Chapter 1 – Celebration
Goldtown, California, April 1865
Jem Coulter stood with his cousin, Nathan, and half a dozen school chums on the spanking-new boardwalk along Main Street. “Hooray, hooray for the USA!” he hollered, waving his hand-held flag. Thirty-five stars showed in the dark-blue corner, along with the thirteen original red-and-white stripes.
“Hooray, hooray!” the other boys chanted. They echoed the adults’ shouting and cheering. Miners and townsfolk shot off pistols. Dogs howled, yipped, and scurried out of sight down dark alleyways. Horses whinnied and reared, throwing their riders. Shopkeepers handed out penny candy and ruffled the hair of boys and girls alike.
Across the street, Jem’s sister, Ellie, shouted at the top of her lungs. She linked arms with her girlfriends and jumped up and down. Her auburn braids bounced off her shoulders.
Does she even know why we’re celebrating? Jem wondered idly. Or was his eleven-year-old sister shrieking and laughing just because everybody else acted wild with excitement? The entire town, along with hundreds of miners from the surrounding area, had turned out this Saturday afternoon, lining both sides of Main Street as far as Jem could see.
Even fussy Aunt Rose had been talked into coming to town. She stood behind the squealing girls, quiet and reserved, but for once she was not making Ellie settle down and “act like a lady.” After a year of living on the outskirts of a rowdy gold camp overflowing with scoundrels, rough miners, and lawbreakers, the Coulter kids’ Boston aunt was finally beginning to thaw. A smile lighted her face at the news of the Union army’s triumph.
Pa had coaxed his older sister earlier that day. “This is a celebration you won’t want to miss. I’m sure our California gold helped ensure the North’s eventual victory.”
Maybe it had. Maybe it hadn’t. Jem only knew that millions of dollars’ worth of gold had steamed down the Sacramento River, around the horn of South America, and into the hands of the Union army. Not long ago, he and Ellie had been aboard such a paddle-wheel steamer.
He had not enjoyed even one mile of that ill-fated trip.
Gold or no gold, victory or defeat, Jem never again wanted to step foot aboard a steam-powered water vessel. Who knew when its boiler might explode? One had blown sky-high last September, catapulting Jem and Ellie overboard.
Jem pushed the watery memory aside and stepped off the boardwalk for a closer look at the oncoming victory parade. Before today’s celebration, he hadn’t given the War Between the States much thought. Goldtown was so far removed from the conflict that he often found himself yawning during Miss Cheney’s wartime school lessons.
Well, Jem wasn’t yawning now. The War was over, and the North had won! Even in California, a state far from the fighting, a display of loyalty and support for this hard-fought victory was in order.
The schoolmarm would not let her sixty pupils forget the date. “On Sunday, April 9, 1865,” Miss Cheney announced as soon as the news arrived at the telegraph office, “General Robert E. Lee surrendered his army to General Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox, Virginia.” She paused and blinked back tears of joy. “I’m adding ‘Appomattox’ to your spelling list.”
As expected, the entire class groaned.
“I can’t pronounce that highfalutin, far-off place, much less spell it,” Dutch Warner blurted.
Miss Cheney smiled patiently and let Dutch’s out-of-turn remark pass. Then she announced the upcoming festivities for Saturday, and her pupils perked up and cheered.
******
It had taken Goldtown’s citizens less than a week to plan the celebration. A parade, with wagon floats decked out in red, white, and blue. Exhibitions and entertainments of all kinds. And plenty of firecrackers.
Firecrackers are grand, Jem thought, but I’ll save mine for after the commotion dies down. He reached into his pocket to finger his supply. Mr. Tobias of the Big Strike Saloon had dug through his storeroom and found hundreds of firecrackers left over from last July. He passed them out to the boys as freely as Mr. Stanley passed out candy from his general store.
Jem’s friends Cole and Perry nearly blew their fingers off lighting firecrackers during the first few minutes of today’s celebration. Will Sterling, his pockets full of the tiny explosives, showed more caution.
As he should. Last summer, Will’s carelessness with black powder had nearly cost Jem, Ellie, and Nathan their lives—along with Will and their friend Chad. The old Belle diggings had collapsed with the kids inside.
Will’s shouting brought Jem back to the here and now. He was saying something, but Jem couldn’t make out the rich boy’s muffled words.
No wonder. Not even the stamp mill’s nonstop clanging could be heard over the clamor on the street. Or . . . had the owner of the prosperous Midas Mine half a mile away shut down the gold-crushing mill because of the celebration?
Considering the size of the crowd, Mr. Sterling had most likely given his miners and mill workers the day off.
“What did you say?” Jem yelled at Will, stepping back up on the boardwalk.
Just in time. A sweat-soaked horse galloped by.
“I said we should win a war every day,” Will hollered in Jem’s ear. He stuffed another hunk of licorice in his mouth and chewed. “Free candy, free firecrackers, and heaps of fun.”
Jem drew away from Will’s licorice breath. Roasted rattlesnakes! Why does Will annoy me so much? After spending the night in a cold, dark mine, the two boys had called a truce and were on decent terms, but the mine-owner’s son always rubbed Jem the wrong way.
Like sandpaper on an open wound.
Several hastily draped floats in red, white, and blue streamers rattled by. Miners and townsfolk rode in the wagon beds, waving small flags and shouting. . Behind the floats, Goldtown’s brass band blared an off-key rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Ka-boom! A deafening blast exploded a block away.
Jem whirled, shading his eyes against the mid-afternoon sun. He’d heard black powder explosions before, but never anything like this. An ancient-looking cannon supported on two large, rickety wooden wheels brought up the rear of the parade. Billows of blue-gray smoke poured from its mouth.
Five miners whooped at the success of their shot. Dry Dirt McGee poured black powder down the cannon’s barrel. Another miner reloaded the ancient piece of artillery with a heavy black ball. A third miner rammed it all in place.
Nathan whistled his amazement. “Where did they dig up that old thing?”
“Dig up is right,” Jem said. “It looks like it’s been buried for a hundred years.” Shivers raced up his arms. He had never seen a cannon fired—not in his whole life. What a stupendous blast!
“Some miners probably carried it off from Fort Miller,” Cole guessed. “Maybe during the Mariposa War.”
“What Mariposa War?” Jem and Nathan asked together.
Cole shrugged. “Gramps talks about it sometimes. Thousands of miners came to the gold fields in the beginning, and of course the Indians didn’t much like those prospectors trampling all over their lands. So they fought. The miners won.”
Jem grew silent. Pa and Mama were two of those thousands of miners back in ’49, the year the gold rush began. He didn’t like to think about his father involved in anything so brutal as an Indian war.
The Coulters’ best friend, prospector Strike-it-rich Sam, no doubt knew all about the Mariposa War. He’d been one of the first to arrive in gold country. But Strike never talked about those days. He stuck to gold-rush tales about striking it rich or sad stories about losing your pile.
Jem winced. He and Strike had once lost their pile. For eight-year-old Jem, the sight of two heavy sacks of gold nuggets plummeting over a precipice’s edge had been almost too much to bear.
“How did they drag that ol’ cannon from Fort Miller clear to gold country?” Will demanded in his high, nasal voice.
What a dumb question. Jem pressed his lips together to keep his mean-mouthed words inside. Miners hauled dirt and ore just as heavy as that cannon. Rich Will Sterling, who had never worked a gold pan or pushed a full wheelbarrow to the creek, would not understand.
“Who cares how they did it?” Nathan scoffed. “It’s here, and it’s a jim-dandy exhibition. I hope they shoot it off again.”
“So do I,” Jem agreed. The other boys nodded.
All eyes turned toward the cannon. Like Jem and his friends, the townsfolk looked eager to witness another loud boom from this unexpected diversion. A hush fell over the crowd when one of the miners lowered his slow-burning match cord toward the fuse.
“That’s enough!”
The miner jerked his hand away from the fuse as if he’d been stung. A curse flew from his mouth.
Jem’s stomach turned over. Pa had been sheriff for a full year, but icy fingers grabbed Jem’s belly whenever his father confronted a group of rough miners.
Like now.
Sheriff Coulter stalked to the cannon, crossed his arms over his chest, and faced the men. “Are you boys loco? That ball tore through the café’s awning and blew a hole in the boardwalk. It barely missed half a dozen bystanders. They’re still picking wood splinters out of their hair and clothes.”
Pa shook his head. “And here you are, reloading without even cleaning the barrel between shots. Do you want to blow up yourselves and the townsfolk?”
“Aw, Matt, leave off,” Dry Dirt McGee protested. “We’re just havin’ a bit o’ fun.”
“Well, you, Gruber, and the others can have your ‘bit o’ fun’ by turning the barrel thataway.” Pa jerked his chin toward the vacant lots along Pioneer Street, where the buildings had been washed away during last winter’s flooding.
“Who are you to say what we can or can’t do?” Gruber sneered. He slapped his dirt-encrusted hand on the cannon’s barrel. “This here’s my cannon. I’ll shoot it where I got a mind to.” He spat a long stream of tobacco juice that landed an inch from the sheriff’s boots.
Jem caught his breath. Goldtown harbored a few cranky residents who did not appreciate the new way of things, not even after a year of law and order. Jem didn’t recognize this particular miner, but why should he? Miners came and went through Goldtown in a steady stream.
This fellow looked eager to show off his cannon, like a young boy sharing a show-and-tell at school. Today’s celebration of the War’s end had given him the perfect opportunity.
Pa unfolded his arms and brushed the dust from the silver star hanging on his vest. “This badge gives me the right, Gruber. Now, you turn the cannon about, or I’ll confiscate this outdated piece of history and melt it down as slag.” His fingers curled around the six-shooter resting in a holster at his side.
Gruber sputtered and cursed. “Why you—”
“Don’t worry, Matt.” A slim, bronzed figure stepped up beside the sheriff. “I’ll make sure he and his partners mind their manners.” He lifted a shiny Navy Colt pistol and aimed it at the miners.
“There’s no need for that, Deputy Rafe.” Pa smiled as two miners joined him. Dakota Joe and Casey stood shoulder to shoulder with Rafe and Pa. “I don’t think the fine citizens of Goldtown want their celebration disrupted on account of a little misunderstanding over a cannon shot.”
Dry Dirt backed off. “The sheriff’s right.” He turned to Gruber. “I reckon you can drag your own hunk of metal around. This ain’t worth tanglin’ with the law.”
Seeing his defection, another miner joined Dry Dirt, and the two men melted into the crowd.
“Appears to be one too many rules in this here gold camp, and a sight too many lawmen.” Gruber drew his bushy eyebrows together. “You plan to shut down every bit o’ fun we got planned for today, Sheriff Goody-two-shoes?”
“I’m only trying to keep folks from getting killed,” Pa replied mildly. “Even you.” He ignored Gruber’s jab and his query. “Now, either point this cannon the other way or haul it back where it came from.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and headed up the street.
“We’ll see about that, high-and-mighty sheriff,” Gruber hollered at Pa’s back.
When Pa ignored the miner’s words, Gruber motioned to his remaining partners. They closed in around the miner, muttering threats and curses. Soon, the cannon began a slow, ninety-degree turn toward the empty fields.
When the next ka-boom sounded, Jem didn’t even twitch.