Rudolph Wurlitzer - The Drop Edge of Yonder

He lost all sense of time, aware only that he was still being carried on a stretcher and that somehow the jungle was receding. Towards evening they reached the crest of a hill where a soft wind was stirring through clumps of bunchgrass. Around him Argonauts began to weep and offer prayers of gratitude.

The conductor propped him up. "Take a look. From sea to shining sea."

White clouds swept across a deep green valley. Further on, beyond a range of rolling green hills, he could see the Pacific. In the opposite direction, the Caribbean was visible over a thick roof of steaming jungle.

As Zebulon stood up, spreading his arms towards the two oceans, a large yellow butterfly circled his head, then two more, until his legs buckled and he collapsed.

e woke to groans and cries of pain. Around him men lay on rows of wooden bunks. He was on a ship, that much was clear, and for a moment he thought he was at sea again. Propping himself against a bulkhead, he looked out a porthole at a church spire rising above the red-tiled roofs of a town.

"Welcome to hell, pilgrim." It was the Irishman on the next bunk. "The only way out is feet first and a drop into the slop."

Zebulon sank back, covering his eyes with his arm.

"I went down right after you," the Irishman said, saliva drooling from his mouth. "But I'm too ornery to let a jungle bug get me. Most of the poor bastards in here aren't sure if they're dead or alive, and from the looks of you, you might not be either. Not that anyone cares."

Zebulon passed out, and when he opened his eyes, the Irishman's bunk was empty.

Hours later, or maybe it was a day or two, the doctor, a small man with a bulging alcoholic nose, made his rounds, followed by a nurse holding a handkerchief over her face against the stench of vomit, urine, and death. Once, she paused to tie a tag around the blue toe of an unfortunate who hadn't made it through the night.

"I was convinced you were dead meat when I first saw you," the doctor said, taking his pulse. "In fact, I even bet on it as you were being carried in. But you're one of the lucky ones. Not like some of your bunch who came in with cholera or typhoid fever. You're hard to figure. It might be a parasite. Whatever it is, it's obviously sucking all the life out of you. We'll keep you for a few weeks. Bleed a few ounces out of you to purify the blood. Throw in some camphor and hot-water emetics, mix in a little ginger and pepper and hope for the best. Maybe try calomel until your gums begin to bleed. Not much else to do. By rights you should be shark feed."

The nurse, a white thin-lipped Baptist with sparse tufts of gray hair across her skull, nodded her approval, convinced that anyone that ended up in this wretched hospital ship had been consigned there for God's punishment. As the doctor moved on to check the next patient, she bent her head towards Zebulon's ear: "You're under quarantine until we find out what's wrong with you. If you make an attempt to leave, you'll be shot out of hand. Nothing personal, but we have to guard against plagues. Those are the rules."

He slept away the days and weeks in a pool of night sweats, waking only to relieve himself. He was half-aware of being force-fed various foul medicines followed by water and a thin gruel that passed for soup. When someone tried to remove Delilah's gold and ruby necklace from his neck, he automatically reached for the knife he kept tied to his belt and slashed off the thief's hand. The act brought yells of approval from several patients, many of whom, in their deliriums, were on constant guard against pirate attacks and Mexican revolutionaries, not to mention the doctor and his nurse.

As long as it wasn't raining, which it was more often than not, he was encouraged to pass his afternoons on the upper deck, taking in the sun on a straw mat. One evening, as the sun was setting across the harbor, he noticed a ship sailing out towards the open sea.

It was The Rhinelander.

It was another month before he was given permission to go ashore, the doctor having finally dismissed his illness as "delusional."

A few days later he boarded a Portuguese whaler bound for the Bering Strait with a lengthy stopover for repairs in Mazatlan, before sailing on to Monterey and San Francisco.

'HEN THE WHALER SAILED INTO SAN FRANCISCO BAY SIX weeks later, half the city was in flames and black soot-filled clouds sagged over the water like shrouds. Through the flames Zebulon could see the smoky silhouette of the shore and the hills surrounding the city, where thousands of tents and canvascovered shacks were sprawled around iron buildings that had been shipped in from the eastern states. The Captain and the Portuguese crew were afraid to set foot on land, convinced that the entire West Coast had been seized by a biblical conflagration; a disaster brought on, they had no doubt, by the godless scum of the earth who had deserted families, traditions, and religions to rush off to the gold fields. The ship remained anchored in the bay for six days until a squall drenched the last of the fires. Finally, fears suspended, if not relieved, the ship made its way towards a long line of wharfs, passing hundreds of deserted vessels along the way.

Zebulon disembarked into a furious crowd of hawkers yelling offers for supplies, whores, jobs, flop houses, peep shows, and business deals. Now that his hooves were planted on earth, he promised himself that he would never embark on a ship again. Here was the Promised Land. Here was freedom from the past, a chance to break loose. He let out a loud mountain yell, causing a horse and wagon to bolt off the dock. Never mind Delilah or Hatchet Jack or being trapped between worlds. Never mind what his Ma or Pa or anyone else had said or thought or done. From now on, whatever hell awaited him would be of his own choosing.

He walked off the dock and shouldered his way into the first saloon he came to — three stitched-together army tents supported by empty crates and scrap iron. The bar was fashioned out of two wooden planks, each twenty feet long, propped up on empty whiskey barrels. Every inch was jammed with newly arrived immigrants and prospectors: Kanakas from the South Seas, Hawaiians, Cubans, Peruvians, Chinese, Russians, as well as all sorts of Europeans and foot-loose Americans. The only subject in the saloon was gold: where to find it, how to mine it, how to spend it.

He drank through the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, not moving except to relieve himself in a long ditch outside the tent. The more whiskey he consumed, the more he thought of Delilah, as if his exhilaration had given her an open invitation to invade him, and the more he tried to shut her down, the more present and haunting her spirit became.

When he finally staggered outside, it was dark and a soft mist was drifting over the waterfront and the hills. Not knowing where to go and preferring higher ground, he climbed a hill towards a collection of shanties and tents thrown together out of canvas, potato sacks, old shirts, and whatever else was available. When the mist turned to rain, followed by a violent downpour, he crawled into a shack. Inside, two men in red long johns sat near a crude stove made out of barrels, playing poker on a wooden crate. The older man's head was as smooth and shiny as a bullet. When he looked up at Zebulon, the tattoo of a sperm whale bobbed across his Adam's apple.

"Come far, partner?" the man asked.

Zebulon sank down by the stove. "Far enough to know better."