The Prospector's Son

CALIFORNIA - 1847

A disheveled young man, Thomas Wilson, stands on a vast stretch of sandy beach, staring across the ocean at the setting sun. His eyes appear haunted, at the edge of lifelessness. His dirt stained hands hang by his sides, his beard is thick and untamed, his colourless clothes are worn and torn.

As the sun slips below the horizon, he turns and walks up the beach towards the dunes behind, his face now illuminate by the moonlight that begins it's reign of the skies.

Thomas sits facing the warm glow of his fire, scribbling in his journal.

December 27th, 1847. Why did I come here?

His campsite is a simple set up, positioned in a protected slack between four large sand dunes. A slightly greying bay thoroughbred horse stands tied to an imbedded shovel, a small canvas tent, a cooking pot hangs above the fire and a saddle sits in the sand alongside a large sack and a prospector's pan.

Hope hangs by a thread. A dissolvin' strand of spider silk barely supportin' the weight of my expectations. The beauty of this place is a mirage to the absence of any bounty. I searched Bixby Creek one last time. Nothin' but dust and rocks. No gold. Never any gold. Why did I come here?

He leans over to reach inside the discarded sack and pulls out a little black book. He lays it atop his journal and opens it. Inside is a hand drawn map of the California coastline with various landmarks indicated. He sticks a line through the area marked Bixby Creek.

Bixby Creek

He scans the rest of the map. Every named site has been struck through with a pencil mark.

He returns to his journal entry.

My fathers words echo in my head more and more with each failed day...

7 MONTHS AGO

The flickering light of two oil lamps illuminate a large tent. Lying on a table are various documents. The header on most of the pages reads: Wilson Mining Company. Upon the documents is the little black book, open on the map page.

A slightly less disheveled Thomas sits across the table from his father, Henry Wilson. A thick bearded man with the creases of age and hard work carved throughout his face. Henry runs his index finger over the pencil lines.

"Gold in California..." mumbles Henry, almost to himself.

Thomas glances at the tent opening and then leans in, his voice hushed.

"There was this fella at Ruby's last night who's been travelling out there. He was drinkin' and drinkin'...and after a while he started boastin' about stealing a map of an old prospector. Said the man was sure somewhere on that map was the next great deposit of gold. He weren't no miner but he said he's planning on telling his friend back home who's got mines in Tennessee. But we can get a head start on 'em if we leave now."

Henry's ears burn and he looks at his eager young son.

"Tennessee?"

"That's what he said"

"They'll be Marshall's mines."

Henry looks down at the map again and after a long pause he shakes his head.

"No son. The far west is a desert land filled with natives and Mexicans. Miles and miles of red dirt till you finally reach the sand beaches. After that, it's just endless ocean as far as a man can see. I've know men to go searching those parts for the next great rush, only to disappear...probably killed and left for dead by some savage. I know it seems like the promise of riches, but it ain't likely there's any gold out there. Not on some strangers drunken word."

Henry stands and walks past Thomas to leave, giving him a light pat on the shoulder.

Thomas snatches up the little black book and turns to face his father.

"You're wrong, Pop. I know it."

Henry stops by the tent entrance and looks back at his son. He see's the hunger for adventure in his eyes, for it is the same hunger that once fuelled him.

"Son. The only true wisdom in this life, is knowing you know nothing."

Henry leaves a determined Thomas alone with his thoughts and his map, contemplating his fathers words.

CALIFORNIA - 1847

Thomas is still writing in his journal.

Knowing I know nothing. Looks like you was right, Pop.

Thomas closes the journal and leans forward to stir the contents of the cooking pot. He scoops out a small mouthful and eats, nodding his satisfaction. He glances at his horse.

"Grub's up, Bill."

He scoops a large helping of the cooking pots stew like contents into a makeshift bowl and walks over to Bill, laying it down in the sand for him. Bill immediately starts eating. Thomas pats him affectionately.

"Think it's time we went home old friend."

He returns to his seat by the fire and fills his own bowl with a hearty portion. They eat together in silence.

Later, the moon shines down on the sleeping camp, embers of the almost dead fire give off a faint glow. Bill is lying asleep in the sand. Thomas' wooly socked feet protrude through the hanging tent flaps. His light snoring accompanied by the gentle crash of waves.

The peaceful scene is instantly shattered by the appearance of a shadow appearing on the white canvas of Thomas' tent. It remains motionless, looming over him. A hand slowly extends forward and opens one of the flaps to reveal the sleeping Thomas under a blanket. He stirs. The hand gently closes the flap again and the shadow disappears out of sight.

The camp returns to it's peaceful state.

The morning ocean tide is high and the gentle waves pendulum up and down the darkened sand as a naked Thomas races down the front of a dune and launches himself into the water, disappearing beneath the surface. He emerges, standing in the waist high water, staring out at the horizon. The rising sun's long light path casts its golden glow, glistening on the unsettled ocean rooftop.

A still naked Thomas navigates the dunes, air drying as a light breeze makes its way through the dune gaps. The tufts of sand grass dance all around him. He climbs a small slope, reaches the top and freezes, staring down in horror at his camp.

A young Native American man, dressed in hides and furs, his bow resting in the sand beside him, is sitting at the fire - now a pile of grey ash. In his hand is Thomas' black book, which he seems to be trying to make sense of.

Thomas recovers from the shock and drops down to his stomach. He shuffles back to the hidden side of the slope and takes a moment to formulate a plan. On all fours, he scurries along the back of the dunes surrounding his camp and takes a position behind the intruder. Very slowly he crawls over the top of the dune and slides down head first, using his hands and feet as brakes, never taking his eyes of the man's back.

The man seems not to notice Thomas, instead sticking a finger in the fire ash and making a series of marks on the map.

Thomas arrives at the bottom and takes cover behind his tent. He then reaches a hand under the canvas and struggles to find something. Eventually he pulls out his gun belt and grips his pistol, gently cocking it. He puts his back to the tent, takes a few deep breaths, and brings the pistol up to his chest, holding it with both hands.

"One...two...three"

Thomas stands, spinning out for his hiding place and points the gun ahead. His eyes dart around the entire camp but the intruder has disappeared, leaving only the open black book lying in the spot where he was crouching.

Thomas slowly moves into the camp, spinning 360 with the gun as he walks. He reaches the book and risks a glance down at it before returning his attention to the dunes. Hoping the man has gone, he crouches down to pick up the book and looks at it again. On the map, marked with ash on an unnamed area inland, is a smudged X. Thomas stares at it, his mind racing.

Thomas rides off the beaten track, his gear all packed away in the sacks attached to the saddle. The surrounding area is dry and open, the sun high in the sky blazing down. Thomas brings Bill to a stop and pulls out the little black book, opening it to the map. Satisfied with his direction, he tucks the book away again and rides on.

They come to a large forest and Thomas dismounts, guiding Bill by the reins into its dark embrace. The canopy above is dense, the sun only penetrating it in thin beams of light. Thomas walks a little ahead. He pulls out the book and glances at the map again, before closing it and letting it hang by his side. He scans the surrounding area as he walks.

Bill tugs a little on the reins, skittish from the unknowns of the dark forest around them. Thomas turns and gives him a light pat.

"Settle down, Billy boy. We're almost there. S'long as that Indian weren't just doddlin', that is."

They walk for another hundred feet and the forest slowly becomes less thick, opening up into a wide bare patch that leads off into a rocky ravine - a wide but shallow river passing through it.

Thomas crosses the final tree line and leads Bill to the water's edge. He stares in wonder at the water. Scattered across the entire river bed are countless, unmistakable, nuggets of gold. Thomas wades in and thrusts a hand in to fish one out. He pulls it clear of the water and gazes down at an egg sized golden nugget. It catches the light, the glint reflecting in his eyes.

He lets out a cry of joy.

"HOOOO-EEEE!!!!"

Thomas lets himself fall backwards into the shallow water, fully submerging himself in it. After a moment of blissful justification, he stand back up and turns to Bill, grinning.

"Wait'll my Pop-"

A loud bang echo's through the ravine.

Thomas sways on the spot with a startled expression, before he falls face first into the river, dead. Blood seeps from an unseen wound, dispersing in the water around him. A silence befalls the whole area, as Bill stands alone watching the unmoving body of his master.

The sombre peace is interrupted by a group of men, who appear from the forest. Each man leads a horse, rifles slung over their shoulders. At the back of the group, bound by the hands and showing the marks of a severe beating, is the young native man from Thomas' camp.

The leader of the group steps away from his companions and walks out to Thomas' body, flipping it over and finding the gold nugget gripped in one hand and the little black book gripped in the other. The man takes both and holds up the nugget, the glint now reflecting in his eyes. He opens up the black book to the map and turns and smiles at his companions.

"Boys...I claim this site as property of the Marshall Mining Company."

The butt if his rifle, still resting on his shoulder has a silver plaque inscribed with three letters - J. W. M.

The California Gold Rush began on January 24, 1848, when gold was claimed to be found by James W. Marshall, bringing 300,000 people from the east, all wanting a share of the gold.

California went from being a mostly unihabited landscape to beginning it's jounrey towards the thriving civilisation it is today.