“That’s fine talk coming from one who is always corned himself, sir.”
Brannagh opened his mouth to bray some more, but Cormack said calmly, “Go, Brannagh. Your collection services are no longer required at Lion Island.”
Brannagh stomped downhill, shouting over his shoulder, “I’ll just see what Wimmer, Sly, and Mowry have to say about this! And all of you are ejected from the mission!”
“Is that so?” Bigler bellowed. “I’d rather be ejected than to pray alongside a hypocrite such as you!”
Cormack put a protective arm around Zelnora as he led her back to the river.
“Will Quartus be upset to be ejected?” Cormack asked her.
She smiled. “Apparently his mother will be extremely upset.” She was stupefied at how free she felt, having been cast into the same kettle as these “pickled spirits” who mined the gold camps of California. Far better the maggots of society than the hypocritical shylocks of the “civilized” settlements.
Cormack squinted at the sky. “Well, fortunately, it takes about four months for a letter to get overland, so he’s got time to plan what to say to her.”
“Yes, or six months round the Cape.” Zelnora agreed happily.
Cormack pointed at her. “He should send the letter that way.”
Zelnora laid her head upon his shoulder as they came within sight of their claim. Erskine and Quartus, a hundred yards downstream, waved as they worked Erskine’s rocker.
Chapter Twelve
July 4, 1848
Sutter’s Fort
Sutter threw a huge feast, inviting everyone in the fort’s vicinity. In the old armory building, he set a long table loaded with beef, game, fowl, and all the luxuries which a frontier life could offer. The table was laden with bottles of sauterne and Madeira, and enough fiery aguardiente brandy to satisfy all who wished to “splice the main brace.” There was also a fandango that Cormack itched to get on over to, as he was clad in his best dress, his shirt with long quill-wrapped fringes and red wool cuffs. Feeling the dandy, he’d slapped on a broad-brimmed Spanish hat with a new crimson scarf around the crown.
Aaron Erskine had taken a bookkeeping position with Sutter in order to be closer to Mercy, leaving their gold mining operations sadly bereft of one-third of their labor force, Bigler having also forged off on his own. So Cormack, Zelnora, and Quartus visited Erskine in his office adjacent to Sutter’s dining room. Erskine was occupied weighing gold and changing money, serving a line of men that went out the door and into the courtyard, so the trio took seats alongside the wall.
“The irony must not escape you that they are allowing me to handle money again.” Erskine grinned as he handed a nearly naked Indian a couple of reales for his gold. The exchange rate for Indians differed from the rate given whites. This Indian had made a prior deal with a white man, one could tell from his state of nature, aside from a frock coat and socks.
Cormack laughed. “I noticed that sign. Sutter must be desperate for employees that haven’t caught the gold fever and gone running off. But a lot of these claims are already getting worked out.”
Erskine knowingly wriggled an eyebrow. “I talk to a lot of folks, as you can imagine. Folks are washing an average of five hundred dollars dust a day. But as you said, a lot of the claims are worked out already.” Glancing surreptitiously from side to side and seeing only carefree Diggers and one chap with a bottle of bug juice, Erskine imparted, “I just heard tell yesterday of a big new strike on the Stanislaus, between Wood’s Crossing and Sonoran Camp. That’s the place to be, from all accounts.”
“Sonoran Camp?” Cormack pondered. “I heard that’s a lawless frontier chockfull of Spaniards playing monte and horse racing—damn it, Quartus, will you cheese that drum, please?”
Quartus gave Cormack sad eyes brimming with tears. “I’m warming up for the fandango!” he protested.
“You’ve been
Brannagh opened his mouth to bray some more, but Cormack said calmly, “Go, Brannagh. Your collection services are no longer required at Lion Island.”
Brannagh stomped downhill, shouting over his shoulder, “I’ll just see what Wimmer, Sly, and Mowry have to say about this! And all of you are ejected from the mission!”
“Is that so?” Bigler bellowed. “I’d rather be ejected than to pray alongside a hypocrite such as you!”
Cormack put a protective arm around Zelnora as he led her back to the river.
“Will Quartus be upset to be ejected?” Cormack asked her.
She smiled. “Apparently his mother will be extremely upset.” She was stupefied at how free she felt, having been cast into the same kettle as these “pickled spirits” who mined the gold camps of California. Far better the maggots of society than the hypocritical shylocks of the “civilized” settlements.
Cormack squinted at the sky. “Well, fortunately, it takes about four months for a letter to get overland, so he’s got time to plan what to say to her.”
“Yes, or six months round the Cape.” Zelnora agreed happily.
Cormack pointed at her. “He should send the letter that way.”
Zelnora laid her head upon his shoulder as they came within sight of their claim. Erskine and Quartus, a hundred yards downstream, waved as they worked Erskine’s rocker.
Chapter Twelve
July 4, 1848
Sutter’s Fort
Sutter threw a huge feast, inviting everyone in the fort’s vicinity. In the old armory building, he set a long table loaded with beef, game, fowl, and all the luxuries which a frontier life could offer. The table was laden with bottles of sauterne and Madeira, and enough fiery aguardiente brandy to satisfy all who wished to “splice the main brace.” There was also a fandango that Cormack itched to get on over to, as he was clad in his best dress, his shirt with long quill-wrapped fringes and red wool cuffs. Feeling the dandy, he’d slapped on a broad-brimmed Spanish hat with a new crimson scarf around the crown.
Aaron Erskine had taken a bookkeeping position with Sutter in order to be closer to Mercy, leaving their gold mining operations sadly bereft of one-third of their labor force, Bigler having also forged off on his own. So Cormack, Zelnora, and Quartus visited Erskine in his office adjacent to Sutter’s dining room. Erskine was occupied weighing gold and changing money, serving a line of men that went out the door and into the courtyard, so the trio took seats alongside the wall.
“The irony must not escape you that they are allowing me to handle money again.” Erskine grinned as he handed a nearly naked Indian a couple of reales for his gold. The exchange rate for Indians differed from the rate given whites. This Indian had made a prior deal with a white man, one could tell from his state of nature, aside from a frock coat and socks.
Cormack laughed. “I noticed that sign. Sutter must be desperate for employees that haven’t caught the gold fever and gone running off. But a lot of these claims are already getting worked out.”
Erskine knowingly wriggled an eyebrow. “I talk to a lot of folks, as you can imagine. Folks are washing an average of five hundred dollars dust a day. But as you said, a lot of the claims are worked out already.” Glancing surreptitiously from side to side and seeing only carefree Diggers and one chap with a bottle of bug juice, Erskine imparted, “I just heard tell yesterday of a big new strike on the Stanislaus, between Wood’s Crossing and Sonoran Camp. That’s the place to be, from all accounts.”
“Sonoran Camp?” Cormack pondered. “I heard that’s a lawless frontier chockfull of Spaniards playing monte and horse racing—damn it, Quartus, will you cheese that drum, please?”
Quartus gave Cormack sad eyes brimming with tears. “I’m warming up for the fandango!” he protested.
“You’ve been
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