When she dared to think about him, Louisa's thoughts and especially her emotions were a patchwork of confusion. She recalled her pleasure very clearly, and far too many times it seemed as if he were only inches from her, not long miles. The feelings never seemed to diminish, nor did the ache. If anything, it deepened. When she countered those memories with unpleasant ones, Louisa only covered her feeling of love for Aaron with a thin dressing, not unlike the way she in the past had tried to drown pain with alcohol, and the effects were much the same: only temporary.
"God, Aaron! You make me crazy!" she screamed in the empty night. "You make me crazy!" Tears ran down her face, and she put her head on folded arms and cried. There had been no answer in the lonely room, only another drafty gust from the night wind.
Louisa sat up again, and stared at the bourbon decanter glistening before her. "You may make me crazy, Aaron," she whispered gently as though he were next to her and she could caress him with her words, "but I promise I'll help you, if I can. Only―only, I wish I didn't love you."
She reached again for the liquor-filled bottle, starting to pour another drink. Then before she poured a drop of the golden liquid, Louisa abruptly stoppered the container. "You make me crazy, too," she cried, heaving the decanter powerfully through a laceedged window a few feet away. She stared after her handiwork, smiling contentedly. "I should break every bottle in the house," she concluded, greeting Emma and Carmen with a simple and satisfied expression when they burst into the room moments after the crash of glass woke them both.
They stared even harder at her when she calmly turned to them and said, "Goodnight," then turned away again, climbing into bed with the very obvious intention of going to sleep without further comment.
Emma sighed, and shook her head at Carmen, hoping to restrain the woman's imminent torrent of words. "She'll be all right now," Emma whispered to Carmen. "I know her very well. The worst is over," she said, quickly leading the worried Mexican woman out of Louisa's room.
Chapter One Hundred-Three
DAYBREAK seemed to come exceptionally early the next day. Manuel came as expected to say Luther Dobson was no better. "La señora say he is malo."
Louisa had expected nothing more in the way of news from Anna, but she had hoped for decent weather, her spirits this morning depressed by a constant drizzle. In addition, her head pounded unmercifully, the fact she had brought this form of pain on herself doing nothing to improve her condition.
But within half an hour after sunup, Louisa and Alfredo were ready to travel. Louisa was disguised by Michael Brown's clothing, her face concealed very successfully by his wide-brimmed hat, her hair pinned severely against her head. Her sex was further concealed under the loose oilskin drape she wore as protection against the wet morning.
As they left the compound, Louisa felt as weighted down by her strange clothing as she did by the task she had taken on, and though her mind was set on San Francisco, she was still burdened by fear and misgivings.
What if she was too late?
No. She had to put that thought aside.
Louisa reasoned her journey would be hard, at best, whatever Aaron's fate. She prayed for Aaron's safety, but she had no other expectations. It seemed obvious she and Aaron had no future together, nothing good to offer each other, spewing hatred, anger, and distrust at one another, and when she dwelled on that part of their experience, she could forget the loving.
Now the harshest of memories fueled her and made her strong, able to face the difficult road stretching nearly the length of California from San Diego to San Francisco. She traveled without illusions and beyond the pain of her relationship with Aaron. In one corner of her heart, she accepted the knowledge that she loved him, but, as it was between them, as he had last left her, there could be no accommodation. Louisa knew very well there were some things in life one could not have, ever, no matter how desperate one's desires.
It was plain Aaron would never come to her on her terms. He was far too arrogant, too independent, too selfish, perhaps even too cruel. She would not spend her life crawling after him, eating whatever morsels he offered from his hands. She could not, would not, sustain herself on blind devotion. At least, Louisa consoled herself, when they separated this time, they would part definitely and finally, and she could begin to live again without him. Again she entertained the hope she would be free, at last.
On the road the first day, it drizzled continuously. They traveled slowly, stopping only when light gave out. The night was wet, uncomfortable, and endlessly long, but the sky was clear the next morning when they set out again. They moved much faster on the second day, continuing until both they and the horses were well fatigued and it was too dark to travel.
Over the next days their movement north became a hypnotic, unalterable course. By the fourth day they traveled well into the night because the sky was clear and bright. They encountered no one in their journey to cause them concern, moving with determination, not stopping in populated places except to buy a newspaper, hoping for word of some sort. But there was none.
Louisa's weariness and worry began to show on her face. She was grateful she had lately spent so many hours riding Coffee, for she was certain she would never have tolerated the journey otherwise. The first days seemed especially trying and she would have sworn during many of the long hours on the trail that her mind was completely empty, her total concentration aimed at staying upright in the saddle. But often her mind focused on Aaron's handsome face, seeing the soul-touching smile he often flashed at her, the same smile that had encouraged her to love him with the intensity she did.
She reminded herself that his smile was one of the reasons he had his way so easily with women, but when she fell asleep, the very instant she lay down on even the hardest of ground, his presence filled her dreams.
When she was awake, she dreamed of finding him alive, ruling William Easton a fool, if nothing else. She occasionally envisioned Aaron sitting comfortably and coolly, not the least in need of her assistance, and the thought of it provoked her anger. Yet part of her hoped it was the case, and that her efforts were unnecessary. Aaron would then have an amusing anecdote among his memories of her, and the thought made her cheeks bum with rage as she pressed her horse to increase his seemingly plodding speed to begin the day.
"One more day, señora," Alfredo promised, and she gave him an exhausted smile. One more day. This was the sixth day, was it not? If Aaron had the cheek to laugh at her attempts to rescue him, she'd spit in his face, she swore. It would be just like him to laugh, she fumed, remembering how his eyes could mock her.
Louisa's charity was wearing thin with exhaustion, and that night she had nightmares of his leaving prison with Marguerite on his arm. "Thank you, my dear," the woman said as she and Aaron drifted out of her vision. And Louisa woke screaming incoherently and sweating, feeling feverish, certain she could slit Marguerite's throat gleefully.
Louisa's sudden outburst startled Alfredo from a sound sleep, and he staggered blindly to her defense, only to confront the empty night. "Sorry, Alfredo," Louisa apologized lamely, and he soon fell asleep again.
Louisa did not have the same luck. She lay awake the few hours until morning, feeling restless and uneasy, grateful that the next night would find them in San Francisco.
When they arrived it was dark, the city's nightly revelry well underway. At first Louisa's only thought was to find a room for the night, but she thought better of the plan, stopping their progress in the city to get her bearings, and think.
When she was last in San Francisco, she had gone out very little at night, or in the day for that matter, and the city was very alien to her. But she remembered that Melville's house had been a prominent landmark, and with some effort they made their way to his gates. It was not the destination she had in mind, she noted when she saw the impressive house and grounds, but from Melville's stone house she hoped she could make her way to Miss Janet Wilson's, praying the woman would recognize her after all these months.
There she might change her clothes to the more conventional ones she had carefully remembered to pack. And if the woman were as kind as Louisa recalled, she might brew Louisa a very strong cup of coffee to give her courage. She must see General Hoffmann tonight. Tomorrow might be too late.
Chapter One Hundred-Four
FROM Melville's house, Louisa proceeded to the seamstress's shop without hesitation even in the dark, wondering if Marguerite was still consulting the woman, or whether someone of greater talent had come to the area. Louisa knocked on Miss Wilson's door, knowing the woman lived alone and would be startled by a late-night visitor. In this raucous city, a knock on the door in the middle of the night was not especially welcome.
There was no answer and Louisa knocked more loudly, feeling more and more frantic. Then Alfredo began knocking too, and soon a lamp was lit inside the house and not much later Miss Wilson's figure could be seen behind the curtains.
"Who is it?" she asked in a calm and businesslike voice.
Louisa sighed with relief. "It's Louisa Hudson, Miss Wilson. Perhaps you remember me. I was referred by Mrs. Hill, if you'll recall."
The woman pulled aside the curtain over the door's glass window, and stared without recognition at the dark figures who stood outside. Suddenly Louisa realized the woman would never recognize her, and tore away her broad-brimmed hat, unpinning her hair swiftly. Slowly the door opened to her.
"Please forgive this unconventional appearance, and the hour, but I have a favor to ask you," Louisa said, stepping into the woman's house.
"Yes?" she said, standing aside for her visitors, closing the door and lighting another lamp in the sitting room that doubled as a waiting room for customers. Miss Wilson surveyed her guests, obviously uneasy in Alfredo's presence, tightening the large shawl she held around her nightgown. "What can I do for you?"
Louisa smiled at the woman wearily. "I need a place to freshen up and change my clothes"―she held out a bundle of clean clothing for Miss Wilson to notice―"and, if you would be so kind, a very strong cup of coffee. I know this is an imposition and must appear insane, but I've good reasons. I'll explain as soon as I can."
"Of course, Mrs. Hudson, come with me. The gentleman can wait here," she said as if she were speaking to one of her customers.
Louisa followed the seamstress into the workroom where she had been many times for fittings after their introduction by Marguerite. "Have you any recent newspaper―perhaps the Alta California?" she said, beginning to peel away her travel clothes when the workroom drapes were pulled behind them.
"One or two."
"May I see them?"
"Certainly. I'll get them as soon as I get you some water for bathing, and as soon as I get the coffee started. Something to eat?" she offered kindly.
"Please!" When the woman left her to fill the china pitcher with water for washing away some of her trail dirt, Louisa raised her eyes heavenward in gratitude. Her mind was clouded with fatigue, and she only felt half-alive, yet she'd remembered the one person in this city who might help. Louisa's suspicions had been correct. Miss Wilson catered to Marguerite Hill, for it was her business to do so, but Louisa had guessed it was an indifferent association at best. With Marguerite, Miss Wilson was coldly efficient, and her execution of Marguerite's wishes prompt and artful, but unenthusiastic; Yet, Louisa remembered, Miss Wilson's response to her had been almost warm, quickly filling her empty closet with beautiful gowns, the designs and selection of materials envied and commented on jealously by Mrs. Hill. "I'm not at all sorry you're going home soon, Louisa," Marguerite had said, reviewing Miss Wilson's work. "It seems my dressmaker, the best on this coast, prefers to sew for you. Let's hope someone better comes along, and I can have the pleasure of giving my business to another seamstress. In the meantime, I'll be a little more demanding."
So it wasn't only jealousy over Aaron's affair with the woman that made Louisa dislike, even hate, Marguerite. Other people found Mrs. Hill less than charming. The fact was somewhat consoling.
As she bathed and dressed, Louisa wondered what reaction Marguerite Hill had had to Aaron's arrest. Probably little―it wasn't as if the colonel's wife was loyal to her lovers, after all. Even if Aaron was especially good, he was only one of many, or so Marguerite had confessed.
The newspapers the seamstress brought to Louisa were devoid of any news Louisa was interested in. They rabidly supported the Union cause, and if the papers were any indication of the mood of the city, the fever was high.
Louisa felt feverish herself, but she ignored it, dashing into the night as soon as she was dressed again, and as soon as she and Alfredo had a delicious odd-hour breakfast. One would have thought the two of them were starving from the joyful way they consumed Miss Wilson's food. She joined them at the table, not asking for more information than Louisa gave, but directing them to the fort with a curious expression when she was asked for those directions. "You'll be back?"
"Yes, thank you," Louisa said when they left the seamstress's small shop, patting the pocket of her coat to reassure herself the envelope she'd come this long distance to deliver was safely tucked away, and a few minutes later, her heart began to pound in anticipation as she and Alfredo entered the San Francisco Presidio where, despite the lateness of the hour, she was escorted to General Hoffmann's quarters.
Chapter One Hundred-Five
AARON knew something had gone very wrong. He had been imprisoned far longer than necessary. Word should have come from Russell long ago, his identity established, and he should have been released. He'd given Hoffmann and his aides all the information he had, but instead of satisfying them, his cooperation only seemed to make his captors insanely furious. He detailed his work on the Union's behalf at length, but there was little appreciation for his efforts. Each day he was identified in muster as "the prisoner, Marshall Hudson," a situation that grew to be more and more discouraging.
In the several weeks he languished at General Hoffmann's whim, Aaron had been interrogated endlessly. The same stupid questions were put to him until he no longer had an ounce of patience, and the exchanges, which at first had been reasonably polite, became hostile and aggressive. His hosts insulted him, and eventually the prodding raised devils in Aaron's nature, and he responded in kind. Rations were reduced, and he was held in solitary in a nearly airless, damp cell.
The general's rationale escaped Aaron. He'd been cooperative, yet it didn't satisfy the man, and he suspected the general of having reasons of his own for not wanting Aaron's information to prove correct. He suspected it would not suit General Hoffmann's schemes if he turned out to be someone other than Marshall Hudson.
Late one night someone had even entered his cell and roused him with a beating, but the outcome of the attack had been a draw, for though he'd been battered into semiconsciousness, the last thing he remembered of the night was two guards entering his cell to remove his equally disabled attacker. The general's mistake in that case, Aaron reflected later, had been to have him approached before the inadequate rations of food and water had taken their toll. The general had not realized the man he dealt with had known even worse conditions. As a seaman he had been expected to do hard labor, and survive with no better fare than he now received, and it would be a while longer before Hoffmann's prison would turn him into the kind of creature who could not fight back.
Soon enough, however, Aaron began to dream of food and fresh water. He'd grown used to comfort, and the discomfort of hunger was something he hoped he'd never again experience. For a while after his latenight visitor was carried from his cell, Aaron was almost ignored. His rations were thrust at him at regular intervals, but otherwise his days and nights had no interruptions. He grew increasingly miserable with lack of exercise and fresh air, and only a blanket for a bed. In the brightest hours of the day his cell was dimly lit. He only hoped the vermin he saw in that light were not doubled in the dark.
In the darkness, his thoughts were filled with Louisa. In the light of day, with conscious effort,
he shoved his memories of her aside. But whenever he slept, amid his dreams of ample food and cool, refreshing water, Louisa haunted him. Then the sensations and gratification of loving her woke him as his body betrayed his conscious repudiation of her. He tried to erase her from those night dreams, to fix his eyes on someone else―anyone else―but he failed.
With these dreams, Aaron's confinement began to get the best of him. He had no clear indication about what General Hoffmann wanted from him that he had not already provided. He already seemed to know the names of the men Aaron identified as members of the conspiracy. He already seemed to know many of the details Aaron gave of the conspirators' latest plans. He had seemed especially interested in the details about Santa Catalina Island, though less concerned about the future plans for restive Indians. Oddly, it seemed what he wanted most was to have Aaron confess to being Marshall Hudson.
Finally, Aaron was advised, if no word came by the end of the week, his capture would be announced to the public, and with the temper of the city what it now was, he should hope he remained in military hands for a swift and efficient death. The mobs, he was cautioned, would not treat him so humanely.
And as the week wore on he thought more and more of Louisa Boyd Hudson, now having more hours to dwell on her than he'd ever wanted. When he'd been summoned to his brief trial in Hoffmann's office, the evidence against him was overwhelming. The officer who spoke for him had nothing but the sworn statement he'd given when he was captured that first night, and he was condemned with little more than the suggestion that if what he'd sworn was true, there had been ample time for evidence to arrive in his favor. No one in Washington had ever heard of him, and they showed him the correspondence announcing that fact. "We have no knowledge," the response to General Hoffmann's queries began.
But as he waited in his cell, Aaron found he was a condemned man in more ways than one. He was condemned to die, to relinquish mortal life, but, he reasoned, the gallows would at least free him of his obsession with Louisa. In these last few days she'd begun to torment him as nothing else in his confinement had been able to do. "Something to be grateful for, after all!" he sneered. Perhaps the chaplain was right―"sweet release" would be his at last.
Ford, Jessie Page 52
