Tag Archives: Fiction

Gold Rush To Judgment

By Maddi Davidson

Rock Ledge, Idaho

September 5, 1865

Dear Miss Dickinson:

I was pleased to receive your letter in the city of the Mormons. It is exceedingly gratifying to me that my gift of a few flowers afforded you so much pleasure.

I left Great Salt Lake City on the 24th. From there to Boise the great features are the falls of Shoshone, said to be higher than Niagara, and the valley of the Snake River bound by perpendicular walls of several hundred feet. Boise City, the new Capitol of the Territory, boasts a pretentious hotel and little else.

Rock Ledge is two days from Boise by rough road. The mountains enclosing Rock Ledge like sentinels rise 3,000 feet in every direction. Even the sun is unable to pass these giant guardians but for a few hours each day, so we receive little of its warming. The town is one long rambling street of shanties and log houses. Wooden buildings lose their newness rapidly in this harsh climate. My modest cabin appears to be fifty years of age, but I’m told it is but a mere ten months in existence. The busy river that defines the valley is but twenty feet from my modest house and wakes me each morning with its rumblings and glad shouts.

The occasion for the rush to this area was the discovery of traces of gold in Pine Creek that runs through the next valley. Promising quartz veins have been detected in the hills above the river and like burrowing woodchucks, prospectors swarm the elevations digging large holes in hopes of uncovering gold. When none is found the holes are abandoned so that one must be ever alert whilst walking the hills. Two weeks before my arrival a miner fell into such a pit and was killed.

The population of Rock Ledge is about seven hundred, largely formed by men who declined to fight for the rebel confederacy and have moved to this wild place where they can shoot and knife one another quite readily with little fear of consequences. Females are in short supply and the eligible ones rarely to be found. It was with some shock to the town that a well-respected woman, Mrs. Fabens, was killed most violently two days before my arrival. The sheriff from Rocky Bar, the county seat, has arrived to oversee the apprehension of the killer.

I enclose a flower picked by me along the wild Snake River. I would send my heart if I could.

Truly and sincerely yours,

William Cutler

 

November 8, 1865

My Dear Miss Dickinson:

Your letter of October 5th arrived yesterday and was read with eagerness and pleasure.

I did not say more of the murder of Mrs. Fabens out of a desire to spare you the unpleasantness. Since you have requested Everything I Know, I must comply. I plead you do not share what I write with your mother or father lest they believe I have undertaken the corruption of their proper young lady.

I would not have you think that Rock Ledge is dangerous. Indeed, respectable women are as safe here as in the churches of New Haven. The only killings heretofore have been of men filled with drink engaged in argument. The murder of Mrs. Elizabeth Fabens has been a great shock to all. Her husband discovered her dead when he returned late from working his claim. She had been viciously struck many times with a knife and bled much on the floor. The sheriff stayed for four days before leaving without a resolution.

The matter is subject to much conversation and speculation. My housekeeper and cook Mrs. Elmore, an amiable looking woman of about thirty, is of the mind that not so gentle savages are responsible. She fears their return and carries a rifle everywhere. Her booming voice I think, which can be heard through two closed doors and a long corridor, would be equally effective to her rifle in dispelling any Indian attack.

Mr. Augustus Fabens suggests that a young prospector may be responsible for the death of his wife. He avows Mr. Thomas Deacon took an unhealthy interest in Mrs. Fabens and annoyed her some. Prominent men confirm that they saw Mr. Deacon talking with Mrs. Fabens on many occasions, but no one saw Mr. Deacon near the cabin, situated ½ mile from town.

Mr. Deacon reminds me of my young brother, also named Thomas. Both tall and lanky with a crop of straw hair and not much inclined to drinking and gambling. Young Thomas died two years ago this November at the hands of vile southern rebels and Mother still grieves daily for his loss.

I’m given to understand that Mrs. Fabens was a young woman nearly twenty years junior to her husband. He claims to be from New York, but the times I have heard his discourse he sounds as much a part of Boston as your esteemed father. Did you not say your father’s sister married a Mr. Fabens from Salem? Might you not ask your aunt if Mr. Augustus Fabens is of that particular family?

I can say little to Mr. Fabens’s character as he has been occupied these past months mining for gold and drinking to his sorrows. Some of the public women say he is a mean drinker. I am glad to have no reason to make his acquaintance.

My Dearest Annie: You now possess all the knowledge of one who has spent the past two months in Rock Ledge. Have I not fully answered your question? Am I not entitled to express a desire for a photo of somebody?

I’ve made few investments for my employers but in truth, gold mining is one great gamble. Companies may sink thousands into building dams and flumes and find little gold. I have assured personal financial success by securing contracts to supply three mining companies with mills that extract gold by crushing rocks rather than the current grinding method requiring the efforts of many men.

I am in good spirits and remain

Truly yours,

William Cutler

 

November 26, 1865

My Dear Miss Dickinson:

Your letter of the 20th of October reached me today along with several others from friends and family. The mail arrives at the convenience of the contractor who wastes no time in waiting for replies but hastens to leave the same day. With such impatience he should not need thirty days to bring mail from the East when one can make the journey in nineteen. Your letter requires my careful reply and must wait for the next opportunity to send my thoughts eastward. So that you receive Some Word from me I will relate what has transpired lately regarding the death of Mrs. Fabens.

Two weeks ago Mr. Fabens encountered Mr. Deacon returning from the mines and accused him of having called on Mrs. Fabens and murdering her when she rebuffed his attentions. Mr. Deacon avowed that Mr. Fabens killed his own wife in a fit of temper. Mr. Fabens reply was to attack and stab Mr. Deacon. Unarmed and bleeding profusely, Mr. Deacon was dragged to safety by several men. The altercation is spoken of by everyone and in interest exceeds even news of the latest gold takings. One is not allowed to have an opinion other than for one or the other. I have had several meals with Mr. Deacon and in interests and manner he does so remind me of Thomas. I cannot think ill of him.

The people will not have the sheriff from Rocky Bar return. He was not elected by the voice of the people but appointed by the governor and miners enjoy ruling themselves. The miners’ council is the main arbiter of disputes. Mr. Deacon appeared before the council and allowed that the estimable Mrs. Fabens was full of grace and kindness and had been like an elder sister to him. Their conversations were oft about books for Mr. Deacon is a Reader and Mrs. Fabens held a great interest in the written word. She loaned Mr. Deacon two books by Wilkie Collins from her own library, which Deacon still possesses, not being able to bring himself to read such words as would remind him so of her death. He declared that he offered to lend her his second edition of Mr. Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, but she dared not take it lest her husband should find her reading it and beat her as he’d done before when she had read poetry by Edgar Allan Poe. Perhaps you are aware Mr. Whitman is a writer of immoral verse. I advised Mr. Deacon that his statement was unwise and he has put himself in an unfavorable position.

Mr. Fabens addressed the council and called Mr. Deacon a murderer, seducer, and thief. He denied that Mrs. Fabens lent her books as Mr. Deacon claimed. She had but few books and they were among her most prized possessions. In Mr. Fabens’s grief he had not noticed her books were missing and avows Mr. Deacon took them when he struck down “my beloved Elizabeth.”

No man could testify against Mr. Deacon’s character although he is not well liked because of his preference for solitude. He is said to be haughty, oft quoting what he has read. Nor could any man offer evidence of Mr. Deacon’s improper behavior toward Mrs. Fabens. Several miners supported Mr. Deacon’s claim that Mr. Fabens showed a temper at times regarding his wife. Mr. Fabens admitted to boxing his wife’s ears when she had not properly prepared his meal but professed he had never beat her.

The council could not agree to convict either man but with few supporters on the council or in town, Mr. Deacon would do well to leave. Many prospectors have already gone for fear of being buried in the winter snows. Perhaps three hundred remain in town. Mr. Deacon states he is in the Right and will not depart until God’s justice is done.

The looming winter has been evident in the lessening of daylight. Miners cannot work so late and spend their evenings in one of the bars where the lights are bright.

Most truly yours,

William Cutler

 

December 29, 1865

My Dear Friend:

I write this letter without any expectation of when it will be read. The snow has scarcely stopped to draw a breath since December showed its face.

Two completed letters await the arrival of the stage or of any person from outside this forlorn outpost. You cannot realize how dreary winter is in this narrow valley. We now have five feet of snow on the ground and more where the strong winds have created piles that can swallow a child. My small library is proving insufficient to divert me during the short days and long nights I must endure and I fear I’ve taken to visiting the bars much too often to escape the awful solitude of my rooms. I reread your letters frequently. Your news gladdens me as for a time I can imagine being in a place far removed from this endless cold and dark.

As they are unable to break through the hard frozen river the panners have given up. Men of lesser constitution have been unable to surmount the deep snow and bitter wind to reach their mines. Idaho law requires the claim to be worked one day in seven or it is forfeit. The miners’ council hears frequent cases of claim jumping and needing a large space conducts its business at the Gold Saloon, which is already full of those contemplating their misfortune. Fights are commonplace and three men have been killed recently. Dozens have died from diseases and disorders but the frozen ground prevents proper burial. It is said that more than one of these deaths was a self-murder.

I pray to escape this cauldron of discontent and hope I may leave at the first sign of spring. The mills I sold for rock crushing did not arrive before the snow and a great improvement in the weather is required before they can be transported through the mountains. Perhaps the roads will be passable by February. I hope the purchasers are still in business and able to pay me upon receipt.

I dream each night of the green rolling hills of New Haven in summer and your most pleasing countenance.

 

Most truly yours,

William Cutler

 

January 22, 1866

My Dear Friend:

I acknowledge your loving letters of the 20th of November, the 8th of December, and the 15th of December. The stage arrived this morning after many weeks absence with mail and much needed provisions for the town. I hasten in this reply as the skies are gray and those that have lived several winters in these parts say the worst of the snows is yet to be felt.

Your letter of the 8th astonishes me. That Mr. Augustus Fabens’ first wife died of a vigorous knife attack and that he blamed a neighbor of inappropriate attentions to his wife and of killing her when she did not reciprocate his ardor. It can scarce be a coincidence with the events here. I fear a grave mistake has been made in Salem and in Rock Ledge for Mr. Deacon is dead.

Mrs. Elmore opined that the dark spirit of Mrs. Fabens hovered overhead and would not rest until avenged. Perchance others believed the same for on the last day of the old year a young woman of no great reputation made an improbable assertion: in the latter part of August Mr. Deacon had told her of his strong feelings for Mrs. Fabens and proclaimed that she “deserved a better husband.” You might wonder at the lateness of her confession. The young woman declared that she could not enter a new year with this knowledge buried in her conscience. A meeting of the miners was convened wherein judge and jury were chosen and Mr. Deacon was seized. He denied that he had spoken thus to the girl but that the words were true and that had Mrs. Fabens allowed it, he would have professed his love for her. He was convicted of murder and hung immediately. Such recklessness by all! I had shared a table with Mr. Deacon but one day earlier and engaged in pleasant conversation about the stories of Mr. Edgar Poe. His death distresses me greatly.

I am now convinced of Mr. Fabens’ guilt in the murder of both his wives. I feel the burden of sharing your news so that others will perceive the wrongful hanging that has occurred. I cannot write more at this time.

Please believe me to remain in whatever may transpire

Most truly yours,

William Cutler

 

February 8, 1866

My Dearest Annie:

The mail that arrived today brought me your loving letter of the 5th of January.

Did you see the shooting stars last night?  The skies cleared and in the words of Robert Browning, Now a dart of red, Now a dart of blue. Do you think heaven’s display is a sign of better fortunes? Dare I hope that upon my return to New Haven you will allow me to lay before you flowers and a Proposition? I would not ask you to commit yourself at once but ask your kind Consideration. I cannot offer you a home surrounded by the luxuries of wealth and taste you now enjoy. My battle of life has been an active one, and will probably continue so to be due to deficiencies of education and want of influential friends. If these shortcomings can be forgiven by your graciousness, then I will formally propose a union of hearts and hands when next our eyes meet. I pray that He who orders all things will strengthen me and enable me to make your future happy.

Truly yours,

William Cutler

 

February 28, 1866

My Dearest Annie:

God willing I will be by your side shortly for I leave Rock Ledge on the morrow. I would fill this letter with all my longings and hopes for our future, but then I might find myself without words when we again meet. So I will complete my writings with last words about this place. Indeed, I have no intention of speaking more on it once I depart.

I informed the miners of the circumstances of the death of Mr. Fabens’ first wife. There was great reluctance to consider the hanging of Mr. Deacon to be a mistake for Mr. Deacon admitted his affection for another man’s wife. Mr. Fabens disappeared before the great snowstorm of three weeks past. Many thought he had fled, but warmer temperatures and melting snow revealed his body yesterday laying five feet from his cabin. Justice has been done. He was struck repeatedly with a knife and endured the same awful death as his poor wife. The miners’ council is reluctant to investigate this new killing and a rider has been sent to Rocky Bar for the sheriff.

I hope to be many miles south before the sheriff arrives. Indeed, I have been the bloody hand of Justice. I blame this cursed place for casting its spell upon me, for with Tom Deacon’s death I felt again the loss of my brother at the hands of odious southerners. I pray God grants me a measure of grace for ridding this earth of Fabens’ evil.

Now you know the worst of me my dear Annie. Should you reject my offer of marriage for this? I fear it might be so; I dare not confess the Truth to you and risk the loss of your affection. I will pen another letter and drop this in the Snake River upon my journey home. May the waters wash away my sins.

My Dearest Annie, I will strive to be pure in heart and in deed, and worthy of your affection.

With earnestness, truth and love

Yours ever,

William Cutler

______________________________________________________________

Maddi Davidson is the pen name for two sisters: Mary Ann Davidson and Diane Davidson. Mary Ann resides in Idaho while Diane lives in Northern Virginia. In addition to several published short stories, the sisters have written three novels in the Miss-Information Technology Mystery Series. This story, “Gold Rush to Judgement” is loosely based on a series of letters written by their second Great-Grandfather from Rocky Bar, Idaho in the latter part of the 19th century.

Thanks for sharing!
75
Posted in Fiction | Tagged , , | Comments Off on Gold Rush To Judgment

St. Stephen’s Day

By Chris Chambers

Few things stir me like the wreck of a ship. Not riches, fineries, the camaraderie of friends, nor the soft company of women. Just beyond my eyes, I see them. Masts split, exploded, snapped. Directionless sails wrapped around black rocks for any safety, and the boat herself–ribs come apart, up out of the water like a split deer. The rigging knotted, crazed–splayed out in every manner and direction. All her secrets laid about her, bobbing in the foam. Naked under the sky, it’s a delicate bargain each ship makes with the sea, and to witness it torn asunder, such a mighty, splendid thing brought low … I am not a devout man, but how could not such a vision bring me closer to my god?

Take the Gwendolyn May, hours out of Portsmouth, pennants snapping under gentle skies. Just past Prawley Point, the safest of passages, she was hit side-beam by a sudden storm so violent, the paint was stripped from her hull as though clawed away. When I came upon her, the keel had snapped clean in three places; the stout beams beaten soft as sea sponge. Her anchor chain, still attached to the battered bow, strung out beach-ward as though she had been dragged unwillingly by some great beast across the rocks.

I’ve seen hundreds like her in my work for the Harris Bay Company. Salvage from the Gwendolyn paid for an extension of my widow’s walk, a more suitable carriage, and a cellar full of fine Italian wine.

Each ship has a place in my ledger-book: remaining assets above waterline, estimates of salvage cost.  Survivors. When I close my book and eyes I can never find them–just the ships. A man must find the pleasure in his work or he is lost.

At sea as on land, I keep to myself, but nevertheless am unpopular with the crew and captain of the salver ship, Merryweather who make no pretense of accepting my presence among them.  When I am top-deck to take air they part around me, as though I were the Angel of Death.  Some cross themselves, mutter. As if I had broken up each ship, and with my own hands, drown the crew. I am the left hand of the Devil, unlucky.

The presence of my hired hand keeps them honest. John Priddy, a tall pale Finn with a snarl of black hair and a neck scar where the noose had failed. In truth, in his second life he is a gentler man, but can row a skiff like no soul under heaven, and for this alone he is useful to me.

We set out two days before Christmastide under a brooding sky, with little hope of return before the holiday. The day before, I was strolling Highstreet market as is my custom in the early evening, and was eyeing a duck for my evening meal, when a young flush-faced boy–a runner for the Harris Bay Company–nearly ran me down. “Mr. Blackburn, sir.” He pressed me with a packet. Upon paying him and dusting off a bench to lay it out, I opened it and read the contents.  A brigantine sailing from Montreal was a week overdue from port, and a ship matching her colors and description was spotted by a packet boat, foundering near the mouth of Skillet Bay, perhaps fifty miles east of harbor. As Skillet Bay is well known for its shoals, the underwriter of the Montreal venture wished the ship approached and assessed with all haste and engaged my employer in the matter.

Once we’d cleared the channel and the Merryweather raised her sails, the snows began.  Light at first, melting as it lit on the rails, the brims of hats, darkening the shoulders of the sailors. By the time we’d passed the Slipper Isles and into open water it was coming down with grim purpose. Snow collected on the coarse sails in sheets, shaken off as they snapped and billowed in an increasing wind. The upper sails were dim outlines in the flurry, visible only through their movement, and before long, were out of sight entirely.

Though it were still day, the captain ordered fore and aft lanterns double- lit, and the ship’s bell rung at intervals, although with the increasing wind it were barely audible on board.  As the day blustered into early evening, I remained at my cabin window, watching between swirls of snow and spray, stooped sailors with planks and barrel lids, struggling to remain upright as they pushed and shoveled snow over the gunwales. Midway down the quarter deck, a figure caught my attention. A short, stout sailor stood and adjusted his scarf, wound doubly about his head like an ill-fitting bandage. He wore what at first appeared a great-coat belted at the waist, though much too large to be at all practical. As I watched further, the crewman grabbed the hem with both hands and shook it vigorously, sending  a spray of snow up and over the side, and revealing, even in the failing light, a brocade cranberry-red dress with flying petticoats. A woman on board. Another sailor rose beside and attempted to usher her aft, but she shook him off and redoubled to the task.  

I turned to rouse Mr. Priddy but to no purpose. I am convinced that he will sleep through the celestial roll call on Judgment Day.

The next day brought more of the same, and though I looked and even ventured from my cabin I saw no more of the previous night’s phantom. I told Mr. Priddy of the vision and he appeared unimpressed.

I retired to my bunk early and, as the weather had lightened, attempted sleep.

I woke with a start to the thump, then sawing whir and rattle of the anchor chain let loose. What little I could ascertain from our previous pace, we were some good way yet from the entrance to Skillet bay. I struggled opening the door which appeared sealed in a drift, and in short order was assisted from the other side. When I emerged I found the captain there. Sailors were all about the deck–staves and gaffs, knocking ice from the rails and sidings.

The snow, although now barely falling, coated every surface. The deck was covered in drifts, and in the places where it had been scraped clean, showed a dark film of ice. The riggings and fronts of the masts were encrusted with wild crystals, and the sails held strange shapes as though frozen suddenly in a wild wind. Sometime in the night, the seas had calmed to gentle, almost imperceptible swells. An ice fog hung gray and low, and there was a sense of being in some vast, low ceiling cavern.

“This is as far as we go, Mr. Blackburn.,” said the captain. “The rigging is iced up, the tackle is seized and we’re running top heavy. We don’t address it soon, and we’ll be keel to sky and swimming home.” His breath smelled of salt-pork and gin.

“Mr. Findlay, are you drunk?”

“I am. We’re no longer underway, and if I got my figures straight, today is Boxing Day. Didn’t have any boxes for the mates, so bottles will have to do.” He procured a long green bottle from the inner pocket of his weather coat and gave it a slosh.

“You are overly familiar, sir …You are under contract with Harris bay.”

“Ah, don’t get chapped now,” He slurred, “Your betters at the Harris Bay Company didn’t forget you. Sent you a Boxing Day present, they did.  It’s down in the skiff,” he thumbed toward the side of the boat, “waiting for you.”

Stunned at the turn of events I walked carefully to the rails and looked over the side.  There, bobbing in the water was our skiff. Mr. Priddy sat mid-bench clapping his hands against his thighs for warmth, looking much like an unhappy cat, and in the front of the boat, which dipped heavily in the water, sat the cranberry woman, who appeared much larger in the better light and waved cheerfully when she caught sight of me.

“Mr. Blackburn–come, come! We must make use of this window in the weather.”

I looked about me. This was less a window than an in-breath.  A still sea is naught but the tautness between storms. Madness.  I turned to the captain “Who the Devil?”

“We ain’t going nowhere, not for a day at least,” he smiled. “Best be getting on with your business.” A few of the larger mates walked over and stood beside him. “Your man’s down in the craft with her effects.  Go on.  You…have a corpse to pick.”

What was there left to do? I climbed down the icy ladder and into the boat. As we pulled away I looked up at the full complement of crew lining the rails, and even from the water I could see their faces. A few lifted bottles and toasted our good health.

It took mere moments to ascertain that the woman, Clemencia Downes-Martin, was the recently widowed wife of the Montreal underwriter, and therefore sole owner of the cargo ship we were to survey. And as she trusted no one with the contents of her vessel, insisted on accompanying the survey as a pre-condition of hire. That she loved cheese–any cheese, although goat cheese made her gouty and phlegmatic, which wouldn’t do as it interfered with her work in light opera, which was the supreme heart and center, after all, of any civilized society. “And one must attend to one’s figure.” That she enjoyed the traditional fox hunt on St. Stephens Day, and wasn’t this the very day, last year, that her children had first been allowed on a hunt.  “So proud they were, almost prancing”

Already ahead, in the thin passage between fog and ocean I made out the great thumb of rock that that marked the entrance to the bay, a pillar linking the low sky to the sea. Gulls and kittiwakes flocked the sea-ward cliff face like a fine mist. The water just past took on a lighter color, heralding the outermost shoals of Skillet Bay.

“My late husband, bless him, died 11 months ago, and his associates preserved him in a barrel of juniper spirits for the passage home. He would have liked that, I believe, as he had been working toward a state of complete alcoholic saturation for most of our married life. The only way possible to have an open casket, I’m afraid. Reynard hated the ocean, unlike myself, although I find crustaceans positively unbearable.” She glanced nervously at the dark water skimming past. “Like something skittering on the edges of a bad dream . . . or a naturalist’s lens.  Titanic louse.” She shuddered, vibrating the entire skiff.

 “Mr. Priddy,” she shouted at the back of his head. “Are you fond of shellfish?” He glanced at me, waited until he was sure she would not leave the matter, then shrugged the smallest of shrugs. “Wretched creatures, and I can’t say I blame you. Although their relatives, the crayfish  . . .”

“Mrs. Downes–Martin,” I said, “other than the remains of the departed, what else does the ship carry.  We were given no manifest, and little else but directions to the last sighting. If we are to have any hope of conducting our business we must attend to the original bill of lading …contents of the berth, etc.” Her face fell. For the first time in a half hour she was silent, just the mild sound of the oars dipping, the faint but growing surge of the approaching shoals. “Mrs. Downes-…?”

“Children. The boat contains our children, Mr. Blackburn.”

John Priddy’s face went slack. Children. Something clamped around my innards, squeezing all breathe and blood and sense. I have seen drowned men before, sailors all. Some as young as 14, and their short time in the sea was not kind. Her endless chatter–her insistence made a sense to me now.

An apple floated by, and another. The wind, which had been slack some time, began to rise as we rounded the great rock.  Insistent swells carried more, and soon we were surrounded on all sides by hundreds of apples–a loose raft of them blowing out to sea. Ships rats scrambled from one to the other, balancing and slipping. Some, improbable in the approaching danger, were eating.”

“Float and starve, or feast and drown,” said Mrs. Downes-Martin, her voice a whisper. She reached out towards the nearest and as I rose to stop her, I saw it.  Ahead of us loomed the ship, not 300 yards from shore. Though she were on her side and caught on the reef, it was clear that she was beautiful. Blond scrollwork covered the focsle and graced her sides. Some trick of the wind made her appear at full sail. Through my glass, the name Clemencia was visible in delicate silver script across her bow.  The entire aft 1/3 of the ship was missing.

“Your ship is there, Madam. We must take you to shore.” Mr. Priddy bent to the oars, and as we passed under the shadow of the wreckage it became clear to our passenger the true nature of the business. I jumped free of the skiff and pulled well up onto the black gravel as the swells increased. Indeed, farther out near the mouth of the bay the white water bands of the outermost shoals were disappearing one by one as the previous storm, having fully inhaled, threatened to exhale its vehemence once again. Mrs. Downes-Martin refused my hand and scrabbled out of the boat on hands and knees.

“Mr. Priddy, help me move the skiff higher.” We dragged and pushed the heavy skiff, our clothing whipped by the breeze, til we reached a higher dune. From this vantage we could see the entirety of the bay–its beach littered with shattered wood and bright debris. The hulk of the Clemencia with its shattered end shifted in the rising water. Everything was visible, but Mrs. Downes-Martin was nowhere to be seen.

“Mrs. Martin . . . Clemencia.” I shouted, but the wind just threw it back. We searched the high dunes for any sign or track, but found no trace. Searched and searched until eventually, beaten by the wind and exhausted, we collapsed on a dune.

“She swam to them,” croaked Mr. Priddy. We watched as the ship, now free of its mooring lifted on a titanic swell and rolled in the surf, disintegrating like a child’s toy until there were nothing left.

Just sticks and paper in a breeze – such fragile things. It is in such moments of great strain the oddest thoughts may enter through cracks in the mind. A Christmastide carol from my youth: “Three Ships,” and though it seemed most incongruous in this moment–near to the point of sickness, yet I found myself mouthing the words, until I realized that this song was not a phantom within my head but without. I turned toward the sound as best I could make it in the wind and a woman’s voice drove through the gale, operatic and strong. And moving toward us from the direction of the upper bluffs walked Mrs. Downes-Martin leading three horses. Sand smeared and kelp covered, but horses none-the-less.

“My children,” she cried, when she caught sight of us. “Alive. Gaspar, Melchior, and poor Balthazar; my breath, my body, and my spirit.”

______________________________________________________________

Chris Chambers is a librarian and field archaeologist based in Salt lake City. Chris mentors the King’s English Writer’s Group, and is co-director of Simple Simple Storytellers, a seasonal storytelling troupe.

Thanks for sharing!
75
Posted in Fiction | Tagged , , | Comments Off on St. Stephen’s Day

Sons of Jonah

By Judith Joubert

Twelve year-old Diego ran past the men and dipped below the hatch before anyone saw him. The gun deck was darker than he remembered. The animal fat candles in the lamps cast a smaller light, and the outreaches of the deck remained in darkness – wet places where the luminous green eyes of rats were always on the look-out for the unguarded toes, fingers, and ears of the slaves. A phlegm-filled cough from a child’s throat, shallow restless water, and the sound that had woken him last night, the hitting against the side of the ship, only feebler and with longer intersperses. The candles meant to mask the human smells added the smell of unseasoned cooking to that of sweat, urine and faeces in the close air. There was also the absence of sounds: the chains chinking or dragging across the deck as the slaves moved. They were no longer packed in rows but were seated in heaps and groups, open spaces between them. Some stood about on listless legs, the black water covering their feet, anchoring them in the sewerage until they grew roots of their own. The offspring of their seed would never be haunted by memories of home.

“Boy,” Cudjoe’s chest whistled as he breathed. In his hand was a bone.

Diego stared at it, “Where did you get that?” he asked.

“They threw – it down. It’s mine.” It was as long as one of Cudjoe’s hands with two perfect depressions on top where the cartilage used to be. Probably one of Cortez’s bones – the pig they slaughtered before the storm started. The orphaned ship’s boy had named him Cortez – he used to stroke the coarse hair on the pig’s neck as it ate. With his small fists, the boy punched the quarter master’s legs as he slit the screaming pig’s throat. Bright red blood splashed on the deck, ran into pools and congealed. The rest of the day, the boy had sat next to the rail and cried. The sailors must have thrown the bone below after picking it clean to watch the slaves fight over it.

A strange odour escaped Cudjoe’s lips each time he breathed out, like mildewed sponge. “You’re sick,” Diego said, backing away from him.

“Everybody sick. The air – rotten,” the irises of Cudjoe’s eyes merged with the black skin next to it as he searched the full spaces around him for the other slaves. Diego could see only the white orbs of marble in his head and it reminded him of a story that Shorty told the sailors in the forecastle, a story about the walking dead, of how all those killed at sea walked the ocean floor on fleshless limbs, eyes without irises upturned, looking for the hulls of ships passing overhead. They climbed on board and ate the flesh of the living in search of the life they lost. Shorty himself had once seen such an empty ship drifting into port, not a living soul on board. But, Diego could never ask him about it (he was not supposed to be in the forecastle that day, hiding under a bunk and listening to the common sailors talk). Riff-raff, Senhora called them.

A hollow hammering was heard below them and Cudjoe sucked air into his slime-plastered lungs, “They’re fixing the galleon. We’re making for shore.” Diego felt the slaves’ dirty water seep through his shoes and stockings. He’d have to take them off and throw them overboard before anyone found out he’d been there.

“Shore?” Cudjoe asked, the fingers of his long hand touched his temple and moved away, palm up.

“Shore. Land,” Diego said.

“There land here?” Cudjoe leaned on the last bone of Cortez and rose to his feet.

Diego nodded, “We can’t see it yet, but it’s not far.”

Cudjoe pushed his back against a supporting pole, unable to straighten his abdomen. “You have to ask. Them let us out.”

Diego shook his head, “It’s better for you here, up there is rain and wind.” Diego realised that rain and wind above decks sounded better than disease and death below. “You’ll get in the way, they’re busy fixing.”

Cudjoe clutched the pole, the bone dangled against the wood, “We are worth – many cattle – to your father?”

“We don’t trade in cattle, we trade in gold,” Diego’s voice was small. His experience of Portugal was on a par with that of the slaves. What he knew of Portugal was what others had told him. His father described beautiful buildings of many storeys, cathedrals as big as palaces, music performances in opera houses, streets of cobbled stones and terraced walkways. Diego tried to imagine what life would be like without a fort, a place to go when neighbouring rajas and natives attacked. Papa said there was no need for a fort because nobody attacked Portugal and there were no natives, the Portuguese were native of Portugal. Diego had asked if the cobbled streets did not hurt the feet of the elephants. Senhora laughed and said silly boy there are no elephants in Portugal.

Again, Cudjoe’s white sclera shone in the dark as he peered at Diego, “Your father – can sell us – and get – much gold. Let us out – at night. Ask!” he pointed up at the hatchway with the bone. Diego turned about and his foot touched something soft. He recoiled when he saw a woman lie in the water on her side. It covered her one eye, her nose, her one breast, the fingers of the one arm slung over her hips. It slopped around her navel and her calves. “She dead,” Cudjoe said, sinking down with his back against the pole. Diego darted up the ladders before her flesh fell from her bones, before she joined the walking dead on the ocean floor, the whites of her eyes staring up as Cudjoe’s did when he said to ask if they could go up.

____________________________________________________________

Judith worked as a proofreader at the newspapers for three years and has since been a writing housewife. Her writings have appeared in Vision Magazine, Ancient Paths Christian Literary Magazine, The Kalahari Review, Brittle Paper and Munyori Literary Journal. Her current project, a historical novel, has been approved for funding by the National Arts Council of South Africa. The local literary fair recently invited her to share her material on stage with the likes of award-winning authors such as Fred Khumalo, Yewande Omotoso and Harry Kalmer.

Thanks for sharing!
75
Posted in Fiction | Tagged , , | Comments Off on Sons of Jonah

A Lesson from the Life of Mary Boykin Chesnut

By Philip Hanson

I am always studying these creatures. They are to me inscrutable in their ways and past finding out.

Mary Chesnut’s Civil War                                                                               

The Lesson: What You Feel May Be Truer than What You Know

I was willing enough to speak to [the de Saussures’ slave man], but when he saw me advancing for that purpose, to avoid me he suddenly dodged around a corner. . . . His mistress never refused to let him play for any party. . . . He was far above any physical fear for his sleek and well-fed person. How majestically he scraped his foot?as a sign that he was tuned up and ready to begin.

Now he is a shabby creature indeed.

Mary Chesnut’s Civil War, March, 1861                                                                               

Richard sat out at the edge of the porch just around the corner of the big house, out of sight. He knew exactly how much you could see from that corner window on the porch. You take your rest when you can get it, since you never know how long they might keep you on your feet at any one stretch. Dear old Richard, never misses a beat. Never have to tell him twice. Just the sort of fellow to drop dead standing behind some half-blind old white lady at the table some night. Loyal as a tick hound. Old Richard had taken two fingers of that twenty year-old Scotch, then watered it to make up the difference. He felt fine as the sun reached a point that signaled the onset of dusk. How come blood don’t tell? Ain’t it unerring? You take a drink of that watered down Scotch, ain’t all them generations of aristocratic bloodlines supposed to gather up and scream out the liquor’s been watered? Blood’s failed the test. Maybe a Richard in the closet a generation or two back.

Way off down the road Richard could see a little swirl of dust rising. Course no one bothered to tell Richard maybe a wagon full of relatives was on their way in. Maybe, maybe not. You could not be Richard and not be patient. Now he would have to watch out of the corner of one eye for any movement out of the house, as he had been doing, and watch out of the other for when that swirl of dust started turning into a carriage of some sort. No question whoever it was would be sure to report on seventy-one-or so-year-old Richard stealing his master’s time resting. Richard could just make out a gentry coach of some sort, and he was on his feet and on his way into the house. “Folks comin’ down the road,” he announced before Missus Elizabeth had actually spotted him. Already Missus Nancy and Master Henry were here visiting. Now more. Richard went into the big kitchen, where Marcy had laid a row of plucked chickens out on the cutting board. Some of that was for Rennie’s boy, George, who lay in his cabin with a fever. Missus would go down there later with a flock of gabbling children, black and white, to tend George. So there was some slack. George could have meal? probably wasn’t even sick anyway. Soon Uncle Edwin entered followed by a young black man carrying a pair of dusty travel bags with an air of importance. He crossed directly to Richard and extended the bags. Without outward sign of resentment, Richard took the bags and before he had turned around Rennie’s boy, Carter, was there with an alarmed expression and arms extended. Richard melted into the shadows and listened. As he listened he tallied up. Another face to be shaved. Another room to be tended. An outside African to be watched. And he was in the middle of that inlay work on the windows.

In the morning Richard hovered over Master John with a straight razor. On a table beside him lay his brush, scuttle cup, and shaving soap. Young Master Henry and Uncle Edwin sat nearby, waiting their turns.  In the doorway, behind Richard, Edwin’s boy, Jarvis, hovered. Master John spoke and Richard’s razor hovered, still, patient, just at his throat.

“Chesnut might form a company, I hear.”

“If I had my health,” Edwin replied.

“No one expects you to go.”

Richard could feel Jarvis lean in. He watered his brush and swirled it in the soap in the scuttle cup. He unobtrusively applied the soap to the old man’s cheek. He moved the razor as though he were drawing a feather across the cheek. After he finished with Master John, he started on Uncle Edwin. As Richard was doing Edwin, Edwin sat up abruptly. “Careful there!” he cried. “Don’t worry,” John answered. “Richard ain’t cut me or anybody in twenty-five years.”

“I thought I felt something.” John obligingly stood up and examined Edwin. “No scratch,” John pronounced.” Richard stood at attention, impassive. “Well, go ahead,” Edwin growled.

Richard’s razor hovered just an inch from Edwin’s throat. “We ain’t safe,” Edwin announced.

“How so?”

“In Savannah, with that Lincoln blockade General Scott thought up.”

“Charleston isn’t altogether safe either, “John added.

“Your plantation here is inland,” Edwin countered. “They sure as hell can’t shell you from a ship the way they can Savannah.” Edwin said this and waited.

“You got a point.” To this John added nothing and at last Edwin grunted.

Richard resumed shaving Edwin. When Richard finished and Edwin stood up, Jarvis moved in close to examine him. Richard gave Jarvis a look. “You got that inlay work to do this afternoon,” John told Richard.

“Yessir.”

He wanted to get to the inlay work and he wanted to be done with these men.

“Wait’ll you hear Richard play tonight after dinner,” John told Edwin. “This should be a treat for you, your knowing the violin.”

“Absolutely.”

Richard stood at attention, patient, impassive.

Once freed of the work of caring for the men, Richard went into the carpentry shed followed by Jarvis. Richard closed the door of the shed, as he always did. Forcing someone to open the door provided him a notice of someone coming. He didn’t like to be surprised by white men. Jarvis sat down on the floor, his back propped against the door. Richard understood.

Richard took out a panel of the damaged inlay work. Many years earlier, old Henry de Saussure had brought an Italian back from Europe who taught Richard how to use a Buhl-saw. No one else in the county knew how to use one the way Richard did. He took a panel of decaying inlay work that he was going to replace and propped it up as a model. The Italian had called it “Reisner work.” Jarvis was already asleep, his back firmly propped against the door. Richard glued thin panels of wood to either side of a large sheet of paper. He pasted another sheet on the outside and began to trace the design of the decaying original. All afternoon he worked on his inlays, while Jarvis slept. That was all right. Jarvis had to wake up each day to Uncle Edwin. As he worked Richard struggled not to think about how Uncle Edwin was fishing for an invitation to stay with the family.

After dinner Richard played “Durang’s Hornpipe” then “Aura Lee.” He scraped his foot before each song as a sign he was ready to begin. He’d scarcely finished the last note when Uncle Edwin took him roughly by the wrist. “Pull that bow with your shoulder a little, boy, not just your elbow.” Richard knew this to be patently wrong.

Neverthless. “Yessir.”

“Don’t just yessir me. I want to see you do it that way at the Chesnuts’.”

“Yessir.”

Days later on the night of the Chesnut party Richard stood in the area set off for musicians. Master Randolph’s Beau sat at the piano. Lots of the men wore their gray uniforms, now that the Yankees were coming. Richard could see Missus Chesnut and her adopted belles, Buck and Mary Preston, the ones all the men were all the time sniffing around. He peeked around and saw Uncle Edwin was paying no attention at all. He played “Castle in the Air” with his eyes shut, as he almost always did at these parties. This and a couple of fingers of Scotch were about as near as he ever got to being alone. He stole a glance at Missus Chesnut and her girls. They had already been pulled in by the music. He and Beau began playing a waltz and men and women began to couple up and dance. As they danced he became aware of Uncle Edwin’s eyes on him, watching for him to use his shoulder. He closed his eyes and played. Each time he peeked toward Uncle Edwin, the old man looked that much more incensed. He must foul up or the old man would make something of it. He told himself he would do it at the next number or the last number. He could see Missus Chesnut, her face in a kind of trance. The last number came around and Richard played with his eyes shut, never once checking on Uncle Edwin. Then the party was over.

Not using his shoulder at the party had been Richard’s firing the first shot. Now Uncle Edwin was at war with him. Uncle Edwin blew up at him after the party, then day after day he pecked away at everything Richard did. And soon Master John grew tired of it. He began to peck away at Richard too, taking out his irritation at Uncle Edwin’s staying on Richard. Richard passed through his days like a sleepwalker. Only as Uncle Edwin grew violent, slapping Richard or shoving him into a wall, did Master John act. The de Saussures had a reputation as quality folk. They saw themselves as above slave whipping and such. Master John asked Richard how he would like to be hired out to Hamil Gillespie, the carpenter in town. Richard would.

Gillespie was a red-faced Irish man, who did all kinds of work on wood. He made furniture, he worked on houses. He was no artist, but he did steady work. Richard had been in close quarters with whites his whole life. But he had never been around one like Gillespie. Gillespie had not been born in America. He told Richard he left Ireland when the “dirty blue bloods starved us out.” “Darks aren’t treated the same back home,” he confided to Richard. I seen one once when I was in London with a white woman.” Richard took in this news with no expression. Gillespie did not have any twenty-year-old Scotch but he had quite a bit of good serviceable whiskey, and in the many slow times he showed no reluctance to share with Richard. As a consequence Richard and Gillespie were drunk a good deal. Richard’s appearance underwent a slow transition. He had formerly dressed in expensive hand-me-down suits from the white men in the family. In recent years he had been receiving a new suit at Christmas. Now he wore coarser clothes and soon took little heed of his appearance, shaving maybe every third day or once a week as Gillespie did.

After months of working with Gillespie one had to look close to see if that man with him was still Richard. One day when it had been a solid week since he had shaved and his clothes had remained unchanged for as long, Gillespie sent him down to the store for some nails. Richard stepped around a corner and there was Missus Chesnut. It took her a second to recognize him.  Her face registered shock, then a kind of horror at Richard’s descent from his former position. Richard believed he detected something else, something rare in white folks, a kind of recognition of the indignities Richard had suffered or of Richard himself. It was a fleeting expression. She steeled herself to encounter him and her face took on the plantation master’s wife mask, but Richard decided he did not have to meet her or sooth her discomfort, and he dodged around a corner.

Thanks for sharing!
75
Posted in Fiction | Tagged , , | Comments Off on A Lesson from the Life of Mary Boykin Chesnut

Hermanos

By Riley Lewis

The night was as quiet as it ever got on the open ocean. The ship creaked intermittently, and the wind and waves never completely stopped, but to one accustomed to life at sea, the night was essentially silent. On deck, a weary watchman had his head cradled in his arms, fast asleep. The ship was still days from its destination. It was only in the captain’s cabin where any noise could be detected. Faintly, the scratching of a quill and a feeble light crept onto the deck from under the door.

Behind that door, a man sat at a table, his back to the entryway. From behind, only a candlelight-cast silhouette could be seen of a hunching figure stooped over his work. Closer inspection revealed a man, staring at several pieces of parchment on the table in front of him. Some were crumpled, others had been scratched out, but the one directly in front of the man bore only one word: “Señor.” Though the man’s eyes appeared locked onto the letters, they were, in fact, unfocused; his thoughts were thousands of miles away in two different directions.

The man had thin, graying hair that was already being overcome with baldness. His face was lined and weathered, and a trickle of sweat dripped down toward the end of his long nose, in spite of the relatively cool February night. His tan face was illuminated by the nearby candle, whose light glistened on his extended forehead. His mouth had fallen slightly open, completely forgotten. Indeed, his entire body remained completely rigid, except for his hands, which incessantly picked at a long feather quill, making it appear far less regal than any peacock feather ever should. Only these hands betrayed the fierce struggle going on behind those still, pale eyes.

“I must be honest,” the man thought for the thousandth time, this time not even bothering to glance up at a small crucifix hanging on the wall. “But if they don’t hear something worth celebrating, they’ll never fund another voyage.” He also refused to look at his two longest drafts. One was far too interesting to be true, and the other, far too true to be interesting. Nevertheless, he couldn’t keep up like this. Soon, he would run out of parchment, and if his findings weren’t firmly entrenched in writing, all but the simplest would be reduced to gossip and invention, the ramblings of a madman. No, his story had to be written down. And it had to be done perfectly.

Resignedly, he forced the quill onto the nearly blank page. “As I know you will be rejoiced at the glorious success that our Lord has given…” Writing about God was good. The topic was neither unpopular with the crown nor entirely misleading. Nevertheless, Bible stories and prayers wouldn’t send him the ships he needed if he was to capitalize on the impact of his discovery.

He kept writing. Salvador, María, Fernandina, Isabella, Juana. They were only names. Names would not convince sailors to leave on an uncharted course. Few things could. With a lurch, he thought of the ungodly cargo secured below deck. Surely something else could prompt future voyages. Anything else.

“The land there is elevated,” he continued, “and full of trees of endless varieties.” Describing beauty shouldn’t hurt. Plus, that part was true too. There had been many mountains and trees, but not like the ones he had come to expect from his books. Still, scenery could only get a traveler so far. “Birds of a thousand kinds were singing in the month of November when I was there.” He described the palm trees, the pine woods, the meadows, all of which he knew would do very little to inspire investors. “No one else understands,” he thought bitterly. “Why is the need to explore not enough? Why must all curiosity be motivated by greed?” Realistically, he knew that he had to sell his discovery—he had to give them something to sell.

“There is honey,” he added feebly, “and a great variety of fruits.”

This was going nowhere. The man set the now barren quill onto the table and stood up. He knew of only two commodities that would give him the reaction he needed. The first, gold, was obvious. Months of searching, however, had yielded no results. Only a few scraps of roughly shaped ore, given to him by his hosts. That might be enough to convince the crown that there was indeed gold on the islands. And certainly there would be some, or how would the locals have found any?

He abruptly returned to the table and retrieved the quill without sitting down. “Inland there are numerous mines of metals…” A twinge of guilt pricked his chest. He remembered the words of the Lord to Moses: “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.” To tell of gold would surely be false witness, but how could it be against his neighbor? Further expeditions would hurt no one, and they might actually prove him to be correct. No, no one would be hurt, unless… if they found no gold, there was still that second commodity. But only as a last resort. More words appeared on the page, but the man never remembered deciding to write them.

Involuntarily, he turned to look at the crucifix on the wall. He was entering dangerous waters, figuratively more than literally. Perhaps it was better to be honest and unprofitable after all. He returned to his chair and began writing again, telling how the land was “rich and fertile for planting and for pasturage, and for building towns and villages.” If the king and queen wished to settle, there was that option. A colony of subsistence farmers, however, would hardly transform his patron country into the empire it yearned to be. “The seaports there are incredibly fine, as also the magnificent rivers,”he rambled on, but what did that matter? He picked up the parchment, ready to tear it to shreds and start again. Instead, he paused, reread his words, and suddenly set them back down gently and added, before he could stop himself “most of which bear gold.”

It was such a silly claim—one that any member of his crew or following explorers could disprove easily. But it would give him the draw he needed. It would fund a second voyage. Surely, that was more important than a few misleading words? “There are many spices and vast mines of gold and other metals.” And why not? If Marco Polo had found them, surely they were there. He merely had yet to discover their hiding place..

But what if he never did? Would they all mock him again, as they had done for years? Call him delusional? A hypocrite and a heretic? A perpetual failure? But he had not failed! He had found exactly what he had been searching for, hadn’t he? Was there nothing to be said for being right, even if it came to little to no financial gain? But there was yet a profit to be made. If he couldn’t grant his monarchs gold, perhaps he could give them labor.

“They have no iron, nor steel, nor weapons, nor are they fit for them,” he reluctantly added, afraid to say directly what he knew he was implying. “The only arms they have are sticks of cane, cut when in seed, with a sharpened stick at the end, and they are afraid to use these.” The people seemed happy to comply with everything he had requested. Perhaps it was better that they… “They never refuse anything that is asked for. They even offer it themselves.”

“I had to win their love,” he wrote, deciding to shift tactics. “and to induce them to become Christians.” That might protect them, he realized. Baptism could prevent their being abused. He would prefer it that way. “Therefore I hope that their Highnesses will decide upon the conversion of those people to our holy faith, to which they seem much inclined.”

What was he doing? Was he really discussing the people who had loved him so much as goods to be bartered? The crucifix glistened in the candlelight, and a drop of sweat fell from the end of his nose onto the parchment. He thought of his captives, who had been so passive, so accommodating, who had praised him heedlessly in front of their fellows, who were already making small strides forward in learning Spanish. Could he be so cruel? As of yet, he had merely implied that they were docile and generous. If he left it there, perhaps no harm would come to them. He returned to the topic of geography, he told tales of the natives’ myths, men with tails and cannibals and such, and he reminded his readers of the gold mines that never had been real. When future explorers found no gold mines, however, what would they say of him? What would history say of him? That his fruitless venture had been an utter waste of the king’s time, money, and ships, one of which already sat at the bottom of the ocean?

“Only the men remaining there could destroy the whole region, and run no risk,” he found himself writing. Must it always go back to conquest? Was the only way to redeem the reputation of Cristóbal Colón the death and enslavement of hundreds? Thousands? Millions? How many Taínos, Caribs, and Arawaks had to suffer in order to make his venture worthwhile? Must the admiral of the ocean sea become a conquistador, merely to be a successful explorer?

Refusing to look at the crucifix, Cristóbal stood up. He picked up the candle in one hand and the nearly finished letter with the other. He still could not decide whether or not he would actually send it. He left the stuffy cabin and out onto the deck. Without even noticing the sleeping watchman, he opened up the hold and dropped slowly down into the galley. Walking to the end of the hallway, he looked into the small cage where his prisoners slept. Ten men, the most valuable discovery of the four month voyage. Two white glimmers in the semidarkness told him that not all were asleep. One of his captives sat against the walls of the galley, staring at Cristóbal intently. Cristóbal tried to smile, but found that his face wouldn’t cooperate. Instead, he nodded and turned, placing the letter on a crate, determined to finish.

“¡Hermano!”

Cristobal turned suddenly to face the speaker. Now, not only his eyes, but his teeth gleamed in the darkness. “What did you say?”

“¡Hermano!” the Taíno repeated, “¡Mí hermano!” He again showed his teeth; was that a smile or a threat? Perhaps he was merely proud of himself for learning the words correctly. Then he stared at his captor, waiting for a response.

Cristobal shivered involuntarily. Ignoring the Indian, he turned to the letter and hastily concluded. “Fará lo que mandaréis. El Almirante.” Then he escaped from the dingy galley, taking the letter and the candle with him. As he ascended through the hold and closed it behind him, the galley was once again flooded with darkness, and the two bright eyes disappeared. The ocean’s near silence was restored, except for one last whisper into the night.

“¿Hermano?”

Before his return to Europe after reaching the new world for the first time, Christopher Columbus (or Cristobal Colón, as he would have been known to the Spanish) directed a letter to Luis de Santangel, a minister to the Spanish monarchy. The letter would then be translated and sent across Europe, making it the first public document proclaiming Columbus’s arrival. The italicized portions of this story were taken directly from that document.

____________________________________________________________

Riley Lewis studied history and Spanish at Brigham Young University and currently lives in England with his wife. He specializes in developing educational tours and presentations for museum audiences and enjoys writing fiction and creative nonfiction as well, especially when such is of a historical nature.

 

Thanks for sharing!
75
Posted in Fiction | Tagged , , | Comments Off on Hermanos

Letter addressed to W.M.Thackeray from Charles Dickens

By Christopher Hall and Jess Mookherjee 

24th March 1858

My Dear Thackeray

What good fortune it was to stumble so gamely into your company at the club last Thursday. I pondered so intensely on the nature of our meeting and mused that I must not pass the opportunity to contact you. Let us not, good fellow, leave our friendship to chance any longer.

I will also thank you dear Thackeray for the choice of cognac and my enthusiasm for our meeting was fuelled only in part by that spirit.

Truly business is booming, books are being commissioned and some money is being made. I’m most keen to write something of sensitivity and depth on the revolution and your heady world view would be as bright a tonic as the cognac we shared together.

So I am naturally desirous that you and I meet and discuss in more detail the great swathes of history that are happening all around us. Will you come to Rochester? I hear you have taken some refuge in Kent. My daughter tells me you are spending some time in Royal Tunbridge Wells taking in the spa air.

Affectionately yours

Dickens

 

{Letter addressed to Charles Dickens from W.M. Thackeray}.

31st March 1858

Dearest friend,

I cannot tell you how delightful it was to hear from you.  No, it was more than that.  It was as restorative as the good tonic you mentioned in your letter.   I have been in the countryside for no more than a week now and nature has already conspired to give me a feverish cold.   When I received your letter I had been in the lowest of spirits but now I find your reminder of our conversation has revived me.   Yours is a voice that speaks cheerfully from the page and I already feel heartened by the prospect of a reunion.

Could it be my friend that you took some of my advice too much to heart?   The Garrick Club can be a strange arena where truths are uttered as falsely as lies and lies as truths.  May I recommend that for your enterprise you also write to our mutual friend Carlyle?  He has a vast bibliographical memory and I am more than sure that he can direct you to some excellent source materials for your next subject.  I was speaking half in jest when I mentioned Scott had already conquered the world of historical romance.  The man is not to be toppled from his mountain.

I will be staying in Tunbridge Wells for awhile until my daughters join me.  My plans take me to Dover and then to Paris to visit my dear wife.  Why not join me here?  I would like it very much if you could accompany us to France.  You know that Anne is very fond of you and eager to hear of your next work.

Yours

W.M.T

 

{Letter addressed to Thackeray from Dickens}

20th April 1858

Dearest Thackeray

Excuse the tardiness of my writing. Nothing could have improved my spirits more then receiving your kind invitation to your place in the country. I accept. When shall I come? I am most eager to get away from here as soon as I can for some peace and quiet.

My friend – I hope you will forgive my need to confide in you. I am most weary sir. This past few weeks has been pitiful. There have been pressures from the publishing company, from the financiers and from my own wife.

A certain young woman I chanced upon in Drury Lane has been most persistent in my thoughts and in my pocket. This acquaintance has, as you can imagine, left me needing the company of gentlemen for my thoughts are giddy and in need to your steadfastness.

My ideas for the French book are racing about in my head. I wonder if you can invite our good friend Carlyle as I would like also to take some of his interest in the issues I am to raise in the novel.

I am distraught dear Thackeray. Sometimes I feel you are my only friend and supporter. I received a great snub from that – how you used that word – SNOB – Trollope at the Garrick only last week. We almost came to blows and I swear sir – if he continues to call me Mr Popular Sentiment – I may not be responsible for my actions. I feel sometimes only you and I are in full unity about the terrible elitism that is stifling this society. Is it my fault – dear Thackary that I am blessed with an energy and appropriate ardour of my disposition to show the plight of the ordinary man!

Save me dear Thackeray

I look forward to enjoying the air with you – and our mutual friend? –  also?

Do write very swiftly

Your good friend

Dickens

 

{Letter to Dickens from W.M.T}

25th April1858

My dear friend,

What has come over you since my last letter? I have acquired a highly developed intuition for hysteria when I see it and you are not so far gone my dear Dickens.  I read reports from the physicians that my poor wife has been tearing her hair out over imaginary wrongs. She rants and pummels the door and begs to be let out so that she can chase her demons away. Is that not what a little criticism represents, an imaginary wrong no more and no less a figment of the writers imagination than his plots and characters.  A little less tearing out of the hair and rubbing the furrowed brow if you please. One has so few of the flowing locks left these days. Take another tonic before you start to lose any more and remember that it’s not by the critics that the play is applauded but by the gallery.

As you know I have painful memories of what may happen to a man’s heart when he sets himself at something that falls short of his hopes.  I trust this young lady you refer to is enriching your sensibility as much as she appears to be sharpening your pen.   Take care dear Dickens.  You are not Aaron’s rod.  You can’t be expected to swallow every other serpent that comes your way.  I as I write I see a young girl approaching the table with what looks like a side of beef that no Englishman can resist.   The heart is treacherous.  The stomach however is more a more reliable organ.

Please do come as I am fully recovered and intend to move onto Dover soon.   I have equipped myself with a hamper of delights from Fortnum and Mason, including, amongst several of your favourite wares, a jar of apricots in brandy.

Yours as ever,

W.M.T

 

{Letter to W.M.T from Dickens}

30th April 1858

Oh my dearest Thackeray

How you comfort me. I read again your Vanity Fair and I believe that young vixen I wrote to you of to be a veritable Becky Sharp. She is clever, undoubtedly, winning certainly, even wanton – thankfully, but without a moral compass my Thackeray. She has given me much but taken so much. However I hear your steady, quiet voice in my ear as I write, and though it reddens my cheeks to hear it – you rogue Thackeray, certainly my hair will not last with this intensity of adventure I boil my brains with. You have a good thick head of hair my friend, long may it last. Though I feel the strain of sadness about you, friend. I would invite you to romp in the Garrick with me but I am mindful of our madness.

Ah, my friend- we writers can purge our lusts and rages with our pens, talk our inner voices of bedlam and lunacy within confines of these inky pages. What power we hold. I have delayed enough, I am coming to Tunbridge Wells. Please invite Carlyle, our friend. I have read his work on the French uprising now ten times. I must get his ( and your) thoughts on my take on the revolution. There is a violence in me Thackery, a war that burns. I am like France, and I see you as good England sir, amiable and safe. What a revolting prospect don’t you think? I’m determined to make the “tale” a true masterpiece, if only to send up the nose of that Charlotte Bronte upstart.

Sir, I beg you again two things. Firstly – please use your not insignificant influence to arrange a meeting with our friend Carlyle. He seems to continuously lose my correspondence. And second my friend, do not tear your life in two. Poor Isabella, lost in her madness is also lost to you so leave her and start again as I am. I am for changing the order. Why should we not have what we deserve? Are we not men?

The war in me wages on, I look forward to your peaceful kingdom in the Kentish Weald.

With great expectations

Your friend, Dickens

 

{Letter to Dickens from W.M.T}

7th May1858

My Dear Friend,

I trust you are keeping well.  On the subject of your companion, I hope for your sake that she is more a cross between little Nell Trent and Nancy than my Becky Sharp.   Is she an orphan perhaps?   I hear stories that orphan girls are often taken with older gentlemen as they are looking for a mentor that the father might have been.  Beware my friend.  Thank you for asking after Mrs Thackeray.   How may I ask is your dear wife holding up?

I wonder if you had time to read the first three parts of my new work, The Virginians?  I am hopeful it will go down well with our American friends.   I am planning a reading tour through the states if all goes well. As for Carlyle, he very rarely ventures out of his house let alone London.   I will write and see what I can do.

Yours

W.M.T.

 

{Letter to W.M.T from Dickens}

10th May 1858

Dear Will,

Forgive me for pressing you on this matter but I am most eager.  Please could you continue to solicit our friend Carlyle on the matter of procuring the works I requested on the French question and any comments on my proposed work on the subject.

Yours in anticipation

Dickens

 

{Letter written to Thomas Carlyle from Charles Dickens}

12th May 1858

My Dearest Thomas

I wonder if you have received word from our mutual friend Will Thackeray requesting a suitable bibliography on the subject of the Revolution?  I am most anxious to receive the fruits of your wisdom on the subject of my forthcoming novel.   Do you not think that a ‘Tale of Two Cities’ is a title most apt for the differences between our national characters?  I eagerly await your response and the opportunity to visit you and your clever wife Jane to discuss this imposing subject at greater length.

Yours sincerely,

Charles Dickens

 

{Letter addressed to Thomas Carlyle from W.M.Thackeray}

2nd June 1858

My dear Tom,

I see from The Times that Palmerston is up to his old tricks.  If a vile stench emanating from the Thames is all it takes to remove our legislators from Westminsterthen perhaps the common man should reflect that to obtain the vote is needless when the influence of his digestive system can easily bring the government to its knees.  I must confess that my courage failed me and I could stomach it no longer and have withdrawn to the countryside to escape this abject suffering of my senses.  How is your nasal passage enduring in the circumstances?  I trust that you are not overwhelmed by the stench in Chelsea although your proximity to the river tells me that you might.

I am in correspondence with our mutual friend Mr Dickens on the subject of his latest venture into the world of literature.   He intends to compose an epic story set during the Revolution in France.   Would you be willing to join us in Kent to declaim upon the subject?  I will of course provide you and your lovely spouse with my very best hospitality.  Or at the very least, as I know you are busy, point him in the direction of the best literature on the subject.

Yours

Will

 

{Letter addressed to Charles Dickens from Thomas Carlyle}

4th June 1858

Dear Will,

What the Dickens?  Again?   He has already written to me on this subject.

You tell that excitable Anglo-Saxon hermaphrodite that nothing short of being dragged by the quadrupeds of hell would tempt me to assist in this facile project of his.   The revolution cannot be tamed for the English readers of his so called weeklies.  I suppose he intends to reduce the collapse of an entire social order to a faux-French nobleman uttering the moral platitudes of a country parson?  Or perhaps a cheerful street urchin will be deployed to carry messages for Robespierre?

Do the nation a favour and tell him to discontinue.  I know you agree with me on his style.  On second thoughts if it’s not possible to stop this deluge of nonsense we should consider building a dam.  There are more than sufficient volumes in the London Library on this subject to effect a blockage.  I’ll see to it that he receives them.

I wish you well dear Thackeray.  I hear that upstart Yates has written a review of your latest work.  Do not fret my dear Will.  He is an ass.  Send my best wishes to Dickens and tell him I will send him some serious history.

Yours,

Tom

 

{Letter addressed to Charles Dickens from W.M.Thackeray}

 5th June 1858

Dear Charles,

By some strange oversight on Carlyle’s part he has sent me your books which were delivered to me in Tunbridge Wells.   This provides us with the perfect excuse for entertaining you here as we had originally planned where you will be able to pick up your books.   I wonder if, in Tom’s confusion, a letter addressed to me has been sent to you by mistake.  If so, please do bring it with you.

Yours truly,

W.M.T.

 

{Letter written to Thackeray from Dickens}

8th June 1858

Thackeray,

Where once I called you friend I am now most redolent and seething in my disdain to even call upon you.

I enclose in this missive the communication from that galumphing toad Carlyle that I am sure you did not mean for me to see. I understand from this that you both, from your gentrified and lofty positions, applaud those that would crow ‘Mr Popular Sentiment’ as the sales for my novels rise.

My face is black sir, black as the night at this betrayal and lost friendship. I see now that I am merely a source of society tittle-tattle for you and your coiffured gentlemen of leisure. How piqued you must be that I am the master of my own life’s novel and not the stooge in a character play of your making.

You will not undo me sir, nor your high nosed comrade Carlyle. You can hang with him in the rafters of obscurity while my little popular books sing out from history. I tell, sir, the tales of people and I will not rest until I have told your tale sir.

What other betrayals are set against me? Only today I have heard a rumour that I am with Ellen, the young actress. Only you, sir, knew as much. I warn you, Thackeray, to keep your counsel and vex me no more. I have in my pay a young reporter called Yates – always on the look-out for a bumptious toad to bring down. Who feeds this new breed of hungry vipers of journalism I wonder?

I warn you not to spread any further vitriol. As for Carlyle, may his pompous tomes of historical analysis feed him and his family well. The public will vote for their music hall renditions of the unfortunate, consumption-ridden proletariat in time and his weighty epithets will be consigned to dust.

Oh we were friends, sir, in my heart you always had a room to rest and find relief. Now this blood-stained club will not admit you.

What the Dickens indeed sir, for you like your Wealden homestead will be ever green and unchanging. I will keep my estuaries and my city and proceed, sir, into history itself.

Good day to you.

C.D.

 

{Letter to Carlyle from Thackeray}

12th June 1858

Tom,

Please see the enclosed.  I fear there has been a terrible misunderstanding.

P.S. Could you feed him more volumes on the Revolution?  It may take his mind off things.

P.P.S. Perhaps Jane could invite him to Chelsea?

P.P.P.S. What the Dickens?

W.M.T

On 12th June 1858 an article appeared in the periodical Town Talk written by a young journalist named Edmund Yates criticising Thackeray in person as “cold and uninviting” possessing “a want of heart in all he writes.”

Thackeray made a formal complaint to the Garrick Club of which both men were members.  Yates was asked to apologise for the article which he refused and was subsequently erased from the club’s membership in July 1858.  Dickens voted against the motion to compel Yates to apologize and resigned his seat at the Garrick Club following the expulsion.

 In a pamphlet printed for private circulation in 1859 Yates lays out the sequence of events.  He clearly states that although Dickens was his advisor in the Garrick Club dispute Dickens had nothing whatsoever to do with the content of the article published in ‘Town Talk’.

____________________________________________________________

Jess Mookherjee is a poet and writer of short stories. She has recently published poems in the Kent and Sussex Poetry Society Folio and in the magazine Dark Matter. She was co-creator of the Lipshtick: poetry oracle which can be found at lipschtick.co.uk. She has lived in Tunbridge Wells for five years.

Christopher Hall writes novels as well as short stories. He set up the Tunbridge Wells Writers Group in 2010 with the aim of creating a social network for writers to meet and inspire each other to keep at it. He also enjoys collaborating on literary projects like this one. He moved to Tunbridge Wells in 2000 and remains there to this day.

Thanks for sharing!
75
Posted in Fiction | Tagged , , , | Comments Off on Letter addressed to W.M.Thackeray from Charles Dickens