“I do,” admitted Christopher. “It is not that I have any future ambitions toward the pulpit, but I do love people and can think of no greater calling than to be involved with them, especially, as I said, in helping them to think of their faith as something more alive and real than many do. I don’t miss the preaching, but I do miss the pastoring. That’s why I say yes, I want to make a difference in how people think—and why I don’t mind doing the unusual once in a while, if it will help.”
Christopher paused for a moment
“But more than all that,” he went on, “what Corrie and I did in waiting that year, I felt, was the right and wise thing to do. I don’t necessarily believe in doing things just to be different. Even though I’m still young, I’ve learned not to rush God. Sometimes it seems that the slower I go, the more I am in his will. I’ve had to be there to pick up the pieces more times than I have liked for people who have rushed into business moves, marriages, and all manner of things. In my experience, haste usually breeds recklessness. Time is a great counselor.”
We continued visiting a while longer. The Rutledges asked us about our plans, and we told them of the living arrangements we’d decided upon.
A brief lull in the conversation came, and Rev. Rutledge gave a little involuntary sigh. He hadn’t meant it to be seen, but it was clear he was feeling fatigued from our visit. We stood to excuse ourselves as Harriet glanced toward her ailing husband.
We said our goodbyes to Avery, then Harriet saw us to the door. She put the bravest face on it she could, but as we left, both Christopher and I knew she was concerned.
Chapter 6
Anticipation
Almeda and I always had a good time when we worked together in the kitchen. One spring day we were baking bread, and while our hands mixed and kneaded and pounded, we got to laughing and reflecting on the time back in 1853 when she had taken me to San Francisco.
“Oh, I wish I could show Christopher the city,” I said, kind of dreamily.
“Why don’t you?” said Almeda.
My head shot up. Suddenly it dawned on me that there wasn’t any reason I shouldn’t.
I mentioned the idea to Christopher the very next time he came down from the mine. He thought a trip to San Francisco sounded like a great idea.
“In fact,” he said, “why don’t we take the others along with us?”
“Who . . . everyone?” I asked.
“Anyone who wants to go.”
“Oh, what fun!” I exclaimed. “Do you really mean it, Christopher?”
“Of course I do.”
I was so excited at the prospect! We brought it up at breakfast the very next morning, and before the hour was out, my brothers and sisters and Christopher and I were planning a trip to San Francisco for the first week of May.
Anticipation mounted to such a pitch over the next four weeks that the night before our departure I could hardly sleep. We were all up by morning’s light and bustling around getting dressed and packing our bags. Zack had made arrangements for his friend Laughing Waters and her sister, Shell Flower, to meet us in Sacramento and go to San Francisco with us. Zack had met Laughing Waters, whose father was a chief of the Paiute tribe, while he was riding for the Pony Express in the Nevada territory back in 1861. Now she and Shell Flower were living in California. And Zack was so anxious to get to Sacramento that he was up before all the rest of us!
Almeda prepared a big breakfast for our send-off. She and Pa were in lively spirits, joking and laughing. I couldn’t tell if they wished they were going or were looking forward to being alone—alone, that is, with our half-sister Ruth, who was now ten, with energy for two or three girls her size.
“You think you can handle this unruly mob, Christopher?” Pa asked as he buttered himself a biscuit.
“I don’t know, Drum,” laughed Christopher. “Being still a newcomer to the West and a stranger to San Francisco, I intend to let the others lead the way.”
“I reckon Corrie and Zack’ll keep you outta trouble.”
“Time was when Corrie practically lived in San Francisco,” put in Almeda, as she poured out a round of coffee into several empty cups.
“I wouldn’t say that,” I protested. “Although I suppose I did make quite a few trips back and forth.”
“City’s changing fast, Corrie,” added Pa. “California’s still growing. People are still coming here even though the gold’s slowed up. How long’s it been since you was in the city?”
“Hmm,” I said, “let me see. It must have been just before I went back East during the war . . . probably sometime in 1863.”
“Four years—yep, I’d say you’ll likely see plenty you don’t recognize.”
“Please, can I go too, Ma?” said Ruth in a pleading voice to Almeda.
“I’m sorry, dear—this trip is only for the grown-ups. We’ll take you when you’re older.”
“You and Pa aren’t going,” objected Ruth, “and you’re the only grown-ups. The others are my brothers and sisters. Well,” she added looking around, “maybe Christopher’s a grown-up.”
Everyone at the table laughed.
“How does that make you feel, Christopher,” asked Pa, “to be thrown in along with me?”
“I suppose in a youngster’s eyes, the years between us aren’t so many.”
“Twenty,” added Pa, who was fifty-two at the time. It hardly seemed possible, but Almeda would be fifty next year herself.
“Only nineteen,” corrected Christopher. “There’s not that much difference in our ages, especially to a ten-year-old.”
“You’re right—you’re practically an old man!” laughed Pa.
“It’s for the young grown-ups, dear,” said Almeda to Ruth, still laughing.
Half an hour later we piled all our bags into the wagon. Pa climbed up in front to take us into Miracle Springs. The waves and goodbyes to Ruth and Almeda, standing by the door, continued until we were out of sight.
The southbound train was due to pull out at 8:43. We were all standing on the platform, waiting impatiently at 8:20. A shrill whistle sounded in the distance about 8:32, followed a minute or two later by sight of the big black steam engine rolling slowly into view.
More handshakes and goodbyes followed, this time with Pa.
We all boarded as mail bags were unloaded and loaded and as the engine took on water. By nine o’clock the five of us were seated together—Christopher and myself, Zack, twenty-eight, Becky, twenty-four, and Tad, twenty-two—chugging south toward Sacramento.
Zack would take us all to meet Laughing Waters and Shell Flower this afternoon. They were both living and working in a large school, and we had been invited to join them for dinner. Then they would join us for our outing to the city.
It turned out later that Laughing Waters’ sister changed her mind about going. Even though she had been more a part of the white culture than Laughing Waters, she was more than just a little shy about the adventure we had planned. But there was no way Zack would let Laughing Waters stay behind. He had been looking forward to being with her again even more than visiting San Francisco!
We would all spend the night in the same boardinghouse where Christopher and I had gone for our honeymoon, where we had made arrangements by mail a week ago, and tomorrow morning be off for the city.
Chapter 7
San Francisco
The train ride from Sacramento was certainly faster than the steamer Almeda and I had taken the first time I came to the city at sixteen in 1853, ferrying across the bay in the fog.
As the line of the Central Pacific was being built eastward through the Sierra Nevada mountains, short lines were being extended in other directions too, like the one that ran north through Miracle Springs. Tracks of the California Pacific now followed the Sacramento River southwest to Vallejo at the northernmost tip of San Francisco Bay, so we were able to make most of the journey by rail. From Vallejo, as before, we ferried across to the city. We arrived in San Francisco early in the afternoon.
Zack and I were the only ones who had even been to San Francisco before, and Zack only once with Pa. By the time we got back out to the street, I had been elected tour guide!
“Come on, Corrie—lead the way!” exclaimed Tad. “Show us the city!”
“Where do you want to go?”
“How should we know?” said Christopher. “I’m just an eastern boy. You’re the one who knows what to see!”
“Should we walk or hire the buggy again?” The cabdriver who had brought us from the train station was still waiting to see if we might need his services again.
“You decide—whatever you think is best.”
Everyone stood looking at me, waiting for me to tell them what we would do next. I thought a few minutes.
“All right,” I said, “we’ll take a buggy out to the Gate where ships come and go from the Pacific. You’ve got to see that. It’s one of my favorite sights in all the city. Maybe we’ll even see one come in! Then we’ll come back to the wharf and walk along the harbor and back to downtown.”
“Wonderful—let’s go!” said Christopher, leading the way to the buggy. We all piled into the two wide seats—it was more comfortable now without all our bags—and I told the driver where to go.
As we went, I asked the man to drive us, as much as I could remember, the same way as when Almeda had first shown me the city fourteen years earlier—first up Telegraph Hill, then up and down the hills all across to the beautiful overlook where the Pacific meets the narrow mouth of the bay.
Pa was right, the city had grown. There were new houses and buildings everywhere, and more being built wherever you looked. The number of people had increased some four or five times since the first time I had come here.
When we reached the overlook of the Gate, we stopped and got out. Everyone grew quiet at the magnificence of the sight, which no one but me had seen before. It was so awe-inspiring that it took your breath away. Even though we could hear the wind, it produced an eerie silence that blew right through us.
Down below us the blue waves of the ocean crashed against the rugged shoreline, sending white, frothy spray into the air. Stretching away to our left, rocky cliffs were all we could see, just like those across the opening of the bay opposite us. There were wild-looking cliffs over on the other side, with green trees and shrubbery on top of them. We could hear the barking of seals and the shrill cries of white gulls floating so effortlessly on the winds.
What’s over there? I found myself wondering as I gazed across the bay toward the land that lay north of San Francisco. What is that part of California like?
“This place is truly stunning,” said Christopher, interrupting my thoughts. He put his arm over my shoulder. “I never imagined I’d lay eyes on the Pacific, and now here I am standing on the very western edge of the continent.”
A few stray bits of fog swirled in and out amongst the cliffs, briefly obstructing our view of portions of the water, then breaking apart again. What would this part of the coastline be without fog constantly coming and going? I thought. It was one of the many things that made San Francisco so unique and beautiful.
Along with the ships! We could see two out in the mouth of the bay not far from us—one entering, the other heading out to sea, both trailing a wake of white water behind them. I could especially see in Tad’s eyes that he was enthralled with them. The mere sight could not help but give you a sense of adventure and faraway places, and I was sure that’s exactly what my youngest brother was thinking.
Zack stooped down, picked up a rock, and gave it a heave over the edge. It fell short of the water, bouncing off the rocks below. Another soon followed, then a third, and before long the competition began between Zack and Tad and Christopher to see who could throw a stone all the way into the ocean.
Becky and Laughing Waters and I walked slowly along the edge of the promontory, talking quietly and enjoying the sights, while behind us the whoops of the men continued. It was going to be good for Becky and me to have this time with Laughing Waters. She had been very shy about meeting us all. Now it would be just us “young people” for a couple of days, and I could already sense that she was starting to relax. She and Becky already seemed to share a quiet, knowing look between them. They were both quiet observers.
The wind was slightly chilly, but I didn’t mind. It felt good to have my hair blowing about.
Fifteen or twenty minutes later we all loaded back up into the cab for the ride to the wharf and harbor.
We got out there, Christopher paid the driver, and then we began our long, leisurely climb back toward the center of the city. All varieties of boats and ships, both for fishing and for passengers, were tied up along the wharf, and Tad wanted to look at every one. Christopher, too, was very interested. Becky and Laughing Waters hardly said a word, but they gazed at everything with wide eyes. None of them had ever seen anything like that place.
Seamen and yachtsmen and sailors of many nationalities walked about. We heard several different languages. Suddenly it felt like we were at the very center of the whole world, and that it was all right here in San Francisco.
“Where’s the Barbary Coast, Corrie?” asked Zack.
“Up there ahead, along the waterfront,” I answered. “Why?”
“I want to see it.”
“Oh, Zack, it’s a dreadful place. It’s shorter to walk around behind it and miss it altogether.”
“I just want to see it, that’s all.”
I glanced at Christopher.
“All right,” he said, “but just keep walking.”
“And don’t talk to any of the people,” I added. “I remember being afraid just to be there.”
“You were a girl, and younger besides. Nothing will happen.”
I didn’t say anything more, remembering back to the fright I’d felt at unexpectedly seeing Buck Krebbs come out of one of the saloons near this very place.
We walked quietly past the saloons and run-down hotels of the famous San Francisco waterfront. It didn’t seem so fearsome today as when I’d been here with Almeda. Whether it had changed since the early gold-rush days or whether my growing older made it look different, I don’t know. Probably it was both. But the people we did see milling about looked none too nice, and I still wouldn’t want to walk alone here at night.
Slowly we continued to move back toward the business district. Christopher was especially interested in the architecture of the city’s buildings.
“It’s so different from what you see back in the East,” he remarked as we walked along. “Look at all the protruding windows and the ornate moldings.”
The closer to the heart of the city we got, the more Chinese people we saw, many of them dressed in native clothing and wearing their hair in queues. I could tell Laughing Waters was especially intrigued. I wondered if their presence made her feel more like one of us.
It was almost the dinner hour by the time we arrived back at the boardinghouse, and we were all pretty tired. We didn’t go anywhere that evening, but instead we visited with several other of the guests in the sitting room in front of a cheery fire. Most were full-time residents, and we asked them lots of questions about the city.
It had been a long day, and by nine we were ready for a good sound night’s sleep.
Chapter 8
A Conversation About Dinner
Most of the following day we spent downtown, walking and touring again. I showed everyone the Oriental Hotel where Almeda and I had stayed. We also walked through the Montgomery Building, which had been so new back then.
Since this would be our last night in the city, we dete
rmined to make the best of it, so we planned to go out to a fancy restaurant instead of eating at the boardinghouse.
And no trip to San Francisco would be complete without a visit to the Alta to see Mr. Kemble, a visit which we made late that morning.
“Well if it isn’t my old friend Corrie Hollister!” boomed Mr. Kemble, jumping up from behind his desk as we entered his office.
“Hello, Mr. Kemble,” I said, shaking the editor’s hand. “And it’s Corrie Braxton now—I would like you to meet my husband, Christopher Braxton from Virginia.”
“Your husband! That’s right—of course! I remember the invitation several months back. Sorry I couldn’t make it. Pleased to meet you, Braxton.”
“And I you, Mr. Kemble,” replied Christopher. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”
“I’m not sure I ought to ask you to explain further!” said Mr. Kemble, with a glance and grin in my direction.
“Mr. Kemble,” I said, “I’d like you to meet some of my family that are here as well. You may remember them from when you were out in Miracle Springs. This is my sister Becky.”
“I’m happy to meet you, young lady. Are you planning to follow your sister’s footsteps into journalism?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so,” answered Becky.
“My brothers, Tad and Zack,” I went on.
“You’re the young fellow who had some adventures out Nevada way with the Pony Express and the Paiutes, as I recall,” said Mr. Kemble as he shook Zack’s hand.
I glanced unconsciously at Laughing Waters and saw a look of nervousness on her face. But the conversation went quickly on.
“That’s me.”
“MacPherson tells me your writing’s almost as good as your sister’s.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Zack, more embarrassed I think than he would otherwise have been because of Laughing Waters being there. “But my sister helped me out some.”
The Braxtons of Miracle Springs Page 3
