However, the next day my publisher ordered me to kill the story. “What?” I said. “They didn’t get to you, did they?” He didn’t say anything except to repeat his order. “Listen,” I told him, “the country’s got to know the rumors and charges against Fremont are unfounded. It could turn the election!”
“It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “You just kill that story. John Fremont will have to take care of himself without any help from us. If we run that story they could ruin us—both you and me and the paper, do you understand, Kemble? And they could hurt your young reporter friend too. We have no choice. They’ve made that clear, and I don’t intend to see how far they’re prepared to back it up.”
“Goldwin?” I asked.
“Goldwin . . . and others,” he answered. Then he left the room.
So I’m sorry, Miss Hollister, but he left me no choice. My publisher’s a strong man, and a major influence in this city. I don’t know how they got to him, but whatever they were holding over his head, it must have been powerful. I’ve never seen him so beaten down and defeated. But it was for your good as well as the paper’s that we didn’t run it, as much as it galled me to see the Globe get away with printing Derrick Gregory’s phony interviews. I truly believe your story could have influenced the election, if it had run in time to be picked up by the Ohio and Pennsylvania papers. But sadly, we will never know.
Perhaps John Fremont will be able to make another run at the White House in 1860, and we can try to help his cause again. In the meantime, I hope you will be working on some articles for me. You have shown a flair for politics as well as human interest. I would be happy to see you pursue more along that line in the future.
O’Flaridy sends his regards. I remain
Yours Sincerely,
Edward Kemble, Editor
San Francisco Alta
I almost expected my reaction to be one of anger. Most of Mr. Kemble’s letters aroused all kinds of hidden emotions in me and put me through all kinds of ups and downs and doubts and questions. But this time I just put down the letter with a deep sense of sadness and regret. It almost confirmed everything Derrick Gregory had told me about politics being a dirty business where everything depended on money and what people wanted out of you rather than truth. Was that really what political reporting boiled down to? If so, then I for one didn’t want to have any more to do with it. However flattering Mr. Kemble’s words might have been, I would stick to human interest from now on. And as for Robin O’Flaridy’s regards—those I could do without!
During the next several days I alternated between being upset, then depressed and disillusioned all over again. I had spent so much time and had invested such effort in that story, not to mention risking my life! And for what? The bad guys had won anyway. The powerful senator had used his influence to get his way and to keep the truth from being printed. A slave supporter would be in the White House for another four years. And all I thought I had accomplished seemed wasted. It really made me stop and question why I wanted to be a newspaper writer in the first place.
But then I got to thinking about the other election I had been part of. Who could deny that good had come through in the Miracle Springs mayor’s race? It wasn’t that I had much to do with the outcome—I probably hadn’t at all. But the truth did come out in the end. The most truthful person, Pa, had won the election. And so in this case at least, politics wasn’t a dirty business at all. The good guy had defeated the underhanded banker!
I never did come to much of a conclusion about myself and whether I would do any more writing about politics. But I finally realized that politics itself wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. If you’re going to run a country or a state or a town you’ve got to have elections and officials and Presidents. And I was glad that Pa was mayor now rather than Franklin Royce. Maybe what was needed was for good men like him to be in politics, not men like Mr. Royce and Senator Goldwin. I just hoped Mr. Buchanan would be a good man too, and a good President, and that some day someone would get elected who would free the slaves like Mr. Fremont had wanted to do.
I wrote to Ankelita Carter about returning Rayo Rojo to Mariposa. I had wanted to do so before the election but there hadn’t been time. I told her about the article being scuttled and how sorry I was for the way the election had turned out. When I heard back from her, shortly before Christmas, she was furious. She said she was sure the election would have turned out different, especially in California, if people had known what she told me. She’d written to the Fremonts before the election and told them about what I was trying to do. She hadn’t heard back from them since news of the loss, but she knew what Jessie and Mr. Fremont must be going through, and she said she intended to write them that very day with news of what had happened with the Alta story. There was nothing Mr. Fremont could do about it now, but he ought to know what Senator Goldwin had been able to do, even in far off California. She wanted to see me again, whenever it might be possible, and if I wanted to do another article on the Fremonts, she would be more than happy to oblige. There was no hurry about getting Rayo Rojo back, but when I was able to come, I should plan to spend at least two or three days with her.
She wrote as if I were her friend, and it set the wheels of my mind in motion again. Why couldn’t I do an article on Mr. Fremont about the lies that had been told? It might not win him the election now, but at least it would vindicate his reputation and might help him in the future.
Time would tell. In the meantime, I wanted to think of some less controversial subjects to write about.
Chapter 29
Preparations for the Holidays
Our Christmases always seemed to be times of exciting announcements, high-running emotions, family, friends, guests, food, and the unexpected. The Christmas of 1856 was no exception.
We had been looking forward to Christmas all the month of December. Almeda had such a way of making the holiday a happy time, and of course my sisters and I couldn’t have enjoyed anything better than being part of all the preparations. We made decorations out of ribbons and popped corn, colored paper, and greenery cut from the woods, bells and dried berries.
And what Christmas celebration would be complete without a feast, and people to share that feast with? So along with everything else, we were thinking of who to invite to our place for the day. Pa and Almeda always included all five of us kids in most of the talking and discussion that had to do with our family. Sometimes they’d talk alone, walking together, or whispering in low tones in their room late at night, but they included us in everything they could. It really made us all feel that we were a whole family. And both of them would include me in even a more personal way in their decisions too. To say I had a friendship with my own Pa sounds a little funny, but in a way, that’s what it was. He was my friend! And so was Almeda—friend and mother and an older sister all rolled up into one.
And so we talked and planned the Christmas as a family. Of course we intended to invite our friends like Alkali Jones and Rev. Rutledge and the Stansberrys, and of course Uncle Nick and Katie and little Erich. Zack said he’d like to invite Little Wolf and his father, and after a brief glance at Almeda, Pa looked back at Zack and replied, “I think that’s a mighty good idea, son. You go right ahead and ask them if they’d join us for the day!”
Pa fell silent for a few moments. I hadn’t noticed the look that had come over his face, but when he next spoke I could see in his eyes that he’d gone through an intense struggle just in those brief moments. The tone in his voice spoke much more than the words that came out of his mouth.
“You know, Almeda,” he said quietly, “there is someone else we might pray about asking to join us.”
“Who’s that, Drummond?”
Pa paused again, and when he answered her, though his voice was soft, the words went like an explosion through the room.
“Franklin Royce,” he said.
Becky and Zack immediately let out groans, but Almeda’s eyes were fixed on Pa with a look of di
sbelief and happiness at the same time.
“You’re right,” she said after a moment. “He is a lonely man, with probably no place to go on Christmas.”
“It just seems like the right thing to do,” Pa added. “I’m not all that anxious to strike up a friendship with him after what he’s done. But we have to put the past behind us, and I believe it’s got to start with us. One thing’s for sure—he’s not going to be inviting us to his place anytime soon!”
Almeda laughed. “I think it’s a wonderful idea, Drummond!”
The rest of that week before Christmas we did lots of baking—wild huckleberry pies, an olia podrida (a stew with a lot of meats and vegetables mixed together), and honeyed ham. Then Christmas morning we baked biscuits, potatoes, carrots, yams, and two pumpkin pies.
There was also a lot of sewing and stitching and trying-on to be done too, everyone pretending they didn’t know what it was all for. Almeda made Pa close his eyes to try on the new vest she was making him, telling him to pay no attention to anything that was going on. I did the same for a shirt I was making for Zack. We kept poor Mr. Bosely so busy that week—buying extra bits of linen or cotton fabric, lace, buttons, and thread.
It was so funny to watch Pa going about Christmas business of his own, and with Zack and Tad. Men have such a hard time knowing how to do and make things, especially for wives and sisters and daughters. Most of the preparations at holiday time came from the women. But Pa entered into the spirit of it, and kept his little secrets too, and would sometimes shoot a wink at one of the boys about the things that they were planning that none of us knew about. I could tell it made Almeda love him all the more to watch him try to do his part to make it special.
Chapter 30
A Christmas Day to Remember!
Christmas morning everyone was up at the crack of dawn.
It was one of those crisp, sunny winter days that made me love California so much. And as the day wore on, though it would never get hot, I knew it would warm up enough to draw the fragrances up out of the earth and from the trees and out of the grasses and pinecones and dew. Days like that always made me want to go find a quiet place in the sun where I could just sit down and lean my back up against a tree trunk and read a book or draw or just think.
While Pa stoked up the fire with a new supply of wood and Almeda put the ham in the oven to bake, Tad scurried around making sure the rest of us were up and ready. Then he was off across the creek to fetch Uncle Nick and Aunt Katie to make sure they got down to our place the minute they were dressed. He didn’t want to have to wait one second longer than he had to before Pa turned him loose in the pile of packages and presents next to our Christmas tree.
If the giving of gifts at Christmas is an expression of a family’s love, then there couldn’t have been a greater outpouring than there was that year. Pa gave Zack a beautiful new hand-tooled saddle with a matching whip. If Zack could have carried the saddle around with him all day, he would have. He did carry the whip, feeling its tightly wound leather handle, smelling it, examining every inch with his fingers and fine eye. He was truly a horseman, and nothing could have pleased him more.
Almeda gave me a beautifully-bound copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress, and a new journal. Like Zack, I carried around my two new books most of the day, just looking at them and feeling them.
She and I had made dresses for Emily and Becky. We three girls, with Katie’s help, had nearly completed a new quilt for Pa and Almeda’s bed, with a big “H” in the middle of it. But we had to give it to them not quite finished, saying we’d get the stitching done later.
There was a new doll for Becky, scarves for all three of us girls, a harmonica for Tad, Pa’s new leather vest, and other smaller things—candies, fruits, nuts—as well as what we gave Uncle Nick and Aunt Katie.
Two of the most memorable gifts of the day were given to the two mothers. Almeda had bought a small New Testament. She had been praying a lot for Katie, and trying to find ways to talk to her about her life with the Lord. And so I knew how deeply from the heart the gift of the small book was. But when Katie opened it and saw what was inside the package, she was very quiet for a moment. “Thank you,” she finally said, her words stiff and forced. When I glanced over at Almeda, I saw clearly the disappointment on her face from Katie’s lack of enthusiasm.
Pa had made Almeda a nice wood shelf for the wall in her kitchen. It had three levels, with a decorative top-piece he’d carved out with a design. Almeda raved excitedly about what fine workmanship it was and all the things she would put in it. But then Pa pulled out one last wrapped package, one he’d kept hidden somewhere.
“Well, you’ve gotta keep a place on one of the shelves for this,” he said as he handed it to her. “This is what gave me the idea of making the shelf in the first place, so you’d have somewhere to put it so you could see it.”
She took it from him and opened it. Out came a beautifully painted little china replica of a two-story house, like I’d seen drawn in books and magazines of city buildings in the east.
“I ordered it from one of Bosely’s catalogs,” Pa said, and I could tell he was excited. “It’s called ‘Boston Home.’ The minute I saw it, I wanted you to have it.”
Almeda fought back tears. “Thank you, Drummond,” she said finally in a soft voice. “It is beautiful.”
“And look there behind,” said Pa, taking it from her hand and turning it around, “here’s a place for a candle, so it lights up and looks like there’s lights in the windows. I hope you like it,” he added. “I thought it would remind you of your home back East.”
She looked up at Pa, then reached forward and kissed him.
“Whenever I look at it,” she said, “it will remind me of how grateful I am to be here with you in California!”
Then she stood up and left the house for a few minutes. There were tears in her eyes by now. The room was silent for a short spell, then Pa tried to liven things up again.
“Play us a tune on your new mouth organ, Tad, my boy!” he said.
That was all the invitation Tad needed! He started blowing furiously with puckered lips, which was enough to send the rest of us scattering. Pretty soon we were all occupied with looking over our new things, and I didn’t even notice when Almeda came back in. I happened to glance up from my book about ten minutes later and there she and Pa were over against one wall trying to find the best place for Pa to nail up her new shelves.
The rest of the morning we spent cooking—Almeda checking on the ham from time to time, the rest of us cutting up vegetables and peeling potatoes. Becky and I mixed up the biscuit dough. Katie and Uncle Nick went back to their place for the morning, until all the others came for dinner in the afternoon.
Alkali Jones was the first to arrive, and as always he kept things pretty lively the rest of the day. Then Rev. Rutledge and Harriet and Hermon Stansberry came, all together, Hermon riding his horse behind the carriage. When the minister helped Miss Stansberry down, I’d never seen him so gentle with anyone. Of course with her crippled leg, she needed assistance getting in and out of carriages and climbing steps. But he took hold of her arm so firmly, yet with such a kind look in his eye, I could tell she felt really safe. It was easy to see that he cared a great deal for her.
About half an hour later Little Wolf rode up with Mr. Lame Pony, each of them on beautiful horses. Little Wolf always seemed to be riding a different animal, always spirited but well behaved, always groomed and shining. It was obvious the Indian father and son took great pride in their animals, and loved them as if they were part of their family.
Pa and Lame Pony shook hands, and Pa made every effort to make him feel welcome and at home with us. After tying up his horse, Little Wolf walked over to see me and Zack. We chatted a while, then he said, “This is a hard thing for my father. But the more he knows your father, the more he will trust him.”
“Look,” I said, “it won’t take long.” I pointed to Pa, already leading Lame Pony toward the stables to
show him our horses. Pa had his arm slung around the Indian’s shoulder and was talking good-naturedly. I knew he would win Lame Pony over and make him a friend in no time. Pa was like that with people nowadays.
When Katie and Uncle Nick came back down from their place not too long after that, however, I wondered if the spirit of Christmas was going to be spoiled. Little Wolf had been around enough that Katie had gotten used to him, although she never spoke to him or was very friendly. But now when Pa introduced her to Little Wolf’s father, she was noticeably hostile.
“Nick, you know our neighbor from over the ridge,” said Pa as he and Lame Pony walked toward them as they approached from the bridge over the creek.
“Best horses in California,” replied Uncle Nick, giving him a shake of his hand. “Nice to see you here, Jack.”
“Katie,” Pa went on, turning to her, “this is Jack Lame Pony, Little Wolf’s father. Jack, this is—”
Lame Pony nodded his head in acknowledgment toward Katie as Pa spoke, but before Pa could complete the introduction, Katie turned toward Uncle Nick and abruptly said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s our friend and neighbor, that’s what,” answered Uncle Nick hastily, obviously embarrassed by her rude comment, and a little riled at her at the same time.
“Well, neither of them are my friends,” shot back Katie, and then marched off toward the house, leaving the three men standing there, Pa and Uncle Nick mortified at her behavior. And poor Lame Pony! What was he supposed to think after such an outburst?
But Pa didn’t wait for the dust to settle around Katie’s words. He said something about wanting to show Lame Pony something at the mine, and then I heard Uncle Nick trying to apologize for Katie, and adding something about women doing funny things when they’re carrying young’uns. By dinnertime everything seemed to be smoothed over, although Katie was pretty sullen all day.
A Place in the Sun Page 13
