by Daniel Knapp
"But he might have hated you."
"No, Sunsister… In time, he would see how wise it was for me to do this thing. He might not love me as before, but he would not send me away. But that does not matter. The dream dust and the amulet have been kind to me. He loves me now as he has not for many winters. And that is good. It will help him live with the changes as the end for us draws near."
"The end? It doesn't have to be that way!"
"It will come, Sunsister. And we will change. Not as you said it might be when you spoke to him at the waterfall. We will eat mice, but we will live, and we will be together. And that will be enough until the sun takes us back."
Remembering their final, half-happy, half-sad embrace, Esther wiped at her eyes as she waited in the partially filled theater. When Barnett arrived and sat down next to her, it was practically jammed.
"Forgive me for being late. Minor, unexpected difficulties. There has been a change in my plans, and I have the time to accompany you back to Mariposa, if you like."
For a moment Esther had a fleeting suspicion that Barnett might also be succumbing to an infatuation. "I had tentatively planned to go back with Murietta."
"Oh, well," he said, glancing at the program, obviously only slightly disappointed. "I thought I'd see for myself just how well my orders have been carried out by the builders."
Relieved and embarrassed by her quick assumption, she thought for a moment about how much less awkward it might be for her if Barnett did accompany her, rather than the Californio. "The plans are not definite… Why don't you? You could go on from the ranch by stagecoach."
"Yes, I thought I'd stay briefly, a few hours, and then, if you were kind enough to have me driven to Coulterville, go on to San Jose from there."
"We could stop at the South Fork to let Murietta know. I'm sure he'll be delighted not to have to make the long round-trip."
"I can attend to some business in Placerville. Would you mind stopping there briefly?"
"I'm not too taken with that place. But I can visit with Joaquin at the cabin until you've finished."
"Fine," he said, craning his neck, fascinated by the people around them. Chuckling, he leaned over and whispered: "We certainly have a mixed lot of characters here tonight, do we not?"
Well-dressed women and their merchant husbands sniffed and murmured disdainfully as the last of the bench-row seats were filled by miners coming in through a side entrance from the Round Tent, a saloon and gambling hall adjacent to the wood-frame, canvas-covered building. An usher removed someone from the seat next to Esther, and a well-dressed young man with muttonchop whiskers took his place. He nodded at Esther and took out a notepad bearing a stamped New York Tribune on its cover. The air in the auditorium was stifling, and the sound of rain on canvas rose appreciably in volume.
Toward the end of the melodrama, the New Zealand-born leading lady threw herself prostrate in the middle of the stage. Turning to a knight in purple, attempting to outdo the now pelting raindrops and flapping canvas along the walls, the actress moaned, then shouted, "You're me only 'ope. Me only 'ope!"
The Tribune correspondent turned, smiled, and whispered to Esther, "Me only 'ope is to get out of 'ere before I suffocate from the lack of air and talent."
Suddenly with a roar and tearing of canvas, a wall of water burst through the side of the building and flooded the stage, taking the entire cast with it. In seconds, the orchestra was inundated, each man swimming for himself in the pit, instruments floating like jetsam from a sunken vessel. Next the audience received the brunt of the cascade; the playgoers, dressed in heavy overcoats, knee-high boots, and long, full- skirted dresses, were floundering, falling, screaming, and attempting to climb up on submerged benches. The correspondent next to Esther grabbed one arm just as Warren Barnett took the other, and together they lifted her onto a bench.
"Bayard Taylor," the Tribune correspondent shouted, reaching out to shake hands, still clutching his notepad.
"Barnett. William Barnett," Warren said, more than unnerved. "I mean Warren Barnett."
Esther broke into a peal of laughter. It rose to a hysterical pitch as she watched another wave of water smash in under the flapping canvas siding and bowl the three of them off the bench. Before she went under, she saw Barnett and Taylor picked up and tossed yards away like life-sized dolls. She came up and a heavy-set miner washed into her from two rows forward. Scrambling, he pushed her under and clutched desperately at the bench. It toppled slowly in the water, turning until it wedged beneath a nailed-down seat and trapped Esther.
She could not move. The coldness made the bridge of her nose ache. Opening her eyes, she saw the hazy light of the gas lamps not four feet above her, beyond the surface of the frigid water. The man who had pushed her under was gone. She started to gasp for air involuntarily, felt the water trickle down her throat, and fought the urge to breathe. The water gagged her, and she coughed. Closing her mouth quickly, she put one hand over it and tried not to panic. Reaching down with her other hand, she pushed at the bench pinning her to the floor of the auditorium. It moved, but then it wedged even more firmly as one end slipped beneath another bench to her left. Someone scrambled by, stepping on her and sending sharp stabs of pain through shin and shoulder. Only seconds had passed, but it seemed infinitely longer.
Oh, God, she thought. Just one breath of air. An image of Alex floated through her mind. Then her father… sister… old Miss Cable… John Alexander. I'm going to die. She was surprised that she felt no fear—it was simply a fact: I'm going to die. Her stomach tightening in spasms, she was numbly, clinically aware of the strange, swollen sensation of crying under water.
Now it was Mosby's face hanging in front of her, laughing. I will never have the chance to kill you now… Bastard! The anger galvanized her. I will not die. I… will… not… die… Her lungs knotted. She took her hand from her mouth and pushed at the bench with both arms as hard as she could. It wouldn't budge. She knew it was useless and gave in. Staring up through the water, she wondered when she would be forced to open her mouth and let it in. She thought of Alex again.
Oddly, it was not Alex she saw hovering over her just above the surface now, but Barnett. She watched as a frantic miner pulled at Barnett's coat, saw him push the man away and take hold of the bench lying across her chest. He pulled at it, and the cords in his neck grew taut. He moved to the right, grabbed the bench again and, bracing his forearm under it, heaved up with every muscle in his enormous body just as she passed out.
Barnett relaxed once, then yanked upward again, tearing the bench free. Throwing it aside, he reached down and picked Esther up in his arms. Semiconscious, she coughed up a half-pint of water and began sucking in deep breaths of air. Surprised that she was still alive, Barnett waded, hip-deep, toward the door of the theater. Still spitting up small amounts of water, Esther hung dazed in his arms as he pushed toward the City Hotel, two buildings away.
Once, before they reached it, she saw the body of an Indian drift past. Even through half-closed eyes she knew it was the drunken Maidu she had seen sprawled on the sidewalk earlier. Near the flooded hotel entrance, an old man floated by on a cot, pleading hoarsely for help. She tried to lift her arm and reach out to him, but all her energy was spent. The strain of the effort made her close her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, the old man had disappeared in the darkness.
Soaked through, she began to regain full consciousness as Barnett carried her up the stairs and sat her down on the second-floor landing. Cognizance of how close she had come to death caught up with her, and she began trembling uncontrollably. Barnett found a blanket, wrapped it around her, and began wringing the water out of her dress. She tried to thank him, but her teeth were chattering wildly. Below, amid the screaming and hysteria of those who lived, bodies floated face-down in the foyer and the first-floor hallway. Near the foot of the stairs a small boy sat on a step, water up to his waist, holding onto the hand of his dead two-year-old sister.
Pointi
ng to the child, Esther nodded to Barnett. When she stopped shivering and regained her wits, he went down and carried the little girl's body back up to the second floor, then went back for the boy. Numb with fatigue, speechless with horror and shock, Esther simply gazed at Barnett in stunned gratitude as she put her arms around the boy and tried to comfort him.
In her room Barnett averted his eyes as he undressed Esther and put her to bed. He broke up a chair and laid pieces of it on the dying coals of a Franklin stove that sat over in one corner.
Esther beckoned to him. "Just hold me, Warren. Please."
Self-consciously, he put his arms around her.
"I can never tell you how grateful I am."
"I'm just thankful you're alive."
She leaned back and looked at him. "There will always be a special bond between us now." Her breasts were almost bare, and his eyes darted nervously. "Like a brother and sister," she added quickly. "That's all I mean."
"Thank you for saying that." He paused. "There is something I must tell you, Esther. I… I have always cared deeply for you… in a spiritual way." He gazed past her. "Often I have wondered why I've never felt more… wanted you…"
She stroked his head. "It may sound strange, but it means more to me this way."
"Sometimes I've wished I did feel more," he went on, not really hearing her, needing to tell all of it. "It's just that my whole life… is…"
"Politics," she said, smiling.
"Yes." He laughed nervously. "Physical needs, when they arise, I attend to in a casual way… with…"
"Those women who know how to do everything."
"Yes."
She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "I understand. I think no less of you for it."
He sat silently with her for a moment, then stood up. "You're all right now?"
"Yes."
"Then… perhaps… perhaps I should go and see if I can help elsewhere."
When he was gone, she lay back on the bed and began drifting off to sleep. Dear, good Warren, she thought. He is with his first love now. His people. And I am one of them.
In the morning Esther stared out through the window at the whaleboats and skiffs still carrying people to high ground. The Sacramento and American rivers had crested, and the entire city had been submerged in three to four feet of water. Across Front Street, large boats drifted at odd angles, splintered where they had smashed into one another. Several more were overturned or partially sunk. Bales and crates, equipment, supplies, foodstuffs, and clothing, washed from temporary storage points, littered the street and the banks of the river. God knows how much more has been washed downstream, she thought, for the first time remembering that Kellerman had built his new store on a knoll some distance from the now submerged Embarcadero. In all likelihood his losses would be minimal.
She was suddenly struck with the stupidity—and irony—of the disaster. If the scene within her view was any indication, the city had been devastated in several minutes. She guessed rightly that scores of lives had been lost. At least a half-dozen people in the hotel had been drowned sleeping in their beds. No doubt, she thought, more than a hundred thousand dollars in goods had been destroyed, and God knew how much it would cost to repair the damage when the waters subsided.
All of it preventable. All of it forewarned. For as long as she had been in the region, she had known that the Indians never built camps nearer than fifty to one hundred yards from a stream or tributary of any size. They were well aware that the waterways swelled and washed over their banks predictably each year when the snow melted. Down here in the valley there was no snow of any consequence. But by the end of each December, with a formidable snow-mass accumulated to the east, there was always a chance that rain would melt the western edges of the white blanket and sweep it downriver toward the settlements. No doubt the Indians had told others, as Miwokan had told her, of the danger. Undoubtedly the Indians had been ignored, as they largely were on almost any matter worth discussion. Common sense alone should have dictated that the city be protected, at least by raising levees such as those she had read about along the Mississippi. The only thing that could have prevented such prudence was a preoccupation that robbed men of normal good sense.
Had there been any question about what the preoccupying, insidious element clouding otherwise sharp minds might be, it would have been answered while she stood there. Diagonally across Front Street a bearded miner lay drowned in his stove-in rowboat. Clutched in one of his hands was a packed belly bank holding all his gold.
Before it is through, she thought, how many will he pierced, impaled on the elephant's tusks? And will I be one of them? Indeed, in subtle ways, was she already one of the changed, destroyed slowly by the ugly truth contained in Miwokan's legend? She went back to bed and fell asleep wondering if she had enough to use against Mosby, if it was time to divest herself of all direct involvement with gold, or if it was already too late.
Nine days later, as Sacramento City finally dried out and the inhabitants began repairing and rebuilding, a note reached Esther just as she and Barnett were about to leave for the South Fork:
Sent Kit Carson, who has returned from the Cimarron, to inform you at your home, but you had already departed for Sacramento City so forwarded this. Gold discovered on our property. Not placer gold, but a rich underground vein several feet wide, more than a yard in some places. Due to its direction, it is likely that the same vein or a similar formation extends through the mountains on your property. May have left for Washington before you return, so wished to inform you and let you know we plan to begin mining operations here as soon as possible. Have discussed methods and procedures with those knowledgeable in such matters, and it seems likely we will build a quartz-stamping mill in the vicinity sometime later this year. Should the presence of "mother lode" vein or veins bear out on your property, we would be happy to have you join us in the building and, of course, use of such a mill.
Please extend my regards to Mr. Barnett the next time you see him. Jessie sends her best.
Faithfully yours,
John Charles Frémont
Forty-six
Murietta was not at the cabin when Esther and Barnett arrived. There were warm ashes in the fireplace, and although Murietta's horse and saddle were gone, the rest of his gear lay on the floor. Since it was Sunday, Esther assumed he had gone into town for provisions or to amuse himself. At first she was reluctant to go with Barnett. But then she decided her vow never to set foot in Placerville again was foolish. She would certainly not go out of her way to visit the mining community, but having Barnett double back seemed unnecessary. She decided to pass the time with Murietta while Barnett attended to his political affairs.
Constant traffic had packed down the widened wagon-road into Placerville. Only a little of the surface was slick with snow, and they quickly covered the distance from the river to the ridge overlooking the town. The silence of the pine forest didn't seem unusual or in any way alarming this time. It was winter, and snow covering the ground and the heavily laden evergreens muffled all sound. But now, as Barnett slowed the horses on the crest between two sloping hills, Esther thought she was dreaming, reliving an expanded version of the nightmare that had unfolded the last time she was here.
The town had grown so much it was almost unrecognizable. There were ten times as many people. Most of them were gathered now, a lake of bearded faces and flannel shirts, undulating, hissing and growling like lava, around the hitching rails in front of a saloon on the main street. Off beyond the far edge of town, incongruously, a small group of people was holding a religious service, singing a hymn. As Esther and Barnett drew closer to the larger mass of miners, they saw the rifles and clubs.
A sick feeling spread through Esthers stomach. "Warren, I want to turn around. I don't want to be here."
Barnett reined up fifty yards from the crowd. "Esther, I've got to find out what's going on."
"Your business can wait, can't it? … Please." Then she saw the
two men tied to the hitching rail. One of them was Murietta. "Oh, God… It's Joaquin. They have Joaquin. Do something, Warren."
Barnett eased the team of horses into the rear of the mob. "Make way!" he shouted. "Make way!"
"Who the hell do you think you are?" one miner barked, raising a length of oak and seizing the reins.
"My name is Warren Barnett, sir. I am a state senator, and I demand to know what is going on here!"
"Get down off that fuggin' wagon," another man bellowed. "Or they'll be takin' you back to San Jose in a pine box."
A tall, strapping man in a suit, vest, and string tie pushed through the crowd. Esther recognized him immediately. He had slapped the horse out from under the man they had hanged here thirteen months earlier.
"Hold on," he said. "Let's not go off half-cocked." He turned to Barnett. "Would you kindly get down, sir?"
Barnett hesitated for a moment, then climbed down off the buckboard. Esther's eyes darted from Barnett to the tall man with the pleasant face and enormous, square jaw, then beyond the crowd to Murietta, who stood glaring at a fat, red-bearded man. Beside him, the second man lashed to the hitching rail winced with pain as he struggled to free his wrists from their bonds.
"My name is William Coleman," the tall, strapping man said, his extremely pale-blue eyes as cold as snow. "Are you indeed a member of the state senate?"
Barnett glanced around him and took in a deep, chest-swelling breath. "I am, sir. And I wish to know what the charge is against these two prisoners."
Coleman regarded him coolly. "Do you have any credentials? Can you prove you are who you say you are?"
"I have identification."
"I'd like to see something official," Coleman said.
