In The Face Of Death (7 page)

My work on my manuscript has gone well, which is very satisfying. I have completed my chapters on the Osage and the Kiowa, and I am well into my chapter on the Pawnee. I have been reviewing my notes on the Cheyenne and the Ute in order to organize the material more suitably. If this progress continues, I will be able to send the entire manuscript to Amsterdam before the end of October, which will please me very much.

I will have to extend my rental here until November at least, so that I may complete my work. . . .

“Pray do not take his manner to heart, Madame,” said Baron deStoeckl to Madelaine as they danced at the summer ball given by Captain and Missus Elihu Hazellet; he avoided using Sherman’s name in case they were overheard. “He will soon be as filled with enthusiasm as he is now consumed with desolation.” He missed a step and began to apologize.

“It’s not necessary, Baron,” said Madelaine, “neither this nor your intercession for your friend.”

“You are more understanding than many another woman would be,” said the Baron gallantly.

The musicians, crowded into an alcove, were doing their best to follow the erratic beat of Captain Hazellet, who had seized the baton from their leader and was enjoying himself hugely.

“Come, Baron, it is not as if he were courting me, for that is impossible. I would be more foolish than is permissible if I were to demand all the attentions and courtesies that fashion demands.” She noticed Fanny Kent in the arms of General Hitchcock and nodded politely.

“I hope my friend comes to his senses and rejoices in his good fortune,” Baron deStoeckl told Madelaine as they swept down the room. “Permit me to tell you, Madame, that I am much impressed with your wisdom.”

“Wisdom?” scoffed Madelaine, though she flushed with the compliment. “What would be the use of making demands of him? It would serve only to embarrass us both and I am convinced would not engage his affections in the least.”

The musicians came to the end of the waltz; Captain Hazellet reluctantly surrendered the baton to their leader once again.

“Permit me to bring you a glass of wine,” said Baron deStoeckl as he led Madelaine off the floor.

“Thank you, Baron, but I do not drink wine,” said Madelaine; she could feel Sherman watching her from across the room and it was difficult to resist the urge to return his stare.

“Then tell me what I may bring you,” said the Baron, his gallantry unfazed by her courteous refusal.

“Nothing, thank you,” said Madelaine, releasing his arm as they reached the chairs around the ballroom.

“Poor Captain Hazellet,” said deStoeckl smoothly, covering the awkwardness he sensed in Madelaine. “He is hoping that the government will give him the license to import more Chinese to work on the railroads. He is making a grand show in the hope that it will convince his relatives in the Capitol to provide the license.”

Madelaine took her seat “But how are parties and balls going to convince men on the other side of the continent—”

“Rumors, Madame,” said the Baron quietly. “He hopes that he will cause the high society of San Francisco to endorse him to those in power.” He shook his head at the folly of it. “He has spent a great deal of money entertaining the army officers posted here. I understand he has great hopes that Henry Halleck will support his efforts with useful introductions.”

“How absurd,” said Madelaine, and looked up sharply as a man in uniform stumbled into the ballroom.

Conversation faded and all the guests stared at the unexpected arrival. A number of the ladies drew back.

The young soldier turned deep red, aware that he had committed a serious social lapse. He removed his cap and bowed gracelessly. “Sorry to intrude. But there’s trouble. A riot. General Hitchcock, we need men—”

Sherman was already striding forward, his expression animated for the first time in days. “Yes, a riot, we will. What is the trouble, Corporal?”

“Some men. At the wharf. They started a fight with sailors off a ship just arrived from Manila.” He looked around. “It’s getting bloody. I think they could get killed.”

“Which of them?” asked General Hitchcock, watching Sherman instead of the young soldier.

“The toughs from the town want an excuse. To do murder,” said the young soldier.

“And we must keep the peace,” Sherman declared. “True enough.” He stared around the room, pointing to the younger men in turn. “All of you, make your farewells. It is time you all had a taste of the military. There is work to be done tonight. Prepare to leave here at once,” he ordered, then glanced at General Hitchcock. “With your orders, Sir?”

Hitchcock chuckled. “Carry on, Sherman. You have the way of it. Let me know if you need my help.”

But Sherman was already dragooning the younger men into order. “Those of you who have weapons, get them. Be sure your guns are loaded. We will assemble at the front steps at once.” He turned to his hostess and bowed. “I regret that we must cause you distress, Madame.”

Missus Hazellet curtsied to him. “Nonsense, Mister Sherman. We must keep the streets orderly, or none of us will sleep safe in bed.”

Sherman saluted, and turned on his heel. “Those of you remaining here, pray do not leave until you have received word from me that it is safe. I do not wish to inconvenience any of you, but I would rather do that than see any of you exposed to danger.” He went to the ballroom door, and looked about for the servants.

Baron deStoeckl leaned down and whispered to Madelaine. “Not that I wish a riot, but I suspect the action will do him a world of good.”

“I am sure you are right,” said Madelaine, watching the renewed vigor in Sherman’s every move.

“He will do this well,” said the Baron. “And I expect that he himself will bring back word when he is convinced it is safe.”

“Possibly,” said Madelaine as the younger men hastened after Sherman.

Fanny Kent hurried over to Madelaine, her cheeks pale and her splendid bosom heaving. “It is so distressing,” she exclaimed as she reached Madelaine’s side. “Madame de Montalia, how unfortunate that you should have to see San Francisco at its worst. What you must think of all Americans.”

“Given what the Terror was in France, I cannot think why you should believe I would have any lower opinion of Americans than I do of Frenchmen.” She saw Fanny’s eyes widen with shock, and she went on, “This is not a wholesale slaughter, as we had in France; this is only a riot. No city in the world is immune to them, or so it seems to me.”

“You are too kind, Madame,” said Fanny, and went off in search of more sympathetic responses.

“I don’t think she knows how to justify her country to you, Madame,” said Baron deStoeckl. “That is what she wants to do.”

“She has no need; I expect no such justification from anyone,” Madelaine told him, and noticed that Captain Hazellet had once again taken up the baton and was about to begin an impromptu concert. She sighed and steeled herself against the performance she was sure to come.

“Will you do me the kindness of a waltz?” asked Baron deStoeckl, offering her his arm to lead her onto the dance floor.

How shocking this innocent invitation would have been, fifty years ago, Madelaine thought, recalling the scandal of the waltz when it was new. She put her left hand lightly on his shoulder as he swung into the first step.

At midnight Muriel Hazellet ordered a light supper for her guests, with strong coffee to help them all remain awake. The music had stopped more than an hour before and now all pretense of festivities had given way to anxious conversations.

“I hope there will be no fires,” said Joseph Folsom with a worried glance toward the tall windows at the end of the ballroom. “Fires are so dangerous in a wooden city, like this one.”

“Yes,” said one of his companions who owned two commercial warehouses near the waterfront. “I am very troubled.”

“There has been no alarm, and no sign of flames. That must be a comfort to all of us,” said General Hitchcock in his steady way. “And no other soldiers have come here. If the riot were spreading, that must have happened. We may assume that Sherman is taking the situation in hand.” He lowered his chin onto his chest. “A pity he left the army. We need more officers like him.”

“He appears to have an aptitude for command,” said Folsom, not entirely approvingly.

“He is a very intelligent fellow, and persistent to a fault,” said General Hitchcock, and continued more openly, warming to his subject, “He was barely twenty when he was graduated from West Point. There were great hopes for him: he excelled in tactics, engineering, and languages, as I recall, all useful skills. He would have finished top of his class if he had not argued so much with his instructors. But he left the army. He couldn’t support his family on peace-time pay, like many other young officers.”

“So he’s a banker and not a soldier,” said one of the men listening at the fringe of the little group around Hitchcock.

“It’s the army’s loss, I’m afraid,” said the General.

“How unfortunate,” said Folsom, making it a final statement.

“Not for us, tonight,” said Folsom’s companion with a sour smile.

Three servants carried trays of coffee cups around the ballroom, making a second effort to provide the guests with the hot, enlivening drink. At one end of the ballroom, two cooks prepared oyster-and-bacon omelettes in chafing dishes set over little oil cooking lamps; at the other, more servants poured champagne into French crystal.

“These omelettes are all the current fashion,” said Muriel Hazellet to Madelaine as she once again attempted to coax her foreign guest to join the rest of the party in supper. “They are part of the Gold Rush tradition.”

“So I understand,” said Madelaine, her eyes widening as she heard the sharp sound of a door opening in the distance.

“You have nothing to fear, Madame,” her hostess told her with less certainty than she liked. “If there were any trouble, the servants would alert us.”

“No doubt,” said Madelaine with a courteous nod.

For the second time that evening all conversation in the ballroom stopped, as William Tecumseh Sherman strode in. His evening clothes were in disarray, his tie and collar entirely missing, and a large bruise marred the left side of his face. His red hair stood out in spikes. Dust and blood smirched his shirt and vest and there was a long rent in his trousers. Yet he was smiling fiercely. As he reached the center of the ballroom, he halted and said, “The riot is quelled. We have two dozen miscreants in jail, five with cracked skulls; only three of our men sustained any real injuries, and they are receiving treatment as I speak. The unrest is over. Order is restored. You may leave for your homes without fear.”

The announcement was met with a cheer and more than one exclamation of relief. Captain Hazellet hurried up to shake Sherman’s hand, and was quickly followed by most of the men in the room. Someone offered him a cigar, and another lit it for him.

Suddenly the ballroom was as noisy as it had been silent, everyone talking at once, trying to be heard above the din.

Baron deStoeckl came up behind Madelaine once again. “He seems to have shaken off the megrims.”

“For the time being,” said Madelaine with less certainty than the Russian. “I hope he may be in good spirits tomorrow.”

“How little faith you have, Madame; a fight was just what he needed,” said deStoeckl, and sauntered over to the gathering around Sherman.

Madelaine watched the celebrating, her face clouded with a lingering frown. There could be no doubt that Sherman was in fine fettle, enjoying the savor of victory while he generously praised the efforts of his untried men.

“With training, they could be a formidable force for good in this city. If we are to keep order, we will need such a company, a true militia. We cannot continue to rely on the marshals and sheriff to preserve the peace. Most of the time, they are like foxes among the chickens.” He drew on his cigar and looked around the room, pleased that the gathering was listening to his instruction. His steely eyes rested on Madelaine an instant longer than on anyone else, then he turned away and continued to expostulate on the urgent need for a proper militia.

Only an hour later, as the guests were departing, did Sherman approach Madelaine directly. “As you are unescorted, Madame, I will do myself the honor of accompanying your carriage to your door.” It was more of a pronouncement than a suggestion, and Madelaine bridled at his high-handed gesture.

“Thank you, but my coachman is armed, Mister Sherman, and I am certain we will manage,” she said, reminding herself of the gossip that so troubled him. “He carries a shotgun in the box, and he is prepared to deal with any trouble we might encounter.”

“Nevertheless, I will ride along beside your carriage. You are one of the few ladies without male escort, and you are the only one without some other guest with you. As your banker, and, I hope, your friend, I ask that you take no unnecessary risks tonight, and permit me to see you to your door.” A flicker of amusement lurked in his eyes though his manner was as correct as possible. “Let me do this for you, Madame. It would relieve me to see you safely within your own house.”

Madelaine sighed, annoyed that she had not accepted Baron deStoeckl’s offer of escort some twenty minutes before. “Very well, Mister Sherman. I will accept your escort. And thank you for your concern.”

Sherman only nodded and called for his horse as Madelaine’s coach drew up at the porte-cochere. He held the door for her and handed her up the steps, then went and mounted the handsome Spanish grey he had acquired two months ago. He signaled Enrique, the coachman, and they set off toward Franklin Street.

San Francisco, 21 July, 1855

To my astonishment, he returned after he had ridden back to his house and satisfied himself that his children were safe and their nurse calm. By that time, Enrique was gone home, Olga and Christian had retired to their various apartments, and all of the city seemed asleep. Even the bands of toughs who often boldly parade the streets at the small hours were gone to ground in the wake of the riot.