From Highlands to Homecoming by Margaret P.
(With thanks to betas Terri Derr and Anna Orr)
Chapter 49: Coming of Age (Words: 2,766)
Harlan Garrett's annual report for 1865 arrived near the end of January, 1866. Scott was recovered in body if not totally in mind. With unusual openness, Garrett cursed the war for the fits of despondency and restlessness his grandson still suffered even after six months back home in Boston. They had prevented the boy from returning to his studies until just recently, but Garrett had re-employed Jeremiah Kingsley, a tutor Scott had had before starting at Boston Latin School and of whom he had been particularly fond. Kingsley had succeeded in resurrecting Scott's love of learning and they were now both talking of Scott studying law and business at Harvard University in the fall.
Murdoch was pleased to hear the boy was on the mend, and not at all surprised to learn it had taken him more than a month or two to return to some kind of normalcy. Robert and Beth Eliot had responded promptly to his enquiries the year before. Young Bobby was reported to be well and about to start at the United States Naval Academy, and Robert had taken the trouble to write personally about Scott.
I was not aware at the time that Scott was among the patients brought in from Richmond as he was not one of those needing surgery. The ex-prisoners were hospitalised due to extreme malnutrition and associated illnesses. I am not at liberty to divulge specifics of Scott's case, but I can tell you from looking at his notes he was fairly typical of the Belle Isle evacuees, who came to the hospital emaciated with a variety of conditions caused by starvation, exposure and neglect such as chronic diarrhoea, phthisis pulmonalis, scurvy, frost bites and general debility. I do not wish to alarm you, however; Scott did not suffer any complaint to the degree of severity that would result in permanent damage. He was released to his grandfather's care with the expectation of a full recovery after a further period of convalescence.
Evidently the Belle Isle prisoners were poorly fed throughout, but in the final months even the citizens of Richmond were starving so prisoners were the last to receive rations. From what men I treated told me, they lived on weevil-riddled bread and rat meat for much of the last few weeks. Even after liberation most were not fit to seek better fare for themselves, and relief was slow to come through official channels.
Murdoch had been expecting something of the kind. There had been articles in newspapers deploring the conditions of some prison camps. Belle Isle had not been mentioned specifically, but Murdoch was mentally prepared to read Robert's account. Knowing the truth no matter how awful was still a relief. Horrible as it was, Scott had survived and he would fully recover.
No recovery was expected for many of the cattlemen of California however. A large number had been forced off their land by legislation, flood, drought and debt. In their place came small farmers and big corporations, which employed managers to run the ranches or abandoned cattle and subdivided land to be used for other purposes. Many of the larger corporations—Acme Land, Great Western Enterprises, Pacific Investments—were heavily involved with the railroad or mining. Miller and Lux, one of the most active corporations in the San Joaquin, was prominent in the meatpacking industry. It was buying up ranches to ensure a constant supply of beef in the hope of dominating the San Francisco marketplace. Representatives from several corporations wishing to buy land visited Murdoch throughout 1866 and the years that followed. Land with patent was more valuable than all the rest and Lancer land could be put to a variety of uses. In addition to range ideal for cattle there were areas that could easily be turned to agriculture or raising sheep, fine stands of timber, hill country where horses roamed wild and geology that hinted at potential wealth.
Murdoch rejected all offers. He had not worked so hard to build his ranch to sell it off as soon as title was secure. Profits were not those of the gold rush years, but all going well they were enough to make him a wealthy man again in time. Besides he was a rancher, raising cattle was in his blood, and he could not envisage his life doing anything else. He would like to have built his ranch with his sons at his side, but if that was not to be, he would build it so that he had something to leave them and something to show for his life.
"I'll not be driven off by rustlers, Mother Nature, corporations or any man or institution. Lancer is my land and my life as long as it lasts."
"A fine speech, Murdoch. I would not have you sell either and I will not sell. This ranch was Henry's dream and now thanks to your help, it's mine." Aggie smiled over the remains of roast pork and apple sauce, and offered Murdoch more roast potatoes. "But I am in the mood for things less serious. You have heard of the writer Mark Twain of course. He is coming to Green River next month as part of a lecture tour and you, my bearish friend, will abandon your ranch and brave the gossips for one evening to escort me."
Murdoch laughingly accepted his fate. Aggie was good for him. She kept him from getting too serious. Periodically they would bid against each other at local horse auctions just for the fun of doing so. Of course he and Aggie denied it when Paul O'Brien once accused them, but they both knew it was true.
The prospect of hearing Mr Twain speak was something to look forward to, but before that happy event took place Murdoch received the first report from the Pinkerton Agency. It was later than expected. He had been on the point of contacting them to ask where it was, but as the agent explained, they had been following up a hopeful lead and that had taken time.
Our agents have discovered that the drover Abe Wainwright took your son to the ranch of Josef Heinemann sometime in 1861. Wainwright moved on with his gang a month or two later, but the boy stayed at the ranch until the following year. The foreman could not remember what name he went by other than 'Johnny', but he did recall that he became friendly with a gunhawk called Mac Dawson. When Dawson left to take up a sheriff's job in southern California, a number of men went with him, including the boy, Johnny.
Our agent based in Los Angeles has been provided with this information. The next step will be to locate the whereabouts of Sheriff Dawson and hopefully through him we will find your son.
The news was worth waiting for and Murdoch's spirits were raised because of it. Four years ago Johnny had been in the company of a lawman, not the black sheep the gambler had associated with. Sure the Pinkerton man described Dawson initially as a gunhawk, but Murdoch knew there were differences amongst such men and if the man had taken on a job as a sheriff he must have had some sense of right and wrong and a desire to live on the right side of the law. If Dawson had kept Johnny from crossing to the wrong side of the tracks, Murdoch would be eternally grateful.
He shared the news about Johnny with Paul O'Brien when he and Teresa dined with Murdoch the next evening, something they now did once or twice a week. Ever since returning to Lancer, the O'Briens had included Murdoch in a family life that he would not have had otherwise. While it could never be the same as having his wife and sons living with him, Murdoch had shared the joy of watching Teresa grow up. Now an attractive girl of fourteen, she was beginning to catch the attention of the youths in the area. Murdoch turned a blind eye to Paul's quiet little chats with young wranglers, who made the mistake of whistling or looking in her direction in his presence. It made Murdoch laugh to note that his foreman now always arranged for the oldest and most docile of escorts for Teresa and any of the other young women from the ranch. A few years ago he had not been conscious of the issue, but these days he was obsessed with keeping his daughter safe from the sweet talk of handsome young men.
"You know you have to let Teresa grow up, Paul. She's a sensible girl, and besides, she doesn't seem that interested in lads at the moment. I don't think she's sweet on anyone in particular at any rate. Don't you think you're going a bit overboard?" Murdoch waited for Paul to turn around from saddling his horse. Murdoch had found Teresa in the kitchen garden in tears, because her father had refused to let her go to the pre-Christmas dance being held in Morro Coyo. "She'll be with the Ramirez girls and Cipriano and Maria will keep a good eye on them. You know that. Go to the dance and keep an eye on her yourself if you're that worried."
"She's not your daughter. You don't understand." Paul scowled at Murdoch and pushed passed him. Collecting some ammunition from the tack room cabinet, he began to load his rifle and then stashed what was left in his saddle bag. "She's too young for dancing with boys and grown men."
"She's nearly fifteen and she wants to have fun with her friends. Catarina is only back from college for the holidays, and Francesca is younger than Teresa and she's going. How do you think that makes Teresa feel?"
Paul grumbled about Cipriano being too lax as a father and making it difficult for others. Murdoch did his best to keep a straight face; Cipriano had not long ago said much the same thing about Paul. Francesca had wanted to go riding in trousers like Teresa. Murdoch had never seen Cipriano turn red in the face before. His foreman had looked fit to explode, and Francesca had made a hasty retreat. In that case Murdoch had not gotten involved, but in this he supported his goddaughter; and he eventually talked her father round. Much as Paul hated any place with crowds, he would escort Teresa to the dance himself. Murdoch earned a peck on the cheek and a smile for his trouble.
He did not feel so well rewarded for his efforts on behalf of his own child, but then of course Scott probably did not know what those efforts had been. On December 19th Murdoch sent a telegram to Scott wishing him a happy twenty-first birthday and inviting him to write or even come to see him at Lancer at Murdoch's expense. The only address he had to send it to was Louisburg Square, but he could not imagine Harlan intercepting communication between him and Scott now the boy was of age. Whether or not his son wanted anything to do with him after so many years with no contact was the big question.
By the New Year Murdoch believed the lack of response had given him his answer. The final report from Boston seemed to confirm it; Garrett declared Scott had no interest in establishing contact. Clutching to a slim hope that his father-in-law might still be attempting to prevent contact, Murdoch wrote to Beth Eliot, and she enlisted the help of her son. Pretending casualness, Bob Eliot asked Scott how he felt about his father. Murdoch was disappointed but not surprised by the answer.
He threw himself into the concerns of the ranch. The year 1867 progressed much like any other. Cattle had to be reared, bought and sold. Rough ground needed to be reclaimed for feed crops or pasture. Surveying was on-going. Fencing with the new barbed wire began. The last of the bridges washed away by the 1862 floods was replaced. Meetings with politicians and stock agents, lawyers and land agents continued, and rustling and lawlessness was again on the increase.
In addition to more culverts, work began on the construction of a new road direct to Spanish Wells. The 1862 flood had proven the ranch community needed a way out of the valley that did not cross the river. The existing road bridged the river before winding south over the hills to Morro Coyo or northwest towards the more distant Green River. A narrow pass a couple of miles east of the hacienda offered a possible route, and conveniently it would link with the public road between Morro Coyo and Spanish Wells only a mile west of the mining town. When finished, Morro Coyo would still be closer to the hacienda but not by much.
Before Murdoch knew it the year was halfway through and he was due to pay his taxes. The tax collector had set up in a saloon in Morro Coyo. Murdoch followed Darne Rodgers through the swing doors and they both joined the small queue of landowners.
"Good day for it," Murdoch joked, but Rodgers was not paying attention. He had buried his nose in a dime novel. "I didn't realise you liked dime novels, Darne."
"What? Oh, this—no I don't really. Tom likes them though and Mary is worried he might get corrupted so I have to read them all before he does. Load of rubbish mostly. Look at this one, all about some shootist called Johnny Madrid."
"Madrid is real."
"So it says in the introduction, but I bet he didn't gun down half as many men as it says in here." Rodgers passed the paperback to Murdoch to have a look at while he took his turn parting with his hard-earned cash to the government.
Murdoch could see what Rodgers meant. According to the writer, Madrid was challenged by a would-be pistolero almost everywhere he went. He didn't actually get any paying jobs in the few pages Murdoch read—must have lived on thin air and his reputation. Murdoch wondered if the picture and description of the man were any more accurate. He was supposedly in his mid-twenties, over six feet tall, with a moustache and a scar down one cheek, quick to the draw and a favourite with the ladies. Murdoch handed the novel back to Rodgers. "So will you let Tom read it?"
"Well, it's not great literature, but I doubt it'll do the boy much harm." Rodgers stuffed the small book into his jacket pocket and went to the bar for a drink as Murdoch opened his pocket book. With a sigh, he threw a wad of bills down on the table in front of the tax collector, and waited patiently for his receipt.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOO
The Pinkerton report arrived two weeks later. Walt brought it back from town with barrels from the cooper and other mail. Eager to read what more the agency had found out, Murdoch settled into one of the blue wing-back chairs he had recently purchased. Praying for good news, he slit the envelope open with a paperknife.
Mac Dawson was sheriff of Henderson, a cattle town north east of San Diego, from April 1862 to March 18th, 1863 when he was killed by outlaws. His deputy, Ike Simmonds, is now sheriff. He remembers the boy as a gunhawk on a local estancia, who used to visit with Dawson regularly. When a posse was formed to pursue some bank robbers, your son volunteered. He witnessed Dawson's killing and apparently shot and killed the outlaw responsible.
Murdoch stopped at that point. He read the last sentence again with horror. Johnny would have been what? Fourteen—younger than Teresa was now. Only fourteen and he had killed a man. Murdoch remembered how hard it had been when he had first killed a man, and he had been well into his twenties. He shuddered to think what it must have been like for a mere boy not even old enough to shave.
The youth did not return to Henderson with the posse, but Simmonds has occasionally seen him since. Several men on the Estancia Vargas where he worked as a hired gun also remember him. If you wish us to continue the search, we will start our enquiries from the saloon in Santa Fe where Thurstan Cole was gunned down. I am obliged to inform you that your son, John Lancer, is better known in the border territories as the gunfighter, Johnny Madrid.
Notes:
1. Belle Isle was a Confederate prison during the American Civil War. Its prisoners were officially liberated on 3 April, 1865, but I have no actual knowledge of how long it took for prisoners to be assisted and returned home. Anyone wishing to research further can, however, start with wiki/Belle_Isle_(Richmond,_Virginia)
2. Miller and Lux were a real company. See . for more information.
3. Acme Land was the company owned by Buck Addison in The Rivals, Series 2, Episode 24.
4. Learn more about Mark Twain and his 1866 lecture tour at: 2014/03/22/how_mark_twain_became_mark_twain_the_amazing_story_of_the_lectures_that_made_him_a_superstar/
5. For more about Beadle Dime novels start with wiki/Dime_novel .
6. Darne Rodgers was the rancher hosting the cattle auction, to which Murdoch invited Buck Addison in The Rivals, Series 2, Episode 24.
