Zachary Budd U.S. Marshal

By Trebor Mack

Orphan Zachery Budd began his life in the workhouses and poorhouses of Eighteenth-Century London. From there, he graduated to earn a living as a bare-knuckled prizefighter in the city's back streets.

In 1865, on hearing tales of America from seafarers, he sailed from Southampton, England, to California in favour of the sailing vessel SV Seagull, arriving at the port town of Stockton.

To pay his way and to bide his time while waiting to travel by stagecoach to Phoenix, Arizona, Zach took on a job at a local whorehouse that went by the name of The Purring Pussy.

Follow Zach during his danger-ridden coach journey, his dealings with outlaws, Indians, and con men. And his appointment as marshal of the gold mining township of Wickenburg, where wrongdoers suffered the indignity of cutting out their time while shackled in the town square, to the Prison Tree.

The young man, a recent inductee into adulthood, will confront instances of greed, cruelty, cold-blooded murders, and betrayal while wearing the badge of the sole law officer of the region.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob MacDonald
• Release date: Sep 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223930402

Book preview

Chapter 01—Paved with Gold

Zachary Budd stood on the deck of the 'SV Seagull,' listening to the rigging and spars creaking and groaning as the vessel strained against its moorings. The ageing wooden-hulled 'windjammer,' endowed with three masts, lay at anchor while waiting on a berth at the basic harbour facilities provided by the Californian port town of Stockton. The year 1865 saw the growth of settlement in the country's western regions due, in the main, to the discovery of gold.

Many immigrants, including Zachary, commonly called Zack, often made Stockton their berthing place. The vessel gave its blessing to and sailed from Southampton, in England, fourteen weeks beforehand. He'd been told to bank on the passage taking six to eight weeks, providing the ship enjoyed suitable weather and prevailing winds. But, no, the Atlantic Ocean, and its reputation for experiencing bouts of the doldrums, dished up a spate of windless days, which stretched into weeks.

Provisions ran low, and the ship's cook rationed food to the crew and passengers alike. Zach, being able-bodied and as fit as a fiddle, wasted no time in volunteering his services in helping crew members of the vessel with various tasks. During the dull periods of calmness on the water, he spent many hours seated aft, with a fishing line over the side, to supplement the sparse fare ladled out to those on board. The success of his angling matched that of the winds, good luck in small drabs.

*

Zach did not recall his parents or any other family members. His memory returned to his early years, eking out a living in the streets and alleys of London's slum areas. From there, he graduated to a 'Workhouse' where, for a basic bed in an overcrowded dormitory and sustenance of watery gruel, house supervisors put him to work crushing animal bones for use as a fertiliser.

Big for age, Zach punched above his weight when standing up against bullies while at the workhouse. Weaker children suffered by often having their meagre rations of gruel or stale bread snatched from them. Zach weathered a few attempts by fellow lodgers to relieve him of his vittles. Those so inclined to target his fare to add to their dinner bowls soon learned the error of their ways.

He punched; he scratched; he kicked, he bit, and he spat to protect his pitiful allocation of gruel. Soon, no one bothered him, not even the bully boys several years his senior.

*

With puberty, Zach's mind began developing as fast as his body. Lying in bed one night, he determined he could endure the workhouse no longer and resolved to embark on a new adventure in the world.

The next day, dressed in his ragged clothing, his sole possessions, Zach saw shut of the institution. He did so by scaling a perimeter fence and waving goodbye with a two-finger salute. He did not think, for one second, that anyone might notice his absence. And if they did, they'd not pine for him or wish for his return.

*

Now sixteen years of age, Zach stood nigh on six feet in height and still growing. With a constitution homed in self-preservation for as long as he could remember, he returned to Central and East London's dingy, dangerous streets and alleys. At first, he begged, but when that proved unsuccessful, he stole. He stole from food carts, stalls, washing lines, houses, taverns, and shops and even resorted to waylaying drunks or foot travellers when an opportunity arose. Many a day, he survived by outrunning police constables or night watchmen.

His wealth of scraps and punch-ups with street ruffians, who plied the same dishonest trade as he saw him, by natural evolution, become involved in illegal bare-knuckle fights. The contests fought with few rules, drew sizeable crowds, and much betting took place. Irish immigrants to London stood out in their numbers entering the ring to settle a feud with a rival hustler.

At first, Zach operated as an assistant to individual fighters for little monetary reward. But on becoming familiar with the goings-on of the game, he felt the water by stepping into the arena himself. He weighed up the likely opposition and picked his mark as to his opponents. Before taking up the trade, he learned what he could from prize fighters he served as a second.

*

Society provided workhouses for the young, but tramp houses provided an alternative to poorhouses for men on the move. These tiny, temporary dwellings, built for vagrants and itinerants, amounted to little more than shacks. They furnished the bare basics, such as mattresses and firewood. The authorities did not promote these lodgings since communities didn't want to advertise their charity to vagrants.

Inclement winter months forced Zach to seek refuge in the poorhouses, but every night under the leaking rooves added another bout of misery. The stuffed horsehair mattresses were a haven for bedbugs, fleas, and other crawlies. To safeguard any monies on his person while sleeping in the shelters, Zach carried the coins into a small cloth pouch. The money he secured for safekeeping in a fob pocket of his trousers.

On three or four occasions, fellow vagrants invited his wrath when, in the dead of night, they tried putting their light-fingered skills to use in attempting to relieve him of his hard-earned kitty. Little did they know the purse, with strong twine affixed to its neck, sat in his pocket and tied to his trousers' belt.

Those who looked upon him as an easy target and wished to help themselves while he slept soon learned to appreciate the adage, 'Great losses are great lessons,' as the losses often became the front teeth of the want-to-be pickpurse.

Chapter 02—-SV Seagull

Zach spent five years following the prizefighting business. He graduated from acting as a second for various fighters to becoming a regular contestant himself. As he matured, he saw no future in continuing as a bare-knuckled pugilist. Tossing the towel in, altogether he took up promoting fights. He no longer stepped into the ring but paid willing suckers to do that for him.

His astute business mind preyed on the gullible, the dishonest, and the rich. He sought fighters who presented themselves in a somewhat contrasting style, behaviour and looks to the run-of-the-mill slugger. He scoured the streets and found a handsome, blond-headed, blue-eyed dandy who had accrued a sizeable gambling debt to an impatient illegal bookmaker.

Following a few quick lessons, he pitted the fop against a black fighter, a ship's deserter from the Caribbean. Zach paid the Negro to put up a fight for six or seven rounds before diving. Zach directed the Negro not to mark the pretty-boy's face so as not to upset London's popinjay fraternity and their painted ladies, who came in droves to watch the contests.

Jake specialised in the unusual. He set white against black, black versus black and even pitted dwarves against each other. Usually, Zach decided beforehand on the bout's winner before the fighters stepped into the ring. He saw no point in staging honest bouts, as he was an entertainer in the business for the money. London's elite splashed out as spectators and to the ringside bookmakers. Zach demanded and got a kickback from the bookies.

*

On reaching twenty-one years of age, Zach decided he'd spent enough time in the fight game. London itself affected him in the same way. He'd lived within his means, and his purse now carried a handsome number of coins. Suspicious to a fault, Zach shied away from the new five and ten-pound banknotes issued by the treasury. He restricted his monetary dealings to gold and silver coins.

Crowns and sovereigns, half-crowns and half-sovereigns, he cherished. Banknotes and promissory notes he shunned. In his eyes, gold and silver should hold their value no matter where on the globe he may be. He believed English paper money was only for the rich and elite, so he'd stick to his coins. When at a loose end, Zach gained comfort in taking out his purse and revelling in its weight.

Though his money bag and its contents, because of its cumbersome weight, were becoming awkward to manage while carrying on his body, Zach refused to entrust any person or organization with its safekeeping. Since encountering people from many walks of life, he became interested and listened to the stories of the gold rush in the American state of California.

True, the stampede did kick off twenty to twenty-five years ago and Zach, whilst not a miner, never intended to be one. But with so many new chums flocking to make their fortunes by picking up gold nuggets that lay on the streets, his plan entailed heading to the Cali goldfields and fleecing those poor souls gullible enough to believe they paved the roads there in gold. He'd heard the same story about the London streets but had not so much as glimpsed a glitter. Dick Whittington and his cat could go to hell as far as he was concerned.

*

Zach learned that the best chance for him to find a ship sailing for California lay with making his way to the southern port city of Southampton. Once there, following that advice, he combed the vessels berthed alongside the wharf, the seaside taverns and maritime booking offices. It took him most of a week, but after a bout of haggling, he managed to wrangle a berth on the SV Seagull, embarking for California ten days hence.

The windjammer chartered to carry much-needed mining equipment to the goldfields, moonlighted in taking on paying passengers. Zach, an astute judge of character, worked out the captain in one. If Zach's assessment of the skipper proved true, the shipping line that owned the vessel was unlikely to see any of the monies paid by those wishing to immigrate. Yes, a money-making scheme on the side, but good luck to him, thought Zach. He'd do the same if in the captain's position.

*

Pleasant weather saw the old sailing ship leave Southampton Harbor. When settling on the terms for his passage, Zach agreed to sleep with the crew in a hammock below deck. Workhouses, poorhouses, under bridges and many other good and bad places summed up his earlier bed sites. But the narrow, swinging hammocks did not suit his large body.

He bore lumps and bumps from banging his head on the low beams when not suffering an aching back from the uncomfortable sleeping arrangement. The stale air from the below-deck enclosure drove him to spend most of his awake time on deck. The fresh sea air did wonders to unblock his sinuses, clogged by the stuffy conditions.

On deck, he soon got to know the dozen other pilgrims when they, too, sought to rid their lungs of the rheumy-inducing stuffiness of their makeshift quarters. Four women, wives of passengers, comprised the female contingent on board. One couple, whom he learned were of the Jewish faith, named Abraham and Abigail Ginsburg. The Ginsburgs kept, in the main, to themselves, but during a time when the ship lay wallowing with no breeze to take the edge off the oppressive heat, they approached him while he tried his luck dangling a fishing line.

Good afternoon, greeted the woman. Do you mind if we sit and watch you while you fish? My husband's name is Abraham, and I am Abigail.

And greetings to you. I go by Zachary Budd.

Oh, your name is Zachary. Are you of the Jewish faith?

No. I am of no faith. Why do you ask if I am Jewish?

Zachary is a name associated with Judaism.

Well, I'm no hope there. I don't know who gave me that name. Maybe the workhouse dubbed it on me for their records so they could claim the cost of my keep from the government.

Do you know the origin of your surname? Is that of your parents?

I don't know. I can't remember ever having parents.

Abigail frowned in sympathy before saying, I have a book on names. I will dig it out and look up yours for you. When may you be free from your duties tomorrow?

When? Oh, whenever suits you. I follow no set times as I am yet to figure out when it's feed time for the fish.

Aren’t you a member of the ship’s crew? You always give the idea as to be doing something on deck.

‘Nope, I’m no crewman, just a fellow traveller, the same as you. I’m up on deck most of my time to escape the hustle, bustle, and stink from down under. I bunk in a hammock in the crew’s quarters. And that place is somewhere to steer away from; I kid you not."

Chapter 03—-The Three Rs

Abraham and Abigail Ginzburg provided welcome company for Zach. The days the ship lay becalmed proved to be boring, to the extreme, to passengers and crew alike. Abigail, true to her word, produced a chronicle listing Zach’s surname’s heritage.

While seated on the foredeck, she read a passage from the book. This old and intriguing name is of Anglo-Saxon origin and acquired from the Old English name of ‘Budda.’ There is some confusion regarding the original meaning of the name. It may reflect the use of Old English pre-7th century ‘budde’ bud, swelling, spelling for a nickname for a plump person; or it may also have acted as a nickname for someone as a beetle from the Old English ‘budda’ for beetle.

Zach shook his head in puzzlement and asked, What was that all about? You lost me there.

It says your ancient ancestors were fat, a beetle, or maybe a fat beetle. What do you reckon of that?

You tell me my first name is Jewish and my last is English. To me, a name holds no meaning. When you ask for my views, I imagine someone at the workhouse dubbed them on me before I was old enough to understand. But if anyone asks me, there’s no way I’d fess up to being named after a fat beetle; I’d say I stemmed from fierce Norse invaders.

Abraham chipped in and said, The ancient Egyptians worshipped a beetle. They referred to it as ‘The Sacred Scarab.’ So, if you bump into a Gyppo and he kowtows to you, you’ll be up to scratch as to why he is behaving that way.

Zach greeted Abraham’s statement with a look of confusion and asked, How do you people know so much about the outside world? Apart from London's back streets, I’m a new chum to everything.

We are both schoolteachers, of sorts, answered Abraham, who, on purpose, refrained from telling Zach that the sacred beetle he’d mentioned earlier happened to be more commonly referred to as the ‘dung beetle.’

Abigail and I are two people without a nation to call home. We found, as Jews, not to be to one’s liking in England or the European mainland because of our faith. We are going to America to begin a new life as we believe we will be welcome there. Why are you doing so?

I could see no future for me and my ways in the streets and alleys of London. Continuing my way of life as a backstreet villain did nothing to inspire me. I want to better myself, so I decided to jump on this tub; now I’m in the hands of the gods. I do not know what I’ll do, as I have no skills or schooling to help me on my way.

We can give you a hand, said Abigail.

*

In the following weeks, Ginsburg, in the main Abigail, spent several hours every day tutoring Zach with the basics of education. His promotion of bare-knuckled prizefighters did, at least, provide him with the primary needs in recognizing and tallying numbers and figures. Another knack he picked up was acknowledging a fighter’s written name when he saw it again.

Zach proved to be a willing worker and a quick learner. On the other hand, Abigail displayed a gracious forbearance as Zach battled through the early stages of his tuition. With his first error-prone efforts in reciting the alphabet and other tasks assigned to him, he became embarrassed and ready to quit his lessons.

Abigail and Abraham convinced him to continue with his learning, which they called ‘The Three Rs.’ So while wondering whether the pain suffered was worthwhile, Zack knuckled down to his studies. When he showed his efforts in writing his name in the cursive style to Abigail, her inspiring praise jolted him into realizing her kind words were the first positive comments he’d received from anyone ever!

Later, when Abigail recounted the incident to her husband, she added, I thought my saying of a well-deserved compliment might lift his spirits and encourage him further with his lessons. But he seemed to retreat into his shell, and I could best describe his behaviour for the rest of the day as being subdued.

My guess is, said Abraham, Zach, with his early life in a workhouse and then existing on the streets of London, has had few dealings with women, especially with one who endorses his efforts with glowing compliments. He is embarrassed, I should imagine.

*

With the sighting of land and the realization that the Ginsburgs would, on embarkation, go their separate way to him, a sense of sadness engulfed Zach. He, never, ever having boasted a genuine friend in the past, grew to cherish his time with them both. When he envisaged being put ashore in the coming days, he sought them out to say farewell.

Abraham shook his hand, and Abigail hugged him. As they watched him walk away, Abraham commented, That was a brief how-do-you-do. He acted like he couldn’t wait to get shut of us.

Abigail took hold of her husband's hand and said, He had tears in his eyes, and he didn’t want us to see them.

*

Zach, when sighting the land, which a crewman identified as California, thought his disembarkation loomed as imminent. Not so. The ship needed to navigate a further seventy-five miles upstream via the Stockton Channel and San Joaquin River.

Chapter 04—-Stockton Harbor

Wharf facilities and berthing spots were so few that on arrival, the SV Seagull needed to stay anchored mid-channel until a docking site became available. In the meantime, the port authorities used a twenty-five-foot clinker-built rowboat, an ex-whaler, to ferry the passengers the short distance to shore. Zach enjoyed the trip in the crowded vessel, his first in such a small craft, per favour of four oarsmen.

The port town shocked Zach. Having only ever known London with its narrow streets and alleyways, teeming markets, seedy taverns and rubbish-strewn river, Stockton fell leagues below his expectations. He set out to explore the settlement with his worldly possessions packed in a duffel bag, slung over one shoulder.

Houses, cabins, tents, and shacks made from corrugated iron sheeting, weatherboard planks, and even a smattering of adobe dwellings lay in disorder. Away from the harbour site,