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Blood and Bitter Wind
A Novel of the California Gold Fields
By Earl Murray Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2003 by Earl Murray
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7653-8833-9
CHAPTER 1
The storm surged in from nowhere, turning the calm seas into enormous, white-capped swells. At the tempest's mercy, the steamer Rosa Maria rose and fell and turned in every direction, while her passengers screamed into the raging wind.
John Dimas held fast to an iron ladder that led to the second level. He struggled to keep his grip, determined to avoid the turmoil on the deck below. The seas churned beneath the steamer and already men lay groaning and dying from the impact of heavy cargo that slammed against their bodies.
Yells and screams rose from below, from cabins and quarters filled with trapped passengers, a hundred and fifty terrified souls. Dimas watched as a woman holding a small child emerged and was hauled back, shrieking, by a large man in a dark suit.
A red dawn bodes no good, he had heard often enough. Had he the opportunity again, he would have paid closer attention to that small voice that had spoken from within himself that very morning. He might have insisted they allow him a boat to row himself toward the California shoreline. Certainly not advisable, but preferable to the present situation.
They had been within a half-day's journey to San Pedro's port, just a half day to the beginning of his personal quest, and the crew had all agreed that surely there could be no troubled seas before the sun hit the zenith for the day. So he had gone along with them, believing their assessment to be accurate, even though the pit of his stomach remained knotted. "Always listen to that part of you," his mother had advised many times.
She carried the blood of three different races in her veins, and the collective wisdom of all those elders. "That is where your soul lives, and your soul will never deceive you," she had instructed. "All manner of men can speak in any tongue or voice, but that part of you will always understand where danger lies and where calm mornings can be found. Remember that."
Dimas, along with the others, had awakened to a calm morning with a blood-red sky, and it seemed they might beat the storm to port after all. Everyone felt anxious to get on from San Pedro to El Pueblo de la Reina de los Angeles, the Town of the Queen of Angels, and begin the trip toward instant wealth. The foothills along the lower Sierra Nevada, the southern mines, as they were called, were now regarded as a destination well worth pursuing. Tent towns had filled the gulches and miners were crowding every stream. Seemingly, another gold camp emerged almost daily. Someone would announce a new strike and, light or dark, many if not everyone would leave immediately for the new diggings.
Dimas was not a crowd follower, though, and was not in search of wealth. Instead, his search was of another nature, much more demanding and with no real reward, except that it might clear his conscience and allow his dearly departed mother to rest in peace.
He had no intention of announcing his mission to anyone, at least not right away. There would be those who would side with him and those who would become sudden, and likely dangerous, enemies. For the time being he would embark on his quest alone and take what chances necessary to accomplish it. If he discovered gold along the way, then so much the better.
As noon approached, he had kept his mind on the thought of getting where he wanted to go early and with success. The morning had passed quickly, and everyone began feeling the excitement of reaching port.
Everything had changed, though, with sudden engine trouble. The vessel had drifted out farther to sea while the crew worked with fever to repair the problem. Meanwhile, the skies had darkened and the wind had changed and the sea birds had all abandoned the area. Dimas had known the fate of the vessel even as the engine trouble had been repaired when a number of rats had jumped onto the starboard railing, squeaking to one another.
At that point, he had secured his .44 Colt pistol and his Bowie knife tightly to his waist, winding cord around and around the weapons, and then looping it around his belt. Though he had never before been in a sea storm, the part of him where his soul dwelled spoke clearly that he would soon learn what the worst of them could produce and that under no circumstances, when it was finished, should he be without something for defense.
Now, sodden with a deluge of rain, trapped in a darkness streaked overhead with giant bolts of lightning, Dimas and the other passengers faced death in the form of monstrous walls of water. No escaping it. Nowhere to find refuge. Only the flimsy ladder kept him from the raging sea. But it had already begun tearing itself away from the side as he held fast against the force of the wind. In but little time either he would be blown loose, or should he maintain the strength to keep a grip, the ladder and he, both, would fly off into the thrashing torrent.
Dimas realized that the journey had been vexed from the beginning. No one had spoken anything but a few words to him the entire trip down from San Francisco, in effect telling him they were all headed in a direction that didn't include him. Call it a superstition, but it was very real to him, a plain sign he had learned to look for during his life of thirty-three years. Before battle, especially, men seemed to know when their last earthly days approached. The blood and dust of the Mexican War in Texas hadn't yet settled from his mind.
He squinted in the rain, its force stinging him like embers. His back and arms ached. As the storm worsened and the ship moaned and began to break apart, the lower deck suddenly filled with frantic passengers bursting up from below. Their screams and cries escalated as the sea surged over the leeward side, foaming and smashing, lifting flailing bodies onto its back. As the waves receded, rolling bodies vanished into the raging torrent.
The wind tore at the vessel without mercy, ripping and popping with the sound of a large whip. Just above Dimas, the stack creaked and leaned toward him, ready to topple with the next heavy blast. An intense flash of lightning revealed a cliff that rose into the night, and rocks just off the starboard bow.
Dimas prepared himself for the grating, grinding jolt that followed as the steamer piled into the rocks. The bow reared up and the stack broke free. It tore past his right side on its destructive fall into the throng of passengers just below, stripping rails and planks and bodies as it careened off into the churning sea. The storm then pulled the ship back from the rocks, as if it were a toy in a bathtub, throwing more cargo and people and wreckage over the side.
In resignation the Rosa Maria tipped to leeward. A sailor who had made it to Dimas's position crashed over the top of him, clutching desperately at the ladder. His left hand found a grip just below Dimas's feet and their combined weight ripped the last remaining bolts free. "God have mercy on me!" the sailor screamed, and dropped into the swirling foam.
As the ladder gave way, Dimas wrapped his arms and legs around a loose plank and suddenly found himself beneath a wave. Water and darkness, cold to the bone. He gasped as the wave spit him up into the air. He released the plank and reached out for something larger, more buoyant, that rose in front of him. He latched onto a huge trunk, twisting a loose leather strap around his right wrist and arm. He didn't care that his arm might be wrested from the shoulder socket and torn loose. It wouldn't matter, for should that occur, he would be lost anyway.
In the darkness and the madness, Dimas lost all hold on conscious thought. He fell into that narrow lane of existence between life and death — that channel of desperation well past the last edge of endurance, where letting go would be far easier than running the course. The temptation to allow it to engulf him was strong — far stronger and much farther into the decision than his bullet wounds had taken him during the war. It could all be over in the blink of an eye, a complete release to the void.
Then Dimas thought of his mother and the reason he had even boarded ship in the first place — his promise to her as she lay dying — and chose to stretch his reserves as far as they might go. If death finally took him, it wouldn't be because he had surrendered to it.
Clinging to the trunk, he rolled with the storm, his body knotted with pain. He held his breath beneath the waves and filled his lungs when the surface reappeared, working with what strength he had left to outlast a force that had no measure. He had no bearings on his position, held no concept of where the shattered steamer might be, except possibly lodged against the rocks at the base of the high cliff that had appeared in the lightning.
Finally, the walls of surging waves grew smaller. The rise and fall lessened and he discovered at last that the storm had passed, had carried itself farther down the coastline and out to sea. Pieces of the steamer and clothing floated past. He waited for bodies, but saw none and didn't question it. He believed it to be a good omen on this night of terrible signs and messages.
The waters calmed more and more and he could see the moon floating edgewise in the sky. Not far ahead, the cliffs reflected the light, a soft white against their rocky outcrops. He began to kick with his feet, slowly, then stopped when he realized that the tide was taking him in anyway. Best to save what little strength he had left to get himself onto the shore, and he knew that he would make it.
* * *
The fire continued to bring Dimas warmth. It was all that kept him conscious. He had managed to catch and cook a few of the small crabs that he discovered hiding under the driftwood, having washed ashore with the storm. Still, his stomach churned with hunger. Pinch all they want, he wasn't turning them loose.
After drinking deeply from a spring that flowed from the hillside and down into the surf, Dimas had discovered a driftwood pile, where the lower layers had escaped the rain. He had used his knife to scrape kindling and his flint to strike flame in the waning moonlight. The effort had cost him precious strength, but had he failed, the cold would have taken him. His trousers had almost dried completely, but his buckskin shirt would take more time. He continued to wear it, allowing it to dry on his back, in order to keep the leather from shrinking.
His high-top leather moccasins would also need more time to dry. Made from buffalo hide — the top section of an Indian teepee, at the opening, where the covering is tempered by campfire smoke — they had served him as well as his shirt. He had learned from his father, an early trader among the Rocky Mountain Indians, that you remained cool in the summer and warm in the winter in buckskins. Also, with moccasins, you walked very quietly.
He also wanted to be certain the mechanisms of his pistol were cleaned free of mud and light debris. The desire to get it done was strong, but he was still too weak. He needed something more than the scuttling little crabs that seemed more effort than they were worth.
Dimas finished a crab and looked out over the seascape as the sun came over his back, the light flooding across water now rolling onto shore as if nothing had ever happened. Farther along the beach he could hear voices, sometimes shouting, but he had no desire to investigate. It would mean he would have to walk around a cliff above the water to see anything and despite his frustration, he needed to cook more crabs before going anywhere.
As he cleaned the shell of yet another crab, he finally regained his senses, returning to the present time and place, back from the strange watery hell of the night before. He knew it to be November in the year 1852 and that he was close enough to San Pedro to have lost little time in beginning the mission that had brought him here. That was foremost on his mind and would be until he had accomplished the task, something he hadn't asked for but had been forced to accept, nonetheless.
The change in his life had come without warning. After serving in the war, he had become a Texas Ranger for a time, until word had reached him of his mother's sudden illness at their family home in Kansas City. After meeting with her, watching her die, and attending to the funeral arrangements, all his plans had changed.
He had made a promise to her that would likely be the most important mission of his life, and he didn't know if he was up to it.
As he rested, fog rolled in off the ocean. He rose from the fire and drank again from the spring. Hearing and sensing movement, he turned toward the upland. In a moment, a small burro emerged from the haze, dragging a rope attached to its halter.
Stuffed canvas bags hung over both sides. Dimas considered that they possibly contained a fortune someone had panned from one of the creeks. Or better yet, there were provisions and food supplies.
The burro slowed to a stop, head down, sides heaving. Dimas struggled to approach it.
"Easy, little fellow," Dimas said. "Just hold on."
Dimas was aware that he was shaking. His reserves completely drained, he needed more sustenance.
He managed to secure the rope. He rubbed the burro's neck and scratched its ears, calming it. From nearby, within the fog, he heard a voice.
"Hey, there, amigo. You look mighty feeble."
An older Mexican man, small in stature, wearing a sombrero twice his size, used a handmade cane to approach Dimas.
"You'd make a poor bandido."
Dimas handed him the rope. "I couldn't find any gold in the bags." When the old man frowned, he added, "Guess your luck's the same as mine."
"People around here don't joke about gold." Then he laughed. "But it would be a good joke if I ever found any gold."
"How'd your burro get away from you?"
"Ran off last night during the storm. Been running ever since." He studied Dimas. "You were on the Rosa Maria?"
Dimas nodded. "Were there other survivors?"
The old man pointed beyond the cliff. "Some, I guess. A lot of dead ones washed ashore, though, and people fighting like scavengers for the belongings! Tearing off rings and clothes and whatever has value." He reached toward Dimas and flicked a scrap of crabmeat from his lower lip. "There. You look better."
"I don't have a mirror," Dimas responded.
"Oh, yes, a mirror. That would help." He motioned Dimas toward the fire. "Come and sit down with me, and we'll get to know one another."
CHAPTER 2
Dimas followed the older man to the fire. He tied his burro securely to a large chunk of driftwood and whispered something into the animal's ear.
"I told him that he's better to stay with me," he explained to Dimas, "because there are wolves about."
Dimas smiled. "He doesn't believe you."
"He'd better, because it's true. Four-legged and two-legged, both."
Percival reached into a bag and pulled out a coffee tin and two small bags. He measured rough-cut coffee beans, and water from a canteen, into the tin.
He motioned for Dimas to sit down. "Make yourself comfortable, amigo."
The old man set the coffee and water to brewing along one side of the fire. When coals had formed to his liking, he pulled a small frying pan from a greasy sack and filled it with frijoles and dried beef, with a little water in the bottom.
"Wish we had some fresh tortillas," he said.
"This will do fine," Dimas said. "I appreciate it."
"Ah! The least I can do for you, since you caught my wild burro for me. My name is Percival." He extended his hand.
Dimas studied him. "Percival, like the knight?"
"Don't we all have a quest of some sort?" He smiled and poured coffee.
"My name is John Dimas."
"Oh, Dimas, you say?" The old man grunted. "I thought you were in Paradise, with the Christ."
"He must have kicked me out," Dimas responded.
"Ah! You're having a hard life. Maybe you'll do good here and get back to that place, eh?"
"Not likely," Dimas responded.
"So, you are a religious man, I can see," Percival said. "You knew Dimas to be one of the two thieves crucified with Jesús."
"My mother told me, yes. The other one was Gestas — wasn't that his name?"
"That's the commonest name given him," Percival agreed. "Gestas said, 'If you are God, get us out of this mess,' and then Dimas said, 'Take me where you're going.'"
"Does it really make a difference, who was who?" Dimas asked.
"You tell me," the old man replied.
"Maybe they got it wrong. It must have been Dimas who taunted him."
Percival laughed. "I might agree. Who knows?"
They ate in silence for a short time. Dimas knew enough not to bolt his food, lest it bolt itself back out of his stomach. While he ate, he peered across the water.
"So, you wanted to die out there with the others?" Percival asked him.
"It feels odd."
"Let me tell you something. Your time's not come yet."
"I just said it feels strange, is all."
"You'll have to get over it and move on." He chewed his food loudly. "You've been through this kind of thing before, this living while others die all around you? Haven't you?"
Dimas nodded.
"We all have. At one time or another, or we've not lived."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Blood and Bitter Wind by Earl Murray. Copyright © 2003 by Earl Murray. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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