Chapter Thirty-Six
Port Essington
The weather turned out mostly fair for traveling, and we didn’t encounter any untoward incidents on our way back to Port Essington. The mosquitoes weren’t as bad, either, but we slathered ourselves with the marigold ointment anyway, to keep off the bugs that were around.
Oscar’s mood remained morose for the first days of our journey. I don’t think he regretted what he’d done, but he missed that horse, and I reckoned he missed those children, too, like I did. There was something joyful about the innocence of wee ones, who were full of life and optimistic promise.
The second night of our journey, Oscar woke me from a deep sleep.
“Jimmy.”
“Hmm? What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’. But I can’t sleep.”
I turned on my bedroll to wrap my arm around him and snug him close.
“You want me to sing to you?”
He didn’t say anything for a moment.
“Maybe you could read to me, instead?”
I squinted in the darkness, trying to see his expression, but ’twas too dark.
“All right. I’ll light the lantern.”
’Twas a warm night, so I was only on top of my bedroll. I found the lantern and lit it, then got the book that Sally had gifted me the day before we’d left.
“You’re almost done with that book,” Oscar said, as I sat down near him, with my back against a convenient rock. “Is it good?”
“Yeah, ‘tis real good,” I said, smiling at him. “C’mere then.”
Oscar scooched o’er so that he could lean against the rock and snuggle against me, while the campfire crackled and the lantern hissed.
“Now this here story is told from Buck’s point of view—that’s the dog who’s half St. Bernard and half Scotch Shepard—about his life up in the Yukon, after a slew of owners that mistreated him and some who only looked on him as a useful servant.”
“Okay.”
“Only now he’s with a man who’s caring and loving of him, and he talks about how that feels after a life of toil and cruelty.”
I flattened the page and held it so ’twas bathed in light from the lantern, then began to read.
“This man had saved his life, which was something; but, further, he was the ideal master. Other men saw to the welfare of their dogs from a sense of duty and business expediency; he saw to the welfare of his as if they were his own children, because he could not help it. And he saw further. He never forgot a kindly greeting or a cheering word, and to sit down for a long talk with them—‘gas’ he called it—was as much his delight as theirs. He had a way of taking Buck’s head roughly between his hands, and resting his own head upon Buck’s, of shaking him back and forth, the while calling him ill names that to Buck were love names.
Buck knew no greater joy than that rough embrace and the sound of murmured oaths, and at each jerk back and forth it seemed that his heart would be shaken out of his body so great was its ecstasy.
And when, released, he sprang to his feet, his mouth laughing, his eyes eloquent, his throat vibrant with unuttered sound, and in that fashion remained without movement, John Thornton would reverently exclaim, ‘God! You can all but speak!’
“Buck had a trick of love expression that was akin to hurt. He would often seize Thornton’s hand in his mouth and close so fiercely that the flesh bore the impress of his teeth for some time afterward.
And as Buck understood the oaths to be love words, so the man understood this feigned bite for a caress. ”
I stopped reading then, a heat spreading through my body that warmed me through, and I felt like we were both thinking how these words expressed some of what we felt for each other.
Sure enough, Oscar stirred against me.
“Jimmy, that’s…why, that’s us! That’s you and me, for sure. How is that possible?”
I shrugged, so glad that he saw in those words what I did—a connection based on love, respect and adoration, that didn’t find its strength in flowery words and romantic promises but in rough gestures and sharp jibes that meant much, much more when you looked beneath the surface.
“Well, I suppose the writer maybe had feelings like that, possibly for another man, and the only way he could express it was through the eyes of a male dog for his master, in this here story.”
I watched Oscar blink at this hypothesis then he nodded. “I reckon you might be right.”
He snuggled into me, and I kept reading, as the stars shone in the sky above and the promise of Port Essington and our home lay just out of reach.
* * * *
We rode into town late on the Thursday. The smell of the fish canneries greeted us before we got there, now that they’d gone full bore again, and there were lots more people walking the streets, even in the rain.
We got some queer looks, but nobody would directly question two men sharing a horse in these times.
Seemed fitting to arrive in a downpour once again, and we were right soaked by the time we rode up to Jensen’s Saloon. I pulled Dixie to a stop and helped Oscar slide off before getting down myself.
We stepped inside the door and right away, Carson Moore looked up from behind the bar. His face broke into a grin, and he whooped real loud, lifting his bar towel into the air.
“Oscar! Jimmy! You’re back!”
“Yeah, we’re back,” I said, glancing around the place. “I see nothin’ much has changed while we were gone.”
There were a few people at the tables, drinking and playing cards in the late afternoon, before the dinner rush.
Carson came around and strode o’er to us, holding out his hand.
“Welcome home, gentlemen.”
I greeted him as his gaze shifted between the two of us, and I remembered what he’d said to me before we’d left, about understanding the true nature of the relationship between Oscar and me.
But he seemed genuinely glad to see us, as if it didn’t make a difference to him and that he wouldn’t let on to anyone else what he’d figured out.
I only hoped the whole entire town wouldn’t be able to tell we were more’n real good friends.
“Good to see you, Jimmy!” he said. “And, Oscar, how’re you?”
Oscar took off his hat, droopy with water, and swiped the wet hair out of his face. “Soggy.”
Carson chuckled and clasped Oscar in a hearty hug that seemed to take him by surprise.
“Well, pull up a stool, and I’ll get you a towel and something to drink. You hungry?”
“I could use a drink and something to eat,” Oscar said. “Sorry to drip all over your saloon.”
“Don’t mind it one bit! Come on.”
We sat on stools at the bar while Carson went to get towels. When he came back, Tim Jensen was with him.
“Well, well, well, our fair travelers have returned,” he said, with a broad smile. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you,” I said. “’Tis real good to be back.”
’Twas good to have a place to call home, and I didn’t think I’d ever remembered feeling so welcome, except for back at The Angel.
“Did you have a successful trip?”
“We did,” I said, as Carson passed us each a towel and we dried our hair and our necks and hands.
’Twas not pleasant to be wearin’ our wet clothes, but the rain was still sheeting, and I’d rather wait for it to lighten up before we headed out to the homestead.
We needed something to drink and eat, anyway.
“Were you able to help where you were needed?”
“Yep,” Oscar said. “We came in all hero-like and we found the person that was missing. She’s all sorted now and in a better situation.”
Tim frowned. “I hope she wasn’t too badly off.”
Oscar glanced at me and shrugged. “Well, she’s better off now, that’s certain. So ’tis real good we went.” ’Twas probably better not to go into the details with Tim.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Anythin’ major happen while we were gone?” I asked.
Carson laughed as he put a pint of dark ale in front of each of us.
“Nope. Nothing of note, I don’t think. The same boring old cannery town that you left in the spring.”
I cocked my head. “You know, that makes me glad to hear. I’ve had enough goddamn excitement in my life. I reckon I’m ready for some long, dull days, personally.”
“Amen to that,” Oscar said, lifting his glass so we could toast to it.
Carson’s ale tasted like ambrosia on our tongues, which had been the only dry part of us. After I’d taken some long draws, I asked the question that had been on my mind since we’d left Telegraph Creek.
“The house all right?”
Some part of me worried he’d say it had got knocked down in a windstorm or the land had flooded, but he only smiled.
“It’s exactly the way you left it. I’ve been out to the place every week, and Irene and Clarence have checked it more often, I reckon.” Carson said.
The relief was like a wave passing o’er me, and I hadn’t realized how scared I’d been that the first real home I’d ever had as an adult would be taken from me, somehow.
Like how, every once in a while, I still felt like I’d lose Oscar.
The trouble with having good things in your life was knowing how bad ’twould be if or when they were gone.
“And that blasted cat won’t leave your front porch. Every time I go out there, she’s layin’ in front of the door, waiting for you two.”
“Sprite?” Oscar said, perking up from the drink and the mention of his beloved cat. “God, I’d almost forgotten about her. At least I’ve still got Sprite.”
Carson looked concerned, so I told him about Oscar giving Onyx away.
“That was a very selfless thing to do, Oscar,” Carson said. “I don’t know that I could have given away an animal that meant so much to me.
“Yeah.” Oscar cleared his throat. “’Twas hard, but I’m mostly glad I did it.”
I put my hand on Oscar’s back, then thought better of that and took it away. We needed to get used to being in public again.
Carson saw the gesture and smiled as I spoke to Oscar.
“Cal and the kids needed a good, kind horse. Giving them Onyx was the best thing you could have done, and I’m so proud of you.”
My voice was quiet, but Oscar and Carson heard what I’d said.
Oscar nodded and took another sip of his ale. He’d already eaten the slices of cheese and tear of bread that Tim had brought out.
“I suppose we’d better get home and out of these wet clothes,” I said, finally, after we’d chatted more and finished our drinks. “What do I owe you?”
“On the house. Consider it a welcome party.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I expect you’ll be seeing us around pretty often, now we’re back. You got any leads on work in town?”
“Well, there’s always the cannery. But let me ask around, and I’ll let you know.”
“Sounds good.”
“Bye,” Oscar said.
I knew he was plumb beat and probably sore. ’Twasn’t all that comfortable to ride double on a horse if you were the fellow in the back. I’d offered to trade off with him, but he’d said he preferred having me in front. Our clothes were damp and clammy, and I reckoned we only wanted to get home.