"Late, of San Diego"
(Author's note: This is genealogical fiction. However, all the characters, save for "JR Clark," were quite real.")
In the end, though, it would be the newspapers that told his story
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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. He watched what was once Kanesville and Pottawatomie County fall away from view, then shuffled his rucksack and miners' supplies under his seat, making room for others' few belongings. Soon, all settled in amidst the ramshackle excitement of going west, in accord with 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. D.C. watched a rustle of unescorted women guard their trustworthy purses alongside mercurial children. Clark made certain to smile their way, smiling at all the ladies, even those 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've thought Clark 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 assumptions weren't incorrect. Indeed, he was a bright and quick-witted fellow, but there was an ambitious conceit about him that didn't always billet him well with others.
Both 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 and depressed, dreaming of escaping her life on the shores of the Great Pacific. 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; 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. 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, struggled after Margaret’s death to feed his brood within the economy of the Michigan Territory. Grappling, Aaron Clark divided his children among several households. He saw fit, however, 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, telling 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 forced his brothers and sisters to scatter. He had to admit the scattering was a glad escape. 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, especially Charlotte. Twenty years his senior, their visit couldn't 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 a 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 the Clark children scattered by Aaron at different times, 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 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 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, folding it unread into the rest of his journals? He simply could not recall.
The newspaper lay hidden in the folds of his pack and other miscellanea until days later, when he had nearly arrived in California. He noticed it was sorted among the scuffle. As he leafed through its week-old news, he saw a peculiar advertisement on the back of its pages. It lay among the "PERSONAL NOTICES" and caught Clark’s eye. Strangely, it was some sort of a letter, posted there with a reference only to him. How very odd, he thought. Had he forgotten to correspond with someone appropriately? He glanced at it further, and 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 expect. I have placed it in the columns of this old broadsheet in hopes you find it. You will be shocked to learn that I am your great distant relation, a descendant of your sister Eveline, also known as Mrs. Hiram Wilcox. You see, Uncle, as hard as it may be to believe, I live in a time isolated from you now. To say this is a letter from "the future" would be foolish, as we are all members of our own proper futures. If this were not so, would I be writing to you now? Uncle, consider that I am here, at some “other vantage” point, trying to tell your story and convey certain caveats or events.
I write purely to solicit your assistance and attention. This letter may save you from your likely demise, though such things never bode well with 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. Good heavens, DeWitt, you must consider your kinfolk yet to come! Who would have thought there would be so many men called "DeWitt Clinton Clark" in 1875? I’ve found your life chronicled in an old tome by our distant future cousin, a Mr. Patten. Though Patten’s account is speculative, it aligns with evidence that you were "bound out" with Theodore after your mother's death. This is how I’ve begun to understand who you were, Uncle D. C. Clark.
I found you, Uncle, in 1879, or rather, I found a "D.C. Clark" just up the road from where I live now. However, to confuse matters more, you marry in another state at forty-seven. The problem is, if we follow Patten's account, this is the only marriage record thus far for you. And if this record is indeed "you," D. C. Clark, it is from Spokane, Washington. Can this be you or some other vagrant DeWitt? So dearest uncle, you really must help me: How does a miner in the Gold Country of 1879 California end up in 1897 Spokane, Washington?
This marriage record, however, is in keeping with Patten's work, which names your wife as the lovely and talented "Annah." Your Annah, who is almost as impossible as you to glean any information about. She is referred to quite mysteriously as "Annnah Jenkins" in your license, but D. C., I'm confident this name “Jenkins” must have been her husband's. When she married you at age thirty-three, she was no spinster or old maid. Uncle, I pray you were not involved in any scandal. There seems to be much you haven't told us.
"Mrs. Annah Jenkins Clark" is vital to your story, fate, and fortunes. No doubt you loved her, as later accounts lend belief that she was a formidable soul. Nevertheless, Mon cher oncle, we'll return to your wife the lovely "Annah" in a moment. Let's get back to you, dear Uncle, to make sure we've correctly found you (or at least the same man mentioned in Patten accounts…).
That you went south to San Diego is evident..."
DeWitt Clinton Clark tossed that rabid newspaper aside in a huff.
The train roared in agreement as he made its way up the mountainside. D.C. rubbed his eyes and stared out the window as Donner's Pass came into view. He had the most miserable of headaches. What was this tomfoolery? How did anyone know of his sister, Mrs. Eveline Wilcox? He had never met a woman named Annah Jenkins. And who the Hell was this Mr. Patten? Why had this man, Patten, written a supposed account of his life?
He certainly didn't buy this business of a "letter from the future." He was no one's "distant great relation." He wasn't old enough to be any such thing. Was this a gag placed in the newspaper by his brother-in-law, Schoolcraft's minstrel friends? They were always naught but a band of cork-faced hooligans. There was no telling what pranks they might try to pull from afar. He'd simply been on the train for too long now; his mind was playing salacious tricks on him. Still, the "personal notice" writer seemed to know him oddly quite well. His head pounded in his skull. Curiosity overcame him, though, and being extremely bleary-eyed anyway, he picked up the newspaper again and began to read where he had left off...
He read on...
"...Yes, Uncle, I found you and the new Mrs. Clark soon removed from Spokane to San Diego. What you and Annah hoped to do there other than to enjoy the coast and fine weather, I can't tell. I wonder if Annah's profession as a woman’s "osteopath" took her there, and if you gladly followed. Perhaps her singular métier allowed you to travel elsewhere and to various mining locations. In any event, dear Uncle, I caution you if you are to read further. You will undoubtedly find what you are about to read more disturbing than anything you have read thus far.
I can only say that we are all mortal souls and that you, Uncle, are to be no exception. And while I find you and the lovely Annah Jenkins Clark living an idyllic life in San Diego, the next mention (and one that agrees with Patten's account) of your life is in a tumultuous place. It is found in the account of an accident at a despotic place known only as “Goler,” or specifically, at a mine there known as “The Yellow Aster.” Regrettably, it is an ugly tale, my good sir, from here on out.
As I have understood from Patten's account, your lovely wife, Mrs. Annah Jenkins Clark, completed the information on your death certificate. And yes, surely you are wondering, after all of this, after this long train ride and this interminable letter from the "so-called future," if you are dead. Sadly, my dear uncle, I can assure you that it is undeniably true. You are, no doubt, as all of us will one day become, clearly quite dead. I should understand entirely if you choose to stop reading now."
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 stuck to his fingers, and he wondered how any of it could be true. Should he go on reading this diatribe from "Someone in some other Great Beyond?" He couldn't say. However, at the last minute, his eyes were drawn to an eerie clipping attached and adjacent to the letter below. Poor D. C. Clark couldn't help but read further.
Indeed, there had to be some mistake! The notice beside the letter referred to a man named “E.C. Clark.” This man, Clark, had drowned in a well deep within a gold mine. It simply had to be someone else! Whatever this foul advertisement attached to the personal letter described therein couldn't possibly reference him. He was most certainly not dead! He most assuredly would not be falling into a mine shaft and drowning in its well! He was also most definitely not a man called “E.C.” Clark. The letter writer had made terrible mistakes. Such prognostications were the cruel field of mediums and soothsayers to which he felt no allegiance. Besides, the damn thing was dated for 1906—many years well into the future. What was he to believe?
Would this headache never leave him? D.C. Clark looked away from the notices in the paper and returned to the letter writer, but not before the remainder of the notice caught his eye. An inquest had been conducted into his death. They had reason to suspect foul play?
He could not help but read on:
"Dear Uncle, I know you are shocked by what you read. I can only assure you that everything is correct, save for a misprint of your first initial announcing your accident on that fateful day. Yes, Uncle, this is you. Like you, I could not easily believe it and had to read further to ensure that I had received all the facts and had not been confused or deceived by some tawdry imposter attempting to harm your good name.
Then there was the matter of the gold. Had you found gold? Was this the reason for the coroner's inquest and the notation in Patten's account of a suspicion of foul play? It seemed a logical assumption. After all, you had come to California for this valuable ore. Personalities being what they are, perhaps you had run into less scrupulous people who wished to harm or cheat you out of your find. It was a tumultuous year, too, 1906. Maybe the devils of the earth had sent an earthquake to cause you to tumble into the well and die just as you made your discovery.
I can tell you, uncle, that aside from your untimely death, this does not appear to be the case. And further, as far as the gold goes, one might say that you were relieved of that burden in this life and the next by your darling Annah. Annah saw fit to sue your employer, the Yellow Aster Mines, for a sum equal to its weight in gold. I cannot tell if she prevailed in her suit for $25,000, as no doubt the mining company had deeper pockets than some poor female osteopath. Interestingly, this sum would be nearly three-quarters of a million dollars today!
Gold for you, DeWitt, albeit in the afterlife! As I said, however, the outcome of Annah's lawsuit against that devil, The Yellow Aster Mine Company, remains a mystery. It’s likely she settled for far less or that solicitors ate up the profit of your demise in that dark well. I believe that you, like me, will find irony in that while you were not meant to find riches in this life, in the next, you might look down and find that your wife had been fortunate enough to find it for you or so to at least engage in a fight to see to monetary justice for your early death.
You are undoubtedly wondering what became of your dear Annah after your death. The details could be less apparent. I report that she appears to have gone home to Spokane to resume her practice there as an osteopath. It is difficult to say if she became rich from her lawsuit on your behalf and used it to operate her practice. The notices in those tasteless papers allude to you having a family and several children, which is a fact that I have never seen any evidence of. I cannot see you delinquent in your children’s care or economy. I believe Annah had children in the area, and perhaps you considered them your own. That, my uncle, is a story for another day.
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"
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 not a 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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