

“Then it’s all the more foolish that he is doing it,” said Holtzclaw. “I opened two more strongboxes filled with sand before I found one with any money in it. How near is he to running out?”

“Men like him never run out of money.”

“That is what the poor always believe about the rich. But it’s not true. They can lose their fortunes very quickly, when their manias take them. He is calling in all his strongboxes, even if they are filled with sand. And there is still half a dam to build. His money may last until then, but then what? There is a hotel to run. Sawmills and tanneries to outfit. Money will be needed to pay your townsfolk until these businesses are operating on their own power, and that takes time. As soon as the lake begins to rise, Shadburn will be the only employer in the town, and what if he cannot meet his obligations? All that we have promised will be broken. And Auraria will dry up …”

Holtzclaw hoped that he had not oversold the matter, but Abigail was a nostalgic sort.

“Dry up?” The light tone of her voice was not entirely encouraging. Holtzclaw should have considered that she was a tavernkeeper and thus accustomed to people at their most maudlin and manipulative. Still, he persisted.

“Yes, and with negative consequences for the Old Rock Falls, or the New Rock Falls. We couldn’t keep a manager of the hotel—a position that is still yours for the having—nor could we hope to preserve what you have here within the new construction. He has enough money to destroy, but not enough to rebuild, and he cannot be persuaded to postpone the destruction.”

“And why is that of special concern to me?”

“Because you will lose the most, I fear. The farmers can move. The miners aren’t mining much any more. But you have your whole life here. I know you care for Hulen and Mr. Bad Thing and all your regulars.”

Abigail stalked away, behind the counter. She polished glasses that were already polished.

“Perhaps I’m even a regular now,” said Holtzclaw. “I haunt your bar stool often enough.”

“Ms. Rathbun doesn’t have good claret?”

“I’d rather drink here, in the Old Rock Falls.”

“Then you shouldn’t flood my valley.”

“It’s inevitable, Ms. Thompson. Bigger forces than you or me are in motion. The only hope we have is that we’ll drink together in the New Rock Falls.”

The faint blush on her cheek was exactly the amount of blush that Holtzclaw hoped to evoke. He was quite proud of himself for it, and, when he considered it, he was not dishonest in seeking to evoke it.

“So what do you suppose a little force like me can do?” said Abigail.

“We need an investor who cares about the future of this town. Who could reinforce our capital should the unthinkable happen: should we run out.”

“I don’t have anything, Holtzclaw.”

“You have dreams! Back at that creek, when you took me to meet the moon maidens. You cared so little for gold that you threw it into the river. You don’t have to put down money. You can put down knowledge, which is free and not diminished in the giving. I will dig where you tell me to dig.”

“You’d pin all your chances of success on a dream? That’s not good business.”

“I think it is the only sort of business that is worthwhile,” said Holtzclaw.

Abigail gave a snort. “Where did you read that?”

“I believe it, Ms. Thompson. I’ve always believed it. Did I ever tell you about my silkworms?”

“Drink your claret, Holtzclaw. You’ve said enough already.”

#

Even after claret, Holtzclaw felt a pain through his midsection. It was a mild affliction, given the gamut of troubles in life, but Holtzclaw still found it unpleasant. He thought a bath might do him some good, but not in Mrs. McTavish’s old iron basin. Seeking a bath in the other two guesthouses might have consequences and entanglements that he, in his discomfort, didn’t want to face.

He walked upriver to a place called Sugar Shoals. The current swirled through a maze of boulders and kicked up white froth, which settled in eddies and shadows of rocks.

Holtzclaw doffed all the clothing that he dared, leaving a striped garment that reached from his knees to his elbows. He kicked at one of the foamy mounds, which burst into airy nothing at the passing of his foot. The water was pleasant, not too cold. He stretched out along a flat ridge and let the water pool behind him. It ran past his ears and toes. He moved into deeper water.