My Heart Belongs in San Francisco, California

by Janice Thompson

  “Most of the fellas are still asleep, after a night of brawling and gambling,” Sam said. “I heard music coming from the saloon until two in the morning. It was all I could do to sleep.”

  “They don’t go to church … at all?” Abby asked.

  “Most of ’em don’t. A few will come and go from time to time. I notice that Chet Jamison came last Sunday. That was a pleasant surprise.”

  “Who’s Chet Jamison?”

  “I feel sure you’d recognize him if I pointed him out. Comes to the restaurant nearly every day. Kind of a tall, lanky fellow with thinning hair.”

  “Oh, yes. I know him. He’s a happy-go-lucky sort of person?”

  “He covers the pain with laughter, I think. Chet came to town back in ’49 with his brother, Adam. They formed a mining company. Did well for a season, but he blew through most of the money within a year.”

  “Sad.”

  “It’s happened to far too many. I’ve seen fellows come to town with stars in their eyes, only to leave with their pockets emptier than ever. There’s nothing more sobering than watching a man lose hope. That’s what happened to Chet. So I’m happy to see him in church. Maybe God will grab hold of his heart and turn things around.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’ve done my best to remind him that hope isn’t found in possessions or in money. The only lasting hope is found in the Lord.”

  “Amen to that.” Abby nodded. “Though I would imagine he didn’t care for your sermon’s message?”

  “Didn’t present it as a sermon; just a friendly conversation. I do understand what he’s going through, to some extent. It’s in the heart of every man, to find his destiny, to seek and conquer new places, new lands.”

  “The heart of every man?” Abby questioned.

  “And some women too,” Cookie countered. “Those with a daring sense of adventure.” She slipped her hand through the crook of Abby’s arm. “Like you … and me.”

  “And Mama. She’s always had the wanderlust.” Abby spoke the words aloud, but realized her mother’s desire to travel probably had more to do with running away from Papa than discovering new lands.

  “I don’t suppose we’ve had it as hard as the miners, that’s a fact.”

  “Oh?”

  “Their working conditions are deplorable. Can you imagine being in water coming off of the glaciers for ten or twelve hours a day?” Cookie shivered, as if experiencing it firsthand. “The sun beats down on these poor fellas, so they’re scalding hot from the waist up. But the water is as cold as ice, so they’re freezing from the waist down. And most of them don’t have a clue what they’re doing. They’ve never mined before. Then they finally strike it rich, only to have someone take advantage of them. The whole thing is a fiasco, I tell you.”

  “My goodness, what a mess.”

  “Yes. Sorry to carry on so, but it’s a long answer to a short question about why these men don’t go to church. Lots of folks end up in California, but not as many end up in the Lord’s house on Sundays, and that’s a pity.”

  “I dare say most of the men around here wouldn’t even know how to direct you to the local churches,” Sam added.

  “All of these souls and none of them attend to the Lord’s work?” This notion broke Abby’s heart.

  “Half these men came from small towns where they sat in hard-backed church pews every Sunday,” Cookie explained. “They followed the dos and don’ts they learned in Sunday school. Out here, there’s no one to monitor their comings and goings, so most have chosen different Sunday activities.”

  “Such as?”

  Cookie pursed her lips. When she spoke, her words were edged with frustration. “I guess you could say that many have run amuck. They’re like wild animals at times, as you have observed. Tempting, I’m sure, for those accustomed to rules and regulations.”

  “I’ve never assumed my faith to be based on rules and regulations. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  “Then you’ve had a different upbringing than many of the men here.”

  “So how do they spend their Sundays?” Abby asked again.

  Cookie slowed her pace. The color of her cheeks deepened to a dark red. “In the brothels, honey. And gambling halls.”

  “On the Lord’s Day?” Abby’s hand flew to cover her mouth. She couldn’t imagine such a flagrant disrespect for God’s holy day.

  “Miners don’t work on Sunday, but they do find other ways to, um …” Cookie cleared her throat. “Occupy their time. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  Abby pulled down her hand and busied herself as she thought through her friend’s words. “I see.”

  “I dare say you’re getting quite the education here, Miss Abigail. Not sure your father would approve of any of it.” Concern laced Neville’s words.

  Abby didn’t blame him after what she’d just heard. Father would, indeed, be mortified by all this.

  “Stay put in the restaurant as much as possible.” Sam rested his hand on her arm. “That’s my suggestion. Eyes wide open.”

  There he went, coddling her again.

  “Yes, and keep your head down whenever you have to serve food too,” Cookie added. “Now that the men are getting more familiar and comfortable with you …”

  “Guard myself? In the dining room?”

  Cookie nodded. “The menfolk here think nothing of slapping a woman on the backside or pulling her out to the dance floor for a spin, even if she’s got a serving tray in hand. Best to ignore it and not overreact. I learned the hard way that putting up a fight will just make them try harder.”

  “Goodness.” Abby wondered if perhaps getting on a stage back to St. Louis might be in order after this sort of warning.

  “I’m hard pressed to figure out why these men seem to let go of their morals once they arrive in San Francisco.” Sam slowed his pace, as if talking about this wearied him.

  “Too much liquor,” Neville observed, breaking his silence.

  “And gambling is too common as well,” Cookie threw in.

  “Point is, they’re bored.” Sam shrugged. “That’s my take on it anyway. They get bored and do things they wouldn’t otherwise do. Then those things become habits.”

  “Bad habits.” Cookie paused to look both ways before leading them across the street. With so few people out, they had little to worry about this morning. “‘Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice.’ That’s from the book of Ephesians, one of my favorites.”

  Abby thought through her friend’s words. It boggled her mind to think about sweet, simple farm boys from across this great country turning their souls over to the devil. How did a man transition from clean living to spending time with prostitutes and the like? She shivered, just thinking about it.

  “I believe I need to make a dedicated effort to pray for the people of San Francisco while I’m at church,” Abby said at last.

  “While you’re at church, at the restaurant, and in your bed at night. They need all the prayer you can offer, honey.” Cookie picked up her pace and the church came into view. “These poor fellas are as lost as lost can be. It breaks my heart when I think of how the Lord must grieve over them.”

  “It’s the story of the prodigal son all over again,” Sam said. “Only, few return home to the Father, asking for forgiveness.”

  “Heartbreaking.” Abby felt the weight of this conversation and it wearied her.

  “Speaking of fathers, I haven’t seen mine this morning.” Sam’s eyes narrowed and he paused. “Anyone catch a glimpse of him?”

  Abby shook her head. “No, but I slept in, remember?”

  “I didn’t see him, either,” Cookie added. “Guess he needed the rest?”

  “I saw Mr. Harris early this morning.” Neville kept walking as he spoke. “He left before dawn.”

  “Left before dawn?” Sam looked genuinely perplexed by this. “How odd.”

  They drew near the church and Abby
stared at the building, simple in structure, a far cry from the elaborate cathedral she frequented in Philadelphia. Still, something about this sweet building drew her in. She accepted Sam’s outstretched hand as they reached the steps.

  “I had a thought, related to what we were talking about before.”

  “Oh?”

  He continued to hold her hand as he spoke. “Remember when you were a child, how you despised your parents’ rules?”

  Abby nodded. “Sure.”

  “Well, picture all these young men, coming to a place where rules no longer apply. Many must feel like they’ve been set free to do as they choose. To them, it’s a free-for-all.”

  “But I find myself here, in this same town, like all of them. Yet I cling to what I’ve always known to be true—my morals, my faith … everything. Nothing has changed inside of me.”

  Sam opened the door leading to the sanctuary. “Same here.”

  “That’s how you could pray for these men, Abby.” Cookie took a few steps into the sanctuary. “Pray that they return to their roots, that the work the Lord began in them back in their hometowns—be it Topeka, New York, Philadelphia or elsewhere—will be completed here.”

  “Is that even possible?” Abby asked.

  Cookie paused and turned to face her. “With God all things are possible. He’s bigger than these hoodlums. And we’ve got a biblical promise that if He started a work in the lives of these fellas, He’ll be faithful to complete it. That’s what my Bible says, anyway.”

  “Mine too,” Abby agreed.

  “And remember, ‘Moreover the law entered, that the offence might abound. But where sin abounded, grace did much more abound.’ That’s from the book of Romans, fifth chapter.”

  “So, grace is the answer?” Abby asked.

  “If a black eye doesn’t work, then yes.” Cookie chuckled, then offered a thoughtful pause. “Just joking about the black eye, of course.” She waved at Reverend Linden, who approached with a smile.

  “I don’t believe these men give the Lord much to work with,” Neville piped up after a long silent spell. “The black eye sounds like the better option, if you’re asking my opinion.” He stepped inside the church and walked up the aisle to a pew near the front.

  Cookie shook her head. “Don’t really agree with that, to be honest. These men give the Lord plenty to work with. I daresay the Almighty is hard at work right now, even now, tugging at hearts and drawing folks to Him.”

  “Amen to that!” the reverend said, and then extended his hand in Abby’s direction. “Good to see you here. Welcome to our little congregation, Miss Abigail. We’re happy to have you.”

  “I’m happy to be here,” she countered.

  Sam led the way to the pew Neville had chosen, where he gestured for Abby to take a seat. She scooted into place and soon found herself wedged between Cookie and Sam, with Neville on the other side of Cookie.

  “It’s going to take a miracle to turn things around in San Francisco.” Sam spoke quietly, his words carrying the weight of his concern.

  “I heard that, honey,” Cookie piped up. “But remember, we happen to serve a God who specializes in the miraculous, and folks respond to miracles.” She adjusted her position in the pew and looked directly at Abby. “‘And a great multitude followed him, because they saw his miracles which he did on them that were diseased.’ That’s what John chapter six says. And I’m of the firm opinion that God hasn’t changed one iota. If He cared enough to perform a miracle on behalf of those folks in Bible days, then He cares enough to perform one now.”

  “Perhaps, but I’ve read my Bible cover to cover and don’t recall any barroom brawl scenes,” Neville countered, his words curt.

  “True, but I do believe the Lord can tackle just about any challenge.” Abby looked around to see if others were entering the church behind them. Marcus Denueve, perhaps? Surely she would see him this fine morning.

  A couple of men stepped inside, along with the reverend and his wife, who greeted the men with a smile.

  “The key here is to stay out of God’s way while He’s working.” Cookie brushed her palms against her skirt. “More than once I’ve whopped a fella upside the head with a frying pan instead of listening to the voice of the Holy Spirit.”

  “Maybe it was the Holy Spirit telling you to knock some sense into them,” Neville suggested. “Did you ever think of that? Some of these fellas need a comeuppance.”

  “I might just agree with you this time, Neville,” Abby said.

  “I’m pretty sure the Lord wasn’t the one instructing me to leave a bruise on Ed Braynard’s shoulder a couple months back.” Cookie paused and a thoughtful look came over her. “The Bible says we should turn the other cheek.”

  “Do that around here and you get walloped on the other.” Neville shrugged. “That’s just my take on it, and I’m not sure what I—or anyone else—can do to fix that.”

  In that moment, Abby remembered her conversation with Les. It grabbed ahold of her and she couldn’t wait to share. “I believe I can be of some service to the gentlemen while we’re here.”

  “Gentlemen?” Neville’s brows elevated. “What gentlemen?”

  “The ones who frequent the restaurant, of course. The idea came from Les, actually. She suggested I offer my services to the fellas.”

  “Plenty of women in town doing that already,” Sam whispered. “Not your best idea.”

  Abby slapped him on the arm. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m simply talking about courses in etiquette. Social graces. Diction. The things you once asked me to teach you. Remember? It wouldn’t do you any harm to learn, either.”

  “I was joking,” he said. “In case you couldn’t tell. Just trying to make a newcomer feel welcome.”

  “That doesn’t cheapen the idea,” she countered.

  Cookie snorted. “And just what, pray tell, are those ruffians going to do, once you’ve transformed them into butterflies?”

  “Why, become husbands and fathers, of course.” Abby smiled as the reverend’s wife passed by. She gave Mrs. Linden a little wave.

  “And where will you find the women?” Sam asked. “In order to be husbands, you have to locate a few wives.”

  She released a lingering sigh. “I haven’t worked out that part yet. But first, we need to get the men looking more like the fellows back home.”

  Neville looked perplexed by this notion. “Home in England, Miss Abigail, or home in Philadelphia?”

  “Philadelphia. I wouldn’t presume to turn them into British gentlemen. My skills are good, but not that good.” She tried to think through a plan, but nothing came to her.

  “Are you serious about this, Abby?” Cookie asked. “If so, where will these classes be held?”

  Abby paused and then looked around the quaint little room surrounding them. “Why not right here, at the church?”

  Sam’s expression soured. “Half the fellas will turn and run the other way. They won’t grace the doors of the church.”

  “Even for something like this?” she asked.

  Sam gave her a knowing look. “Especially for something like this.”

  “Well then, why not the restaurant? Tuesday evenings, perhaps? We could hold class. Neville will help me, won’t you, Neville?”

  The older man flinched. “Me? Teach lessons? Certainly not. Do I look like a schoolmarm to you?”

  “But you would be perfect to teach a fellow how to speak to a lady, how to hold himself, how to dress.”

  “How to shave his sideburns,” Cookie added.

  “And Cookie …” Abby turned to face her. “You could teach table manners.”

  “Table manners?” Cookie laughed so hard she almost fell out of the pew. “That’s priceless.” After a moment, she looked Abby’s way and said, “You’re serious?”

  “More so than I’ve ever been in my life.”

  Sam crossed his arms at his chest and gave her a knowing look. “I can tell you right now, Abby, that the men in this
town aren’t going to take to this lightly. No one will show up, wait and see.”

  Abby countered with the words, “They will if the grand prize is a lovely wife.”

  Sam shook his head. “Still don’t know how the wives factor in, unless you plan to bring some from other parts of the country.”

  “I might.” Abby paused to think it through. “Or, while we’re converting the fellas, maybe I’ll set my sights to work on the women over at the saloon too.”

  “So now we’re converting the whole town?” Sam chuckled. “Might as well pray for the Red Sea to part, while you’re at it.”

  “It happened once before,” Cookie said.

  “We’ve got our work cut out for us,” Abby said. “But by the time my parents arrive, they will see that San Francisco isn’t the godforsaken place they’ve read about in the papers. They’ll find cultured, refined citizens at every turn.” She paused, then snapped her fingers. “Citizens like Marcus Denueve. We can ask for his help too. He’s respected by the men in town.”

  “Those he hasn’t robbed blind,” Sam muttered.

  Abby shook her head, saddened by Sam’s response. “I don’t know why all of you are so hard on poor Mr. Denueve. He’s truly one of the finest men in town. I’ve found him to be nothing but a gentleman. Why, if anyone could set a good example, he could.”

  Yes, she made up her mind then and there to involve Mr. Denueve in her plan to educate the townspeople. He would be just what the doctor ordered.

  Nothing but a gentleman? Sam wanted to slap himself on the forehead, just thinking about it. Abby found Marcus Denueve to be a gentleman? Why, the woman barely knew him. If she took the time to figure him out, she would see what a manipulative rapscallion he truly was. His hours behind closed doors with the local women would horrify Abby, if she knew.

  Should he tell her? Marcus never so much as ventured through the doors of the church, except to give the reverend his bill from the mercantile or to toss Maggie a bundle of dirty clothes to wash. Why, he was anything but a gentleman.

  Abby went on about her plan to educate the men in the social graces, but he didn’t hear half of it. Instead, he found himself strangely focused on the dimple in her cheek whenever she smiled. How had he not noticed it before? And the lustrous color of that upswept hair under the glow of sunlight streaming in through the church windows … how had he not taken note of the flecks of gold in it, lovelier than any nuggets in the American River?