Bret Harte - Under the Redwoods

Bret Harte

Under the Redwoods

JIMMYS BIG BROTHER FROM CALIFORNIA

As night crept up from the valley that stormy afternoon, Sawyers Ledge was at first quite blotted out by wind and rain, but presently reappeared in little nebulous star-like points along the mountain side, as the straggling cabins of the settlement were one by one lit up by the miners returning from tunnel and claim. These stars were of varying brilliancy that evening, two notably soone that eventually resolved itself into a many-candled illumination of a cabin of evident festivity; the other into a glimmering taper in the window of a silent one. They might have represented the extreme mutations of fortune in the settlement that night: the celebration of a strike by Robert Falloner, a lucky miner; and the sick-bed of Dick Lasham, an unlucky one.

The latter was, however, not quite alone. He was ministered to by Daddy Folsom, a weak but emotional and aggressively hopeful neighbor, who was sitting beside the wooden bunk whereon the invalid lay. Yet there was something perfunctory in his attitude: his eyes were continually straying to the window, whence the illuminated Falloner festivities could be seen between the trees, and his ears were more intent on the songs and laughter that came faintly from the distance than on the feverish breathing and unintelligible moans of the sufferer.

Nevertheless he looked troubled equally by the condition of his charge and by his own enforced absence from the revels. A more impatient moan from the sick man, however, brought a change to his abstracted face, and he turned to him with an exaggerated expression of sympathy.

In course! Lordy! I know jest what those pains are: kinder ez ef you was havin a tooth pulled that had roots branchin all over ye! My! Ive jest had em so bad I couldnt keep from yellin! Thats hot rheumatics! Yes, sir, I oughter know! And (confidentially) the singler thing about em is that they get worse jest as theyre going offsorter wringin yer hand and punchin ye in the back to say Good-by. There! he continued, as the man sank exhaustedly back on his rude pillow of flour-sacks. There! didnt I tell ye? Yell be all right in a minit, and ez chipper ez a jay bird in the mornin. Oh, dont tell me about rheumaticsIve bin thar! Ony mine was the cold kindthat hangs on longestyours is the hot, that burns itself up in no time!

If the flushed face and bright eyes of Lasham were not enough to corroborate this symptom of high fever, the quick, wandering laugh he gave would have indicated the point of delirium. But the too optimistic Daddy Folsom referred this act to improvement, and went on cheerfully: Yes, sir, youre better now, andhere he assumed an air of cautious deliberation, extravagant, as all his assumptions wereI aint sayin thatefyouwastoriseup (very slowly) and heave a blanket or two over your shouldersjest by way o caution, you knowand leanin on me, kinder meander over to Bob Falloners cabin and the boys, it wouldnt do you a heap o good. Changes o this kind is often prescribed by the faculty. Another moan from the sufferer, however, here apparently corrected Daddys too favorable prognosis. Oh, all right! Well, perhaps ye know best; and Ill jest run over to Bobs and say how as ye aint comin, and will be back in a jiffy!

The letter, said the sick man hurriedly, the letter, the letter!

Daddy leaned suddenly over the bed. It was impossible for even his hopefulness to avoid the fact that Lasham was delirious. It was a strong factor in the caseone that would certainly justify his going over to Falloners with the news. For the present moment, however, this aberration was to be accepted cheerfully and humored after Daddys own fashion. Of coursethe letter, the letter, he said convincingly; thats what the boys hev bin singin jest now

Thats what you heard, and a mighty purty song it is too, and kinder clings to you. Its wonderful how these things gets in your head.

The letterwritesend moneymoneymoney, and the photographthe photographphotographmoney, continued the sick man, in the rapid reiteration of delirium.

In course you willto-morrowwhen the mail goes, returned Daddy soothingly; plenty of them. Jest now you try to get a snooze, will ye? Hol on!take some o this.

There was an anodyne mixture on the rude shelf, which the doctor had left on his morning visit. Daddy had a comfortable belief that what would relieve pain would also check delirium, and he accordingly measured out a dose with a liberal margin to allow of waste by the patient in swallowing in his semi-conscious state. As he lay more quiet, muttering still, but now unintelligibly, Daddy, waiting for a more complete unconsciousness and the opportunity to slip away to Falloners, cast his eyes around the cabin. He noticed now for the first time since his entrance that a crumpled envelope bearing a Western post-mark was lying at the foot of the bed. Daddy knew that the tri-weekly post had arrived an hour before he came, and that Lasham had evidently received a letter. Sure enough the letter itself was lying against the wall beside him. It was open. Daddy felt justified in reading it.

It was curt and businesslike, stating that unless Lasham at once sent a remittance for the support of his brother and sistertwo children in charge of the writerthey must find a home elsewhere. That the arrears were long standing, and the repeated promises of Lasham to send money had been unfulfilled. That the writer could stand it no longer. This would be his last communication unless the money were sent forthwith.

It was by no means a novel or, under the circumstances, a shocking disclosure to Daddy. He had seen similar missives from daughters, and even wives, consequent on the varying fortunes of his neighbors; no one knew better than he the uncertainties of a miners prospects, and yet the inevitable hopefulness that buoyed him up. He tossed it aside impatiently, when his eye caught a strip of paper he had overlooked lying upon the blanket near the envelope. It contained a few lines in an unformed boyish hand addressed to my brother, and evidently slipped into the letter after it was written. By the uncertain candlelight Daddy read as follows:

Dear Brother, Rite to me and Cissy rite off. Why aint you done it? Its so long since you rote any. Mister Recketts ses you dont care any more. Wen you rite send your fotograff. Folks here ses I aint got no big bruther any way, as I disremember his looks, and cant say wots like him. Cissys kryin all along of it. Ive got a hedake. William Walker make it ake by a blo. So no more at present from your loving little bruther Jim.

The quick, hysteric laugh with which Daddy read this was quite consistent with his responsive, emotional nature; so, too, were the ready tears that sprang to his eyes. He put the candle down unsteadily, with a casual glance at the sick man. It was notable, however, that this look contained less sympathy for the ailing big brother than his emotion might have suggested. For Daddy was carried quite away by his own mental picture of the helpless children, and eager only to relate his impressions of the incident. He cast another glance at the invalid, thrust the papers into his pocket, and clapping on his hat slipped from the cabin and ran to the house of festivity. Yet it was characteristic of the man, and so engrossed was he by his one idea, that to the usual inquiries regarding his patient he answered, hes all right, and plunged at once into the incident of the dunning letter, reservingwith the instinct of an emotional artistthe childs missive until the last. As he expected, the money demand was received with indignant criticisms of the writer.