Tears of Gold (7 page)

“It’s not a game or a play, Mara. It means everything to us. We can make a place for ourselves out here. It doesn’t matter where we come from, or that we don’t bear our father’s name. We’re equals out here. This is our only chance to change our lives, Mara, Believe in me, please.”

“I want to, Brendan. God only knows how much I want to,” Mara spoke softly as she gave him a half-smile. She left the cabin, the door closing as he slumped into the chair.

The following day Mara stood beside the railing of the ship as they prepared to drop anchor in San Francisco Bay. Paddy was jumping from one foot to another as he peered excitedly over the railing, trying to catch a glimpse of distant land as he dodged Jamie’s restraining hand. Mara’s shoulders shook with tired laughter as she stared at the bay surrounding them. She heard a step behind her and turned to see Brendan walking jauntily toward them.

“’Tis a fine sight, to be sure, Brendan O’Flynn,” Mara said, hiccupping as she tried to control her laughter.

Brendan gave her an odd look and followed her outspread arm to the scene before him. Mara laughed nervously at the ludicrous expression on his handsome features, then turned her own gaze back to the stretch of water between their ship and the shore.

“Jaysus,” Brendan whispered as he stared in bewilderment at the abandoned ships cluttering the horizon. Hundreds of masts rose starkly from the rotting hulks of once-proud sailing ships, now deserted and forgotten by crews who had caught the gold fever.

Mara looked beyond the debris-filled harbor and canvas-covered sandhills to the higher hills in the distance. San Francisco. Never had she seen the likes of it before. Frail wooden structures and untrustworthy-looking tents clung precariously to the steep hills that surrounded the city. In fact, Mara thought in amazement, it was the hills that caught your attention, the buildings no more significant than the scraggy, windblown trees dotting the hillsides.

“Is this San Frisco, Mara?” Paddy asked. “It’s ugly,” he added in disappointment, voicing both Mara’s and Brendan’s thoughts.

“’Tisn’t London, to be sure,” Mara replied softly, “Nor is it what you were expecting, is it, Brendan?”

Brendan dragged his gaze from the harbor and silently stared at Mara, his eyes for once lacking their sparkle as he returned her direct look. Mara clenched her fist as she saw his lower lip tremble slightly as he tried to recover. Only once, long ago in Paris, had she seen Brendan so deeply affected. Even Molly’s desertion had not moved him as much as this surprising scene.

“Well,” Brendan began slowly as he sought for his usual glib retort, only to falter as he looked again at San Francisco, “’tis a young city yet.”

Mara glanced away rather than see the defeat on Brendan’s face. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she heard the sound of the ocean as it lapped against the sides of the ship. Overhead the raucous cries of gulls disturbed the quiet as she came to the realization that it was Brendan’s dreams that had kept them all going. His looking on the bright side of everything had her believing in the golden dream as well. If Brendan’s belief died, then what did they have left?

“The streets may not be paved in gold, more like mud I be thinkin’. But the O’Flynns have never liked things comin’ to them easy,” Mara said, a laugh trembling on her voice.

Brendan turned to look at her, a hint of mischief beginning to grow in his dark eyes as he caught her mood. He threw back his head and breathed deeply of the salt air, expelling it on a hearty laugh.

“To be sure, ye’re an O’Flynn, Mara, and if there be gold out there we’ll have it in our pockets,” Brendan promised, the old look back in his eyes. He lifted a giggling Paddy onto his shoulders where he would have a better view of the harbor. As the other passengers crowded close to get their first glimpse of San Francisco, small launches began to sail out from the docks to meet the ship and carry the newcomers ashore.

Jamie peered over the railing, shaking her bonneted head as she stared at the crudely built city that straggled in confusion from shoreline to hillside.

“’Tis an uncivilized place, to be sure, that ye’ve brought us to, Brendan O’Fly—” Jamie began, only to choke on her words. She glanced down into one of the shore boats, staring down wordlessly into the curious eyes of a Chinese boatman. His long braid caught her eye as it swung to and fro in the breeze. Jamie crossed herself and whispered fervently, “May the saints be preservin’ us, for we be enterin’ a heathen place.”

Chapter 2

Mara O’Flynn’s first glimpse of the Rancho Villareale came early in the evening a few days later. They had entered a valley of rolling hills, and nestled at the base was the
hacienda
, its adobe walls and red-tiled roof bathed in a golden light from the setting sun.

“The valley is called Valle d’Oro, Valley of Gold,” Don Luís spoke beside Mara, “but not, I fear, because of a richness of gold in our hills,” he explained contemptuously. “Our forebears so named it because of this very sight.”

He followed Mara’s gaze to the golden hills and vivid sky above. “They saw the beauty of the land, not its value.”

“But you see the value as well, do you not, Don Luís?” Mara asked softly, her golden brown eyes reflecting the last rays of the sun.

“
Sí
,” Don Luís admitted, returning her gaze thoughtfully, “and if you are wise, you will see the value in helping me. We can all profit in this valley, Amaya,” he reminded her with an emphasis on the name.

Mara smiled cynically. “How fortunate I am to have you, Uncle Luís. I am sure you’ll be keeping a fatherly eye upon me.”

Don Luís returned her smile just as shallowly “A watchful eye, and I would advise you to keep a guarded tongue, for you speak with temper, and that would not be wise,” he warned as he glanced meaningfully at Paddy whose dark head lolled against Mara’s breast as he dozed fitfully.

“You needn’t fear that my tongue will betray you,” Mara told him shortly before returning her gaze to the colorful sky.

The turquoise of it was almost too bright against the crimson of the sun-bathed clouds. The colors clashed as the sunset changed hues. As they made their way into the valley, the sun gradually withdrew, leaving the clouds to float like smoldering coals, their bellies tinged with pink, until they became mere puffs of smoke in a faded blue sky.

“And is this it?” Brendan demanded as he stared out of the coach at the mud walls of the house below. “’Tisn’t much, to be sure,” he added rudely, unimpressed with the beauty of the valley.

“You think not, Mr. O’Flynn?” Don Luís asked haughtily, eyeing the Irishman with dislike. “The valley, as well as the hacienda, belongs to Don Andres,” he reminded Brendan.

Brendan’s dark eyes widened. “The whole valley, is it now?”

“Sí, and beyond even the hills in the distance.”

“That far? How much land does this Don Andres own?” Brendan asked, unable to conceal his awe.

Don Luís shrugged carelessly. “Who knows for certain? To the south and the rocks shaped like a falcon’s wing; to the east as far as the grove of oak; to the north and the lake of clear, sweet water.
Poco más o menos
.” Don Luís smiled at Brendan’s uncomprehending frown. “A little more or less.”

“But have you no deeds, no papers showing your property lines?” Brendan exclaimed incredulously.

Don Luís turned his head until his aristocratic profile was outlined in the half-light from the coach window. “A man’s word is law. His life can be worth no more than that. What need have I, or others, for a scrap of paper telling me what I already know and believe? Who is there to question our rights?”

“You be a trusting soul,” Brendan murmured in disbelief. “Seems to me you’re asking for a load of trouble and misunderstanding with that attitude, and especially with people being what they are.”

Don Luís looked intently at Brendan. “And what are they, Señor O’Flynn?” he asked.

“Why, they’re people like you and me, Don Luís,” Brendan replied with a touch of malice. “And we know what we are…don’t we? You’ll be asking me to leave the carriage first, and I, of course, will politely decline by offering you the honor of being first. Neither of us is willing to turn his back on the other, eh, Don Luís?” Brendan mocked.

Don Luís nodded his head in perfect understanding. “I’m pleased that we know one another so well, for now there will be no mistakes or misunderstandings which could result in tragic consequences.”

Jamie hunched down closer in her corner of the coach and eyed the Spaniard suspiciously from under the brim of her bonnet. The odd exchange of words was creating an uncomfortable atmosphere.

Don Luís studied the O’Flynns thoughtfully while rubbing his chin as if deciding upon his next words carefully. “Our ranchos are interconnected, in a manner of speaking. It is true that they are few and far between, but many of us are related and there is always someone visiting from another part of the country. We like it this way for we know what the others are about, and know we can count on them for any assistance. One might be led into believing that Don Andres’s land stretches as far as the ocean and even as far east as the Sierra Nevada, in that he knows what is happening that far away and even beyond. You understand?”

“No,” Brendan muttered abruptly, “I’m a man for simpler words, Don Luís.”

Don Luís smiled in derision. “To put it simply, Señor O’Flynn, no matter where a man might run, he would still be, in effect, on Don Andres’s land…or on mine perhaps, or on a cousin’s or an uncle’s. It would make little difference, for there would be no escape.”

Brendan laughed. “I stand warned, although you needn’t have worried yourself, Don Luís. Mara and I aren’t about to be leaving without our pockets full of money for a job well done,” Brendan reassured him with a smile, but his eyes had narrowed as he took in the low-lying hills that hugged the mouth of the valley and seemed like a barrier to uninvited visitors. Just as easily the narrow passage, guarded by one or two armed men, could keep a reluctant guest cooling his heels on the rancho. Brendan realized their position with a feeling of growing unease.

Don Luís knocked on the roof of the coach, halting it abruptly. With a slight inclination of his head he left the coach. A moment later he rode past, mounted on the sturdy chestnut he’d ridden for most of the journey.

“Haughty bastard,” Brendan murmured beneath his breath as he watched the dust fly up beneath the hooves of Don Luís’s mount.

Mara smiled. “I’m surprised he deemed it necessary to pay us a visit at all, unless he thought we might be hatching devious plots in the seclusion and boredom of this coach ride.”

“Givin’ us a warnin’, to be sure,” Brendan agreed. “Well, he’s met his match in the O’Flynns.”

Mara stared at the stiff back of Don Luís as he rode ahead of the coach, and wondered if Brendan might be wrong in underestimating the Spaniard. How different he seemed now as he urged his horse into a gallop, his body moving with the steady stride of the horse as if he’d been born in the saddle. He looked different as well. Gone was the European style of clothing, the long-tailed frock coat and tight-fitting tweed trousers, the tall silk hat and casually tied silk scarf. He wore a short green jacket embroidered in gold, a blue silk vest, and a red satin sash tied about his waist. His trousers were of black cloth that molded his thigh down to the knee, then flared out over his calves, the opened edges decorated with gold braid and revealing white drawers beneath. Deer-skin shoes, richly decorated, and a wide-brimmed
sombrero
with a gilt band completed his costume.

But it was his saddle that caught and held Mara’s attention. It was huge in comparison to the smaller and flatter English saddles she was accustomed to. It sat on an apron of leather, stamped and embroidered in bright greens and reds, and had a high wooden horn and long, wooden stirrups. It looked unbelievably heavy.

As the don’s colorful figure disappeared, Mara continued to stare out the window of the coach. She sighed, whether in relief at finally reaching their destination or in apprehension of what lay ahead, she did not know.

She was relieved, at least, to see that Brendan had recovered some of his former high spirits. He had strained at the reins like a mettlesome horse resenting the hard bit in his mouth when they had briefly seen San Francisco. Driving through the streets, Brendan had caught the frantic, feverish atmosphere of the gold-spirited city. To hear the wild laughter and raised voices mingling with the tawdriness of music and song as it drifted to the street from garishly painted wood buildings was a spark igniting the fire in Brendan’s blood. His dark eyes had glazed over as he’d stared longingly at the gambling houses they had passed, oblivious to the mud thrown up by the wheels of the coach as it lurched through the debris-clogged avenues of San Francisco that were little more than quagmires. What couldn’t be carried or made use of by the transient townspeople was no longer desired or valued, and was dumped in the streets. Iron cookstoves, crates and barrels full of spoiled goods crowded the streets in makeshift bridges across the mud, or ended up in stacks that continued to grow, unchecked.

The streets were crowded with people as well as discarded rubbish. The flannel-shirted figures Mara would find so familiar in future months were just part of the crowd of people that surged and loitered in the streets. Every so often the brightly colored satin jackets of Oriental foreigners would flash before her eyes, then disappear just as abruptly behind the ordinary frock coat of another adventurer hoping to strike it rich in California.

Don Luís, unable to hide his condemnatory expression as he stared at the city around him, hadn’t paused to enjoy the sights and sounds, but had urged their party with all possible speed to a steamer docked at Clark’s Point that would carry them inland. The steamer had been crowded with overeager, excitable prospectors making their way to the high country of the gold mines. After standing on deck and watching the islands of the bay slide past and catching a last glimpse of the Pacific through the Golden Gate, the narrow passageway between ocean and bay, Mara had gladly stayed in her cabin, too tired with fatigue and disappointment to do more than peck at her dinner as she found herself, yet again, on another ship. But Brendan had enjoyed the journey, having an opportunity to mix with other hopefuls and some more experienced miners who were still optimistic about making their fortune in gold.

It took them a day to sail from the Straits of Carquinez inland past the sleepy town of Benicia through Suisun Bay, and up the Sacramento River to Sacramento City—the last place to enjoy the comforts of civilization before heading into the gold country and the isolated splendor of the Sierra Nevada.

Sacramento City was a surprisingly well-developed town with two-story wood and brick buildings and tree-lined streets. Their steamer docked among ships, brigs, schooners, and other floating craft that were anchored, some two deep, before the mile-long levee along Front Street. They breakfasted at the City Hotel, with its projecting veranda and balcony, and interior decor of bright colors that clashed with the equally colorful garb of its patrons. Even at this early hour in the morning there was drinking and gambling going on, and out in the street, wagons loaded with supplies continuously rolled past as they loaded and unloaded goods from the ships docked at the levee. Mara had watched in fascination as mule trains, heavily laden with equipment, the picks and shovels, pots and pans, and other paraphernalia balanced precariously on the backs of the shaggy beasts, slowly left town for the northern mines. Dressed in the red woolen shirts, wide-brimmed felt hats, black, knee-length coats, high boots, and baggy trousers that seemed to be the unofficial uniform of the gold seeker, the miners headed up to the mining camps of Marysville and Hangtown. They were seeking virgin land that hadn’t been claimed yet, going high up into the steep canyons of the Yuba and Feather rivers that had cut their way down through the High Sierra, carrying with them gold-rich soil.

But Mara and her party headed in the opposite direction. They had been met in Sacramento City by several
vaqueros
from the Rancho Villareale who had been waiting for over a fortnight on the estimated arrival of Don Luís, and after hiring a coach, they had been ferried across the river to continue their journey. They traveled back toward the west across the flat lands of the Great Valley and the coastal range with its rolling hills and valleys covered with wooded slopes and high meadows of golden-yellow flowers. Their progress was slow and arduous, for the road was hardly more than a rock strewn track that they followed into the hills. Don Luís, overhearing one of Brendan’s withering denunciations of California civilization as his head hit the ceiling of the coach for the third time, callously had retorted that Californians needed no roads since they preferred to ride horseback and only the old and infirm permitted themselves to travel in carriages. And Brendan’s good humor hadn’t been restored when they had been forced to spend the night at an abandoned
adobe
, eating a dinner of strange food cooked over an open fire, after which the Californians, including Don Luís, had rolled themselves up in the full, tightly woven wool capes they wore and settled down for a night’s sleep. At Jamie’s insistence they had slept in the coach, settling themselves uncomfortably for a long night, but resting easier than they would have in the weathered adobe with its dirt floor and unseen crawling inhabitants.

It had been a long night, Mara thought as she yawned. She was jolted out of her recollections as the coach hit a deep hole and the top of Paddy’s head bumped her chin.

“Ow!” Paddy cried out as he was rudely awakened. His brown eyes gazed up in reproach at her, but Mara was looking out the window. The coach moved between heavy wooden gates that were standing open, and entered a large courtyard surrounded by high, tile-capped adobe walls.

They had entered what was apparently a stable yard. Mara could see Don Luís’s horse being unsaddled while its rider stood patiently awaiting the arrival of the coach. Next to the stables a blacksmith’s forge stood before the opened doors of the workshop, but his hammer was still as he watched their arrival. Several women dressed in colorful skirts and embroidered white blouses, their black hair hanging in thick braids down their backs, stood staring silently by the edge of a fountain.