Chapter 20: Back to the Fort

 

Two days after he declared they should prepare for winter, Mac set out for Sutter’s Fort carrying more of their gold. He left Joel and Huntington arguing over how to add a room onto the shack to store food and other supplies.

Mac hated the idea of the three of them sharing such close quarters through the winter. Even with a small storeroom added on one side of the shanty, their three bunks lined the walls, and a table and chairs filled the cramped room. In the cold winter months, all food preparation and meals would have to take place in the cabin. The small fireplace barely kept them warm. They’d be lucky if they didn’t murder each other or burn the place down.

Still on Mac’s mind were the letters he needed to write—one to his parents and the other to Jenny. He should update his parents on his plans. They expected him back in Boston by Christmas. It was now too late for a letter to reach them before year-end.

He had no idea how to write Jenny. He didn’t want to lie to her about his death, but he didn’t know how else to end their friends’ illusion she was his wife. Either she would have to confess they’d lived a lie for a year—which would destroy her reputation—or he would have to appear to have died so she could marry in truth. But he wasn’t sure he could trust Joel not to tell his family that Mac was still in California.

When Mac reached the fort, he bought enough food for winter, blankets, and other necessities. Then he hired an Indian with a mule to accompany him back to the claim the next day to carry everything.

His purchases complete, Mac went to Nate’s assaying office to sell their gold. The old assayer raised an eyebrow at the full bags of nuggets and flakes. “You boys have had some luck. Thought so when Pershing brought the last bags to sell. He spent pretty freely that night on drinking and whoring. And gambled a good portion of his takings away as well.”

Mac was surprised—Joel hadn’t owned up to gambling. But Joel was a grown man and had a right to learn his own lessons. “We found a vein on our claim,” Mac told Nate. “Don’t know how big it is. We’ll keep working as best we can through winter.”

Nate grinned. “Maybe you should buy me dinner to celebrate.”

“I was going to suggest that myself,” Mac responded. The old gentleman still reminded him of his tutor—Nate had been educated and trained in New York City and was as well-spoken as Mac.

They settled down to their meal in the Golden Nugget. Nate seemed troubled, so Mac asked, “Something on your mind?”

“My granddaughter.”

“I didn’t know you had a granddaughter,” Mac said. He’d never asked Nate about family. “You married?”

“Long time ago. Married my childhood sweetheart. We were very young.” Nate sighed. “Younger than you are now. We had a little girl.”

“Where are your wife and daughter now?”

“My wife died giving birth. I left the baby with my sister. Couldn’t see myself raising a daughter alone. So I left her and followed the gold. I haven’t been back to New York since.”

So much tragedy hidden in families. Mac would never have guessed Nate’s story from the man’s calm demeanor. “You haven’t seen your child since she was a baby?”

Nate shook his head. “Never.”

Mac had always assumed he’d have children someday. But he didn’t want to father any until he could spend time with them. He wouldn’t leave his children to be raised by nannies and tutors, as he had been. He wanted children he could care for like Jenny did William—her son was obviously the center of her world. “Did you stay in touch with your daughter?”

“My sister wrote me often, and later my girl did also. My daughter married a young man when she was eighteen. I never met her husband. They had a baby—my granddaughter Susan. My daughter and her husband both died of diphtheria, leaving my sister to raise Susan.”

More tragedy. “I’m sorry,” Mac said.

“My poor sister—she never married, but raised two generations of my offspring.” Nate raised his whiskey glass and drank a finger’s worth. Then he continued, “I recently received a letter from Susan. My sister died, leaving Susan alone. She’s coming to California.”

“When?” Mac asked, surprised. There weren’t many women from the East in California yet.

“As soon as she sells my sister’s belongings, she’s traveling here.” Nate took another swallow and frowned at Mac. “What am I going to do with a granddaughter? She’s twenty-two, a school teacher, and never been west of the Catskills.”

One of the whores across the room laughed raucously. She dropped her shawl revealing most of a plump breast. Several men at the bar shouted their appreciation. “California isn’t much of a place for a well-bred woman.” Mac grinned at the thought of how the schoolmarms he’d known in Boston would react to such a brazen display.

“It certainly isn’t.” Nate downed the rest of his whiskey. “What about you? Haven’t you left any women behind you?”

“I suppose,” Mac said, turning his glass around in his hand. “I traveled to Oregon with a young woman. Jenny. But she didn’t want to marry.”

“You wanted to marry her?”

Mac shrugged. “It seemed appropriate to offer at the time. Jenny had a troubled past. She wasn’t ready to marry.”

“I’m sorry, son. Seems we all have sorrows behind us.” Nate’s words echoed what Mac had thought earlier. “Time for this old man to turn in,” Nate said, and he rose from the table.

After Nate left, Mac took a closer look at the men at the bar. The largest man was familiar—Mac had seen that misshapen nose before. It was Smith, the dead dandy’s companion, the one who looked like a boxer. Mac crossed the room to the bar. “You following me?” he asked Smith.

Smith’s eyes narrowed as he frowned at Mac. “Who wants to know?”

“I do. You’ve been hanging around ever since your partner Jones died when you attacked my claim,” Mac said.

“Never had no partner.” But Smith didn’t deny the attack.

“If I see you around our claim again,” Mac said, “I’ll shoot you like I did Jones.” Mac hadn’t wanted to kill Jones, but he’d kill again if Smith or anyone else harassed them.

Smith sneered, shrugged, and turned away without comment.

All the rooms at the saloon were taken, so Mac spent a cold night under a tarp beside a campfire. He wrote his parents, decided to delay writing Jenny, then took out his journal:

 

November 10, 1848. I can’t prove it, but the man calling himself Smith is following me. Most likely a thief who wants our claim. I think he tried to rob us earlier.