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Sinclair and PL Gold Rush |
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This Story Started in July 1998 PART 2 He stood at the water's edge, peering into the mirror, reparting his hair. Gone was the loose fitting tweed suit, O'Hara stood resplendent as a prosperous man complete with dark frock coat. "Will I pass?" He asked anxiously. Dana stepped back and looked at him critically by the moonlight. Taking the comb, brushing the fringe this way and that until finally settling it into a sweep across the forehead. "I think so in this light, providing no one in town sees you up close." She traced the worried frown lines. "Less of these please, remember you have to lose ten years." "And on the wagon train there is no one likely to know *me*?" fidgeting in the unaccustomed clothes, he was having second thoughts. "Simon did all the arrangements through the agent." She leant forward and kissed him "Darling, have you a better idea?" O'Hara had to admit he had not. 19.8.98 ----------- Restless animals. Straining under the yoke, oxen moved forward. Solidly dragging wagons from the corral. White eyed, pawing the dust; horses leapt forward at a touch. Sensing the rider’s impatience to start the journey. Lanterns swung, low excited whispers. Whistles. Metallic clinks as the pots and pans jostled on the wooden carts. Another wagon train rolled out of Independence towards the gold fields of California in a cool August evening, 1849. 20.8.98 -------------- Swaying gently the covered wagon took its place in the snaking trail out of town. Sinclair lay in the cot oblivious to his fate, rocked between consciousness and sleep. Occasionally feeling the perspiration wiped from his brow. Unaware of the turmoil his presence caused in the caravan. "I thought we agreed on a new start. A break with the past." The figure sat on the staging, whip in hand, staring forward into the night, but she knew the words were for her. Sinclair would have puzzled had he been aware of her thoughts. Perhaps this is the best thing that could happen to us. For he was a comet entering her life, bright, blazing, exciting but soon gone. Deciding to leave had been easy in the months of absence. Her resolve wavered but held strong despite his unexpected presence. No future, until now. Perhaps. 20.8.98 -------------- Hazy orange glow of dawn broke. Fingering the distant mountains, sweeping the prairie into golden hands. Encompassing the slow moving caterpillar of wagons steadily treading the well-worn path of the Oregon Trail. PL held the loose rein, and guided the team. "Sure you can manage Mr Jacks?" a reaction of surprise from the driver, who leapt gratefully down and scurried into the night. Well Jacks probably couldn’t, but he, PL O’Hara, was a master. Events of the previous twelve hours had swept him in their wake. He needed time alone for reflection. He was going to hell. O’Hara sweated slightly at the thought. Damned for the love of a woman. He had coveted, committed adultery and in all probability murder, the commandments lay broken at his feet. Not a pious man, O’Hara wondered if there were any priests between Independence and Fort Laramie. For he had sore need of their services. 24.8.98 ---------- It was the stillness and raging thirst that roused Sinclair. Constant rocking had allowed eventual restless sleep, but now the wagon waited in line, abandoned for the first time in many hours as the trekers gathered to eat, converse and hear the journey plans. Searching the thick canvas roof, and the rib cage of the covered wagon, Sinclair struggled to pinpoint his surroundings. His hand flapped at the side of the wooden cot, felt the rough textured blanket and the coarse cloth at his throat. "You ride your luck too hard Sinclair Bryant" came the voice. Silhouetted against streaming sunbeams as the canvas drew back, a figure haloed, swathed in golden rays. Indistinguishable save for the lilt of suppressed laughter, he knew so well. "Claire!" he sought to exclaim. But a dry croak was all that escaped his lips. 25.8.98 ----------- "They left you in the ally -- fortunately Irish found you." The cup hovered close. Sinclair had eyes only for the liquid. Rivulets ran down as he gulped. "Steady -- slower, you will choke." Repossessing the mug, pushing his hand away. "Didn’t get --" running a tongue round his lips, reaching out again. "Didn’t get -- what they wanted." An echo of triumph. "Apparently not." Claire said quietly "Next time -- " pausing to consider the phraseology. "People do not often have a second chance. So I have done what I can to make sure you do." "We are on our way to St Joseph -- good idea." Satisfied he lay back on the pallet, considering the opportunities. A big town he had not worked for a few years. Such thoughts made his fingers itch for the cards. "No Sinclair. California." Silence beat between them. In reading her expression he discerned no signs of jest. Truth. All the anxieties of a trapped animal, panic, aggression, manifest in his response. "No--Claire." He squeezed her arm. "St Joseph, have this cart take that route." Urgent, demanding. Forcing himself up on the elbows to gain height advantage over Claire kneeling at his side. "California is not for me." His reaction was no surprise. ------ 26.8.98 Wordlessly she rose from her knees. Shrugging off the loose restraining hand, not bearing to look into his eyes. Knowing she measured but a thimble's worth against the full barrel that was his life. "Your decision Sinclair. When you are able to ride, it will be scarcely more than a days journey to return." With that she turned away, a few steps and was gone. Sinclair heard the small thump as she landed beside the wagon and footsteps passing its length. Straining his ears he imagined her stop, and a muffled sob the other side of the canvas. He lay back. Clinical coolness had deserted him. The matter had been handled badly. He bit is lip hard as penance and mulled over words to repair the breach. For he could allow several days if not weeks to pass into the trek before departure would become a necessity. Fort Laramie, he pondered. He would return with a patrol or wagon travelling east, by which time any trouble in Independence would have long since departed. 28.8.98 -------- As the days settled into the slow rhythm in tune with the speed of the oxen, the travellers could be forgiven for allowing the notion that the journey would be less arduous than the wild danger stories implied. No posse had dragged him away in the dark of night. PL's tumultuous dreams faded in intensity and to the surprise of his fellow travellers, "Mr Jacks" was a practical man, not the autocratic passenger they had anticipated in the well-known lawyer. Social barriers, not yet broken by adversity, shielded O'Hara's secret. Sight of Sinclair, toying one handed with the embers of a fire, therefore came as a thunderbolt. Ripping aside the careful facade he had constructed. O'Hara worked his way round the fire to confirm the identification. No doubt. *The Man of Cards* thinner, paler than he remembered from the train. But as he watched the stick twist and turn in the man's hand, and the wrist occasionally dart to catch a falling spark, the recollection was of green baize and the cards spinning out in a deal. 29.8.98 ------- Eyes moving to the pale swathe across the man's chest, PL understood why their paths had not crossed earlier. Rumours abounded concerning the late arrival of a wounded traveller. O'Hara touched an imaginary pocket book, he had much for which to thank Sinclair Bryant, and this was awkward. "Mister O'Hara." Sinclair's voice seemed to carry into the night and PL winced. "You are the last person I expected to see." "Likewise." O' Hara reached across for the coffeepot, checked no one was in earshot, then moved round to Sinclair. The two men sat on their haunches staring into the flames. Each something to say, but neither about to start the conversation. At last Sinclair broke the silence. "I had not heard of you travelling on this trip and Claire seems to know more or less everyone." He accepted O'Hara's outstretched coffee. The bitter brew scalded, and spilled. "Not that good with the left hand" he noted ruefully, gesturing to the strapping. "I'll run faster next time." It was the ability to detect the seemingly invisible in opponents that was one of Sinclair's main assets as a card player. O'Hara uneasy shuffle telegraphed volumes. "You are *running away?" he enquired. "Worse than that" replied PL "I'm somebody else." 30.8.98 ---------------- Sinclair drew back imperceptibly; as if giving the man more physical space would encourage further revelations. O'Hara seemed about to continue. "Mr Jacks --- Mr Jacks." The child skidded to a halt in the dust. Red faced in the firelight. "You must come" Hand pulling urgently at O'Hara's sleeve. PL glanced at Sinclair, who lifted an eyebrow but stayed silent. "What is it young Tom -- Chickens escaped again?" Gently retracting the sleeve from the boy's grip. "Mrs Jacks." He gasped. "She's fallen from the wagon." PL was on his feet and gone trailing the boy in his wake. Leaving Sinclair to follow, uncertain as to whether he should be a voyeur at this domestic crisis. 31.8.98 ---------------- "And how is your wife? Nothing broken I hope." PL, though resisting, had been finally evicted from his own wagon by a female coterie. Fussing that Dana would be better with their ministrations. He had refuse to leave until she, pale faced through pain and blood loss, had bidden him do so. O'Hara had returned to the fireside, relieved that Sinclair had remained. "She has lost the baby." Taken aback, Sinclair muttered a word of condolence that seemed to leave O'Hara unmoved. They sat in silence for another few minutes, watching the embers glow. "It wasn't mine you know." He said at last, as if finally deciding that Sinclair was to be the repository of all his troubles. "Er no, I didn't know that." Sinclair stumbled round with words in his head, not sure if he wanted to hear the rest of what he imagined would rapidly become a sordid tale. Didn't he have enough worries of his own without someone else's burden? "Are you sure you should be telling me?" 1.9.98 ---------- "And once he started -- well it poured out." Sinclair munched happily on yet another breakfast corn biscuit, trying to balance the book on his knees, muttering "Poor sod" under his breath. "Thought you should know " Sinclair called, "Claire -- are you listening?" She appeared round the side of the wagon. "Yes I heard every word. But I don’t think it is something you should broadcast. Mr O’Hara told you in confidence I am sure." Handing Sinclair yet another biscuit -- "Mrs Jacks probably doesn’t know he has told anyone." Considering this, Sinclair chewed slower. "You must be feeling better -- just how many of these can you eat?" She ruffled his hair affectionately. "Well since we were swapping confidences, I told him about -- us --" Sinclair ventured. "That must have been a short conversation" snapped Claire, slapping the plate on his lap. Wrong Claire. I told him what I never seem to be able to tell you. She left him frantically juggling with one hand. Finally saving food in preference to literature. 2.9.98 --------------- Homesteads became less frequent than buffalo herds as the days passed into weeks on the Oregon Trail. The plains stretched for as far as the eye could see, burning and shimmering in the late summer heat. A few weeks outdoor life had transformed Sinclair into the archetypal Argonaut. Bleached gold by the sun, growing long over the collar, his mane trailed in the breeze as he rode ahead of the train with the guide along the old fur trapper's route. Strength flowed back the closer the approach of Chimney Rock. Later he would count these amongst the happiest days of his life. The man who had berated his fate, claimed that *California was not for him* had been slowly sucked into the dream. Miners talk of rivers of gold assailed his ears by the evening fire. Whispers of riches on the card tables of San Francisco abounded in Sinclair's evening game that met surreptitiously in the furthest reaches of the camp. Allowing the turn back to St Joseph's to pass, believing Claire's declaration that he was not strong enough to make the journey, Sinclair then let the next opportunity slip as the Council Bluffs trail merged with their route. By the end of the third week he had slipped away from the camp with Claire to watch a magnificent sunset, and announced that he was no *Backed out Californian*. 3.9.98 ------- The memory brought a smile. "Backed out Californian?" she had given him a puzzled look. "Whatever does that mean?" He had airily explained that it was the colloquial name for the travellers who lasted but a few days on the trail west before returning to the comforts of Independence. "Of course you are not --" she hesitated " -- one of those people, Sinclair." She had looked it him, sizing up a further appropriate response. For surely his statement was more than it seemed. California is not for me. "You were too ill to decide on the journey in the first place and secondly we have been travelling weeks not days." He noted, she had turned away as she spoke. "No one will think the less of you for turning back at the Fort." It had been said without even a quiver in the voice. Acceptance of the inevitable. "Or are you telling me *Good-bye* now?" How had he managed to convey a contrary impression? Conversation was not going the way he imagined. But then with Claire it rarely did, it was part of the attraction that had always drawn him back. "Not exactly." Draping both arms over her shoulders and drawing her back towards his chest. "I thought San Francisco would appreciate a man of my talents." Unconsciously he flexed his fingers. A gesture not unnoticed. "Besides, you *wanted* me along all the time." "Well I'm sure that makes everything alright." However true, she seethed at the conceit. "You think I'm going turn, throw my arms around you and say *Wonderful, I cannot not live without you. * Or some such romantic rot -- Think again Sinclair." To his amazement she twisted round, smacked him across the cheek, spun on her heel and left. Touching the sting, watching the purposeful stride towards the campfires, Sinclair shook his head in disbelief. Don't mince words Claire, I love you would have sufficed. But then it had occurred to him. Perhaps she didn't after all. 5.9.98 ------- From the distance it appeared a desert dust bowl, pale swirling clouds had forced Sinclair and the guide to dismount. Only the slits of their eyes below the hat brims remained unprotected by the neckties, as the dirt stung their faces and wormed its way into every sartorial crevice. Grasshoppers a prairie plague the guide explained later, had consumed all vegetation in their path from crops to the sod houses, leaving nothing but bare earth in their wake. As they sheltered from the dust storm, Sinclair allowed his musings to alight on a conversation with PL. "I do not understand them." O’Hara had stayed on after the card school had melted into the night. "Women -- always demanding certainties in life." "Well, you have come to the wrong man for instruction." And he proceeded to relate the previous evening's incident. "--- And I wouldn't like to be on the end of her right hook." Sinclair had jested, brushing his cheek. "Not surprised." O'Hara took down his oil lamp suspended to light the game. "Do you care about anyone except yourself?" "Oh" Sinclair had been astonished by O'Hara's reaction "You mean I'm a total rat?" "Total. Sinclair." With that he swung the lantern away leaving Sinclair in the dark. Literally and metaphorically. ------ 8.9.98 Wind departed from whence it came, a strolling player in the theatre of prairie life. Fading light meant time for the riders to return, not before the sun had marked the tall stack, a sentinel of the Oregon Trail, Chimney Rock -- 550 miles and five weeks since the wagon train rolled out of Independence -- and beyond, the pale wide waters of the River Platte. Others had sheltered, bunching together for protection. The guide gestured to Sinclair, fresh meat, the buffalo herd was marked out for a kill. In the shadow of such landmarks, the river crossing would be well celebrated. A man could not host the camp card game and not know all there was to know about the hidden side of trail life. The Corn mash still for instance. Sinclair thought little of the hard work and hazards ahead and plenty on the possibilities of festivities on the journey back. ------------- 10.9.98 Like a lazy serpent the river, serene in bearing, wound into the infinite horizons to the northeast and southwest. Welcome cool in the prairie heat. As dawn broke, Sinclair studied the waves, chopping, pulling; swirling in eddies round an occasional rock, before lapping contentedly at the bank. Momentarily closing his eyes he imagined walking across the ripples of the surface. Rattle of breakfast pans transmuted in his ears into the sounds of the tin bath. Turning swiftly away from the water's edge, he strode toward the wagon. Empty. Crawling underneath to make sure, he saw the blanket tossed in a heap and the shoes missing. Standing, brushing the dust from his trousers and shirt, Sinclair stared once again at the water. Seeking to read the river’s message in flecks of light reflecting from the surface. Had she gone up or down stream? 11.8.98 ------------- Waist deep in the cool waters, Sinclair took a deep breath, sank down and allowed the current to tug him below. Carry him 10 yards -- 15 yards. Not a stranger to water, the pull was stronger and faster than he anticipated. He burst to the surface coughing, trying to gain purchase with his feet on the riverbed. Spitting out water. "You are a regular water baby Sinclair." She giggled at his plight. "I wondered if you would have the same idea." "Early morning bath you mean?" He pushed long dripping strands away from the eyes, gaining composure. Still the water chest high pushed him forward. "Come here, anchor me down I'm drifting away." Letting his outstretched hand travel under the water over the pale skin, just below the surface. "Not still mad at me Claire?" She kicked away from him, but he was quicker. Catching her waist they tumbled entwined drawn along by the eddy. Unseen, cocooned by the water, liberated lovers. Neither aware of the pall of smoke stealing towards them, nor the voracious appetite of the licking flames consuming the prairie feast. "Now I know why I had to walk so far up stream to find you." He gasped as they broke for the air once more. Scanning the unfamiliar riverbank, over her shoulder. "Have you any idea where we left our clothes?" 14.9.98 ---------- She held out a hand in the air for the winged white flutter of ash to attach to the damp palm. "Isn't it beautiful -- like snow?" Curling as it dried the sliver took flight. "This is too much for the camp fires." Sinclair sniffed at the breeze. A faint pungent smell, not buffalo cakes for certain. Acridity caught his throat. "Time to be going back." Uncertain as to the reason for his fears. Gingerly, barely dressed, they trod the stones to the bank. Sky glowered, grey puffed cheeks of cloud. Small gusts of warm air carried the beautiful but deadly remains of the feasting. "Prairie Fire?" She felt the urgency in his stride, now careless of the terrain, as she tried to keep pace. He nodded grimly. Down stream the wagon train would be in its path. "Here let me piggy-back you -- we'll be quicker." ----------- 15.9.98
Cut by the stones, her feet had begun to bleed. Gratefully Claire wound them across his hip clinging close for the ride. Dry wind quickly crisped the wet cotton camisole on her back, only the sweat from the heat and his effort ran between them. Parallel to the river the fires raged and sighed. Some bursting into life, cracking, consuming. Others embers glowing, ran stealthily, greedily across the grassland. Shimmering waves of heat and choking smoke clouds reached out to the waters edge and westwards. Sucking oxygen from the air making breathing difficult. "It can’t be far now" Sinclair's voice cracked and rasped, labouring with each breath. "See the camp?" Backburning fires obscured the wagon train, racing towards them, fed on the river's dry bounty. Dividing them from their fellow travellers. "No" she whispered in his ear. "Riverbank’s on fire ahead." Ask she spoke the flames flared, devouring a thin tree to their right. Instinctively they both flinched. 16.9.98 ------------- "Have you seen Sinclair?" PL grim faced streaked charcoal and sweat. Dana shook her head, reached into her apron for the jerky. "Claire isn’t here on the line -- they must be on the other side." "Their wagon needs moving, I’ll do it myself." He took the offering, checked his stride away and returned. "Wagon master is starting the crossing, we can’t beat this one, just hold it." She grasped his hands and silent prayers passed between them. 16.8.98 ---------------- Small whimpers. Clucking and squawking. O’Hara wondered at the menagerie he was expected to ferry across the river. Drawing back the smoke stained canvas he met the wide-eyed stares from tear streaked faces. "Are we going to die?" a voice piped up. "Ellen says we are going to burn up -- just like hell." PL shifted uncomfortably. "Noooo" he ventured. They hung on his every word. With a flourish he wiped off the neckerchief and folded a bandanna. "We're going sailing -- anyone want to play Pirates? "Bwack, bwack, bwack, BBBWWWWAAAACCCCKKKK" replied the chickens. Giggles and smiles. Precious cargo. O'Hara settled into the driver's seat, reins to hand, halted only by an urgent call. "Mister Jacks -- Mister Jacks." Tom dragged at a small girl who clung desperately to the wheel of the wagon. "It’s Mary, Mister Jacks. She won't get inside." O’Hara could have reached down, wrested her away, and placed her inside the wagon. Time was short. Instead he swung out, dropped to the ground and crouched down beside the frightened child. "Darlin’" he said gently uncurled the tiny fingers from spokes. "Chickens can’t swim -- want to help me carry them to the other side?" -------------- 17.9.98
Sinclair took her to the water. Options were few as the riverbank smouldered and flared around them. Dark stains on the earth burnt his feet where the grass fire coursed past. He flexed his shoulders as Claire slid off his back into the fast flowing current. This was not a place to bathe, for the deep waters swirled and bubbled over hidden boulders. "Hold on" he ordered grabbing for her wrist as she started to strike out against the current. Submerging quickly the turbulent water lubricated his vocal chords. "We needed swim further across --" Spitting the words as he rose high from the last pull" --It’s too -- CLAIRE -- CLAIRE." Twisting and turning, frantically searching. "CL-AAA-IRE." The sound died as a wounded howl. For she was gone. 18.9.98 -------------- Was it above or below? Faint light pierced the waters, but the grasp of the current disorientated. Sinclair’s brushing hand seemed close, but invisible. Striking out to the perceived surface, swift hard strokes brought no reward. Feeling sharp pains in the chest, Claire fought panic as the tiny bubbles escaped her lips. Instead of relaxing, allowing buoyancy to guide direction, she kicked viciously at the waters, squirming from the grip of iron that encircled. Imprisoned. Winding with a python's embrace, the tresses of the petticoat knotted. Sinclair dived again. Drawn by the darting movement below. Lungs bursting he attacked the distance between them. Carried swiftly along the river’s secret path, just beyond the trailing whiteness, and the mercurial beads of air. The waters sought to claim what the fires had not. 21.9.98 --------- On his knees, Sinclair laid her on the warm grass of the far bank. So pale. So cold. His fingers, numb, felt no pulse. They refused to unlace the small yoke of the camisole. No breath touched his lips as they swept over her face. Forgive me It was too late to say he had stayed the Californian journey only for her. If you are not living That he was too proud to admit attachment. If you beloved, my love have died Careless of the affection, that all these years had sustained his wanderlust. All the leaves will fall on my breast Assuming her love. Denying his own. It will rain on my soul, all night all day He had failed in so many ways. My feet will want to march to where you are sleeping Exhausted he could think of nothing but gather her in his arms and weep. Rocking gently, his eyes closed ready to follow. But I shall go on living "Sinclair -- SINCLAIR" O'Hara shook both shoulders, tearing Claire away "What are you doing? She can hardly breathe."
The poem is a translation of "The Dead Woman" by Pablo Neruda 22.9.98 |