Jubilee Trail

by Gwen Bristow

  The upper-class families of Los Angeles had made friends with the army officers soon after their arrival. The Yankees gave balls and dinners, and added a new gaiety to the life of the village. But the general run of the people did not like the Yankee soldiers.

  To begin with, there were simply too many of them. They overran everything, they crowded the stores and saloons; and though Estelle’s establishment was larger than it used to be and now had several rivals, still nice girls had to be carefully guarded. Besides, the Yankees had no respect for the native ways and were not tactful about saying so. The Yankees had been taught every day of their lives that there was no sin greater than laziness. In the United States the most scornful remark you could make about a man was to say, “He won’t work.” But the Angelenos had the old Spanish idea that work was a curse.

  The Angelenos lived in mud shacks. Their streets were choked with weeds and rubbish. They had no schoolhouse. They had no wish to learn anything or to change anything. All day long they sat in the sun and talked and dozed and sipped red wine. The Yankees, fresh from the bustle of their own country, watched the Angelenos with a mystified contempt. Why, they demanded, why didn’t the lazy fools do something?

  The Angelenos, who saw no reason why they should do anything they did not have to, gazed with equal bafflement upon these men who could not keep still. The Yankees were always moving something or scrubbing something or trying to make something different from the way it was. The Angelenos thought they were a public nuisance.

  Though Pico and Castro had long since fled the country, there was a legend going around that they would come back and chase out the foreigners. The children had a song about it, which they shouted at the Americans in the street. Garnet heard it for what seemed like the thousandth time, one April morning as she was coming back to the saloon from Mr. Abbott’s, where she had been to buy flannel to make nightgowns for Stephen. She was walking between two escorts, a big red-headed Mormon named McConnell and a small dark Mormon named Dorkins. McConnell carried her parcel, while he and Dorkins each held one of her elbows, guiding her with earnest care.

  “Here’s a puddle, ma’am, now be just a wee mite careful,” McConnell was saying, when a group of three or four youngsters in a doorway they had just passed, began to sing vehemently.

  Poco tiempo

  Viene Castro

  Con mucho gente—

  ¡Vamos Americanos!

  Grinning, the Mormons glanced back at the children. “I get the idea in a general way,” McConnell said to Garnet, “but what does it mean?”

  “Why, it means that pretty soon Castro is coming back with a big force, and when he does—scat, Americans!”

  Dorkins wanted to know who Castro was. Garnet had begun to explain that he had formerly been the military commandant, when McConnell said,

  “Why, it wasn’t us they were singing at. It was them rich folks down the road on horseback. Say, they’re grand, ain’t they?”

  Garnet glanced over her shoulder. Down the road, she saw a procession approaching. The riders were Charles Hale and a dozen retainers, mounted in their usual splendor. Garnet drew the soldiers to a standstill and felt her bosom get hot with a curious anger as she caught sight of the woman riding at his side. So this was the former Mrs. Lydia Radney, now Mrs. Hale. As the train came nearer Garnet watched her with a wrathful interest.

  Lydia Hale was about thirty years old. At least as tall as her husband, perhaps a trifle taller, firm of shoulder and straight of spine, she sat her horse (thought Garnet, remembering the young ladies’ academy) like a governess who had to set an example to her pupils. She was as colorless as a pencil sketch. Her clear pale skin had hardly a touch of pink even at the cheekbones; her hair was the grayish-brown that is neither dark nor light but the shade of a dead leaf; and her eyes were merely eyes, with no particular shade of their own. Even her riding-dress had no color: it was dark gray, with a line of white about the throat. But nevertheless, in a cold granite way, Lydia Hale was a handsome woman. Her features were finely cut, she had a good figure, and her dress was made of good material and well fitted. Her whole appearance was austere, and nothing about her suggested warmth or friendliness, but she was by no means ugly. And while she was certainly not a woman with a talent for gracious trifles, still in matters of importance she looked as if she would be quite capable of holding her own.

  As they drew near and passed, Charles saw Garnet. He made no gesture of greeting. His eyes paused for an instant, and then he looked away, like a man carefully not seeing a poor relation. Mrs. Hale saw Garnet too. Charles must have told her who this stranger was, for though they had never seen each other before, Lydia’s eyes swept her over with a cool, speculative curiosity (as though I were a savage with a ring in my nose, Garnet thought). Then the other woman’s nostrils quivered and her lips curled faintly in contemptuous dismissal, and she too looked away.

  Garnet felt anger rising and wrapping around her like a flame. At the moment she would have enjoyed using the Colt revolver at her belt. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the procession go by.

  I should like to kill them, she thought fiercely. Taking Oliver’s property from me and then sneering at me because I have to make a living tending bar. Damn that woman and her curling lip. Does she think I like having my child grow up in a saloon?

  The brilliant line of riders turned around the corner of a building and went out of sight. Probably they were on their way to the home of Señor Escobar.

  “Say, Miss Garnet,” exclaimed McConnell’s voice beside her, “don’t you feel good? You look kind of feverish.”

  Garnet was not surprised. She certainly felt feverish. She said she had a raging headache, which she did. McConnell and Dorkins walked back to the saloon with her, and said goodby on the porch. Garnet went into the kitchen and told Mickey to make a pot of strong coffee. Sitting by the table she covered her face with her hands. “Please, God, let me go home,” she whispered. “Please, please, get me out of this place!”

  FORTY

  BUT IN THE DAYS that followed, Garnet grew calmer. She did not like Charles any better than before. But her common sense told her that after the war American courts would be set up in California. When this happened, as the widow of a man who had owned property she could demand an accounting for her son.

  How soon this would be she could not tell, as the war was not yet over. For the present she would have to stay at the bar. But with what she could earn, together with what Oliver had left, she could pay her passage home after the war. There would no doubt be something over, which her father could invest for her. She would have again the safe and pleasant life she used to have, and this time she would never, never let it go.

  Down in a corner of her mind a little demon whispered, And John?

  Be still, Garnet retorted. I’m going home.

  She strapped on her gun-belt and went back to work.

  Working at the bar was harder now than it had been last fall, for there were more customers and the hours were longer. Garnet did not like the airless room, full of the fumes of liquor and the smell of sweaty bodies; she did not like having men stroke her and pinch her and make indecent suggestions. Not all the men were like this, but sometimes she thought the respectful ones were even more exasperating. For they had a way of saying, “You ought not to be in a place like this, Miss Garnet.” They said it reproachfully, as if they thought she was tending bar because she wanted to. Sometimes, late at night when she was short-tempered from weariness, she let a snappish reply escape her lips. But not often. One terse line from her, and instantly Florinda’s eyes were sending a warning. As soon as the bar was closed and they were alone Florinda urged, “Garnet, please remember, they come in here to have fun. You and I are part of the fun. Any peevish old crone can pour liquor out of a bottle.”

  Garnet smiled ruefully. “I know. I’m sorry. If only my back didn’t ache so at the end of the day I’d have a sweeter disposition.”

  “Yes, dearie,” said Florinda.
She was not impressed by backaches. She had laughed and flirted above too many of her own. “How much money have you got on deposit at Mr. Abbott’s?” she asked.

  “About two hundred dollars.”

  “Mighty good to have, isn’t it? So smile at them, Garnet, and any time you feel like something that fell out of a garbage can, remember they’re paying you for every smile.”

  During bar-hours Florinda was enchanting to the boys, and when closing time came she brushed them off like mosquitoes. If there had been one among them who had superlative charm, or one who could have offered her something like a really valuable bit of jewelry, she might not have been so cool. As it was, she was too busy to be interested. So she continued to occupy her pretty blue-curtained room all by herself.

  But little by little, Garnet got used to the bar. She learned to say no in a quiet voice that clearly meant what it said, and she was no longer embarrassed by having to say it. She never did learn Florinda’s skill at bright answers, and she never acquired Florinda’s ability to listen with a look of fascination to yarns she had already heard forty times. But she did learn to stand up twelve hours a day without complaining about it, and talk cheerfully to the customers when she was so tired she thought her legs were going to buckle under her. She learned what a dollar meant in terms of time and aching muscles and screaming nerves, and this was one of the greatest surprises of her life.

  Since the men at the bar discussed everything that went on, Garnet and Florinda were kept well abreast of events. Through the month of April there was more and more talk about Frémont and his dispute with General Kearny. Frémont was in Los Angeles and the general was in Monterey, but angry letters had been blistering the trail between them. Frémont was a brilliant leader. But he had to lead. He did not know how to obey.

  General Kearny finally sent another officer, Colonel Richard B. Mason, to Los Angeles. Mason summoned Frémont to his headquarters to give an account of himself. Though Mason was a colonel and Frémont only a lieutenant-colonel, Frémont did not obey the summons till it had been issued three times. When at length he did go, the interview waxed so violent that Mason threatened to put him in irons. Frémont responded by challenging Mason to a duel.

  By this time Mason was so angry that he was willing to fight. For a while it looked as if the town was going to be treated to the spectacle of a United States army officer fighting a duel with a subordinate because the subordinate would not obey orders. Fortunately, General Kearny himself came to Los Angeles and saw to it that no such duel took place.

  Frémont seemed to understand at last that he would have to accept the general’s commands. He asked permission to join his own regiment, which was fighting in Mexico; or to lead his exploring party back to the United States. Kearny refused both requests. He told Frémont to come to Monterey and wait there for orders.

  Opinions at the bar ran high. Frémont was an attractive fellow with a great gift for making friends, and many of the men could find good reasons for all he did. Some of them said General Kearny was so good that he was a mite too good, and did not realize that some people could not meet the strict standards he set for himself. Others, especially those who were used to regular army discipline, thought Kearny was right and Frémont deserved to face a court-martial. They prophesied that this was what he was going to get. But though the arguments were heated, there was very little trouble at the bar. Garnet and Florinda began to notice thankfully that nearly always, especially in the evenings, there were two or three officers present, drinking very little but keeping an eye on the men. Nothing was said about it. But they did prevent fights.

  The late rains fell, the fogs blew in, the land broke into bloom. But this year Garnet hardly noticed it. She was working so hard that she could think of scarcely anything but what she was doing. She did remember John, but the image of him gave her such a sharp swift pain that she pushed it away with all her might. Sometimes she thought of Oliver, or Charles, or the desert journey, or the peace of home. But even these ideas were vague like something seen through a mist. Always she was saying aloud, “May I serve you, gentlemen?” and saying to herself, “Oh Lord, how my legs hurt!”

  So she was astonished one afternoon when Charles walked up to the bar. It was a chilly white spring day, and the bar was full of men who had come to get something to warm them against the fog. Holding the door open, Charles stood in the doorway a moment, looking around. One of the men turned his head, shouting, “Hey you, shut the door!” One or two others joined him. Charles slid them a contemptuous glance. Before the men could say anything more, Florinda was turning an enticing glow upon them.

  “Oh boys, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Is there any truth in these rumors that a regiment from New York is on its way here?”

  As she had expected, all the men started to answer at once, and the resulting noise made it possible for Garnet to listen in some privacy to Charles. He had walked directly over to where Garnet stood. Placing his elbows on the bar, he fixed his eyes upon her in the fashion she knew so well. “How do you do, Garnet,” he said.

  “How do you do, Charles,” said Garnet. Automatically, she started to add, “May I serve you?”—but checked herself. This was the first time Charles had spoken to her since that night last fall when he had got drunk. She did not know how much of that he remembered, but she did not want to remind him of it. If he wanted a drink he could ask for one.

  He did not ask for one. He said, “I shall not detain you long. I only want to know if you have considered the offer I made you some time ago.”

  “An offer?” she repeated.

  “The offer of a home at my rancho.”

  My rancho, she echoed angrily in her mind. She remembered how he had said it the first time he ever saw her. Keeping her voice low, she returned, “I prefer to live here, Charles.”

  Charles nodded. She wondered how long he could hold his eyes that way, fixed like two points. He said,

  “I feared this would be your answer. I am powerless to improve your taste.”

  “You can’t make me change my mind,” said Garnet, “if that’s what you mean. Is that all you wanted to say?”

  “No, it is not,” said Charles. He went on, “You have perhaps heard of my marriage?”

  “Yes,” said Garnet. She was thinking, I wish you were dead. Then you’d have to let me alone.

  Charles continued, “If you do not want to make a home for my brother’s child, my wife will be happy to care for him.”

  Your brother’s child, Garnet’s mind repeated furiously. Anybody hearing you would think I had stolen him. She clenched her fists, below the bar where he could not see them and thus guess what an effort her self-command was costing her. “Charles,” she exclaimed, “why don’t you stop this? Don’t you know I’m not going to give my child to you?”

  His eyes narrowed threateningly. They were like two bright pin-heads. “I might remind you,” said Charles, “that California is no longer a Mexican outpost. If I should speak to my friends among the army officers, they might agree with me that a saloon is not a good place for a child. They might tell you to give that boy to me. Do you understand?”

  Garnet understood, better than he thought she did. She was surprised that she had ever been so stupid as to think Charles’ marriage would make her free of him. He also had realized that the establishment of American laws here would give her the chance to get Oliver’s property for Stephen. But if Stephen was living on the rancho under Charles’ guardianship, he would be legally getting the benefit of anything his father had left. And by the time Stephen was twenty-one, Charles would probably have drained all the character out of him so thoroughly that he would meekly take whatever he was given. Garnet was so angry she felt as if she had thorns in her throat.

  “If you say one word to anybody in authority about taking Stephen away from me because I work at this bar,” she said, in a voice that sounded like a rusty scrape, “I’ll tell them why I work here. Any time they’ll make yo
u give me my husband’s property I’ll leave this saloon. In the meantime get out of here. And don’t speak to me again, damn your slimy little soul.”

  Charles gave a short, disagreeable laugh.

  “You had better listen to me, Garnet,” he said, “before you make a fool of yourself. Right now, I am willing to give you a home as well as the child. Much more of your disgraceful conduct, and that offer will be withdrawn.”

  “Get out of here,” she said between her teeth.

  “You’ll see me again, Garnet,” he said. For a moment he stood where he was, his eyes drilling into her head as though to be sure he was leaving his closing words in her mind. Then he put on his hat and went out. From the other end of the bar Garnet heard Florinda’s bright voice.

  “Won’t that be fun! Hundreds of men from New York—I wonder if I’ll know many of them. Do go on. When will they get to Los Angeles?”

  Frémont left Los Angeles on the twelfth of May, 1847. That same day, Los Angeles was occupied by the New York Regiment, under Colonel Jonathan Stevenson. The New Yorkers were seven or eight hundred young fellows, nearly all of them under twenty-five and many of them boys in their teens. They had been recruited last summer with the purpose of getting American settlers for California. The terms of their enlistment provided that they would serve as soldiers till the end of the war. At the end of the war they were to be mustered out in California, or in the nearest piece of United States territory.

  After two months training at Governor’s Island the volunteers left New York in September, 1846, on three transports convoyed by a sloop-of-war. They reached San Francisco in March, 1847. Most of them were sent to Los Angeles when Colonel Stevenson took command there in May. They were a fair sample of nearly all sorts—workers and lazybones, college men and men who could not read, mechanics, clerks, farmers, and boys who had never had a trade.