Billy bought lumber, paint, hardware, shingles. He hired carpenters and worked beside them. The happy cadence of hammers rang from sunup to sundown. The frame building was plain, but there would be time to add gingerbread later. The Treat Inn opened a month after the partnership was formed. The partners were seen together regularly around town.
Their inn offered three levels of accommodations. A large back
porch enclosed in mosquito netting provided twenty cots where low-budget pearl-hunters could sleep for two bits a night and eat common fare for another two bits a day.
The first floor of the inn consisted of small rooms patterned after riverboat staterooms, six-by-six, with double berths. Common washrooms, one for men and one for women, stood at the end of the hall.
Upstairs, half a dozen suites had brass bedsteads, private wash-, stands, mirrors, and armoires. Trevor Brigginshaw left Widow Humphry's place and took a suite in the Treat Inn. The good widow was actually a little relieved. The captain came home drunk once or twice a week, sang loudly in the middle of the night, and generally disturbed her other guests.
Billy's room adjoined the kitchen, behind the store. Carol Anne's room was above his. They were in debt by the time they opened, but immediately began catching up. The pearl rush was still building. Farmers, woodchoppers, and roustabouts rented cots. Clerks and professional men filled the staterooms. A few big planters and rich businessmen peopled the suites upstairs. Pearl-hunting appealed to all classes.
Carol Anne ordered stock for the store with pearl-hunters in mind. She sold knives suited to opening mussels, and all kinds of camp gear. She couldn't keep mosquito bars in stock.
“Keep some sandalwood oil on hand, if you can,” Billy suggested. “It keeps the pearls from drying out and improves their luster.”
Between cooking meals at the inn, Billy drove a well-stocked supply wagon to the South Shore pearling camps, which now extended from Annie Glade Bluff, past Taylor Island, to old Esau's place on Goose Prairie Cove. He sold almost everything in the wagon on each trip and took orders for more goods.
He often crossed paths with the open-topped coach from Joe Peavy's livery barn. It made a constant circuit through the camps and past the mussel beds, shuttling pearl-hunters to and from town. Passengers commonly paid their fees in seed pearls.
Peavy had also established a twice-weekly stagecoach service that ran south to Marshall, where he would pick up pearl-hunters who had
ridden the rails in from Louisiana. The stagecoach stopped right in front of the Treat Inn, and turned around at the wharf, swinging past the jailhouse.
Â
Â
In his kitchen at night, Billy made projections based on the gross profits the inn and the store had made so far. He estimated that he and Carol Anne would be out of debt by the time the lake level rose and the riverboats came back. Then they would start recouping their investments.
Pearling wound drop off severely when the water got too cool to make wading comfortable. Some pearlers would try to use George Blank's mussel rakes through the winter, but Billy knew few of them would stick with it. That kind of pearl-hunting was hard work, compared to the pleasures of summer wading. The pearl rush would lie virtually dormant until next spring, but the riverboats would be running, and that would sustain some measure of prosperity until the waters warmed.
He was being conservative when he judged that he and his partner would turn their first profit about July, next summer. Then he would ask her to marry him. They would have known each other over a year by then. He would have gotten around to kissing her by then, too, probably around Christmastime. Maybe under some mistletoe. He would marry her, and then it wouldn't matter if the Caddo Lake pearl industry went belly-up like a dead fish, or if the railroads forced riverboats into obsolescence, or if Port Caddo died and sank into the bayou. He would have Carol Anne for life. They could go somewhere else and start over.
For the first time in years, he was planning his future. He had once been an inordinate planner, but he was going to try to control that now that he was finally through grieving over his catastrophe in the South Pacific. Maybe what had happened there was his fault, and maybe it wasn't, but he couldn't punish himself forever.
Don't try to plan the lives of everyone in town, he thought. Just mind your own business, and give your advice when asked. That way,
if something goes wrong, you won't have to blame yourself. You don't have to save this town for these people. Let them do it themselves.
It was strange that he had found the pearl here. He of all people. There was more to it than just chance. It was as if the weeping angels and the gods who rode the rainbows were trying to tell him something. He had suffered enough. It was time to live again. He was in love with Carol Anne.
TREVOR BRIGGINSHAW HELD A GLASS OF WHISKEY IN ONE HAND, A CIGAR
in the other. His satchel full of pearls and money rested between his feet. He was on a Saturday-night tear at Esau's pearl camp and saloon. Someone had started him talking about pearling in the South Sea islands.
“I had my own vessel then. A sloop I called the
Wicked Whistler.
Just forty feet she was, but full-rigged and quick as a hungry shark.” The more he drank, the thicker his Aussie brogue became.
Esau's saloon was just a shack with some tables and chairs scattered around inside and out. At night, the men liked to come inside and smoke the place up with cigars and pipes to keep the mosquitoes out. There was no bar to lean against, but there was whiskeyâsome of it store-bought and labeled, some of it cooked in Esau's moonshine still that was hidden in the swamps.
“I had a four-pounder swivel gun mounted on the foredeck to discourage pirates,” Trevor continued, “and my pearl-handled pistol.” He pulled back his white cotton jacket to reveal his weapon.
“Pirates?” Judd Kelso spouted. He had been matching the pearl-buyer
drink for drink for about two hours. His bankroll had been shrinking all summer. He had lost most of it in card games with pearl-hunters. Now he was down to a few thin bills and was watching them go quickly into Esau's till. “I don't believe in no damn pirates!”
“Then you're either ignorant or a fool. There are thieves on the high seas as sure as you have them on land. What's the name of that outlaw gang about here, Esau?”
“Christmas Nelson's gang?” the old Indian said.
“Right! Bloody idiotic name, isn't it!”
“They say he was born on Christmas Day,” Esau said.
Kelso shifted in a creaking chair. “Christmas Nelson's just a good ol' rebel Southern boy who don't know the war's over yet. He ain't no damn pirate.”
“Of course he's not a pirate!” Trevor shouted. “He doesn't even have a boat! But there are pirates in the Southern Seas as sure as life. Common criminals is all. Ask Billy Treat. He narrowly escaped from them, he did.”
“What about that Billy Treat?” a backwoods farmer drawled. “He 'pears to know a hell of a lot about pearls. Where'd he come from to know so much?”
“I found him in New York City. Looked me up, he did. Said he wanted to go pearling. He had found a freshwater pearl in a stream in New Jersey and all he talked about was pearls. The Romans, the Greeks, what all the ancient civilizations thought about them. He was a strapping Yankee lad, so I took him where he might find some pearls.”
“You mean
damn
Yankee, don't you?” Kelso said.
The Australian's angry glare sliced toward the gator-eyed man.
“Where was it you took Billy to find pearls?” Esau asked, before Trevor's ire could reach its boiling point..
“Where? Bloody where did I not take him, mate! I was an independent buyer then. I fetched the best pearling waters of the Pacific every year, then sold my pearls in New York and London. Billy went 'round the Horn with meâthis was sixty-one, I recall, because the war had started hereâand he made a fair sailor. He had a look at Venezuela, Panama, Mexico. Didn't like what he saw until we got into the Pearl
Islands of the South Seas. That's where he became king of Mangareva, in the Gambier Islands.”
“Where?” Judd Kelso said, laughing disparagingly as if the place didn't exist.
Trevor set the cigar between his teeth. “Mangareva, I say, man! In the Gambiers. Volcanic islands they are, and Mangareva's the best pearl island among them. Bloody beautiful tropical spot that is, gentlemen. Green mountains rising from the sea. The water there is so clear you can see pearl oysters on the reef five fathoms deep. And the women! Dark-skinned as Esau here, fair as angels, and bare as babes above the hips, every one!”
“You mean naked?” a pearl-hunter asked.
“And willing! That's where Billy Treat jumped the
Wicked Whistler.
He made Mangareva the richest pearl island in the South Seas. Wasn't easy, either. The natives don't like work there. They like to catch fish, chop coconuts, lay about under the palm trees, swim a bit, and make little natives, but they don't like work.”
“How did Billy get them to work?” Esau asked, reaching for his flask.
“Not by my methods. I suggested he trade them rum for pearls. They like rum, they do. But he's against drink. You all know that. He wouldn't hear of it. So here's what he did. He became one of them! He bloody well did! He lived in a hut thatched with palm leaves, just like they did. He fished with them, chopped coconuts, learned everything they knew till he had their confidence.
“I left him there, and sailed to Sydney. When I came back to Mangareva several months later, he had the men, women, and children diving two hours a day, every one. And the pearls he had to trade looked like billiard balls compared to your little mussel pearls here.
“They loved Billy Treat on Mangareva. He had his pick from the whole lot of naked girls there, he did. I think he liked it there. Wouldn't you?”
“Damn right!” an old married pearl-hunter said, and laughter filled the smoky saloon.
“But wait!” Trevor said, after draining his glass and signaling Esau
for more. “The most peculiar thing about Billy in Mangareva was that he would dive with them every day. Maybe that's the way he got them to do it in the first placeâby example. He could hold his breath almost three minutes, he could. I clocked him one day. He would dive four fathoms and come up with oysters broad as my hat!” He flourished his panama at his listeners.
“By God, that's how he done it!” Junior Martin said. “I've heard how he saved seven drownin' men when the
Glory of Caddo Lake
went down. They say he stayed under three or four minutes getting John Crowell's boy out.”
“I was there,” said George Blank, the blacksmith. “I swear I had given him up for dead a full three minutes when he finally came up for air.”
Some of the pearl-hunters looked sideways at Judd Kelso when talk of the
Glory
started, but Kelso just sat remorselessly in his chair. He even snorted a little to show his disregard.
“That's how he learned pearls,” Trevor said. “He used to tell me his plans for preserving the oyster beds. He had everything scheduled to the year and month. He would protect the oysters in certain localities about Mangareva during certain years, to make sure the natives didn't harvest them all. He wasn't happy just to dive for them, either. He wanted to become the world's expert on pearls. He was going to spend five years diving for them, the next five buying them, like me, and the rest of his life acquiring and collecting them. I believe he would have done it, too, if the bloody pirates hadn't come to Mangareva.”
“Oh, hell,” Kelso groaned. “Here come the pirates again.”
“What about those pirates?” George Blank asked. “What happened?”
“Bloody pirates they were,” the captain said, putting out his cigar and sipping at his whiskey jar. “Outcasts from France, Spain, the East Indies, and South America. Cutthroats. No other name for them. They told Billy they wanted half the pearls the natives harvested or they would kill everyone in the village. Billy got mad then, he did. He had a pistol I had given him, and he put it against that pirate captain's head. He went with them to their schooner, holding that gun on the captain.
Made them throw their cannon off the bloody deck. Two six-pounders! He told them never to come back and threaten him again or he would have the natives boil them alive!”
“But they came back anyway, I guess,” Esau said.
“Aye, they came back, mate, and Billy knew they would. He was ready for them. He and his pearl-divers had brought those two six-pounders up from the harbor. He had learned how to shoot them, too, and borrowed some powder from the
wicked Whistler.
They kept a watch up day and night, and when those pirate bastards sailed into the harbor with new cannon and fired on the village, he crippled them good. Blew the mizzen mast away and sent them limping for Tahiti!”
“So, he whipped 'em!” Junior Martin said.
Trevor shook his head sadly and nudged his satchel with his foot to make sure it was still there. “They came back yet again, they did. I was there at Mangareva in sixty-seven when it happened. The guards were posted about the harbor, and Billy was ready for another attack by sea. But the bloody cutthroats had anchored out of sight, around the coast, and they sneaked into the mountains above the village. At dawn, they came down. Every one of them had a revolver and the best rifle available. Billy had only a few old muskets and the pistol I had given him.
“We fought at first, we did. But it was suicide to stay. I used all my ammunition and jumped in my launch to reach the
Wicked Whistler.
I told Billy to come, but he wouldn't. He tried to organize the natives, but they were scattering all over the place running like scared dogs. The bloody pirates were killing them everywhere. My God, what a mess that was. Young children killed, women violated. Billy stood on the beach and shouted, trying to pull the villagers together, but they didn't know much about fighting pirates. He wouldn't leave, so I knocked him on the head with my pistol butt, threw him in the launch, and took him away by force.”
“And you got away?” Junior Martin asked.
“Hell, he's here, ain't he?” George Jameson said, and the saloon shook with laughter.
“The pirates were shooting at the
Wicked
Whistler, but we were well out in the harbor. Once we got out around the reef, they had no chance of catching us.”
“What happened to the village?” Esau asked.
“Destroyed. The whole thing burned. Billy went well-nigh crazy with guilt. He swore he had brought death and ruin to those simple natives. He said I should have let him stay on the beach and allowed the pirates to kill him, too. Bloody stupid move that would have been. It wouldn't have helped anything, but Billy tortured himself.
“I had saved the Mangareva pearls in my launch when the Frenchmen attacked. When Billy found those pearls aboard the
Wicked Whistler,
he went screaming about the deck, throwing them in the ocean like a madman. I put him ashore in San Francisco. Never thought I'd see him again.”
The saloon fell silent, and Captain Brigginshaw took a swallow of Esau's moonshine.
“Well, I lost the
Wicked Whistler
last year in a bloody, wretched hurricane on Jamaica, so I've been buying pearls for International Gemstones to earn enough in commission to buy a new vessel.” He sneered a little when he mentioned his company's name. “I was in New York when Billy's letter came from here. He's not the same old Billy yet, gentlemen. Coming around a bit, but he's still got Mangareva on his conscience. Won't bother with pearls, either. Says they brought evil last time he fooled with them.
“Anyway, that's the story of Billy Treat. He knows pearls, he does. And a few other things as well.” He drained his jar and handed it to Esau for a refill.
Kelso had finished his drink, too, and got up to buy another. He smirked and shifted his ugly gator eyes as he crossed the smoky room. “So that's the story of Billy Treat. Hell, it all makes sense now. I see why he gets on so good with Pearl Cobb.” He stood beside Brigginshaw and held his glass up to Esau. “They belong together. Him a coward and her a whore.”
The blow came without the slightest warning. Kelso's eyes stood
level with the big Australian's shoulder, so the fist angled down on him, backhanding him to the floor. Esau moved gracefully aside. The saloon customers gasped, then sat still and quiet.
Kelso jumped up but, dizzied by the sudden stroke, stumbled back against a table whose legs rattled across the wooden floor like the hooves of a startled horse. He shook his head, touched his brow to check for blood, gathered himself, and rushed the pearl-buyer with grunts and gritting teeth.
Trevor doubled over and latched one big hand around the handle of his money satchel. Kelso's fist against his temple staggered him a single step, but he slung the smaller man aside with his free arm, sprawling him across a cracker barrel.
Some of the men left the saloon quickly, others merely stood and moved out of the way. A few smiled with excited eyes, and one shouted, “Get him, Captain!”
Trevor drew himself to his full height, holding the satchel in his left hand. He waved Kelso in with his right hand, then made a fist of it. “Come ahead, mate,” he said, his teeth showing a smile in the middle of his beard. “You're a little man, so I'll just use my one fist. I fight fair, you know.” He cocked his arm like a pugilist, elbow down, slightly bent, his fingers curling up and in toward himself.
Kelso stood and got both fists up. His eyes narrowed with anger. He moved in cautiously, staying out of reach, circling to the Australian's right. The moment he made his move, Trevor came around with the heavy satchel, catching Kelso in the head and bowling him into a shelf filled with jars and glasses.