California Woman (Daughters of the Whirlwind Book 1) (39 page)

San
Francisco

October 27, 1854

Dearest Husband, it is difficult to believe that I was
twenty-five years old yesterday! Almost as difficult to believe as the fact
that
Yerba Buena
Cove no
longer exists, what with the continuous process of land-filling and creation of
new streets toward the east for this extraordinarily growing city! Have not
written in this journal for so long a time. It seems fitting to begin again now
that I have fully recovered from the after-effects of the massacre and
Murietta's death.
Moved
here from
Sacramento
last summer, after being j
arred
back
to a sense of purpose once again upon learning of Mosby's part in what happened
to Miwokan and Mwamwaash. The thought of it fills me with renewed hatred for
the man, along with the frustration that comes of knowing how impossible it
would be for me to take revenge on him now. I have thought long and hard upon
the matter. There is simply no way I could bring it off under present
circumstances without giving up my own life in the bargain almost
automatically. I not only must do the deed myself, I wish to savor such a
retaliation. What good would it be, what satisfaction, if I were dead along
with him? I would not know it, or feel it. It would be the same as if I had
never done it at all. No, I will continue to wait. Time may bring the
opportunity, unforced, to me.

Moved here not a moment too soon, considering the fire that
recently wiped out seven-eighths of Sacramento. My farm was not touched, but
all the hastily built houses they so unexpectedly surrounded my land with went
down. I must think about the substantial offer I received in the mail two weeks
ago for the property. Perhaps I could sell off the acreage but keep the house.
I would not like to dispossess the handsome and grave mercantile man, Leland
Stanford, to whom I am renting the place, and his lovely young wife.

I babble on about such things to delay telling you how I really
feel about your announced engagement to Judith Britten. Oh, God, Alex, I should
not be jealous! I should be happy for you, grateful that my machinations have
brought you a measure of comfort and joy after so many years. What a rare
example of good nature your prospective bride is. But what is in me now,
churning, tearing, keeping me awake each night, is a longing to be in your arms
more powerful than I have felt in half a score years. Oh, Alex, I still love
you as I did as a girl… Dear God, let this burning in my mind and my loins
cease!

There. I have wiped away the torrent of tears from my face, and
I take some comfort in your happiness. After all, it was I who brought the two
of you together, indirectly or not. And there is some small consolation in the
fact that Judith looks enough like me to be a sister. I must be stronger, less
selfish, Alex. This is the price I must pay for the course I decided upon when
I came down out of the mountains. Even now, I still dream of the two of us
together someday. But, of course, that is impossible. And I will stop thinking
about it.

It interests me, Alex, that amid all your activities at Wells
Fargo, you are studying law at night… God, I cannot believe the meanness that
just ran through my mind. As a measure of how strong my feelings for you are
still, I took momentary pleasure in the notion that your studies will reduce
the time you and Judith can spend together in bed! Forgive me. I will try to
strengthen my resolve not to have such thoughts…

In any case, Kelsey thinks you are secretly planning a political
move, rather than simply arming yourself with legal knowledge to perform
effectively in your post as vice-president of W, F & Co. I wonder. Are you
simply acquiring an additional skill to use should you find yourself unseated
someday? I suppose such could happen in the light of the fierce competition
between Wells Fargo and Adams and Company.

I want you to know I have left my money at Adams simply out of
laziness and disinterest, drawing from my account only for my monthly needs and
the purchase of this house. I truly love this place, situated as it is on the
crown of this hill, which for some reason is called Lone Mountain. It is far
enough to the west of the city to be tranquil and unpestered by drummers,
advertisers, and the like. The view is magnificent. One can scarcely hear the
hum of the city, let alone the often boisterous noise of the crowds.

But I wander. I must make a note to myself to transfer my
account to Wells Fargo. The ridiculous figure— $991,087—is simply there, as far
as I am concerned. But leaving it at Adams seems disloyal to you, since it
might be of some use to Wells Fargo. I suppose if your fight with Adams
comes
down to the wire, it might even be a significant deposit,
however much, W. F. already has in its vaults. I promise to begin transferring
it next month, a portion at a time so as not to cause a ruckus and entreaties
from the Adams management.

I wish I could persuade
Solana
to
ride with me into town. I do not cotton to going in alone. She is worse than I
am, even more reclusive, sitting there in her rocker on the porch, day after
day. Of course, she has much weighing upon her. At least when
Emilio
and Marianita were still with us, the old woman could
occasionally bring
Solana
to life in
the kitchen. I miss them. And I fear
Emilio
simply
wanted to return to his home village in Mexico to wait for death.

Still find it difficult to believe that Murietta is gone.
Strange, but upon reading the news that Harry Love and his rangers had killed
him, something in me said it was not Joaquin. Of course, that is more hope than
realism, considering they exhibited his head – barbarians -- and the hand of
his supposed accomplice, Three-Fingered Jack, in every town of any size in
California. In jars of alcohol! Good God, there is no end to man's capacity for
the vulgar and sensational.

It is almost as difficult to believe that Billy Ralston, your
old friend from Ohio, has been working these past five years in Panama as a
manager for the Pacific Mail Steamship Company. And that he is being
transferred to the main offices here in San Francisco. (In a sense, he will
work for me!) Barnett says he is an extraordinarily convivial and outgoing
young man. Can you imagine! I have been invited to the dinner celebrating your
engagement, at which Billy will also be present! I wonder if he would recognize
me? Pointless question, since you certainly would. I have had to maneuver so
many times in order not to be in the same room with you it begins to vex me.
But I must find a plausible excuse for declining once again.

It would otherwise be enjoyable, since I see so little of Warren
Barnett these days. It pleases me that he is virtually the leader of the
Democratic Party in California, even though he has decided not to run for
reelection as lieutenant governor. The slavery issue that divides the party
spurs him, I know, in his incessant hegiras about the state. Sometimes I think
he would travel a hundred miles to speak to a meeting of two laborers under an
oak tree in a thunderstorm! I worry about him. If he is not more careful of
himself, he is bound to be taken ill.

All of a sudden I have a growing desire to be out in the world
again. I suppose two years of keeping essentially to myself, reading for
endless hours, and mothering my flower garden have been enough. In any event, I
feel as though a pall has been lifted since moving here. Perhaps I might go to
the theater, if I can persuade
Solana
to accompany
me. The praise heaped on the Booth family's Shakespearean performance tempts
me. I do not know if I care to see Lola Montez, aside from my feminine craving
to discover what all the fuss is about. (Half-naked on a horse, indeed!) No
doubt I will find excuses to put off a visit to town. But I shall not let a
month slip by before I go in, with or without
Solana.

Indeed, I have the very thing to justify the shedding of my
hermit's cloak. I loathe the curtains left by the previous owner. There is an
upholstery-and-materials shop that carries a variety of draperies. Next to that
abominable sideshow tent on Sacramento Street, if I recall correctly. Moreover,
I must begin transferring my deposits. I will set my mind to it and go.

Esther turned her carriage into
Sacramento Street and slowed the horse to a walk. The drapery shop was just a block
ahead. For a moment the throngs of people made her think of turning around and
going home. There were fifty-thousand souls in San Francisco now, a thousand
new buildings—more than half of them of brick and stone. It was no longer an
infant port. Now it was what Barnett had expected it to be, the United States
gateway to the Orient. It boasted more than a hundred and fifty boardinghouses
and hotels. New telegraph lines connected the city with Sacramento, San Jose,
Stockton—and Marysville.

For a moment Esther thought of little
Moses. The latest report from the school near Marysville was that he could not
be more content or doing better in his studies. Then, contemplating one of the
numberless gambling tents and saloons she had driven past, Esther wondered
whether coming into town had been a wise idea after all. She was unsettled, ill
at ease in the presence of so much unwashed humanity. She saw a man carrying a
gun and recalled newspaper articles she had read about the proliferation of
dueling. She shuddered at the thought of such violence, then smiled to herself
at the irony of such normally delicate sensibilities juxtaposed with what she
planned eventually to do to Mosby.

As she reined the horses to a halt in
front of the store, she glanced up one of the hills in the distance and gasped
at the size of a mansion being erected on its crown. She had read of such
homes, had driven by several that afternoon on the way in from her house, but
the size of this one was staggering. She guessed that three houses the size of
her own could easily be fitted into it, and she speculated for a moment about
how much material it would take to curtain the windows in such a dwelling.
Getting down from the carriage, she snugged the reins into the ring of a
hitching post and started toward the store.

Halfway
across the sidewalk she noticed the sign hanging on the front of the old
carnival tent standing in the lot next door. She stopped, suddenly feeling as
though the blood had drained out of her and she was encased in an enormous,
soundproof bubble of glass. The sign, surrounded by others touting the
carnival's exotic attractions, read:

SEE

THE HEAD

OF THE RENOWNED BANDIT

JOAQUIN!

and the Hand of

Three-Fingered Jack!

on
Exhibit here Daily!

Esther swayed and reached out for something
with which to support herself. She felt soft material beneath her hand.
Turning, she saw that she was gripping a frilled gold epaulet. For a few
seconds she was certain she was dreaming, but then the portly, bearded man
wearing one epaulet on his tattered military jacket—along with a top hat fitted
with an ostrich feather and a sword in a scabbard—spoke to her.

"Have no fear, madam. I am Joshua
Abraham Norton, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico. And
seeing you sorely distressed, I am at your service."

"Forgive me… but I felt faint for a
moment."

"That sign would make anyone feel
faint," the oddly dressed man said. "It is a monument to man's base
nature."

Esther finally realized who Norton was.
He had lost a fortune in gold during one night at the gambling tables and gone
mad. He was harmless, at most a nuisance, supported and in an odd way revered
by the citizens of San Francisco.
Perhaps they see in him what any one of
them might have become
, Esther thought. But for the grace of God, John
Sutter might be standing beside her instead. She dug in her purse and handed
Norton a dollar.

"Thank you, kindly, ma'am. Is there
anything I can do for you before going on about the business of
government?"

"No." Esther glanced at the
sign on the carnival tent again. "Wait," she called as Norton started
to move on. She had to go in and see for herself. She could not allow the shred
of doubt that Murietta was dead linger in her mind a moment longer. The urge
took hold of her and carried her through the repulsion she felt for all
carnivals and sideshows. She could not possibly go in alone. "Will you
accompany me into the tent?" she asked Norton. "I will pay for your
ticket and give you another dollar."

"There will be no need for you to
pay additional taxes," Norton said, taking her arm and guiding her
forcefully down the sidewalk.

Esther's apprehensions about seeing
Joaquin's severed head were overridden by Norton's propellant grip on her arm.
Inside they passed a man covered from shoulders to ankles with tattoos, a
cageful of reptiles, a fat woman with a beard. When Norton saw Esther
hesitantly edging toward the two glass jars on a table set up at the rear of
the tent, he stopped.

"I have no stomach for such things,
madam. I will wait for you here. Perhaps the man who eats fire will put on a
display in my honor."

Esther nodded and eased her way past a
dozen people watching an act in one of the alcoves. When she reached the table,
she could not at first look directly at the two jars filled with alcohol.
Forcing herself, she glanced at them out of the corner of her eye.

On the left, a ghastly white hand,
severed at the wrist and missing two digits, hung fingers-down in the colorless
liquid. Next to it, the head rested at a slight angle on the glass bottom of a
larger jar. There was no odor, other than the stale smell of sawdust underfoot
and the faint aroma of an elephant chained to a post ten yards away, but Esther
felt nauseated. Fighting down the queasiness, she took darting looks at the
head, turning her eyes away every few seconds until she was sure she would not
be sick.

She quickly read the small, lettered
rectangle between the two jars. It described the two bandits, their infamous
careers, and the details of their capture. She forced herself to look steadily
at the severed head. The eyelids were closed. The hair was long and straight,
straighter than Joaquin's wavy, dark locks. The nose was flattened, too big.
The cheekbones, almost Indian in their breadth, were too wide. It did not look
like Joaquin at all. Oddly, the head seemed to be smiling. And then Esther
noticed the gleaming gold tooth.

Outside, after Norton had gone, she tried
to recover, distract herself from the horror of the exhibit, by wrestling with
the conviction that it was not Joaquin. She had no idea if alcohol could render
such changes in a face after death. He might have replaced the false tooth with
one of gold, she thought. She was standing by her carriage, trying to remember
which tooth it was that Joaquin had lost. But then all thought of him vanished
as she saw Luther Mosby step out of the doorway directly across the street.
Scarcely able to breathe, she scanned the front of the building. Across two
windows on the second floor the black-bordered, gold letters seemed to scream
out at her deafeningly: "LUTHER MOSBY—ATTORNEY AT LAW."

Still stunned, Esther watched him walk to
the right and cross an intersection. Unconsciously, she felt in her purse as
though she were carrying a gun, as though it were that night on Portsmouth
Square when she thought the gambler with his back turned was
he
.
Snapping out of it, she climbed into the carriage, pulled away from the curb,
and followed Mosby at a discreet distance. The information Kit Carson relayed
to
Frémont
had
been right, she thought. He had studied for the bar. And Sutter had been right.
Mosby would only come back to California if he could command a position of
status or authority.
I will not panic
, she thought.
He is here. In
San Francisco. There is time. There is no need to blunder into it. I must
watch, and wait, and find the best way to do it. I will control my emotions. I
will not let them rob me of the day I have waited for these past eight years.

Mosby turned a corner several blocks
away. When Esther eased the carriage into the street he had entered, she saw no
trace of him. For a moment panic rose in her. But then she remembered the sign
on the window of his office.
He isn't going anywhere
, she thought.
He
is here to stay. There is plenty of time.

She sat in the carriage, as though she
were waiting for someone, for an hour. She took note of a hotel on the near
side of the street, then finally saw
Mosby
come out of a cheap-shingled house onto
the opposite sidewalk. He headed back toward his office. She waited until he
was out of view, then walked across the street. In front of the two-story,
shingled dwelling, Esther hesitated. She looked both ways and, sure no one was
watching, lifted the door-knocker and let it fall twice.

The door opened, and Arabella Ryan peered
out. "What can I do for you, dearie?"

Esther put her hand to her veiled face in
shocked surprise.

"Well? Cat got your tongue?"

"I'm terribly sorry," Esther
said, gathering her wits. "I seem to have the wrong address."

"Think nothin' of it," Arabella
said, closing the door.

Esther smiled as she climbed back into
her carriage and drove back to the drapery shop. She hardly saw the material
the proprietor showed her. The only evidence of preference she gave him was for
those bolts laid out by the front window. She let him chatter on about the
advantages and beauty of each sample as she gazed past him, through the window,
at Luther Mosby's office across the street.

"I can't make up my mind," she
finally said. "I'll come back again tomorrow."

Esther returned to the drapery shop each
afternoon for five days, playing the role of a silly, indecisive, rich young
woman with nothing but time on her hands. When she was certain Mosby went to
the bordello each afternoon at two, she placed an order for material, then
bought a spyglass and took a room on a monthly basis in the hotel directly
opposite Arabella Ryan's "boardinghouse."

Aside from Mosby, only one other man
returned to the house across the street regularly. Late one night, after
telling
Solana
she
was taking a two-day trip to Sacramento, Esther saw the second man arguing with
Arabella Ryan through a window of one of the second-floor rooms. She watched as
the man turned on his heel, then stalked out through the front door of the
bordello a minute later. Pleading, Arabella ran out after him. When the madam
contritely handed him a roll of bills, the man smiled, kissed her, and strode
off down the street.

Esther put on a coat, raced downstairs,
and followed him to a gambling hall several blocks away. Sitting at a table off
in one corner, she sipped tea laced with brandy and watched as the man lost
every penny Arabella had given him. One of the men at the faro table with him
frowned and said, "Should've paid what you owe 'stead'a playin' again,
Cora. When are we gonna see the money due us?"

"Soon," the man named Cora
said, obviously uncomfortable. "Soon."

"You keep up like this, Charlie,
you're gonna be in deep trouble," another gambler said. "People been
known to find themselves dead owes less than you do."

"You'll have your money!" Cora
said, turning on all the bravado he could muster. "And don't threaten me,
understand?"

Waiting several minutes, Esther followed
Charles Cora back to the bordello. In her hotel room she turned her spyglass on
the second floor across the street. Cora was sitting on the edge of a bed, his
head in his hands. Arabella Ryan seemed beside herself, gesturing in a way that
made it obvious to Esther that she was saying there was nothing she could do to
help.

Esther smiled. Undressing, she got into
bed and lay sifting it all in the darkness. She did not yet know how, but she
was certain that Charles Cora and Arabella Ryan would play a part in the
undoing of Luther Mosby.