Page 25 of Blowing Off Steam

“The El Dorado, am I right? When are you fellows heading back to the big city? I do believe I need to check on things in San Francisco.”

Never, Field wanted to say, but Rushy was already stuttering, “Tomorrow.”

“Good! Excellent! Reserve a stateroom for me, will you? So you boys are here to meet with Mr. Haight?”

Field stepped in. “Yes, we’re just here to see him about some chickens.”

Brannan looked confused. It was clear that the Celestials in the long, narrow room Field could view over Brannan’s shoulder were merely steaming and ironing laundry. The mention of chickens seemed to rattle Brannan, for the normally confident and brash businessman now glanced everywhere other than the river men and muttered, “Chickens? Why, that’s just fine, then.” He tipped his hat. “Gentlemen.”

Field yanked Rushy by the sleeve and they entered the hissing, steamy room. “What’s wrong with chickens, I wonder?”

Rushy punched Field in the bicep. “Maybe Haight doesn’t really deal in chickens, did that ever occur to you, you dough head?”

But there was no time to ponder the odd encounter. From behind an inner door with a slit at eye level emerged a brutish buffalo of a man, an Irish bog-hopper, from the looks of him. With arms crossed over his massive chest, he looked down upon the river men, flared his nostrils, and nodded.

Field felt an introduction was in order. “We’re Captains Trueworthy and Wakeman of the El Dorado, and we’ve got an appoint—”

“Come,” intoned the bog-hopper, executing a curt about-face and marching back through the door.

The buffalo slammed and locked the heavy oak door behind them, and Field was surprised to note how efficiently it shut off almost all noise from the laundry. They tromped up an inner staircase that was not grand by anyone’s standards, as they crunched chicken feed underfoot. They emerged into a long room that normally would have been the attic, the rafters overhead boasting cobwebs. The desk on the street side was before the only window, making an ominous shadow out of Soquel Haight, Agent.

Haight came forward with a studied, rigid manner, holding out his hand as though it were made of glass. “Captains Wakeman and Trueworthy, I presume.” It was a statement, not a question, uttered in a quiet, resonant tone.

Once Field’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw that Mr. Haight had a pleasant but shifty face. Haight’s gaze never wavered from their faces, pressing his lips together as though it pained him. Giant fuzzy side-whiskers—a most unattractive fashion, Field thought—adorned both his cheeks, but the overall impression was of a placid, unassuming fellow.

Haight gestured toward two wing chairs already placed before his desk. Field and Rushy sat, with sideways glances at each other.

Haight started. “My trusted associate Tobias Fosburgh has told me we can do business together.”

Field could tell what Rushy was thinking. Since when was Tobias a trusted associate? That was not a very good sign. Knowing it was just business lingo, Field leaned forward earnestly and said, “Yes, we’d very much like to do business together. In the venture of o-fuyung, I’m presuming.”

Haight cringed slightly at the mention of the opiate but couldn’t avoid the subject altogether. “Yes. There is a big market for that commodity up here and in the mining camps of the foothills. I simply need trustworthy men with a trustworthy vessel to bring it upriver for me.” He frowned slightly. “Tobias says you are trustworthy men. I’ve been hearing much about the boatmen who dealt with Kwok Lee in San Francisco.”

Field and Rushy glanced at each other. Was their “dealing” with Kwok Lee a good thing or a bad thing? Field ventured a guess. “Yes. That was us, all right. We dealt with him fair and square.”

Rushy ventured even further. “He got what he deserved.”

Apparently this was the correct response, for Haight graced them with another wan smile. “Yes. Kwok Lee was rather a thorn in my side. With him gone, the competition is eliminated, to a large extent.”

“Yes, yes,” Field agreed, getting carried away. “That was our goal.”

This seemed to please Haight, for he touched his fingertips to a piece of paper on the desk and said, “I will have my associate meet you on your boat in San Francisco with the next shipment. It will be in the guise of some bodies.”

Again, the river men shared glances. “Bodies?” Field inquired. “Like, chicken bodies? Because at first we thought the commodity would be stuffed inside—”

“No. Human bodies. Nobody will touch Celestial corpses that are shipped to their relatives for burial.”

Rushy stood and pointed at the desk. “Now hold your horses, Mr. Haight! I already have enough bodies in my china hold on the boat—I don’t want to give my passengers the creeps to see a bunch of stiffs down there!”

“Yes,” Field agreed heatedly. “What would Mr. Samuel Brannan say when he had to pass by a row of cold meat laid out on the deck?”

That was the first time Field saw Haight’s direct stare go cold and unfeeling. “He will say nothing. The bodies will be shrouded and bound, as is their custom.”

Field shook his head. “No. There must be dozens of other things you could use. I’ve heard of people emptying out walnuts and sealing the shells back again.”

Rushy agreed fervently. “Or cutting off the horns of cows, hollowing and stuffing them, then screwing them back on.” He paused. “Only, one fellow got into trouble when a horn fell off a cow right in front of a customs agent.”

Field continued, “Or guitars. Plenty of hollow space in the body of a guitar.”