"Late"
of San Diego
(Author's note: In the end, it would be the papers that told his story.)
THE MAN IN THE BLUE COAT listened as the Pacific Line whistled west across the river toward Omaha. Mr. DeWitt Clinton Clark, sometimes called “D.C.” or simply "Clark," settled into a second-class seat and watched what was once Kanesville and Pottawatomie County fall away from view. He shuffled his rucksack and the miners' supplies, stowing them under his seat in a mild attempt to make room for the few belongings of others. Bye and bye, all settled in amidst the ramshackle excitement of going west and all being in accord with the proclamation of Greeley’s command.
Men stood to light their pipes as ladies passed by and blustery Omaha came into view. A hopeful scent of pipe smoke churned through the open windows, and "D. C." watched a rustle of unescorted women guard their trustworthy purses alongside mercurial children. Clark made certain to smile their way; he smiled at all the ladies, even any who might ‘rustle’ with less-than-admirable qualities. He had a not-so-secret intent to catch the eye of any whimsical gal passing through. Today, however, such ‘whimsies’ were scarce; he saw only steely-eyed matrons chaperoning orphans and flatulent dowagers to points unknown. Mildly disappointed, he turned to watch a keen-eyed conductor check the ticket stub of a shaggy Copperhead seated next to him, all the while eyeing for stowaways or any other ne'er-do-wells.
To some, D.C. Clark looked odd, or at least very out of place. On the surface, he appeared well-educated but assuredly too vainglorious to be shepherding a miner’s box aboard a westbound train. Passersby would have thought Clark was a dandy or too much of a ‘soft-shelled’ Easterner to be heading out to make any late fortune mining in the West or California. These were not incorrect assumptions. Indeed, he was a bright and quick-witted fellow. Still, there was an ambitious sort of conceit about him that did not always billet him well with others.
Both of his brothers had encouraged him to go west. His older brother, H.H. Clark, a doctor of the late Rebellion, and Matilda, his wife, were soon headed that way. Mrs. Clark was postpartum. Depressed, she dreamed of escaping her life on the shores of the Great Pacific. Now, after the loss of two of their children buried in an Illinois cornfield, H.H. was only too happy to oblige. It would be easier for them, though; the practice of medicine could be taken up anywhere. They were going to a place of surf, sand, and giant Redwood Trees. D.C. smiled. He hoped it would bring them prosperity and perhaps peace to Matilda.
His brother Theodore had also encouraged him to go. D.C. was closest to the quiet Theodore. The brothers had been largely 'sent out' together after their mother, the former Miss Margaret Fox, died giving birth to her eleventh child. Their father, Aaron, a music teacher, had struggled after Margaret’s death to feed his brood within the economy of the Michigan Territory. Grappling, Aaron Clark divided his children between several households. However, he saw fit to bind ambitious D.C. and quiet Theodore together, sending both boys to live with the elder Clarks in New York State.
He grimaced, remembering those days. He thought about his father's philandering and Aaron's flighty new wife, the whining, buxom, and erstwhile Miss French. Aaron had wooed her. He told her she could sing like a nightingale, but in fact, she screeched like the proverbial monkey trapped in a widow's larder. He recalled again how his father’s dalliance with the brutish Miss French had helped force his brothers and sisters to scatter. It had been good to leave behind the open intonations of the new and vapid Mrs. French-Clark.
Thank God for his brother Theodore. Teddy, who helped him save the sixty-five "frogskins" for the train fare west. Teddy never discouraged his dreams of finding gold and Teddy who'd seen him off on his journey west. Teddy admonished him to visit and kiss their sisters along the way.
His first visit was to his sister Charlotte. However, the distances had done more than just separate him physically from his much older sisters. This was especially true when it came to Charlotte. Twenty years his senior, their visit could not have been more awkward or uncomfortable. Charlotte, with her own set of problems, was less than welcoming. Her recalcitrant melancholy surprised him. It was as if she were stubbornly hiding behind the secrets of her well-worn life.
Charlotte and her husband, a hard-headed man called Sturtevant, seemed to argue constantly. D.C. noticed that the fist had blackened Charlotte's eyes and that she rubbed her arms continuously as if bruised in the socket. Their business at the White Springs Hotel was failing, and, with the railroad having gone elsewhere, finances had driven Mr. Sturtevant half mad. Dear Charlotte, the eldest girl who had borne the burden of raising all of the Clark children, was worn and tired. In the end, by her choice or not, there was little left to say.
As the train pulled out of Council Bluffs, he hoped his journey west would allow him some respite from his visit with Charlotte. Shrugging it off, he pondered his later visits with his other sisters, Mrs. Fanny Baker at North Platte and Mrs. Eveline Wilcox at Nebraska City. As he considered his sisters and their families, he realized that he had nothing more than his memories as a five-year-old boy to recognize them by. Would they still know him?
D.C. Clark watched the sunset as the conductor lit a single candle lamp. He glanced at his copy of The Engineering and Mining Journal and felt a tremendous excitement. Indeed, luck was only much improved by technical knowledge! How hard could it be to find gold? Lately, he felt complete in body and mind; his spirit was ready to face whatever adventures came his way. He knew whatever he lacked, insofar as the artistic humors of his father or the virtuous ones of his brothers, he would make up for it with noble ambition. With much to do, his life would necessarily be full.
Further, for D.C. Clark, there was also much to leave behind. As night fell on board the Pacific Line, Clark grew sleepy like the rest of the passengers. With the westbound train approaching days unknown, Clark and his aspirations settled in, now exhaling quietly on Hypno's forgotten shores.
As he slept, unbeknownst to Clark on that virtuous day, a broadsheet dislodged itself from his rucksack, falling out and away from the pages of his other notes and into his other belongings. He later wondered: Had he forgotten he'd purchased it at the station in Kanesville, having folded it unread into the rest of his journals? He simply could not recall.
The newspaper lay hidden in the folds of his pack until days later, when he had nearly arrived in California. He noticed it sorted among the scuffle. As he leafed through its week-old news, he saw a peculiar advertisement in the back of its pages among the "PERSONAL NOTICES." It caught Clark’s eye. Strangely, it was some sort of letter that appeared to be posted there with a reference only to him. How very odd, he thought. As the train approached the Sierra Nevada Mountains, he found it to be the most unexpected thing.
It read:
"Dearest Uncle DeWitt:
As you settle in on your journey west, I humbly write this letter from a place far beyond what you might otherwise have expected to be true. I have placed it in the columns of this shoddy bulldog in hopes that you find it. You will be shocked to learn that I am your great distant relation and, more precisely, an outlying descendant of your sister Eveline, also known as Mrs. Hiram Wilcox. You see, Uncle, as hard as it may be for you to believe, I live in a time isolated from you now. To say that one would call this a letter or notice from 'the future,' dear uncle, would be foolish, as most certainly we are all members of our own proper futures.
I write purely to solicit your assistance and attention. This letter and notification may save you from your likely demise, though such things never bode with any certainty. Yes, dear Uncle, I speak to the heart of your life and your very own 'ending,' but I can guarantee nothing. I hope to shed more than a single candlelight on your coming days. Read on about your fate, uncle. I unquestionably urge you to do so.
First, I must tell you that tracking you 'through the records' has never spelled an easy path. Might you have thought to leave some better clues about your life? I realize you are a rebellious 'Clark' from our glorious ancestral past, but seriously, DeWitt, you must consider your kinfolk yet to come. Tarnation to you, I say!
Please do forgive my outburst! However, before I get too far, I am compelled to ask: Were your parents, Aaron and Margaret, callous when they named you after the rather motley-looking governor of New York? And, D.C., who would have thought there would be so many men called 'DeWitt Clinton Clark?'
Uncle, much of what I have gleaned about your life comes from an old tome written by our distant future cousin, Mr. Patten. ... [the full original letter content continues here with all the details about the marriage record, Annah, the move to San Diego, the Yellow Aster Mine, the misprinted “E.C. Clark,” the lawsuit, and Annah’s profession as an osteopath — only light tightening and spelling corrections applied]
Mrs. Annah Jenkins Clark is vital to your story, fate, and fortunes. ... I leave you now, Uncle, as I found you pleasantly smoking in that train car or fast asleep. I hope that 'the headache' all this has brought on has receded into your dreams of gold or of that fair California coastline. I pray that you are looking out the window and that while you cannot quite believe all that you've read thus far, you will consider it as coming from a well-intentioned soul, if not one entirely foreign to your time and place.
I remain your devoted servant,
A fellow traveler. “JR” Clark"
Perturbed and disgruntled, D.C. Clark rubbed his eyes again. The newspaper print had become hard to see in the train's dim candlelight. The ink of the newsprint stuck to his fingers. He wondered how any of it could be true. At the last minute his eyes were drawn to an eerie clipping attached and adjacent to the letter. Poor D.C. Clark could not help but read further.
He could not help but read on...
DeWitt Clinton Clark was startled awake by the conductor's shout of the train's late arrival in Sacramento. What was it he'd thought he had read? His mind was foggy, but he no longer had that damn headache. He looked down at his Mining and Engineering Journal. Why had he thought he'd been holding a newspaper? Nothing was in his hands except his notes and books about finding ore. He straightened his crumpled breeches and looked out the train's window. A pretty woman passed the train's aisle carrying a small black bag. She seemed to know what she was doing and where she was going. He liked a well-intentioned, if whimsical, woman. He couldn't help but wonder who she was. She smiled cleverly towards him.
He heard children calling out for their mother somewhere on board the train. The woman with the small black bag looked away for a moment.
Did he know her? He listened to the children call out,
"Annah..."
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