Page 6 of Blowing Off Steam

So he followed the steamer captain to the customs office, where he stood at the counter, dripping a pool of water onto the floorboards.

“Captain Rushy Wakeman,” he told the dour fellow. “You’ve heard of me, no doubt?”

“Oh, aye, who hasn’t heard the name of Captain Wakeman in these parts? You still hold the record to Sacramento—six hours and ten minutes in that four-hundred-fifty-ton steamer. This here’s a new one.”

“Sure as shooting,” agreed Captain Rushy Wakeman. “I assembled her off the coast in Los Angeleez. Five hundred tons, this beaut is. Lots of newfangled humbug on her—red velvet upholstery, brass rails, stained glass, murals of river scenes painted by none other than Thomas Cole himself.”

“I wouldn’t mind riding on her. Hey, you,” said the clerk, suddenly taking note of Field lurking in the doorway. “I told you. The Henry Miller ain’t getting in till tomorrow.”

Embarrassed that Captain Rushy Wakeman had seen him, Field waved apologetically and melded back into the shadows, unable to hear the rest of the conversation.

But one thing was evident. Wakeman had not just “assembled” that beautiful vessel in Los Angeleez. And another thing was becoming evident. Wakeman had somehow stolen that vessel.

Field could use this information to his advantage. He would not get Wakeman in trouble with customs—that would defeat his purpose. So Field meandered down the wharf a ways, purchasing a few oysters to slurp from their shells, until Wakeman emerged from the office and got into a skiff to return to his steamer.

Field waited another few hours until Wakeman took a skiff back to shore, presumably flush with the gold he’d recently acquired by selling his shipments of pork barrels and boots. Field’s intention was to accost the captain right then and there, but some instinct told him to follow the captain up the wooden sidewalk of Montgomery Street and continue following at a distance when he turned right onto Washington Street.

Wakeman went to the front door of the most palatial house on the block, a two-story lemon-yellow affair trimmed in white gingerbread detailing. A servant let Wakeman in, and Field grabbed the attention of a passerby. “Who lives in that house?”

“Why, that’s Sam Brannan’s house. Big Mormon fellow? Runs damn near the whole of this town and all of Sacramento as well. His Vigilante Society has been rustling up all the lawless, throwing a necktie party for anyone who steps out of line. Justice is never blind with Brannan around.”

“I see. Is Mr. Brannan in town now?”

“I wouldn’t think so. He spends most of his time in Sacramento these days.”

Field thanked the man, and thought.

He thought just long enough to give Captain Wakeman time to “give the silent tribute of his superior penetration” to the lonely Mrs. Brannan. Then, with a decisive clip to his step, Field, too, strode up the front pathway past the hedgerow trimmed in architectural shapes, but he did not knock at the door. He turned the knob and dared enter the stranger’s house, bellowing out happily, “Sweetheart! I’m home!”

He was immediately gratified by the upstairs sounds of bodies crashing to the floor, frantic raspy whispering, and a window being thrown open.

An aghast servant appeared in the parlor doorway, his limp hands holding tea cups. “Master Brannan!” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not Master Brannan. Who do you be?”

“Someone more important than Sam Brannan,” Field replied before sallying back out the front doorway.

Chuckling to himself, Field circled the house to discover the window that had been thrown open. Captain Rushy Wakeman was now poised shirtless like a long-distance somersault leaper on the gutter below the window, one hand attempting to button his trousers, the other hand clinging to the gingerbread. A female hand appeared briefly at the window, tossing out Wakeman’s shirt and other accoutrements.

Field hid under the overhang while Captain Wakeman took a clumsy leap with the seeming intention of shimmying down the drainpipe. Wakeman landed with a thud as his shirt and cravat rained down on his back. He leaped to his feet, gathering his garments, then saw Field.

“You!” he cried. “I don’t think you want a meeting with Brannan at this moment in time. He’s bound to be a little irate.” And he struck for Washington Street, but Field grabbed him by the bicep.

“Brannan’s not in town,” Field informed the sneaky fugitive. “It was I who hollered inside Brannan’s house.”

Wakeman stopped, stone-still. He was a sensual-seeming man, with full, luscious lips and those infernal hazel eyes. He apparently got the gist of Field’s intent, for his eyes became hooded with suspicion. “Why’d you do that, brother?” He attempted a grin. “Ruin a fellow’s good time?”

As much as he tended to like this captain fellow, Field had to maintain control. “Because I aim to use what I know about you to my own advantage,” he admitted. “I know you didn’t just assemble that boat in Los Angeles because I’m an engineer from New York and have built many engines in my time. That thing there on the El Dorado is a walking beam engine of the sort we used to tinker with two years ago. And I saw you fall into the water—you didn’t just lose your papers. You stole that boat. And now you’re upstairs in Sam Brannan’s home screwing his wife in full blast right under his own roof.”

Wakeman squared his body to Field and faced him head-on. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to partner up. Tomorrow I’ve got engine parts coming into the harbor from New York, parts intended for a locomotive steam engine, but I can alter it sure enough. If you give me a stake in that vessel, I’ll donate the engine, and I can guarantee you she’ll be the fastest on the Sacramento River. How many passengers does she carry?”

“About three hundred,” Wakeman said guardedly. “Or four hundred, if you cram a hundred ricemen into the china hold. You’re an ingenious class of person,” he added quickly, as if afraid to give up too much information. “What would you get out of this venture?”

“Ownership of half of the fastest steamer on the Sacramento.” Field shrugged.

Wakeman gaped at him. “Half? For doing what—providing me with a new engine?”

“A new engine that’ll make you tens of thousands of dollars the first year.” Field shrugged again. “Or, have the leader of the Vigilance Committee chasing you down with a pack of reckless backwoods Missourians who smell blood.”