Fool's Gold Read Online Free
Author: Glen Davies
that’ll come up to your requirements. Accept a kindness when it’s offered with the best of intentions; pride is a vice, ma’am, and one you can’t afford in your situation, if I may say so.’
The ferry cast off and worked its way across the broad brown river between a number of skiffs and sailing ships and past a huge white-painted sidewheeler, taller above the water than anything she had ever seen before.
At the far bank, she stepped down out of the gig, unassisted, and lifted the child down.
‘Thank you for driving us this far,’ she said primly. ‘It was very — Christian of you.’
Before he could stop her, she had slipped away down the gangplank and disappeared among the loafers on the quayside.
Sacramento: a hustling, bustling city. Alicia had last been here in ‘48 when there was barely more than the white-washed adobe buildings of Sutter’s Fort, just beginning to gather around it the tents and shanties of the first goldminers in the American River Valley. The fort was still there, on the bluff where the American River poured its swirling waters into the mighty Sacramento, but now it was dwarfed by the spreading streets of Sacramento City. The town had been laid out by Sutter’s son in an attempt to bring some order to the sprawling mass of tents and shacks that had sprung up almost overnight. In spite of fires, floods and cholera, the town had continued to grow and in 1854, mindful of its proximity to the gold that provided the wealth of the new State, the politicians had designated it state capital. More permanent buildings had sprung up along the grid system and the town was pushing the surrounding forest back a little further each year as it expanded.
Alicia looked around her in confusion, almost regretting the instinct which had made her give the minister the slip. Even this late in the afternoon the town was full of men from the mines and ranches that spread out along the Sacramento Valley and up the length of its many tributaries. Sacks and bales were stacked along the broad Embarcadero and the levée, waiting to be loaded on to the numerous ships berthed alongside. The labourers shouted and hollered as they worked, but few took any notice of the stooped woman who stood bewildered in front of the warehouses, her face hidden by the domed straw hat.
‘Lisha,’ whispered the child. ‘I’m very tired.’
Resolutely, she turned her back on the bustling riverside, forcing her tired legs to carry her deeper into the heart of the town. The main street was alive with crowds of men, walking, lounging, exchanging news on street corners, despite the heat. Although a hundred and twenty-five miles from the Pacific Ocean and well on the way to the high mountains of the Sierra Nevada, Sacramento itself was only thirty feet above sea-level and the heat could climb to 110 in the shade at the height of summer. The unmade roads and constant coming and going of horsemen, carriages and carts combined to stir up a stifling blanket of fine white dust that hung like a pall over the town, irritating the eyes and burning the throat.
The crowds that passed behind them were a motley selection: Negroes from the Southern states, mulattoes from Jamaica, Kanakas from Hawaii, Peruvians, Chileans, Mexicans, French, German, Italians, even Australians.
On every corner thimble-riggers, French monte-dealers and string-game tricksters were vying to part the miner in search of entertainment from his hard-earned gold. ‘Three ounces no man can turn up the jack!’ or ‘Six ounces no one knows where the little joker is!’
An auctioneer was calling his goods from a canvas booth. ‘All at a bargain! Splendid double-soled triple-pegged waterproof boots! Fit your road-smashers exactly — yours for only four and a half ounces, sir!’
Although Sacramento was a thriving city, the gold boom was tailing off somewhat and the ships tying up at the wharves with wares that they could once have sold for up to ten times their real
The ferry cast off and worked its way across the broad brown river between a number of skiffs and sailing ships and past a huge white-painted sidewheeler, taller above the water than anything she had ever seen before.
At the far bank, she stepped down out of the gig, unassisted, and lifted the child down.
‘Thank you for driving us this far,’ she said primly. ‘It was very — Christian of you.’
Before he could stop her, she had slipped away down the gangplank and disappeared among the loafers on the quayside.
Sacramento: a hustling, bustling city. Alicia had last been here in ‘48 when there was barely more than the white-washed adobe buildings of Sutter’s Fort, just beginning to gather around it the tents and shanties of the first goldminers in the American River Valley. The fort was still there, on the bluff where the American River poured its swirling waters into the mighty Sacramento, but now it was dwarfed by the spreading streets of Sacramento City. The town had been laid out by Sutter’s son in an attempt to bring some order to the sprawling mass of tents and shacks that had sprung up almost overnight. In spite of fires, floods and cholera, the town had continued to grow and in 1854, mindful of its proximity to the gold that provided the wealth of the new State, the politicians had designated it state capital. More permanent buildings had sprung up along the grid system and the town was pushing the surrounding forest back a little further each year as it expanded.
Alicia looked around her in confusion, almost regretting the instinct which had made her give the minister the slip. Even this late in the afternoon the town was full of men from the mines and ranches that spread out along the Sacramento Valley and up the length of its many tributaries. Sacks and bales were stacked along the broad Embarcadero and the levée, waiting to be loaded on to the numerous ships berthed alongside. The labourers shouted and hollered as they worked, but few took any notice of the stooped woman who stood bewildered in front of the warehouses, her face hidden by the domed straw hat.
‘Lisha,’ whispered the child. ‘I’m very tired.’
Resolutely, she turned her back on the bustling riverside, forcing her tired legs to carry her deeper into the heart of the town. The main street was alive with crowds of men, walking, lounging, exchanging news on street corners, despite the heat. Although a hundred and twenty-five miles from the Pacific Ocean and well on the way to the high mountains of the Sierra Nevada, Sacramento itself was only thirty feet above sea-level and the heat could climb to 110 in the shade at the height of summer. The unmade roads and constant coming and going of horsemen, carriages and carts combined to stir up a stifling blanket of fine white dust that hung like a pall over the town, irritating the eyes and burning the throat.
The crowds that passed behind them were a motley selection: Negroes from the Southern states, mulattoes from Jamaica, Kanakas from Hawaii, Peruvians, Chileans, Mexicans, French, German, Italians, even Australians.
On every corner thimble-riggers, French monte-dealers and string-game tricksters were vying to part the miner in search of entertainment from his hard-earned gold. ‘Three ounces no man can turn up the jack!’ or ‘Six ounces no one knows where the little joker is!’
An auctioneer was calling his goods from a canvas booth. ‘All at a bargain! Splendid double-soled triple-pegged waterproof boots! Fit your road-smashers exactly — yours for only four and a half ounces, sir!’
Although Sacramento was a thriving city, the gold boom was tailing off somewhat and the ships tying up at the wharves with wares that they could once have sold for up to ten times their real
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