California Woman (Daughters of the Whirlwind Book 1)

by Daniel Knapp

  "He was buried there?"

  "I'm sure he was. I did not witness the burial myself. We were quickly in pursuit of Mosby and his men. Never quite caught up with them." Thompson paused, staring sadly out through the windows of his study at the waters of San Francisco Bay. "That is all I can tell you, madam. You might gain additional details from Lieutenant Cooper. I can give you his address."

  Thompson walked with Esther to her carriage. "I grieve with you, madam, believe me. Your nephew was a popular young lad. The pity of it is that his death was unnecessary. Aldie was our last serious encounter with the guerrillas."

  She found Harlan Cooper at the wayside inn he ran just north of Sausalito the following morning. When she told the slender, bearded man with deep hollows under his eyes who she was and why she had come, he limped out from behind the beer taps and sat down with her at a table half-lit with shafts of sunlight. A thousand dust motes danced between them in the dark, sour-smelling tavern as he covered what Thompson had already told her, then described Moses' last moments of life.

  "I was lyin' there, couldn't move with this leg shattered, you see, and he was tendin' to me and several other men who was wounded. Keepin' his eye on the Rebs across the way. It'd grown so quiet, 'cept for an occasional peppershot, you could hear yourself breathin'. Of a sudden, a look come over Moses' face the likes of which I never seen. Like he saw somethin' or someone that crazed him. I don't know what it was, anger over what happened to me—we was close, you know—or what. But as I said, of a sudden he gets this look in his eyes, like… like a wild creature, and ups and sets out across that field after 'em, colors in hand. I don't know what he was thinkin', or whether he had one of 'em picked out, but when he gets near the woods on the other side, he runs straight at this officer on horseback, pointin' that flagstaff right at the bloody Reb's chest. Captain he was—"

  "An officer. A staff officer?"

  "Yep. Seen that bird many a time before. We was at 'em off and on maybe thirteen, fourteen months, you know. Mean-lookin' man as I've ever seen. Rumor had it he was a relative of that devil Mosby himself."

  Esther closed her eyes and began to shake her head, but Cooper, eyes blank and caught up in the memory, stared past her all the way back to Aldie, Virginia, in July 1864.

  "Anyways, Moses run at him and he backed his horse so's the little fella missed him. Wheeled and come down on the boy full force with a saber."

  Esther put her hands to her face and began to sob.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am. Really sorry. At the time it struck me down worse than this ball I'm carryin' in my hip. If it's any comfort, I hear tell this officer, this relative of the guerrilla king himself, was killed—in an accident—about a month later. More than a rumor, actually, though I didn't see it myself. We'd pulled back to the Potomac by then. Blown to bits by one of his own artillery pieces. I'd seen him cut down so many men, I couldn't a' been more glad if I'd done it myself. Johnny Reb bastard."

  "Thank you," Esther said, getting up. She was too numb even to cry now. Cooper limped with her to the doorway.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am. Like I said, I took it hard when he was killed. He was a good boy. No better. You might say he was like a son to me. Hope you'll pass my regrets along to his mother."

  Esther turned to him. "He was buried properly?"

  Cooper had seen the sorrow etched around Esther's eyes many times on many faces during the past year. "Had the boys carry me on a litter to where they put him in the ground. Placed a cross of thick branches on it myself."

  He did not have the heart to tell her that they had all moved on, either in pursuit of the raiders or to the medical area at Fairfax County Courthouse, within minutes of the incident. Or that Moses, along with two dozen others in darkly stained blues, had been left there in the meadow grass under the scorching summer sun and the dark swarms of eagerly keening flies.

  Sixty-nine

  Aboard the Pacific Union Express

  May 7, 1869

  11:55 a.m.

  John Sutter gazed out through the window beside his seat as the train slowed, then emerged from the pine forest and rolled across a trestle high above a deep canyon. He could feel the express begin to climb again as it left the trestle behind and moved on into wild mountain country. Sutter got up and walked to the forward door of his car. He turned for a moment, tipped his hat to Alex Todd, then went out the door and stood on the platform, thinking. He stepped to one side so he could see through the port in the opposite entrance. Luther Mosby was laughing as he drew in a winning hand in the card game he was playing with three other passengers. Sutter recognized the men. Southerners. The war was not over yet. It had simply taken on a more subtle complexion. Sutter saw Mosby look at his watch and wondered how the pieces he had begun to put next to one another in his mind would all fit together. All the elements added up to more than the simple fact that Mosby would undoubtedly attempt revenge on Alex Todd, no matter what he had said to the contrary. Sutter hoped neither Alex nor Esther would be harmed. But there was more to it than that, and Sutter sensed vaguely that it had something to do with the pages in Esther's diary that he had read almost twenty-two years before. He could not remember them in detail, but the gist of it was enough. Esther had been in those mountains, and so had Mosby—at roughly the same time. That much Sutter was sure of. Less certain was that somehow Esther's part in whatever was about to happen went back far beyond the incident involving Todd and Mosby the previous year.

  It would all be foolish conjecture, he thought, if he had not seen Mosby move down Front Street, then double back and head for the parlor car late the night before. Ralston had gone to bed, and he had remained in the second rocking chair on the third-floor porch, smoking his cigar. Puzzled, curious, he had waited almost an hour until Mosby reappeared and then saw Esther hurry back from the direction of the parlor car five minutes later.

  Considering Esther's feelings and Mosby's obvious hatred for Alex, none of it made sense. Particularly the fact that she seemed to have asked him to meet her in the parlor car. Sutter shook his head. The look of unmitigated hatred on Solana's face, a look she had concealed until she turned away from Mosby—after she had delivered what was no doubt a note from Esther in the lobby of the hotel before dinner—was even more puzzling. It was the first time he had ever seen Solana display more than a minimal degree of emotion. Where, he wondered, could she have seen Mosby before? And what could he have done to her to elicit such intense wrath? Sutter stared out at the green blur of the conifers sweeping past, oblivious of their beauty, hardly hearing the roar and racket the locomotive and the cars were making as the train rushed onward. Many times he'd wondered about exactly what had happened to Esther in the Sierras. Now he was sure that somewhere between here and Promontory he would find out.

  * * *

  Luther Mosby dealt, looked at his hand, and decided to fold.

  "What's the matter, judge?" one of the players joshed. "Cards turned bad on you?"

  "No, it's my stomach. Don't agree with me, all this rattlin' and shakin'." He thought about the questions that might be asked if he stayed in the parlor car with the woman all the way to Promontory. "Keeps troublin' me, might just get off and stay off at Dutch Flat. Excuse me, gentlemen. I think a little air might do me some good."

  On the platform up forward, Mosby checked the ladder leading to the roof, then looked up at the space between the cars. They were rocking slightly, but he anticipated no difficulty in jumping from one to another when he went up later. Back in the car he got his bag down from the luggage rack. "Think I'll try to trade for a seat in the one up ahead. Ain't rockin' as much."

  "Hope you feel better, judge. We'd hate to see you miss the festivities at Promontory."

  Mosby smiled, thinking of Alex Todd. "Wouldn't want to miss it for the world. You boys stay honest, you hear?"

  Solana huddled beside young Todd in the engine cab, fighting the fear engendered by this strange metal monster and the incredible noise it was making. She glanced back over the l
ow, attached fuel-unit at the two infantrymen, rifles across their laps, sitting on the crates lashed to the bed of the flatcar. Looking past them, she studied the platform of the first passenger unit. The ladder was within easy reach. She knew there were similar ladders on each end of the cars she could not see. She pictured the other platforms farther back that she had observed the day before. They were all the same, except that the forward platform of Charles Crocker's parlor car contained a large, wooden equipment-bin.

  * * *

  The roar of the train doubled in volume, and the parlor car grew suddenly dark as the train rattled through a long, wooden snowshed at the base of a steep ravine. When the car grew light again, Esther uncorked the vial of powder and poured a small amount into a glass. It was ground from four red and black jequirity-bean beads removed from the rosary Colonel Thompson had given her along with the rest of Moses' personal effects. Harmless when lacquered, even if a child sucked on them. When stripped and ground to a fine dust, two of the beads contained enough indigenous poison to kill a man. She shook the glass, one of a set carefully selected for their color-match with the jequirity powder, until the poison lay in a fine coating across the narrow bottom. Then she set the glass down with five others on a tray containing a decanter filled with sherry. Placing the tray on the hinged table between her seat and the one facing it, she arranged the glasses so they appeared to be placed at random.

  Leaning back, she thought of the numbing grief that had enveloped her after she learned of Moses' death. For a month or so it had been as immobilizing as the bone-deep mixture of lethargy and hatred that gripped her for almost a year after she came down out of the Sierras. Added to that were the frustration, anger, and then disappointment born of being certain she would never have the opportunity to get back at Mosby.

  Her chair swayed slightly as the train rolled over another trestle, and she remembered how her rage at being cheated of her revenge had actually outweighed sorrow over Moses' death. All her accumulated wealth and power meant nothing. There was little to live for—except young Todd. That was just enough to sustain her at first, and then more than enough as she invested all her love and attention on the boy.

  In the soothing, distracting light of her young son's love, the sorrow, anger, and frustration faded. Then, as the spring of 1866 burst forth magnificently all around her, she began a parallel process of rebirth. She started closing the door on the long spiritual winter she had lived through. Adjusting, rationalizing, she attributed her preoccupation with Mosby to an understandable kind of madness. Now that it had all ended fruitlessly, she remonstrated with herself, no matter what Mosby had done, revenge did not seem worth lowering herself almost to his level, giving up Alex, and living the life she had led for the better part of two decades.

  Briefly she punished herself with questions about what it might have been like if she had rejoined Alex in 1847. But then she put even that aside as her duties at the school and the demands young Todd was making on her time and attention pulled her bodily back into the present and started her thinking of the future.

  Esther listened to the clanking sound of the train wheels for a moment, pictured the miles they were crossing, then translated them into the months of her life. She opened the journal again, smiling as she recalled Todd's first day of school, and then frowning as she skipped several entries and began to read.

  Sacramento

  September 30, 1866

  Astonished to read today, after months of not being interested in newspapers, that Luther Mosby is alive! Good God! He is not only a survivor of the War, but a beneficiary! He has won election as U.S. Senator from Nevada after having been back in Virginia City for a mere six months. His picture and the mention of his name evoked an intense sequence of feelings. The old urge to get back at him, then an awareness of futility, what with his imminent departure for the East. Followed by a slow return to the state of mind I have been in since spring. Let fate have him. Sooner or later it will all come home to roost, and someone will make him pay for everything he has done. Perhaps God, in the end. Do not know how I would feel were I placed before him again. But that seems unlikely for some time to come, in any event, and I have spent enough time, wasted enough of my life in that obsession. Perhaps I am getting older, more tired, less able to pursue such a thing. After all, I will be thirty-seven years old in less than a month. Or perhaps I am simply growing wiser. But it does seem as though such preoccupation would simply be still more self-inflicted punishment I no longer deserve. If, indeed, I ever did. Who is to say what might happen if he returns to northern California? Perhaps I would maintain my present attitude in the matter. Or possibly the hatred would be fanned to uncontrollable flames again. I do not know, even though at this very moment I am feeling the beginnings of my old lust for his destruction. But I certainly feel no urge to travel to Washington City after him. And I will not waste time even thinking of him while revenge is almost an impossibility. After all, what chance would a lone woman have of gaining satisfaction while he is ensconced in the Senate? To hell with him! For now, at least.

  Ironic is the coincidence that Sutter will also be in Washington. Since the fire that leveled all but the "shack" he and his taciturn wife now live in, he has become almost a mad Don Quixote, jousting with the Federal Government over his land claims. He actually plans to move there, take rooms until he either dies or gets his due! I fear there is little hope for that, but seriously doubt he will not return, at least from time to time, for his unending "public appearances."

  There are other matters to consider. Todd seems well-adjusted here, so I see no reason to move him to a normal school. Much as I detest Carter, perhaps I should think about selling this place (and the house in San Francisco as well?) and moving back into his. Todd has begun to ask questions about why we live here rather than at his "father's" house. Considering how much Bull is away, it might be tolerable. Then there are the investments. I have thought long enough about them. I can find no justification for remaining even indirectly involved in the vile madness of Virginia City. And the other stocks have lost their meaning to me. Ralston's latest report: an unbelievable three-and-a-half-million dollars in assets! There is nothing I can do about the railroad stock, since it is in Carter's name. But there is no reason now not to liquidate everything else. Blue Star holdings included. Let the money sit in the bank and draw interest, for all the use I will ever put it to! Let Todd have it all when he reaches maturity and Carter is no longer in a position to do anything about it. I suppose there may be some legal complications in keeping it out of Carter's reach, even after Todd comes of age. I will have to speak to Ralston about that next week. I am still unaccustomed to thinking of Billy as a married man. Such a sudden shift of heart for what appeared to be a confirmed bachelor. Well, she is young and quite lovely, and I wish him well. But it pains me to hear of the lengths he goes to for her. He will probably still be engrossed in that ridiculous marble barn he has built for his new bride at Belmont. He mentioned that he had a surprise for me. Wait until he hears that I have decided to liquidate all my holdings! No matter what he has to tell me, I doubt it will be as surprising as that. I must resolve not to alter my decision no matter how hard he tries to dissuade me.

  Seventy

  During the twenty-mile ride south from San Francisco in Ralston's coach, Esther decided to move back to Carter's house, at least until the railroad was completed. By then Todd would be old enough to understand a permanent separation. She had just decided to sell her Sacramento property but keep the house in San Francisco, when the coach pulled around a bend and Belmont absorbed all her attention.

  The coach rolled across a miniature bridge, and its weight triggered a mechanical system that opened massive gates to the courtyard outside the mansion. Built along the lines of an Italian country villa, the house itself seemed large enough to hold several sailing ships. Ralston greeted her at the enormous front door.

  "Well, how do you like it?" Eagerly, he ushered her into a vaulted entranc
eway brightened by skylights.

  "It—leaves me speechless."

  "One hundred twenty-five rooms, last time I counted. That ought to be enough guest space for a rollicking weekend, wouldn't you say?"

  Esther glanced at the long stairway and balcony railings, then all the doorknobs within sight. They were made of silver. Ralston pushed open a pair of etched glass-doors and led her by the hand into his ballroom. It was large enough to house one of San Francisco's three-story granite buildings.

  Esther could no longer hold her tongue. "Don't you think this is all a bit extravagant, Billy?"

  They were standing in the middle of the ballroom, and Ralston looked up, his eyes sweeping across an expanse of ceiling. "It's only money, Esther. What good is it if you don't spend it? You could build a house like this now. Do you know what you're worth?"

  "I read your last report."

  "Add another quarter-million dollars to that, Esther. Sharon continues to work his miracles."

  "I wouldn't exactly describe what he does in religious terms, Billy." She decided not to comment any further. She knew how much Ralston gave away, the considerable sums he had donated to the city for public works, the orphanage. "But that's your business," she went on. "And his." She girded herself. "Billy, what I'm about to say has nothing to do with Sharon, or you personally. I hope you understand that. But I think it's time for me to liquidate."

  "Everything?"

  "Everything."