Far From Home (45 page)

‘Damn you, Edward Newmarch! If you’re not dead when I find you, then I swear I’ll kill you myself!’ She moaned and bent over the bucket as the nausea and the stink of vomit overtook her once more.

She arrived in Panama, weak and thin, and checked in at an hotel before continuing her journey. She stayed only three days before she heard, quite by chance, that there was an outbreak of yellow fever in that steamy city peopled by Spanish, Indian, American and European mixed race. Immediately she booked another passage out. Being in a weakened state already, she was fearful of becoming a victim of the dreadful disease. If I died here, how would anyone know where I was? she thought wretchedly, and immediately penned a letter to Wilhelm to keep on her person, should such an event occur.

A thick bank of mist obscured the long coast of California and San Francisco Bay as the steamship drew steadily onwards towards the Golden Gate strait. Then the mist slowly lifted and the passengers rushed to the rails to watch as the ship entered the waterway of San Francisco. El Dorado, golden city of so many dreams and hopes.

Georgiana was feeling much better now at the end of her journey. The final sea voyage had been pleasant and she had sat in a corner of the deck, enjoying the sunshine and the breezes, though she had kept well wrapped in her beaver cape and a blanket around her knees.

Now she watched with the other passengers as the ship docked. The city was not as she had imagined. She had thought it would still be a jumble of tents and shanties, rough buildings to house the miners. She saw from the deck that it had become a city of wide streets and pavements, fine buildings and houses, theatres and hotels.

It was also thronging with thousands of people, many of whom appeared to be waiting for the ship. ‘They’re waiting for mail.’ A man, a stranger, standing by her side, spoke to her. ‘They’re hungry for news from the outside world. All they know about here is news of gold.’ He gave a scornful laugh. ‘Humbug, most of it! Nobody ever tells of when gold runs out, only of when it is found.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Georgiana said. ‘Do you know the city?’

‘Some.’ He nodded. ‘This is my second trip.’

‘Could you then advise me?’ she asked. ‘If I wanted to find someone, how would I set about it?’

He thought for a moment. ‘There’s a local newspaper printed here. The
Gazette
. You could ask if they’d print a message. Best I can suggest, ma’am.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You looking for your husband? There’s hundreds of ’em who just disappear.’

‘Erm – yes,’ she said, unwilling to confide. ‘That’s right.’

‘He’ll be up at one of the mines or along a river bed if he’s gone looking for gold,’ he said. ‘You might never find him, there’s thousands of men here. Some of them, though, have left to find their luck elsewhere. I heard there’s been a strike in Utah and one in Carson City, but it might just be rumour.’

She thanked him and turned away to assemble her belongings. The ship was being unloaded and the wharfside was strewn with drays, waggons, coaches, packhorses and mules, all waiting to collect passengers and their baggage.

She booked in at a small hotel and then went to look around the city. There were stores of every description and not only catering for the miners. It was evident from the goods which were displayed that here was a settled community which, over a few short years since the gold boom had begun, had built up their homes and businesses and were going to stay.

There were separate areas where different nationalities had made their homes. Mexicans, Cubans and Chileans, Irish and Spanish, Russians, Americans and thousands of Chinese. A colourful noisy babble of people with a conglomeration of language and cultures. Georgiana wandered around in a daze. How on earth can I possibly find Edward Newmarch within this seething multitude?

She did as the man on the ship had advised and contacted the newspaper, citing both Wilhelm and de Lassus as references. The editor agreed to put in a message and said he would ask for replies to be sent to him. ‘There’ll be all kinds of odd folks coming in,’ he warned. ‘Some will claim that they know him and expect a reward. Then there’ll be others who’ll claim to
be
him in the hope that there’s something in it for them. You know, like a long-lost relative leaving something in a will. They won’t have any proof of course: anybody can be anybody they want to be out here and no questions asked.’

A week later and a queue of people were claiming that they knew Edward Newmarch, but wouldn’t say where he was last seen until they were told why he was wanted, and what was the advantage to them.

The editor, Seth Hanson, made a list of possibilities. ‘Don’t think much of any of them,’ he said. ‘’Cept maybe one.’ He pondered, his eyebrows bristling as he frowned. ‘Don’t quite know what to make of her.’

‘Her!’ Georgiana laughed. ‘She might be the one to know. He was always a ladies’ man. Perhaps he’s crossed this one.’

Hanson shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. She’s a hard case. I know her slightly. She runs a theatre saloon. It’s not hers, belongs to some big shot. Anyway, she wanted to know who was asking and did they have an axe to grind. She said she wasn’t sure if the man she knew was the one we wanted.’

‘Should I see her?’ Georgiana asked. ‘It doesn’t sound as if she wants anything for herself.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ he said. ‘When she left she said she might come back with someone else.’

The next day a messenger boy arrived at her hotel, asking her to come to the newspaper office. She walked to the building. It wasn’t far and she wanted to give herself time to prepare what she would say to Edward Newmarch, if he was there.

But he wasn’t. She walked into the lobby and there was no-one who looked remotely like him, though various men who were sitting waiting stood up as she entered and doffed their headgear, some of them giving her a feeble grin of familiarity. She was shown into Hanson’s office and said, ‘None of those men out there are the type who Edward Newmarch would even condescend to speak to! I’m beginning to think it’s a hopeless task.’

‘The woman came back,’ Hanson told her. ‘She’s sending a fellow round. He’ll be here any time now. If this is the man you’re looking for, I’d like to run an article about him and you.
Woman travels thousands of miles in search of long-lost relative
.’ He grinned and winked. ‘That kind of thing. It’s only fair,’ he added. ‘That’s what newspapers are for.’

‘You wouldn’t make it into a romance?’ she said in sudden concern. ‘Because it’s not. I can’t stand the man!’

‘Come on, lady!’ he interposed scathingly. ‘All right, then. What about
Love turns to revenge
? Was he your lover?’

‘Certainly not!’ She was furious. ‘I told you! He’s my cousin’s husband.’

‘Lady,’ he said sardonically, ‘I’ve heard all kinds of stories in this business, and I know that nobody, just nobody, least of all a woman, travels thousands of miles unless there’s something in it for them.’

She was about to draw breath and tell him to forget the whole thing, when there was a knock on the door. A man of medium height, spruced up in a respectable if unfashionable coat and waistcoat and buckskin breeches, was shown in. He clutched a leather hat in his hand. ‘Howdy.’ He seemed ill at ease and shuffled his feet and didn’t look directly at her. ‘Larkin’s the name. Dolly asked if I’d come along – find out what it was all about.’

‘My name is Georgiana Gregory.’ Georgiana stood up to greet him and thought by his country drawl that it was unlikely that Edward would have kept company with him. ‘I’m looking for Edward Newmarch. Do you know of him?’

Larkin switched his gaze to her. ‘Mebbe. Depends. Who wants to know?’

‘I’m a relative of his wife’s. The wife he left in England.’ Her voice was haughtier than she intended, but she was still smarting and riled by Hanson’s insinuations. ‘Of course,’ she continued, in the same manner, ‘he may not have told anyone he was married. He might even have married again, for all we know. It’s the kind of thing he would do!’

She saw, barely perceptibly, a slight negative shake of Larkin’s head, before he redressed the movement. He does know him, she thought, and drew in her breath. ‘I only want to know if he is alive or dead,’ she explained in a softer voice. ‘His wife wishes to marry again.’

‘Ah!’ Larkin’s face opened up. ‘So you ain’t nuthin’ to do with any folk from New Orleans?’

She frowned. ‘New Orleans? No!’ Oh, she thought. I see. The Rodriguez family! ‘Mr Larkin,’ she said. ‘We’re taking up Mr Hanson’s valuable time. Do you know somewhere we can talk without bothering him?’ She smiled sweetly at Hanson. ‘I’ll come back to tell you if my mission has been successful,’ she said, and was gratified to see him looking annoyed.

Larkin took her to an eating house nearby. It was a wooden building, probably one of the original ones, Georgiana surmised. It had a planked floor and wooden chairs and tables. Men were leaning on a polished bar counter; others were playing cards and one a mouth organ. A few of the men nodded to Larkin and he seemed more at home here than in the newspaper office.

‘Like a cup o’ coffee, ma’am?’ he drawled.

‘Please.’ She looked around her. There were no other women there and some of the men had turned around from the bar, leaning with their elbows on it to gaze at her.

‘Are they not used to seeing women in here?’ she asked Larkin, who collected the coffee from the counter and brought it to her, with a small glass of what looked like whisky for himself.

‘Not during the day. Night-times the fellas bring along their gals.’

He seems to be a laconic kind of man, she thought. Not used to a great deal of conversation.

‘Sorry, I ain’t bin too forthcoming,’ he said, taking a drink from his glass. ‘But that fella you bin lookin’ fer.’ He nodded his head and rocked precariously backwards in his seat. ‘Well!’ He rocked forward again, putting his elbows on the table and dropping his voice. ‘He jest might be a friend o’ mine.’

She eyed him as she drank her coffee. It was strong and bitter. ‘I don’t mean him any harm,’ she said, and wondered how Edward, if it was he, would come to know such a man as this. ‘And there isn’t a reward.’ Though I could offer one, I suppose, she mused.

He pursed his mouth, then gave a slight grin. ‘Don’t need no money, ma’am. Made a lucky strike some time back, me and Jed.’

‘Where did you meet Edward?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Eddie? Mississippi country.’ Then he stopped and looked warily at her. ‘Might not be him!’ She had caught him out – he obviously hadn’t meant to say too much.

‘Eddie?’ she queried. ‘I’ve never heard him called that name!’

‘Eddie Newsom,’ he told her. ‘He was called Bob when we first met him.’

‘Oh! Then it’s not the same man,’ she began, then had a sudden thought. Bob – Robert? ‘Did he call himself Robert Allen?’

He slowly nodded. ‘Guess he did, but how d’ya know ’bout that?’

‘I met the real Robert Allen in New York. Oh dear,’ she said. ‘It’s getting very confusing.’

‘Sure is,’ Larkin agreed. ‘But when we met Eddie in the swamps he’d bin running away from some woman in New Orleans. He changed his name so they wouldn’t find him.’

‘So, is he still alive? Is he here in San Francisco?’

Larkin rubbed his beard. It was neatly trimmed, though there was a nick of blood on his cheek. His checked shirt was clean and his heavy boots freshly polished.

‘Dolly said jest to find out first.’

‘Who is Dolly?’ she asked.

‘She runs Eddie’s saloon and kinda looks after him.’ He chewed on his lip. ‘She was the one who saw it in the
Gazette
. I can’t read. Eddie tried to larn me some time back, but it weren’t no good.’

I can’t believe that this is the same Edward Newmarch that I know, she pondered. There has to be a mistake. Owns a saloon? Teaching someone to read? Impossible! ‘So can I meet this man?’ she asked.

‘Don’t know if he’d be pleased to see you,’ he said slowly. ‘But Dolly said it was worth a try.’

He scraped back his chair and stood up. ‘He might be mad at us. We sort o’ made a promise long time ago not to tell anybody ’bout him.’ He gave what seemed like a sigh. ‘But I guess it’ll be all right now.’ He put his hat on. ‘So if you’ve finished your coffee, ma’am, we’ll go. We ain’t got a great deal o’ time.’

What does he mean, not much time? Georgiana pondered as she sat in the creaking waggonette which Larkin had whistled for and which the sweating horse was pulling up a steep hill away from the waterfront. Is Edward going away? If indeed it is him, and I feel now that it might be. The woman in New Orleans that Larkin mentioned must surely be Sofia Rodriguez. Though she said that Edward was going to marry her daughter! I can’t believe that even he would stoop so low as to consider going through a bigamous marriage ceremony! Is that why he ran away? Did he get too deep into something?

Larkin called to the driver to stop outside a cluster of wooden buildings. There was a saloon bar, with the sound of music and laughter coming from within, and two stores, one selling fruit and vegetables which were piled high in a colourful pyramid outside the windows, another which sold groceries and had a rich smell of coffee and ripe cheese emanating from its doorway. Through the shop window Georgiana saw layers of pasta hanging from a ceiling rack and bread heaped up on the counter. Set slightly to the side and behind these buildings was a wooden house with a small yard in front of it, where two children were playing.

They looked up as Georgiana and Larkin approached. ‘’Ello, Larkin.’ A dark-haired chubby boy greeted him, but didn’t move from his game with pebbles which were piled precariously into a wobbly tower. The younger child, obviously a girl in spite of being dressed in wide trousers and a cotton shift, was tiny and pretty with high cheekbones and dark oriental eyes. She jumped up and wrapped her arms around Larkin’s legs, trapping him so that he couldn’t walk without falling over her.

Larkin bent and picked her up and swung her into the air, holding her there. ‘Hello, Jewel. Give me a kiss.’

The child reached down and kissed his bearded face, then, rubbing her cheek, struggled out of his arms to resume her game in the dust.