The Gold Seekers (23 page)

The son was like his father—tall, well built, and with a frank, open face, which sported a neatly trimmed fair beard. Nothing remarkable about him, Morgan decided, save that he was overly well dressed, in breeches and polished riding boots, for the task he was engaged in. But the man known as Dickon was different. He stood well over six feet—nearer seven, as far as it was possible to judge from the distance separating them—and he worked stripped to the waist, his big, muscular body so deeply tanned that, apart from his height, he might be taken for an aborigine. He, too, was bearded. He wore a cabbage-plant hat, to shield his face from the sun, and worked with prodigious skill but seemingly little effort, transferring great heaped spadefuls of river sand to the sluice with scarcely a pause to draw breath. Morgan let his gaze linger critically on the sluice. It was of primitive construction and lacked any form of rocker, depending on gravity and what he judged must be a series of filters along its length to trap gold particles as the sand and gravel were washed through it. The men, for all Dickon’s energetic toil, did not appear to be finding much gold, and they were losing dust because their filters were too coarse and too easily clogged.

He lowered his glass, cursing softly under his breath. His own finds during the past nine months had amounted to little more. He had reached Sydney very shortly after Edward Hargraves and some other fellow had duly found the gold Hargraves had sworn was there, but the infernal Governor had procrastinated, initially trying to keep the discovery secret, and then—further to hold back the tide—had insisted on the government geologist’s making an inspection and a report before any prospectors’ licenses were granted. Stutchbury, the geologist, had taken his time, but eventually he had confirmed Hargraves’s discovery, and then the rush had started, virtually uncontrolled and augmented almost daily by a fresh influx from overseas.

Morgan’s mouth tightened into a hard, angry line as he looked back on the months of frustration he had been compelled to endure. First he had been left cooling his heels, unable to obtain a license and—because there were soon so many crewless vessels in the harbor—unable to sell his brig, the Banshee, and recoup the money she had cost him. Back then he had still had money, of course, but the cost of living in Sydney had risen to unprecedented heights, and an unfortunate liaison with a woman he had believed to be honest and trustworthy had greatly depleted his resources, as had the harbor dues demanded for his ship.

At last, however, he had been granted his license, and he had gone first to Goulburn and the Turon River, taking four of the men he had brought with him from San Francisco, who—because they owed him their passage money—had agreed to pay off their debts by working for him. The Turon was a new field, and it had not been overcrowded when he had first started prospecting there; but such a happy state of affairs had not lasted for long. Gold seekers had come pouring in, hundreds more with each week that passed, and they had spread out like a plague of locusts, panning, mining, sluicing, and then moving on as rumors of a fresh find reached the camps. His employees had been tempted by offers of higher wages and had deserted him. True, two of them had paid their debts, but … Morgan sighed. He had been left short of money in spite of that, forced to do his own laboring chores, and where other men had made strikes, he had failed, for some reason, to do so.

He had come to Bathurst a week ago, having himself heard rumors that … He picked up his glass again and turned it onto the face of Pengallon’s gray-haired owner. Rumors had led him to the belief that Mr. Richard Tempest, for many years prior to Edward Hargraves’s sensational discovery, had been taking gold from his stretch of the Macquarie River. Illegally, of course, since mineral rights belonged, by law, to the government, not to the owners of agricultural land grants, so that Mr. Tempest had kept extremely quiet about his gold-seeking activities.

Morgan frowned. The idea of blackmail had occurred to him; judiciously applied, it might pay dividends, depending on the sort of man Tempest proved to be, but … studying him now, Morgan rejected any such notion. Tempest did not look the type that would yield easily, and in any event, if he had managed to keep his illicit gold digging secret for so many years, it seemed unlikely that, when it was legalized, any threat of exposure would scare him. And doubtless he guarded his stretch of river jealously, permitting only men of his choice to prospect there.

Once again Jasper Morgan lowered his glass in order to mop at his sweating face, on which clouds of plaguey flies were attempting to settle. He needed money and needed it urgently, for he wanted to pay off the harbor dues on the Banshee, fill her with trade goods and mining supplies, and make a fresh start in Victoria. Reports from there, published in the Geelong Gazette and subsequently confirmed in the Sydney papers, carried news of the opening of rich new fields at Ballarat, thirty-odd miles from Port Phillip, and—the latest and richest—at a place called Mount Alexander, ninety miles from Melbourne.

Experience and the disappointments he had suffered on the Turon River had convinced him that the best chance of making substantial profits lay in being early on the scene, before the rush began. As yet, if the newspapers were to be believed, the Victoria fields were being sparsely worked, and he was determined to get there among the first, if humanly possible.

But to achieve his objective, he had to lay his hands on some ready money, devil take it! And … Tempest had money, no doubt of that. If only he could devise some way of parting him from it.

“You’re a bad un,” the woman who had cheated him had accused spitefully. “And for all your grand airs, Major, you’re not a gentleman, and I doubt you ever were.”

Well, she had been right on that score, Morgan reflected, although he had managed to deceive most people since he had grown to adulthood. He was calling himself Major Lewis now, Major Joseph Lewis, purely as a precaution, lest any miner from the vicinity of Thayer’s Bend should chance to join the exodus from California and remember the name of Jasper Morgan. He had covered his tracks well, he was confident; the bodies he had left in the mine were unlikely in the extreme to be discovered, for who would dream of attempting to shift the tons of rock beneath which they had been buried? It was a pity that the youngster Luke Murphy had not been with his brother and the two Australians; but the lad was simple, and whatever he might suspect, without the Bodies he would have no proof that the rockfall had not been accidental. Indeed, both he and the old fool who styled himself the alcalde of the miners’ camp, Ephraim Crocker, must have been taken in, for there had been no pursuit. Between them, Morgan felt certain, they would not have possessed the wits to work out what had really befallen his erstwhile partners, for he had laid his plans with extreme care and carried them out meticulously.

And as for the girl—what had she called herself? Mercedes? Mercy … Morgan’s dark eyes narrowed. A pity his plans had necessitated leaving her behind. She had been a pretty, compliant little creature and a more entertaining bedfellow than the sullen, grasping harlot by whom he had been so woefully deceived and robbed in Sydney! Had the circumstances been different, he might have brought Mercy here with him—indeed, he had seriously considered doing so—but it would have entailed taking a risk, and throughout his career he had always been careful to take no risks, if they could be avoided.

Lord, he thought cynically, how else could a onetime corporal in Her Majesty’s 23rd Regiment of Foot have passed himself off, both here and in America, as a dashing and distinguished officer, whose decorations included a Spanish Gold Cross, bestowed on him by Queen Isabella in person for his services in the Carlist War? And … He found himself smiling. A deserter, to boot, who had stolen the cross from its rightful owner in the course of an armed robbery in, of all places, Cardiff!

“Time to call it a day, Papa, don’t you think?” The voice of Tempest’s son broke into his thoughts, and Jasper Morgan stiffened and then reached for his glass.

Good, he told himself, they were going, their gold-seeking

over for the day. That would give him the opportunity to examine their sluice. He would note its deficiencies and, when it was dark, retrieve his two horses and ride to the homestead, posing as a benighted traveler in search of shelter. Then he would reveal his California experience and expertise and offer, with well-mannered diffidence, to give Mr. Tempest the benefit of his knowledge. He would ask for no reward, initially—gentlemen were never crude—but he would keep his eyes and ears open and await the first opportunity that arose to turn the situation to profit.

He— The giant Dickon ambled into the range of the telescope, carrying what appeared to be a rock taken from the riverbed. He set it down, a childlike grin playing about his bearded lips, and looked at Tempest in mute question. The older man shook his head and said something Morgan could not hear, whereupon Dickon, still grinning hugely, let the rock slide back into the river, without saying a word. But the big fellow was deaf and dumb, Morgan reminded himself, according to the man he had questioned in the tavern. That meant he was probably a simpleton, even less to be reckoned with than the dim-witted Luke. Morgan crouched down behind the screening brush and watched the men below him gather up their tools preparatory to departure. Dickon led up the three horses, which had been tethered nearby, and the men mounted and rode away.

Morgan gave them ten minutes and then clambered stiffly to his feet, conscious of the chill in the air that had come with the sunset. There was not much daylight left, but it sufficed for his inspection of the sluice, which he dismissed as primitive and badly constructed by Californian standards. He could improve its efficiency, he knew, given the chance, and it should not be too difficult to persuade Tempest to offer him the chance. He started to wade back to the riverbank, caught his booted foot on some unseen obstruction, and, to his annoyance, stumbled and measured his length in the now ice-cold river water.

Rising to his knees in the shallow water, Morgan sputtered and cursed, his fingers closing over the stone or rock that had tripped him; instinctively he raised it to the surface, a sixth sense warning him that it was no ordinary rock. It took both hands and some effort to lift it, and as his find broke the surface of the water, Jasper Morgan was scarcely able to restrain his shout of triumph, for even in the rapidly fading light he glimpsed the soft golden glow emanating from it.

He splashed his way back to the bank and sank down on the soft clay, the better to examine and assess the weight and value of his unexpected prize. It must have lain deeply embedded in the river bottom, he decided, to have evaded discovery by Tempest and his companions. Probably the rock that the deaf-mute Dickon had picked up had pried this one loose from its centuries-old concealment, and blind chance—or a welcome change in his fortunes—had caused it to fall into his hands. Trembling with excitement and oblivious of the chill state of his damp body and sodden clothing, Morgan balanced the nugget in his two outstretched hands.

Worn smooth by the flow of river water, it was almost solid gold, and he judged its weight to be between ten and eleven pounds. At the current price of three pounds sterling an ounce, it was not a fortune, but its sale would suffice to free the Banshee and stock her with trade goods, as he had planned, and … Morgan’s spirits rose. Probably there was more where this nugget had come from, but in the gathering darkness and without the tools he had left on his packhorse, there would be little point in searching for it now.

He sat back on his heels, shivering, while he considered the best way to proceed. He could return to Sydney, cut his losses, and make for Port Phillip in the Banshee. A crew and paying passengers would not be hard to find when his destination was known. Or … He stared down at the dark surface of the river, reluctant, even now, to leave the scene of his successful find. He could still stick to his original plan, he told himself, play the role of the benighted traveler and seek hospitality at the Tempests’ homestead. That, if he played his cards right, would give him a couple of more days here and afford him the opportunity to examine the riverbed more closely and, perhaps, add to the find he had already made.

The mountain cold finally decided him. He would have to make camp for the night if he chose the first alternative,

sleep in damp clothing, and run the risk of catching a whereas at the Tempests’ he could almost certainly count on a dry bed, a hot meal, and a courteous welcome … and the nugget he had discovered so providentially could be concealed in his saddlebag and no mention made of it.

Stiffly Morgan got to his feet, stretching his cramped muscles and shivering anew. It was then that, as he turned, he glimpsed a shadowy figure a few yards away, and he smothered an exclamation of mingled alarm and surprise. It had not occurred to him that he might have been observed; he had heard no sound and had supposed himself alone, but— The figure came nearer, silhouetted against the night sky and revealed as an old aborigine, clad in shirt and trousers. A civilized native, Morgan thought, with relief—an employee of Tempest’s, probably, to judge by his garb, and therefore unlikely to be dangerous or obstructive. In any case, he was unarmed… .

“Well?” he demanded haughtily, slipping easily into his accustomed role. “What do you want, my man? Why did you creep up on me, eh?” The old man was silent, studying him with bright, birdlike eyes, and Morgan asked impatiently, “Do you speak English?”

The white head was lowered in assent. “I speak and understand your tongue, yes, sir.”

“Do you work for Mr. Tempest?” Again there was a nod of assent, and as a ray of moonlight slanted through the trees, Morgan saw that the man’s right arm bore a line of scar tissue and appeared to be partially crippled. He relaxed, the tension draining out of him. “I am Major Lewis,” he said crisply. “And I am seeking Mr. Tempest’s house. Perhaps you can guide me there? My horses are tethered a little way away. You fetch them for me. I’ll give you tobacco, I—”