Janet Quin-Harkin (22 page)

“Yeah, and I’m wearing it,” one old-timer said.

The men laughed loudly. “He ain’t changed his long Johns since he got here, I reckon,” another commented and they laughed again.

“If you decide to purchase a change of clothing and would like this one washed, you can find me off the trail to Coloma,” Libby said frostily.

She met with the same reaction at the next diggings she came to. One man muttered that he’d never have a dime to send home if he had to pay for something he didn’t really need.

Libby continued down the river but got no takers. She was about to go home, discouraged, when Eden and Bliss, who had been playing farther down the bank, came running up in excitement. “Mama! Come see. We’ve found gold. Lots of it. We’ll be rich, Mama. You won’t have to do any horrid washing.”

Trying to hold back her excitement, Libby ran after them. It will be someone else’s claim, she told herself. We won’t be able to keep it.

One or two of the men threw down their shovels and ran after them to see the discovery.

“Look there, see,” Eden called, pointing down to the sandy bottom of the stream, where golden flecks gleamed in the sunlight.

“Oh,” Libby said, speechless. There did not seem to be anyone working this little cove and no tools signified an active claim. She bent down and reached into the water, scooping up a handful of sand. The golden flakes rose and swirled as she disturbed the water.

“That’s not gold you’ve got there,” one of the men muttered, peering over her shoulder. “That’s fool’s gold.”

“Fool’s gold?”

“It’s pyrite, another mineral altogether. We call it fool’s gold. It’s worthless.”

“You can always tell if it floats like that,” the other man said, more kindly. “Gold’s heavy, see. It sinks.”

“I see,” Libby said, stepping back from the bank. She gathered up her skirts. “Thank you for your trouble, gentlemen Come children, we must be heading home.”

She noticed they were looking after her as she walked.

On Sunday morning she was awakened by polite coughs outside the tent. “Mama, there’s strange men out there,” Eden whispered.

Libby looked around for the knife.

“What is it?” she called.

“Washing, ma’am,” came a gruff voice. “We all change our clothes on Sunday. We’ll pick it up tonight.”

Libby looked out of the tent at a large pile of dirty clothes.

The men nodded politely to her.

“We even got Old Buck out of his long Johns,” one of them said, grinning. “He’s sitting under a tree naked as a jay bird until you get them washed. Let’s hope they don’t fall to pieces.”

“I’ll have them ready for you,” Libby said.

As soon as they had gone, she carried the clothes down to the creek below, lit a fire, and set a pan of water on to boil. The clothes were filthy beyond recognition and had to be boiled and scrubbed until they showed any trace of their original color. She worked without stopping until at the end of the day she had raw, red hands, an aching back, and a pile of clean clothing drying in the sun. That night she was twenty dollars richer. She went into town and bought eggs and canned butter, plus some cloth to make the girls some clothes.

The same thing was repeated the next Sunday. She did not dare canvass for more work because she knew she could not get it done in a day. Each time the men passed her, they would enquire politely whether she had found her husband yet. She heard that rumors were flying up and down the creek about her: that her husband was really a British prince run away from ascending the throne; that she had murdered her husband and was hiding out in California; or that she was a widow and was waiting for a man to strike it really rich before she got her claws into him. Libby realized how dangerous for her these rumors could be. If they didn’t think she was respectably married and searching for her husband, she would become easy picking with no protection.

So she went to extra lengths to talk about Hugh and describe him to everyone she met. She realized that Hugh was her talisman and shield. As a married woman whose husband was at the diggings, she was safe from all unwanted attentions. Men respected another man’s wife as they did his claim. The moment they thought she had no husband, she was no longer safe. In all her dealings with them she made sure she maintained a frosty distance. She behaved to the miners as her father did to his coachmen at home, polite but distant and unapproachably above them. If they ever happened to make a crude joke in her presence, or use a swear word, her look made them mumble an apology. She knew that there were some men at the diggings who could have become her friends; not all were humble farmers and laborers, but she didn’t dare let down her guard. The miners started calling her Lady Muck, behind her back at least, and she did little to discourage this.

One day a man for whom she had done washing came up to the tent, panting hard from the climb up from the creek. “I heard of an Englishman over at Kelsey,” he gasped. “Sounded just like your old man—dark, curly hair, English as they come.”

“That’s him!” she exclaimed. “How far is it to Kelsey?”

“Couple of miles over the hill that way,” the man said.

“Thank you very much,” Libby said excitedly. “I’m very grateful to you for your trouble.”

She called to the children and told them that they were finally going to Papa. It was a rugged path over the hill and as she dropped down to the diggings at Kelsey, her heart was beating so loudly she was sure all the men would hear her coming and look up. Old doubts surfaced as she came down the final slope. What if he wasn’t pleased to see her, if he’d planned to run away?

“I hear you have an Englishman working on this stretch of river,” she called to the first men. “I’m his wife. I’ve been looking for him.”

“Honest Injun?” one man said, nudging his neighbor. He yelled down the line of men. “Hey Charlie. Get up here. Got someone to see you.”

Then he winked at his neighbor again. “I reckon Charlie’s in for the shock of his life.”

“Wot did yer want to see me about?” A sharp voice demanded and a little dark man swaggered up the line of men towards Libby.

“Your missus is here,” one of his companions shouted.

Libby and the man looked at each other in dismay and then Libby said, “This is the wrong man” at the same time as the cockney said, “This ain’t my old lady.”

Libby kept her composure all the way home, but back in the tent she flung herself down on the ground and cried, no longer able to keep her disappointment and despair from her children.

I
N MID-OCTOBER
the first real winter storm rolled in from the Pacific. All night long the wind howled through the branches and tore at the canvas, sending driving rain into the tent. In the morning they were cold, wet, and miserable, and Libby was not able to get a fire going. Bliss started coughing. The storm continued all day, turning paths down the hillsides into rivers which threatened to sweep away the tent. When Libby tried to go into town next day, she found that the track was now impassable mud.

The creeks continued to rise, even after the rain had stopped, as water came down from the High Sierra, and miners found their digging sites either under water or swept away. As they waited impatiently for the water to go down, they had nothing to do but household chores, and Libby found that they no longer needed her to do their washing.

That night Bliss developed a fever and lay tossing and moaning. Libby sat huddled in a wet blanket, staring out at the drops dripping from the branches, sunk into despair so deep that she felt as if she were drowning.

“It’s hopeless,” she said softly. “They’re going to die and it’s all my fault. Oh, God, forgive me for my pride and recklessness,” she whispered. “Punish me, but spare my children. Don’t leave us to die.”

In the morning it really did seem as if her prayer had been answered. The storm had passed over, leaving clear blue skies and new grass sprouting and the men anxious to get back to work. When they got down to their sites they found many of them unrecognizable. The water had swept away tools and stream banks and piled up debris where there had been none. This added to the frustration of enforced idleness and fights broke out. Libby was carrying her pan to get water just above the nearest diggings when two men emerged from the undergrowth right in front of her.

“I’m warning you, you just stay away,” one yelled.

“It’s my claim, I’m telling you,” the other snarled.

“Prove it! Where’s your tools?”

“Can I help it if the danged storm swept them away? I know my claim when I see it and you’re jumping it.”

“You’re out of your head. Your claim never came that far down the creek.”

“It did so. Right to that big pine.”

“It never did.”

“You calling me a liar now?”

The first man drew his gun. “I’m saying that I’m working that stretch of river now and if you don’t like it, that’s too bad.”

“Think you can scare me?” the other man demanded. He drew his own gun.

“You’d never dare use that thing,” the first man taunted. He was a skinny, shifty-looking type with long, drooping moustaches. “You’re as lily-livered as they come.”

“You take that back,” the other man said. He was small and fair skinned, freckled from the sun.

“Lily-livered, that’s what I said,” the first man repeated.

Suddenly shots rang out. It was impossible for Libby to see who fired first, but both men dropped to the ground. Libby rushed over to them shouting, “Stop this madness!” But it was too late. The skinny one was lying dead with blood trickling down his moustaches. The other appeared to be dead too, but as Libby bent over him, he opened his eyes and tried to focus on her, as if he didn’t really believe her presence.

“He got me,” he murmured.

“You got him too,” Libby said. “He’s dead.”

A faint smile passed the man’s lips. “No kidding?” he asked. “They always said I couldn’t shoot straight.” He groaned in pain, holding his side and coughing.

“We’ve got to get some help for you,” Libby said. “Where are your friends working?”

“Get me back to my cabin,” the man whispered. “It’s right here, just through the trees.”

He tried to get to his feet. Libby helped him, draping his arm over her shoulder. He was not a big man and she managed to half drag him up the hill to a small log cabin among the trees. It already had a roof and two wooden walls, a stove and a crude bed, but only canvas draped over the front and one side. Libby laid him on the bed.

“Do you have a partner I can get?” she asked.

The man shook his head. “Only me,” he said. “I’m here by myself. My partner died of cholera back on the trail. I’ve been alone since I got here.”

“You lie there, I’m going for help,” she said. “I’ll try and get a doctor to you.”

The man shook his head sadly. “Won’t do no good,” he said softly. “I’m done for, I can tell. Just stay here with me, will ya?”

“Of course,” Libby said, squatting down beside him. He grabbed her arm urgently. “I want you to do something for me,” he whispered. “You look like the sort I can trust. I’ve got three bags of gold sewn into this mattress. I want you to send them to my wife.”

“Where does she live?” Libby asked. “Do you have the address written down somewhere?”

His grip on her forearm tightened. “It’s Hettie Jacobsen,” he said, his eyes pleading. “Snowdrop Farm, just outside Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. See it gets to her.” He broke off, coughing again.

“Don’t worry, I’ll see it gets to her,” Libby said.

“You promise?” the man insisted.

Libby put her hand over his. “You can count on me.

He nodded. “That’s good,” he said. His eyes opened, alert and clear blue. “Shame to go now, just when the claim was starting to pay,” he said with a sigh. “Why don’t you take it? Lots of gold waiting to come out of that creek . . . just waiting . . . gold.”

He closed his eyes and sank back again. “Where is it?” Libby asked. “How would I know it?”

“It’s down next to that big old. . . .” His voice faded away. He was dead.

Respectfully, Libby covered him and went down to the nearest creek to find men to dig him a grave. When they came up to the cabin it seemed that nobody really knew him. He was a loner who didn’t like to drink, they told her. If any of them had an idea where he had been working the river, they were not telling Libby, in spite of her subtle questions. They buried him along with the other dead man on a bank behind the cabin and then hurried back to their claims again, leaving Libby alone.

“I’d better get that gold and send it back to his wife,” she murmured to herself. She ripped open the side of the mattress and took out the three heavy bags. I wonder how many ounces there are here, she asked herself. The bags sat round and heavy in her hands and slowly an idea began to creep into her mind: she did not have to send the gold. Nobody except her knew it existed. She and the girls could get a passage down to Sacramento for the winter, down to a warm, snug house and good food and new clothes. Then if they decided to sail back to Boston, she could send the woman some money from there. . . .

Even before she had finished reasoning it out, she dismissed it. She remembered the man’s face, his pleading eyes and she remembered saying, “You can count on me.” Whatever happens to me, I was not brought up to cheat and steal, Libby thought. I can’t do it, even if my children’s lives depend on it.

Slowly, another realization came to her, spreading through her with warmth and excitement. She might not take his gold, but he had left behind a cabin—a cabin which nobody else could claim. He didn’t have a partner. He was a loner, the others said. She looked in wonder at the stove, at the barrel of flour, at the bed and table and it looked like a palace. As fast as she could, she ran back to get the children. She got the stove going, made some hot tea, and put on the rabbit she found hanging up to start a stew. She tucked Bliss in the bed, wrapped in warm quilts.

Within a few days her cough and fever had completely gone. As soon as Bliss was well enough to be left Libby wrote a letter to the man’s widow and took it into town. She also took the gold with her to the Wells Fargo office to have the gold sent back to the widow. It came to almost a thousand dollars. As it was being weighed, Libby watched wistfully, thinking what she could have done with so much wealth. But on the way back she decided a cabin was even better than a fortune. She now had a place of her own that would keep out storms, that nobody could take away from her.