by Daniel Knapp
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.
Fifty-five
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 MO
SBY—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.
Fifty-six
After the plan took form in Esthers mind, she continued observing Charles Cora and following Mosby, carefully, on foot and in her carriage. For two more weeks she weighed the possibility of an alternative, but none presented itself. Mosby's hotel room was inaccessible except by its door. The lobby and hallways were never empty, even late at night. In his hotel any move she made would be detected immediately. There was a staircase up the side of the wooden building in which Mosby had his office, but he never stayed past sunset. During the day, there was simply too much activity, too many potential witnesses in Sacramento Street. And the saloons and gambling dens he frequented were out of the question.
In mid-December, when she was certain there was no other place where he was as vulnerable, she waited until dark in her hotel room, put on one of her heaviest veils, and went across the street to Arabella Ryan's front door.
Cora's bad luck at the gambling tables had remained unchanged during the month Esther had watched both him and Mosby. As she raised the bordello's doorknocker a second time, there was no question in her mind that the madam would jump at almost any chance to obtain money to help Cora. She had no doubt, after watching him come and go, after seeing them locked in each other's arms through the second-floor window, that Charles Cora was Arabella Ryan's lover. It was plain to see that she was almost frantic about his predicament. And it was virtually indisputable that Luther Mosby had a sexual appetite of mammoth proportions. More than once Esther had seen him go into this house on his daily visit, then return later in the evening, stay for another hour, and then leave with a Chinese prostitute on his arm. On occasion he took a tall girl with long, dark hair and Latin features back to his hotel. Mosby's taste for the unusual was not lost on Esther. The hat, veil, and gloves she planned to wear when she finally confronted him might just prove to be pivotally disarming distractions.
Esther held her breath for a moment as Arabella Ryan opened the door a few inches and stared at her. The only nagging doubt she had about her plan lay in the possibility that Arabella would somehow recognize her. More than six years had passed since that night when the madam thought she could rifle Esther's bag after drugging her tea in the converted stable on Montgomery Street. Despite that, and the heavy veil Esther was wearing, she trembled as she watched for the slightest sign of recognition. There was none.
"Thought you said you had the wrong address."
"No, I merely lost my nerve last month. May I speak with you privately?"
Arabella sized her up and decided from the conservative cut of Esther's clothing that there was no money to be made from her. "I'm awful busy, dearie."
"It's about Charles Cora."
The madam's eyebrows rose. "What about him?"
"I think I can help you—him. He owes a considerable amount of money, does he not?"
"How did you…?" Arabella glanced over her shoulder, then turned back, still skeptical but too desperate about Cora to ignore even the remotest possibility of extricating him from the hole he had dug for himself. "Come in, dearie. Please come in."
The madam ushered Esther through a dimly lit foyer and then a parlor done up in red flocking, second-hand couches, and frayed soft chairs. A half-dozen women lazed about in undergarments and flowing, diaphanous nightgowns. One of them yawned as Arabella opened a curtained French door at the rear of the room and let Esther into a small office. An oil lamp fitted with a green eyeshade sat flickering on the madam's desk.
"Can I
get you some tea, miss?"
"Missus," Esther said as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. "No, thank you kindly." The irony of it struck her, and she almost laughed. She noticed the rumpled cot pushed up against one wall.
"I was just takin' a nap," Arabella said defensively. She gestured to a chair. "Sit down, sit down."
"A nap? Your friend Mr. Cora was here just a while ago, wasn't he?"
"Now look here! That's my… How did…?"
"I didn't mean to pry. I know you are lovers. And I know how much you want to help him. How much money does he owe?"
"Why should I tell you that? I don't even know you. What's this all about?"
"Let me explain. I'm a newly married woman. I… I'm inexperienced in the ways of… sex. My husband has… demanding tastes, and I do not wish to lose him. I want to learn a few things by observation, and I'm willing to pay for the knowledge. Enough to help your Mr. Cora with his difficulties. Now, how much does he owe?"
"Who are you?"
"Don't be ridiculous! I'm certainly not going to reveal my identity. If my husband ever found out…"
"Yeah, I can see what you mean. How much does Charlie owe? I'd say in the neighborhood of seven thousand dollars."
"And he could lose his life if he doesn't repay it?"
Arabella winced. Her fingers moved nervously. "Yeah. It's possible." She sobbed and put one hand over her eyes. "Oh, Jesus, what am I gonna do with him?"
