[Fic] Blue Moon (for shuriken7)
Title: Blue Moon (by akisilver)
Recipient: shuriken7
Characters: Alfred & Arthur
Rating: PG
Warnings: Possibly too much historical accuracy and too little storyline?
Summary: Panning for gold wasn't working out, too little being found these days. Alfred arrives in Sacramento City, a small town on the edge of mining country. Hopefully he'd find something better there.
Notes: This wasn't originally what I was going to write, but it's at least more in period. The original idea was finding Alfred's Gold Rush journal and reading passages from it, which I'll probably still try and finish. I can work a pairing into that one, this not so much. But hopefully its not too boring? This one is at least better than the last two attempts.
Alfred squelched into Sacramento City one relatively dry May morning, his satchel tied across his back and tools attached to his belt. The boot-sucking mud was always worse in the town and a good ways outside the town where the squatter's shacks lay surrounding. One had to be careful how they walked or lose one. After a hard winter and little gold found, he was giving up on dreams of striking it rich. Only people getting rich nowadays were the store owners and saloons. He needed to get into that money. But first, he needed a drink.
A fellow Argonaut going the other way mentioned that the town had a couple disasters hit it that winter. It had been harsh for everyone then.There was a flood in January that wiped out a good portion of the town, one that barely missed in March, and then a fire the month before. If that wasn't enough there was a battle brewing between recent settlers and the speculators and owners of most of the land around here over who owned it and what kind of proof they had of it. Didn't help those who claimed they owned the land were trying to charge an arm and a leg for it. He figured if Sacramento City was too much trouble he'd take the ferry down and see what he could find there. After all, there was always San Francisco.
He bypassed a burned out shell of a building, stepping up onto the wooden sidewalk. No effort had been made in rebuilding it, but there was a tent set up inside. On another building, just recently repaired considering the fresh coat of paint, there was a crude paper sign advertising a squatter's meeting that night. Alfred didn't stop to read it, better not to get involved unless he had to. He found the saloon Blue Moon a few buildings away and stepped inside, rapping on the bar.
A blond man with messy hair turned towards him. The first thing Alfred noticed was the massive eyebrows. The next was the accent. British, he guessed. "Pinch of dust or penny a cup." the bartender said, wiping down a mug.
He pulled out his pouch and placed it on the counter, waiting. The bartender's hands were smaller than his, if he took a pinch it would be less. Sometimes they wanted to do it themselves, thinking miners were going to stiff them when there was never only one drink. It always paid off to wait and see which option he'd pick. The bartender placed a small locked wooden box on the table and opened it, looking as if he wanted to take his own, so Alfred held it out open to him. Transaction over, gold dust containers put safely away, a mug of beer was set down in front of him. Taking a sip he was pleasantly surprised it was good beer, and not watered down. Must have picked a good place.
"Yes, it's not that swill some Americans consider beer. I refuse to sell that rubbish." The bartender stated, noting his look.
"Everyone's trying to make a bit for themselves. 'Swhy we're all here." Alfred commented with a shrug, then nodded to outside. "City's seen better days."
"One calamity after another. If it wasn't for Bigelow's efforts we might have been washed away again. He's mayor now."
"And the squatters?"
The bartender rolled his eyes. "Nothing but trouble. They claim the speculators don't have proof they own some lands and charge exorbitantly for others. The speculators complain the squatters are stealing and ruining their property. It won't end well, trust me."
Alfred nodded, understanding. "Land claims are always trouble 'round here." Prospecting sites were no different, and getting worse by the day. Many a fight had broken out over claims, and some men had died for them. Was just another reason to get out of the business. "That's why I'm giving up on the gold. Too much trouble."
"Did you find much?"
"A little, spent most of it. Fortune's not in the finding anymore. I need to look for other work. Know of anything?"
The bartender eyed him appraisingly a moment, which meant one of the caterpillars he had for eyebrows leapt away from the other. It was slightly distracting and Alfred tried not to stare. "What can you do?"
"Worked on the family farm back home, real good at lifting and moving heavy things." Alfred explained, noting how much smaller the bartender was compared to him. Maybe he needed someone for the heavy lifting, or protection from rowdy miners that roamed into town."Decent enough at readin' & writin' too."
"You clean of any trouble?"
"No debts and no diseases."
It was a stroke of good luck that the bartender of the Blue Moon hired him on. His name was Arthur Kirkland, and he really was originally from England. Like most people in California territory these days, he had come over for the gold, but ran into trouble and ended up running this saloon instead. Arthur didn't tell him what the trouble was, and Alfred was smart enough to know not to ask. He was a bit prickly and fussy, but a good enough sort all the same. Just don't call him Artie. The blistering his ears received for that nickname lasted the whole day. For $1 a day plus room and board he carried crates and barrels to the bar, ran errands, cleaned the floor every morning and watched for trouble every night. The building actually belonged to a Chinaman by the name of Yao who let Arthur treat it as his own for a share of the profits. It was far more successful that way, as people were more willing to buy from an Englishman. Yao only stayed for a week or two on end, traveling back down to San Francisco at times, but whenever he was around he insisted upon cooking for them all. The food was odd, but hot, filling and a damn sight better than Arthur's attempts. He didn't think that many things were supposed to taste like they had been sitting in a campfire for far too long.
Despite Arthur's terrible cooking, and occasionally being particular about certain things, Alfred found that he was growing to like the man. He had an odd, almost morbid humor that when matched with a dry sarcasm had him holding his own against any man that came inside, drunk or sober. He had talked a few out of the bar with words alone, and when that didn't work the pistol under the counter combined with Alfred's strength did the rest. Compared to the last six months he had spent panning for gold and living alone in the miner's camps this was the best time he had since arriving in San Francisco aboard the Niantic.
Life was good inside, but not so much outside. A man was arrested for trespassing and when the court ruled against him supporters of the squatters took it as a personal insult. Handbills accusing the speculators of forcing the charge were littered about town, and there was talk in some areas of joining a man called Robinson to take them on. Everyone had an opinion, either for the squatters and bringing more immigration into the town, or with the speculators and doing things 'properly'. Personally, Alfred was for the squatters. The land owners were far more willing to cheat miners and settlers than anyone else. As the town became more and more polarized though, he found safety in keeping his mouth shut. He already had to end two bar fights just this week.
"Hey, Arthur. You're back quick. I finished the floor." Alfred called out one morning as Arthur came in from a morning errand. He had wanted to see to it himself and expected to be gone for a couple hours but was back in half that time. He shut and locked the main door firmly before approaching.
"They've jailed McClatchy and another supporter, James Moran." He said seriously, leaving a wrapped parcel on the bar. "The Law and Order militia the squatters formed is not going to like that. They'll probably march on the town anytime now."
"That sounds like a whole heap of trouble."
"It is. That's why if you don't want to be involved, I won't stop you from leaving. I'm sure you can sneak out the back and leave town if you need to."
Alfred paused, leaning on his broom. "But you're going to stay here?"
"It's my business, and my home. I won't run away."
"Well it's my home too. I've been here long enough to call it that. What kind of man would I be to leave you all by your lonesome? You might get hurt." With a confident smile, he picked up the broom again to return it to the back.
Arthur huffed in annoyance and followed him. "I'll have you know I can take care of myself."
"Sure. But what friend would leave you to protect the bar by yourself?"
Blinking, the bartender's eyebrows suddenly shot towards his hairline. He coughed a bit embarrassedly and looked away. "Yes, well, I suppose that is true. If you really want to stay I could use the help then, thank you."
Alfred grinned brightly. "Yes! They ain't bringing their battle in here. I'm not going to let 'em!" He paused at Arthur's raised eyebrow look, and then added, "We're not going to let 'em."
"Quite right."
Together they barricaded the front doors and with a pair of pistols and a shotgun that Arthur mysteriously pulled from somewhere, they peered out a window and waited for the militia to arrive. The street was deserted, other shops and homes waiting as well. The arrest of two leaders of the squatter's group had been the match lit on the powder-keg, and it would only be a matter of time before it went off. As the sound of marching footsteps approached, Alfred looked over to Arthur.
"Just want to let you know, I'm glad I came here."
Arthur gave him a small smile. "I'm glad you did too."
Recipient: shuriken7
Characters: Alfred & Arthur
Rating: PG
Warnings: Possibly too much historical accuracy and too little storyline?
Summary: Panning for gold wasn't working out, too little being found these days. Alfred arrives in Sacramento City, a small town on the edge of mining country. Hopefully he'd find something better there.
Notes: This wasn't originally what I was going to write, but it's at least more in period. The original idea was finding Alfred's Gold Rush journal and reading passages from it, which I'll probably still try and finish. I can work a pairing into that one, this not so much. But hopefully its not too boring? This one is at least better than the last two attempts.
Alfred squelched into Sacramento City one relatively dry May morning, his satchel tied across his back and tools attached to his belt. The boot-sucking mud was always worse in the town and a good ways outside the town where the squatter's shacks lay surrounding. One had to be careful how they walked or lose one. After a hard winter and little gold found, he was giving up on dreams of striking it rich. Only people getting rich nowadays were the store owners and saloons. He needed to get into that money. But first, he needed a drink.
A fellow Argonaut going the other way mentioned that the town had a couple disasters hit it that winter. It had been harsh for everyone then.There was a flood in January that wiped out a good portion of the town, one that barely missed in March, and then a fire the month before. If that wasn't enough there was a battle brewing between recent settlers and the speculators and owners of most of the land around here over who owned it and what kind of proof they had of it. Didn't help those who claimed they owned the land were trying to charge an arm and a leg for it. He figured if Sacramento City was too much trouble he'd take the ferry down and see what he could find there. After all, there was always San Francisco.
He bypassed a burned out shell of a building, stepping up onto the wooden sidewalk. No effort had been made in rebuilding it, but there was a tent set up inside. On another building, just recently repaired considering the fresh coat of paint, there was a crude paper sign advertising a squatter's meeting that night. Alfred didn't stop to read it, better not to get involved unless he had to. He found the saloon Blue Moon a few buildings away and stepped inside, rapping on the bar.
A blond man with messy hair turned towards him. The first thing Alfred noticed was the massive eyebrows. The next was the accent. British, he guessed. "Pinch of dust or penny a cup." the bartender said, wiping down a mug.
He pulled out his pouch and placed it on the counter, waiting. The bartender's hands were smaller than his, if he took a pinch it would be less. Sometimes they wanted to do it themselves, thinking miners were going to stiff them when there was never only one drink. It always paid off to wait and see which option he'd pick. The bartender placed a small locked wooden box on the table and opened it, looking as if he wanted to take his own, so Alfred held it out open to him. Transaction over, gold dust containers put safely away, a mug of beer was set down in front of him. Taking a sip he was pleasantly surprised it was good beer, and not watered down. Must have picked a good place.
"Yes, it's not that swill some Americans consider beer. I refuse to sell that rubbish." The bartender stated, noting his look.
"Everyone's trying to make a bit for themselves. 'Swhy we're all here." Alfred commented with a shrug, then nodded to outside. "City's seen better days."
"One calamity after another. If it wasn't for Bigelow's efforts we might have been washed away again. He's mayor now."
"And the squatters?"
The bartender rolled his eyes. "Nothing but trouble. They claim the speculators don't have proof they own some lands and charge exorbitantly for others. The speculators complain the squatters are stealing and ruining their property. It won't end well, trust me."
Alfred nodded, understanding. "Land claims are always trouble 'round here." Prospecting sites were no different, and getting worse by the day. Many a fight had broken out over claims, and some men had died for them. Was just another reason to get out of the business. "That's why I'm giving up on the gold. Too much trouble."
"Did you find much?"
"A little, spent most of it. Fortune's not in the finding anymore. I need to look for other work. Know of anything?"
The bartender eyed him appraisingly a moment, which meant one of the caterpillars he had for eyebrows leapt away from the other. It was slightly distracting and Alfred tried not to stare. "What can you do?"
"Worked on the family farm back home, real good at lifting and moving heavy things." Alfred explained, noting how much smaller the bartender was compared to him. Maybe he needed someone for the heavy lifting, or protection from rowdy miners that roamed into town."Decent enough at readin' & writin' too."
"You clean of any trouble?"
"No debts and no diseases."
It was a stroke of good luck that the bartender of the Blue Moon hired him on. His name was Arthur Kirkland, and he really was originally from England. Like most people in California territory these days, he had come over for the gold, but ran into trouble and ended up running this saloon instead. Arthur didn't tell him what the trouble was, and Alfred was smart enough to know not to ask. He was a bit prickly and fussy, but a good enough sort all the same. Just don't call him Artie. The blistering his ears received for that nickname lasted the whole day. For $1 a day plus room and board he carried crates and barrels to the bar, ran errands, cleaned the floor every morning and watched for trouble every night. The building actually belonged to a Chinaman by the name of Yao who let Arthur treat it as his own for a share of the profits. It was far more successful that way, as people were more willing to buy from an Englishman. Yao only stayed for a week or two on end, traveling back down to San Francisco at times, but whenever he was around he insisted upon cooking for them all. The food was odd, but hot, filling and a damn sight better than Arthur's attempts. He didn't think that many things were supposed to taste like they had been sitting in a campfire for far too long.
Despite Arthur's terrible cooking, and occasionally being particular about certain things, Alfred found that he was growing to like the man. He had an odd, almost morbid humor that when matched with a dry sarcasm had him holding his own against any man that came inside, drunk or sober. He had talked a few out of the bar with words alone, and when that didn't work the pistol under the counter combined with Alfred's strength did the rest. Compared to the last six months he had spent panning for gold and living alone in the miner's camps this was the best time he had since arriving in San Francisco aboard the Niantic.
Life was good inside, but not so much outside. A man was arrested for trespassing and when the court ruled against him supporters of the squatters took it as a personal insult. Handbills accusing the speculators of forcing the charge were littered about town, and there was talk in some areas of joining a man called Robinson to take them on. Everyone had an opinion, either for the squatters and bringing more immigration into the town, or with the speculators and doing things 'properly'. Personally, Alfred was for the squatters. The land owners were far more willing to cheat miners and settlers than anyone else. As the town became more and more polarized though, he found safety in keeping his mouth shut. He already had to end two bar fights just this week.
"Hey, Arthur. You're back quick. I finished the floor." Alfred called out one morning as Arthur came in from a morning errand. He had wanted to see to it himself and expected to be gone for a couple hours but was back in half that time. He shut and locked the main door firmly before approaching.
"They've jailed McClatchy and another supporter, James Moran." He said seriously, leaving a wrapped parcel on the bar. "The Law and Order militia the squatters formed is not going to like that. They'll probably march on the town anytime now."
"That sounds like a whole heap of trouble."
"It is. That's why if you don't want to be involved, I won't stop you from leaving. I'm sure you can sneak out the back and leave town if you need to."
Alfred paused, leaning on his broom. "But you're going to stay here?"
"It's my business, and my home. I won't run away."
"Well it's my home too. I've been here long enough to call it that. What kind of man would I be to leave you all by your lonesome? You might get hurt." With a confident smile, he picked up the broom again to return it to the back.
Arthur huffed in annoyance and followed him. "I'll have you know I can take care of myself."
"Sure. But what friend would leave you to protect the bar by yourself?"
Blinking, the bartender's eyebrows suddenly shot towards his hairline. He coughed a bit embarrassedly and looked away. "Yes, well, I suppose that is true. If you really want to stay I could use the help then, thank you."
Alfred grinned brightly. "Yes! They ain't bringing their battle in here. I'm not going to let 'em!" He paused at Arthur's raised eyebrow look, and then added, "We're not going to let 'em."
"Quite right."
Together they barricaded the front doors and with a pair of pistols and a shotgun that Arthur mysteriously pulled from somewhere, they peered out a window and waited for the militia to arrive. The street was deserted, other shops and homes waiting as well. The arrest of two leaders of the squatter's group had been the match lit on the powder-keg, and it would only be a matter of time before it went off. As the sound of marching footsteps approached, Alfred looked over to Arthur.
"Just want to let you know, I'm glad I came here."
Arthur gave him a small smile. "I'm glad you did too."