One of the other Mulrooneys stepped up the plank. “What manifest?” he demanded. “This ain’t cargo, it’s personal belongings.”
“Anything heavy as that pays cargo,” the deckhand said. “Rules is rules and they apply to Bluebellies same as to better folks.”
“Bluebellies, is it? Ye damned Copperhead, I’ll pound ye up into horsemeat!” And the Mulrooney hit the deckhand on the side of the head and knocked him down.
The second crew member stepped forward and hit the Mulrooney on the side of the head and knocked him down.
Another of the Guards jumped in and hit the second crewman on the side of the head and knocked him down.
The first deckhand got up and the first Mulrooney got up, minus his hat, and began swinging at each other. The second crewman got up and began swinging at the second Mulrooney. The other members of the Guards, shouting encouragement, formed a tight circle around the fighting men — all except for the four carrying the heavy wooden crate.
Those Mulrooneys struggled up the stageplank with their burden and disappeared among the confusion on the main deck.
The fight did not last long. Several roustabouts and one of the steamer’s mates hurried onto the landing and broke it up. No one seemed to have been injured, save for the two deckhands who were both unconscious. The mate seemed undecided as to what to do, finally concluded that to do nothing at all was the best recourse; he turned up the plank again. Four roustabouts carried the limp crewmen up after him, followed by the Guards who were all now loudly singing “John Brown’s Body.”
Hattie asked O’Hara, “Now what was that all about?”
“War business,” he told her solemnly. “California’s a long way from the battlefields, but feelings and loyalties are as strong here as in the East.”
“But who are the Mulrooney Guards?”
Before O’Hara could answer, a tall man wearing a Prince Albert, who was standing next to Hattie, swung toward them and smiled and said, “I couldn’t help overhearing the lady’s question. If you’ll pardon the intrusion, I can supply an answer.”
O’Hara looked the tall man over and decided he was a gambler. He had no particular liking for gamblers, but for the most part he was tolerant of them. He said the intrusion was pardoned, introduced himself and Hattie, and learned that the tall man was John A. Colfax, of San Francisco.
Colfax had gray eyes that were both congenial and cunning. In his left hand he continually shuffled half a dozen small bronze war-issue cents — coinage that was not often seen in the West. He said, “The Mulrooney Guards is a more or less official militia company, one of several supporting the Union cause. They have two companies, one in San Francisco and one in Stockton. I imagine this one is joining the other for some sort of celebration.”
“Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day,” O’Hara told him.
“Ah, yes, of course.”
“Ye seem to know quite a bit about these lads, Mr. Colfax.”
“I am a regular passenger on the Delta Star,” Colfax said. “On the Sacramento packets as well. A traveling man picks up a good deal of information.”
O’Hara said blandly, “Aye, that he does.”
Hattie said, “I wonder what the Mulrooneys have in that crate?”
Colfax allowed as how he had no idea. He seemed about to say something further, but the appearance of three closely grouped men, hurrying through the crowd toward the stageplank, claimed his attention. The one in the middle, O’Hara saw, wore a broadcloth suit and a nervous, harried expression; cradled in both hands against his body was a large and apparently heavy valise. The two men on either side were more roughly dressed, had revolvers holstered at their hips. Their expressions were dispassionate, their eyes watchful.
O’Hara frowned and glanced at Colfax. The gambler watched the trio climb the plank and hurry up the aft stairway; then he said quietly, as if to himself, “It appears we’ll be carrying more than passengers and cargo this trip.” He regarded the O’Haras again, touched his hat, said it had been a pleasure talking to them, and moved away to board the riverboat.
Hattie looked at her husband inquiringly. He said, “Gold.”
“Gold, Fergus?”
“That nervous chap had the look of a banker, the other two of deputies. A bank transfer of specie or dust from here to Stockton — or so I’m thinking.”
“Where will they keep it?”
“Purser’s office, mayhap. Or the pilothouse.”
Hattie and O’Hara climbed the plank. As they were crossing the main deck, the three men appeared again on the stairway; the one in the broadcloth suit looked considerably less nervous now. O’Hara watched them go down onto the landing. Then, shrugging, he followed Hattie up the stairs to the weather deck. They stopped at the starboard rail to await departure.
Hattie said, “What did you think of Mr. Colfax?”
“A slick-tongued lad, even for a gambler. But ye’d not want to be giving him a coin to put in a village poor box for ye.”
She laughed. “He seemed rather interested in the delivery of gold, if that’s what it was.”
“Aye, so he did.”
At exactly four o’clock the Delta Star’s whistle sounded; her buckets churned the water, steam poured from her twin stacks. She began to move slowly away from the wharf. All up and down the Embarcadero now, whistles sounded and the other packets commenced backing down from their landings. The waters of the bay took on a chaotic appearance as the boats maneuvered for right-of-way. Clouds of steam filled the sky; the sound of pilot whistles was angry and shrill.
Once the Delta Star was clear of the wharves and of other riverboats, her speed increased steadily. Hattie and O’Hara remained at the rail until San Francisco’s low, sun-washed skyline had receded into the distance; then they went in search of a steward, who took them to their stateroom. Its windows faced larboard, but its entrance was located inside a tunnellike hallway down the center of the texas. Spacious and opulent, the cabin contained carved rosewood paneling and red plush upholstery. Hattie said she thought it was grand. O’Hara, who had never been particularly impressed by Victorian elegance, said he imagined she would be wanting to freshen up a bit — and that, so as not to be disturbing her, he would take a stroll about the decks.
“Stay away from the liquor buffet,” Hattie said. “The day is young, if I make my meaning clear.”
O’Hara sighed. “I had no intention of visiting the liquor buffet,” he lied, and sighed again, and left the stateroom.
He wandered aft, past the officers’ quarters. When he emerged from the texas he found himself confronted by the huge A-shaped gallows frame that housed the cylinder, valve gear, beam and crank of the walking-beam engine. Each stroke of the piston produced a mighty roar and hiss of escaping steam. The noise turned O’Hara around and sent him back through the texas to the forward stairway.
Ahead of him as he started down were two men who had come out of the pilothouse. One was tall, with bushy black hair and a thick mustache apparently a passenger. The second wore a square-billed cap and the sort of stern, authoritative look that would have identified him as the Delta Star’spilot even without the cap. At this untroubled point in the journey, the packet would be in the hands of a cub apprentice.
The door to the Gentlemen’s Saloon kept intruding on O’Hara’s thoughts as he walked about the deckhouse. Finally he went down to the main deck. Here, in the open areas and in the shedlike expanse beneath the superstructures, deck passengers and cargo were pressed together in noisy confusion: men and women and children, wagons and animals and chickens in coops; sacks, bales, boxes, hogsheads, cords of bull pine for the roaring fireboxes under the boilers. And, too, the Mulrooney Guards, who were loosely grouped near the taffrail, alternately singing “The Girl I Left Behind Me” and passing around jugs of what was likely poteen — a powerful homemade Irish whiskey.