Chapter 32: Letters from Boston

 

Mac, Joel, and Huntington mined their claim as the spring weather warmed. The lode still produced, but they weren’t finding as much color as they had the year before.

“Got the easy pickin’s last year,” Huntington said. “Now it’s hard work.”

“Been finding a fair amount,” Joel said. “I ain’t ready to pack it in.”

“No one said we’d pack it in.” Huntington wiped his brow and coughed. “I’m out here slavin’ in the sun, ain’t I?”

Mac listened to his partners bicker, which they did every day. Huntington couldn’t work as fast or as long as he had the summer before. He still gave orders, acting as if he knew more than the younger men.

Joel resented the older man’s bossiness. “He ain’t doing much work,” Joel complained to Mac. “How come he gets to tell us what to do? We’re old hands now.”

Mac was content to let Huntington’s demands flow over him and then work as he pleased. He shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to let him talk.”

“Hurts my ears plenty,” Joel grumbled.

Mac wondered how long it would be before Joel stormed off to Sacramento to see Consuela. Joel found an excuse to leave the claim every few weeks—sometimes to buy supplies, sometimes to deposit their gold, sometimes he gave no reason at all for leaving.

Mac didn’t really mind. He didn’t like Huntington’s chattering, but he tolerated the old man’s company better than Joel did.

In mid-May Joel returned from the fort with mail. “From Boston,” Joel said, handing two letters to Mac.

Mac looked at the handwritten addresses. One was his father’s dark, heavy scrawl, the other his mother’s finer, more even script.

He took them into the cabin, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and sat at the small rickety table. Then he broke the seal on his father’s letter. It had been written months ago.

 

December 12, 1848
Dear Son,

I had hoped to see you in person by now. If you plan to take the place in your brother’s law firm that he has been saving for you, you must return to Boston forthwith. His good favor cannot last forever. The legal work amasses and his clients demand prompt attention.

I could forgive your desire for the adventure of traveling our frontier, which was your plan when you left home almost two years ago. However, I fail to see the lure of farming or prospecting, dirty occupations both. Now that you have seen the West and the grubby work men must do to cultivate a new land, I trust you understand your good fortune in receiving an education and funds to keep you from such endeavors. The successful men in life are not those who work with their hands, but with their minds. It is time you took your place among those who prosper.

I shall expect you by the autumn.

Your father,

Andrew McDougall

 

Mac pictured his father sitting at his large oak desk with the leather inset, pince-nez perched on his nose, forcing ink onto paper with a heavy hand pushing the quill, and his jowls reddening when his emotions rose. The ink would blot more with every line, as demonstrated by the splotches in the missive Mac held.

Mac shook his head and laid the letter on the table. His father had no conception of the fortunes being pulled from the ground in California. Mac had earned enough in a year to be comfortable for the rest of his life, if he prudently invested what he had made thus far. He no longer needed to rely on his family’s holdings in Boston.

He sighed and picked up his mother’s letter. What would she add to his father’s command for Mac to return? She would have written at her delicate Chippendale writing table in the morning room, sun streaming in large windows to brighten upholstered furniture and a mahogany tea cart, her skirts enveloping the straight wood chair where she sat.

Mac opened his mother’s letter.

 

December 13, 1848
My dearest Caleb,

Your father tells me he will post a letter to you this morning and begs me to send a note also. I hardly know what to say, it has been so long since you left us.

We had hoped to have you home well before Christmas, and instead we must wait another year for your return. Your brothers and their families miss you terribly—their daughters have grown into quite the young ladies. No sons yet, which your father regrets, though the girls are lovely companions for me. I pray you to settle down with a wife upon your return and provide me with more grandchildren to spoil.

I was horrified to learn you had cholera on the plains last year and hope you have fully recovered your health. So many people never regain their strength after a serious illness. You were fortunate to have a doctor in your company, and I’m sure his care was a blessing for you.

I could scarcely believe it when I read of your mining adventure. Of course, we learned earlier this month of the great gold fields in California, but to think you have been a part of it all. My son, a treasure hunter!

Still, it must be a dreadful occupation to spend your days digging in the dirt. I pray you will tire of it soon and return to us by next Christmas, as your father requests.

With all my love,

Mother

 

Mac tilted the chair back and plunked his boot heels on the table. His mother would be appalled if she saw him.

Return to Boston? He would be crawling into a coffin. He’d fled Boston when his mother discharged his lover Bridget, which resulted in the early deaths of both Bridget and Mac’s unborn child. If he returned, his mother would parade every well-bred maiden she could find beneath his nose, like cattle at the market. She would manage his home life, while his father interfered in his work. The independence he’d savored for the past two years would be lost.

So should he continue to prospect in an increasingly crowded and violent valley? He might be killed. All his money wouldn’t help him then.

What if he returned to Oregon? No, he had to break all ties with Jenny. Besides, a life of farming was no easier than prospecting, though a tad tamer. He’d made at least one decision—there was nothing for him in Oregon.

Mac was taciturn all evening, lost in internal debate.

 

May 17, 1849. I will not keep mining much longer. But what comes next? Is Boston my only option?

 

Joel and Huntington teased him about letters from lost loves in Boston. He told them the letters were from his parents.

“Man don’t go into a funk over a letter from his mama,” Huntington said. “Must be some gal you left back home.”

Mac quit defending himself.

The next morning he saddled Valiente. “I’m riding to Sacramento,” he said.

“I just got back. We don’t need nothing.” Joel said.

“I have to go to town.” Mac had to get away by himself. Away from the claim and away from his partners. If he could get away from his thoughts, he might find some peace.

He took three days instead of the usual two to ride to Sacramento. He stayed clear of other prospectors along the trail and ate by himself, taking time to catch fish in the streams for meals. He thought about his future, but made no decisions. He’d relished leading the wagon train, though the responsibility had weighed on him. Where could he find a similar purpose in a place to call his own?

When he arrived in Sacramento, he went to Nate’s store.

“Joel Pershing was here recently with a deposit,” the assayer said. “You boys must be doing well if you have another already. Though he lost half his earnings in the saloon in just two evenings.”

Mac wasn’t surprised Joel was gambling, but he didn’t want to gossip with Nate about Joel. “No deposit this time. Just wanted to see something other than dirt and rocks.”

Nate chuckled. “Got cabin fever, do you? It’s long past winter. Your mine should be keeping you busy.”

Mac shook his head. “I’m tired of digging. Don’t want to go back East. Don’t know what I want.”

“You’re too old for such ambivalence, young man. Time to settle down.”

Mac smiled—Nate sounded again like his old tutor. And his parents. “That’s what my father said. And my mother.”

“And you’re too old to be listening to your parents. Need to make your own way in this world.”

“I can’t figure out what that is, Nate. But I know I don’t want to kill Indians for sport.”

“You heard about that?” Nate pulled at his neatly trimmed mustache. “Bad situation.”

“Joel and I rode with the posse. I left, but Joel went back to Coloma with them. He saw it all.”

“Maybe you ought to open a store. More men find wealth in merchanting than in the gold fields. And more certainty. Folks need to spend money to outfit themselves. Find yourself a lot here in town and open a shop.”

“Maybe,” Mac said with a shrug.

“My granddaughter Susan should arrive soon,” Nate said. “I’ve been thinking about selling this place, if she doesn’t like life in Sacramento. I have a good trade in mining hardware and dry goods in addition to assaying now.” He grinned. “I try to help the miners spend the gold they deposit with me. So they don’t take it to the brothels and gambling halls like young Pershing.”

“Have you heard from your granddaughter?” Mac had almost forgotten their conversation about her. “It’s been months since you mentioned her.”

Nate shook his head. “No, but I expect her any time.”

“Ships come from Panama more frequently now,” Mac said. “But they’re full of eager prospectors. She might have had trouble finding passage.” Mac hoped nothing had happened to the young woman, but he didn’t say so—Nate was knowledgeable enough to worry on his own.

“Anyway,” Nate said, “I’d be willing to sell this store to you, if you want to quit mining. You’re smart and you’re honest. And you have the gold to buy me out.” The older man winked. “I can take money from you as easily as from a new prospector.”

“I’m not sure storekeeping is for me.”

“Think on it, son. I’m not going anywhere right now. As I said, I have to wait for Susan.”