CHAPTER 1

That March morning in 1850, Marcus Gale wandered down to the docks and stared toward the far horizon, wishing he might sail away. He owed a lot of cash to certain money lenders, and they were looking for him. He  needed to get out of New York City, but he had no idea how to do that. Somewhere out there was California, but the cheapest passage by ship started at two hundred dollars, a sum far beyond his means.

He tugged his coat over his nose in an effort to block the smell. Although the cold weather tended to keep odors down, there was always the background aroma of old seafood. He hadn't eaten for two days, but when he recalled what that fellow, Oscar, had said he would do to him if he didn't come up with a payment soon, he forgot about eating.

It was a month into sailing season, and the docks were piled high with crates and baggage, crowded with passengers, dock wallopers, and sailors. He had never seen so many people in one place before. The demand had not declined since the rush for gold started the previous year. The masts in the East River looked like a forest. Every vessel that could still float was there. Some of them had been dragged out of wrecking yards and hastily refitted. At least half of them didn't seem as if they'd make it as far as Mexico. Still, he would have boarded in an instant if he could.

It wasn't that he couldn't find work. Since the gold rush started, there were plenty of jobs because half the labor force had headed out for California. But if he were to take a job in town, Oscar would find him. He'd even thought of applying for a job as sailor, but was certain he'd be turned down. After all, Marcus had always worked indoors, sitting at a desk. A sailor would probably laugh at him.

It crossed his mind he might stow away--in all the confusion it wouldn't be hard to slip aboard unnoticed--but he dismissed that idea. On a crowded ship, he would not go undetected for long. Like as not, some ruthless skipper would have him tossed overboard, if not chained in the bilge 'til he could be turned over to authorities.

Perhaps, he thought, he might somehow get to St. Louis and beg passage on a wagon train headed west. . .

He gave a long, weary sigh and sat down on a mooring bollard. He'd spent the night in a horse barn, with only his overcoat for warmth. It had been a long, miserable night. Idly, he thought about his twenty-third birthday, now two days past, and with no one but himself to notice.

Happy birthday, Marcus!

He might as well go face the music with Oscar, or just throw himself off the dock. At the end of his tether, he could see no way out. It was at that moment his life changed forever.

"Hey, you!"

At first he didn't realize the voice was directed at him. He continued staring into space. Someone poked him roughly on the shoulder. "Hey! Sailor!"

Marcus turned and saw a large man wearing a black sweater and watch cap. "You mean me? I'm no sailor, sir."

"I thought you were. Look like one. Don't matter. You lookin' for a berth?"

"A b . . . berth? Oh, you mean a job? On a boat?"

"Not a boat, a ship. In fact, that one right behind me, the steamer. The American Sword. She needs another stoker. Fact is, we need no less than nine and had that many, but now one's gone off and got himself drunk in jail, and we sail in half an hour. Come to that, we oughta have three Engineers, but we only got one. So, you interested or not? I could always get somebody down at the Sailor's Hall."

Marcus got shakily to his feet. He wasn't sure what a stoker was, or what one did, but he looked at the steamship and thought her the most lovely sight he had ever seen. He took a deep breath. "Count me in," he said, and had a gut feeling his world would never be the same again.

"I'm First Mate," the man said. "From now on you address me as Mr. Scuggins. Where's your duffle?"

"My . . . you mean my baggage? I'm afraid I don't have any, Mr. Scuggins."

The man shrugged. "Don't matter, you can get enough for a kit on board. Come on with me, we can't keep Mr. Lewis waiting. He's our Engineer. From now 'til the end of the voyage, he owns you."

* * * *

"Two thousand tons burthen," Finnegan was saying. "Length, two hundred eighty-five feet, thirty-eight feet in the beam. Three barquentine-rigged masts and a five-hundred-horsepower walking-beam engine. Eight hundred passengers and crew on board. She's one of the finest, most modern ships on the sea." The First Mate had turned Marcus over to Finnegan, an able-bodied seaman. Finnegan had seen to it that Marcus was properly clothed in canvas dungarees and showed him his bunk on a top tier in the foc'sle.

While a tug urged the ship downriver, Finnegan had taken Marcus to the crew's mess where he enjoyed his first meal in days. In fact, it was the best meal he'd had in . . . he couldn't remember how long. Lamb chops, potatoes, and fresh greens.

 "Don't get used to this mess," Finnegan warned. "The fresh meat will run out in a day or two. Then it will be salt pork, bully beef, and hard tack 'til we raise St. Catherine's. Well, I see you're finished. We'd better get you below to the engines. Mr. Lewis will be wanting his own supper about now, but he'll be wanting a head of steam first. Let's go."

They headed for a hatch halfway down the deck. Marcus was feeling a warm glow from the food. He still could not believe his good luck. "We're really going to California, then?"

"Where else? By way of the Straits of Magellan. Three months from now, you'll be standing on the Golden Shore. Half the crew will probably jump ship, including myself. I intend to get rich while I can."

"Rich. . ." Marcus mused. The idea was beginning to set in. He might become rich.

Finnegan paused at the hatch. "One more thing I should tell you. It's true she's a fine ship, and our Engineer seems capable, but I'm afraid I can't say the same for Mr. Cutter, our Captain." He gazed thoughtfully up at the rigging. "The owners had a hard time finding good crew and officers. The previous captain decided he liked the gold fields better than sailing. Half the ship commanders now on the California run shouldn't be in charge of a rowboat, I regret to say. Now, I wouldn't go that far with Mr. Cutter. But he's not exactly what you would call experienced, at least not with steamships. This is only his second command. His first was a three-hundred-ton schooner."

Marcus blinked. Never having been to sea before, he had not understood much of Finnegan's explanation of beam and keel and so on, but he knew a three-hundred-ton schooner would be a lot smaller than the ship he was on now.

Finnegan added, "Matter of fact, I served on that very schooner. That's how I come to know the Captain." Then he turned, and they plunged down the hatch into what felt like an oven.

* * * *

"This will be the new stoker, then?" the Engineer said. "About time. Welcome to Inferno, lad. Grab a shovel and get to stoking."

Marcus squinted, trying to see in the dimness. He had descended from the brisk, clean air of the upper deck through two lower decks, to a different world below. With the skylight shutters still closed, the engine room was smoky and dim, lit by a single hurricane lamp and from the red glow of the furnace. He immediately began to sweat.

"Sir, I've never been on a ship before. You'll have to show me what to do." His eyes began to adjust so he could make out the general shape of the Engineer. He was a short, bald man with a chest like a barrel. His bushy mustache made up for the lack of hair on his cranium. He took a step forward, displaying a marked limp.

"Hah!" the man barked. "Might a knowed it. A landlubber. Scrapin' the bottom of the pickle barrel, they are. Here, grab this shovel. It ain't complicated. See that pile a coal over there? See that furnace? Ya takes a shovel full of coal and puts it in the burner. Keep doin' that. See that gauge there? You don't wanta see the needle get below that line, nor above this line. We keeps the pressure up 'til we're out to sea, then I'll come back below and start the engine. Think you can handle that?"

"Yessir, I guess I could." He took the shovel with both hands.

"And stop calling me sir. You can address me as Lewis. Or Mister Lewis, if you're feeling formal. Start shoveling and don't stop 'til I get back. Oh, and rake the coals so the cinders go through the grate." With that, he turned and disappeared up the hatch.

Marcus shoveled. He wondered if it would be all right to take his shirt off. Mr. Lewis had been wearing his, but Marcus found the room hot after living for weeks out in the New York winter. He compromised by opening his buttons.

He thought he could handle shoveling coal, though he quickly began to wish for a pair of gloves. Already he was getting a blister. But he didn't have to shovel constantly. There were three furnaces, but only one was being used, as yet. He watched the needle on the pressure gauge. When it began to rise, he stopped shoveling awhile and studied his surroundings with some fear. There were a great many valves, levers, and wheels. He had never been this close to an engine before, at least not one this big. The boiler was all polished brass; he could see his own face in it, distorted and demonic. Steam leaked steadily from some of the pipes, turning the space into something like a Turkish bath. He had an uneasy feeling that any moment now the great machine would begin to run by itself, having a mind of its own, and there would be no way to stop it. He thought wistfully about his idea of joining a wagon train west. But it was too late for that. He was already in Hell.

* * * *

Mr. Lewis, as promised, returned some time later. Marcus had lost track of time; it might have been one hour, or three. He was getting nervous, watching the pressure gauge. The needle had been steadily climbing toward its red line even though he had stopped shoveling. He wondered how he might get a drink of water.

"Feel her rockin'?" Mr. Lewis called, sliding down the ladder. "She's cast off her tug. We're in the ship channel. Time to turn her loose. The Captain wants to raise sail, but I asked him to wait. I want to see what she can do on steam."

Marcus pointed out the pressure gauge. Mr. Lewis nodded. "If she goes past that line, you grabs this lever over here. That will let off some steam. But she's okay as she is. Soon as we start moving, you'll have to start shoveling again. Next watch, we'll be havin' two more men to help you out. They're okay, but they don't speak English too good. I wouldn't want to leave them down here alone. You did good, you might make a stoker yet."

Marcus asked, "What would happen if the needle went too high and I didn't pull that lever?"

Mr. Lewis winked and gave a wicked laugh. Then he began turning valves and pulling other levers. He put his mouth against the speaking tube on the wall and blew. Then he yelled into the tube, "Engine room ready, Mr. Cutter. . . Aye, aye, sir, half speed forward it is."

The great machine groaned and began to move. Steam hissed. Almost silent, the piston, gleaming with oil, began its long vertical strokes. Far above, visible through the now-open skylight, the walking beam began to rock. Beyond the hull, the side wheels shuddered and began to turn. The ship had been rocking queasily side to side; now she steadied and began to move.

Mr. Lewis hopped from one position to another, checking gauges, turning valves. He snatched up an oil can and squirted at critical points. Finally, apparently satisfied, he stopped as if to admire his work. Marcus picked up another shovelful of coal. The Engineer glanced at him.

"Still here, Gale? You're off duty 'til the next watch. Lay yourself topside and take a last look at the shore, which you may never see again should the ship founder, God forbid. The other stokers will be coming down in a minute or two, or I'll have their randy hides. You'll have to learn to run this engine yourself, I can't be here all the time. But you can start tomorrow. Now get out of my sight unless you want to sleep in the coal bin."

"Aye, aye, sir!" It was the first time in his life Marcus had used that phrase. It felt strange in his throat. He grabbed the ladder rails and climbed to the deck.

Gold

by Steve Bartholomen

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