“Actually, I didn’t have anything to write about,” I admitted. “I saw the article a few days ago in the Alta about the mine here having some controversy, and I just decided to come here and hope that I might find out about it. The editor of the paper has been pretty hard on me after the C.B. Hollister business, and I just have to find something to write about that’ll make him see that I can be a reporter even if he doesn’t like the fact that I’m a young woman.”
“So you didn’t knock on the door asking to see me as Felipe said?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I just knocked on the door and was praying that somebody would be here who would take the time to talk to me and wouldn’t mind that I had come.”
“Well, I don’t mind a bit!” she said. “And I have enjoyed talking to you.”
“What is the controversy about the estate?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing new. The Colonel’s mine has been in legal battles from the very beginning. Most of the miners in California believe in ‘free mines’—whoever first stakes out a claim has right to the area. Colonel Fremont bought all this land before anyone knew there was an ounce of gold anywhere around here. But after 1849, miners invaded his property, and he has been having to fight them off ever since. The miners feel entitled to stake claims even though the land belongs to Mr. Fremont. And just a few months ago the Supreme Court back in Washington confirmed his title to the whole estate and Mr. Fremont had all the independent miners driven out by force. That all happened earlier this year. But it hasn’t been the end of the trouble. That’s why you saw Hector out at the gate wearing a gun, and there are guards posted all around the main mining areas. Some of the anti-Fremont newspapers are stirring up the Mariposa title issue again, trying to make sure the miners of the state stay mad at Fremont until the election.”
“Won’t Mr. Fremont win easily here in California?” I asked. “That’s what my pa says.”
“I don’t know, Corrie. Money and greed and power do strange things to men. Many powerful Californians are jealous of Mr. Fremont because of his fame and good fortune. They want him to fail. And they will stop at nothing. There are bad men involved, ruthless men. I have even heard Mr. Fremont say there are politicians willing to have people killed to further their own causes. It is hard to believe such people run our government. And such men are fanning the fires of contention about the title to the estate, and spreading many other false rumors about the Fremonts.”
“That’s terrible!” I exclaimed.
“I agree. But gold is not the only issue involved. Here in California the issue over mine ownership is big in the minds of the miners. But on a national scale, slavery is the overriding issue. And there are millions of dollars at stake over the future of slavery in the South, just as there are millions of dollars at stake over where a man is entitled to mine here in California. The pro-slavery forces of Buchanan are equally ruthless at times. They are determined to keep John Fremont out of the White House. If Fremont is elected, he will probably abolish slavery, and then their whole southern way of life will be ruined. They feel they have to stop him.”
“Are all politicians like that?” I asked. “Greedy and mean?”
“No, there are many good men. Yet when otherwise seemingly good men support something intrinsically evil like slavery, it does something to them. They become different, and in a bad way. But during my years with the Fremonts, I have met many good men too. I’ve never forgotten the time I met a young Illinois lawyer by the name of Lincoln. The look in his eye told me that he was a different breed than these kinds of men I’ve spoken of. In fact, this Lincoln was almost Mr. Fremont’s running mate for Vice-President this year, but lost out to Mr. Dayton. Lincoln is staunchly anti-slavery, just as is Mr. Fremont, and I overheard the Colonel say to his wife shortly after the nominating convention in Philadelphia last June, ‘That fellow Lincoln is one to watch. I doubt the country’s heard the last of him.’”
She stopped and the room grew quiet for a minute or two.
“But all this can’t be that interesting,” Mrs. Carter said finally.
“It’s interesting to me,” I replied.
“But nothing so interesting you could make an article out of. The papers have been full of this kind of thing for a year.”
“But not from a woman’s perspective,” I said with a smile. “Maybe I could write something about Mr. Fremont in a different way that women readers would enjoy more.”
“You want something women would like to read?”
“Mr. Kemble says that’s one of the reasons he printed some of my articles, because women enjoyed them.”
“Well, if you want a woman’s story, I’ll give one to you!” said Ankelita excitedly.
“What is it?” I asked eagerly.
“The best story of all in this election isn’t the candidate or the election at all. It’s the candidate’s wife. If Mr. Fremont wins and gets to the White House, he’s going to have Mrs. Jessie Benton Fremont to thank for it. She’s the real story!”
“Should I get out my paper and pen?” I asked.
“You get them! And then you sit right here and I’ll tell you all about Jessie. And when we’re through, Corrie Belle Hollister, young woman reporter, we’re going to have an article that editor of yours won’t be able to refuse, an article that will make your name read in newspapers all over the country! Jessie’s story is one that only another woman could write, and you’re the first woman writer I’ve ever met. Oh, how I wish Jessie herself were here! She would so love to talk with you!”
I started to get my things out of my satchel, but before I got seated again, Ankelita was out of her chair.
“Let’s eat some lunch together first, Corrie,” she said. “Felipe!” she called down the hallway, then turned to me again. “Then afterward we’ll sit down and I’ll tell you everything.”
Felipe appeared and she spoke a couple of hasty sentences to him that I didn’t understand, then indicated for me to follow her.
Chapter 34
Hearing About Jessie
An hour later we were seated in the same chairs again, each with a cup of tea in our hands.
Lunchtime had been an interesting assortment of people coming and going as we sat around a wooden table eating beans and tortillas. There were several children, an older woman, Felipe and two or three other young men about his age, and Ankelita and I. Most of the conversation among the others had been in Spanish. The ranch and mine workers must have had their midday meal someplace else, and I never did quite figure out how Ankelita was involved with everything that was going on. She could not have been in charge of the whole household, because she had only recently arrived, yet I saw no one else who seemed to be higher in authority. At least she spoke to those in this particular house in a confident manner. Maybe this wasn’t the main house, even though it had been the first I had come to. There were a few other buildings about with people coming and going from them.
Once we were alone again and had seated ourselves, Ankelita began telling me about Jessie Benton Fremont, from their first days together in Monterey, right up to the present.
“It was just before I had become part of their home,” she said, “that gold was found here. I’ve heard Jessie tell the story so many times I feel as if I’d been there: how Colonel Fremont rode up on his horse and ran into the room they were renting in Monterey and plopped down two big heavy sacks in front of her. ‘Gold, Jessie!’ was all he said. ‘Gold! The Mariposa is full of it in every stream!’”
She told me about the Fremonts’ life in Monterey before that.
“Monterey was then the capital of California, but it was a hard life for Jessie. They had no money, and Jessie had little fresh food. They had no milk, no fresh eggs. Jessie talks about eating rice and sardines and crackers during those days.”
She paused and chuckled.
“A couple of months ago during the campaign, a woman started criticizing Jessie for being rich and pampered, for having tea and cake between m
eals.
“‘I find it a comforting break in my often wearying day,’ Jessie answered her.
“‘But you allow yourself to be served by a maid?’ the lady asked, thinking to make Jessie look foolish. But Jessie turned the tables on her.
“‘Yes, I confess it,’ she whispered. ‘But just between us, I think I make better tea myself. I had no maid in Monterey. I heated the water in a long-handled iron saucepan over a smoky fire. And instead of French cakes to eat, I lifted a sardine from his crowded can and gave him a decent burial between two soda crackers.’
“The lady and all the people around laughed, and in the next day’s paper it was reported that Jessie Fremont was a good down-to-earth woman who could cook over a campfire.”
We both laughed at that, and I found myself wondering if the story had made its way to the California newspapers. If not, it would be the perfect thing for me to use!
Then we talked about the Fremonts’ trip to San Francisco following the discovery of gold on their estate. At San Jose, which later replaced Monterey as the capital of California, they hired some Indian women to wash their clothes by pounding them with stones in a brook. They were met there by a workman from the Mariposa, bringing buckskin bags filled with gold dust and nuggets—wealth from their foothills mines.
After Colonel Fremont’s election to the Senate to represent the newest state in the Union, the Fremonts set sail for New York. For the next year, Jessie, who had long been a senator’s daughter, now found herself a senator’s wife.
“The years came so rapidly and were so full,” Ankelita said. “Colonel Fremont was in the Senate only a year, and then we returned to San Francisco in 1851 to a beautiful big home. But within months there were two terrible fires and the house was gone. Then we spent a year in Europe before returning to the East. Jessie’s mother died, her father lost his Senate seat, and the house at Cherry Grove also burned, all within a few months. And now they are running for the White House! The Fremonts’ lives, especially with three young children, have been so busy and eventful.”
We talked most of the afternoon. I must have asked a hundred questions. It was all so fascinating! Ankelita told me what Jessie looked like and what she felt about some of Mr. Fremont’s political decisions, about the heartbreak of their decision to become Republicans, knowing that it meant driving a wedge between them and Jessie’s southern relatives. She told me about the children, about what it was like for Jessie to try to be a good mother in the midst of Washington politics. She told me how Fremont would consult Jessie about political decisions, not something very many politicians did. That, too, would be perfect for an article women would really enjoy. Even though they couldn’t vote, women were more interested in current events than men sometimes thought. And Jessie Fremont was the shining example of what impact a woman could have standing beside her husband in American politics.
“During the early part of the campaign, Corrie,” Ankelita said, “Jessie was sometimes as popular as her husband. Crowds would call out her name after the Colonel’s speeches, wanting to see her too. One campaign song went like this:
And whom shall we toast for the Queen of the White House?
We’ll give them “Our Jessie” again and again.
“I only wish I could be there to see the election through, although I know it’s best that I am here.”
By the end of the day, I truly felt as if I knew Jessie Benton Fremont myself. If I could just figure out how to best put it down on paper, Mr. Kemble was sure to print it! And if he didn’t, I would take it to another newspaper. The Fremonts hadn’t been in California since 1851 and things had been much different back then. Now Jessie Benton Fremont was only a month or two away from being the most important woman in the whole nation, and I had personal stories about her that Mr. Kemble could not possibly have heard before.
I was so excited, and hoped I’d be able to somehow write about Jessie Fremont in as interesting a way as Ankelita Carter told about her!
By the time our conversation was over, the shadows were starting to lengthen outside. The day had gone by so quickly, and had been better than my wildest dreams.
“Well, young lady,” said Ankelita, “we’d best get Felipe to see about getting your horse put up for the night, and then getting you settled in your room.”
From my puzzled expression she could tell I didn’t understand.
“You weren’t thinking of riding back down the mountain to Merced, were you?” she asked in a voice of astonishment.
“I figured I would,” I answered. “To tell you the truth, I hadn’t really thought about it since this morning.”
“Well, you’re not going anywhere, Corrie. You’re staying here with us tonight. I have an extra bed in my room. Besides, you have to get started on that article of yours. And what better place than right here?”
I had supper with them around the same table, with most of the same people. Then later, at a little table with a candle, I pulled out several sheets of blank paper, got out my pen and ink, spread out my notes, and began to write the article I had come to Mariposa to find.
At the top of the page I wrote for a title: “The Real Jessie Benton Fremont: The Woman Behind the Candidate.”
Chapter 35
Mr. Kemble Once More
Five days after I’d first set foot on the Mariposa estate, I once again walked through the doors of the offices of the California Alta on Montgomery Street in San Francisco.
I’d arrived in the city late the evening before. I spent the night at Miss Bean’s Boarding House. After a bath and a change into fresh clothes, I felt much more confident than the first time I had been there. In my hand I held eight sheets of writing, an article I was genuinely proud of as being different and publishable, and something that no other reporter could have, especially no San Francisco reporter. If Robin O’Flaridy had scooped me last time, now it was my turn!
I didn’t feel like a little girl begging a powerful editor to publish my little article. For the first time I guess I felt like a real “reporter” who had uncovered a story. As I walked down the hallway—and was I ever glad there was no O’Flaridy in sight!—I felt tall and good inside.
I went straight to Mr. Kemble’s office, without even asking anybody if he was in or if I could see him, and knocked on the door.
I heard a muffled sound from inside, so I opened the door and walked right up to his desk, where the editor sat just like last time. His head was down and he didn’t even look up right at first.
“Mr. Kemble,” I said, trying not to let my voice quiver, “I have a story for you.”
At the sound of my voice he glanced up.
His eyes surveyed me up and down for a second, then it seemed to gradually come to him who was standing there in front of him in his office.
“Ah, Miss Hollister,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Come to deliver your next article in person, eh? So you can be sure no one steals any of your precious words? Long ways to come, isn’t it, just to deliver a short piece?”
I think he was trying to be humorous, but I didn’t smile.
“This isn’t on the Miracle Springs mayor’s election,” I said. “It’s got to do with the national election.”
“Oh, national news! My, oh my!” he said, still with a little grin on his lips. “You’ve broken some major new story that all the other hundred newsmen in this city have never heard?”
“No, it’s not a major new story,” I said. It’s ‘human interest,’ I believe you call it. However, I think you will find it of interest to your readers. And to answer your question, no, I don’t think any of your other newsmen do have access to this information.”
I stood straight and confident before his desk, the papers still in my hand. Gradually the smile disappeared from his face, and he eyed me carefully. I think he was starting to realize I was serious.
“All right, Hollister,” he said at last. “Let me see it.”
He held out his right hand. I handed him the top pa
ge.
He took the sheet, glanced over it quickly. His eyes darted up to mine again, as if looking for some clue. Then he looked down at the sheet again and read it start to finish. As he completed the last line he again held up his hand.
“I’ll give you more when you agree to publish it,” I said.
“Don’t toy with me, Hollister!” he snapped, dropping the page. “I don’t play games with my reporters, especially nineteen-year-old women!”
I reached forward and took the page from his desk, then turned around and made a step toward the door.
“Okay, okay,” he said, still brusquely but apologetically. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”
I turned back and faced him again.
“It looks good, Hollister,” he went on. “I’m sure I can use it. May I please see more?”
I shuffled through the sheets and handed him page five.
He took it, and the moment he saw what I had done, he glanced up at me again, bordering on another outburst, I think. But he controlled himself, and read the page through. He set it down on his desk, leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and looked at me for a long moment.
“What is this little game you’re playing with me?” he finally said.
“I just want to protect my article,” I said. “What happened before was very upsetting to me. I felt we had an agreement, even if we didn’t shake hands on it, and I don’t think what you did was right. Now, I’m very sorry I didn’t get the chance to tell you all about Mrs. Parrish being my stepmother. That was wrong of me. But it was an honest oversight. When Robin O’Flaridy walked in, I forgot a lot of what I had intended to say. But all that’s past, Mr. Kemble. You explained yourself very clearly in your letter, and you were very plain about how things are if I intend to write for your paper. Therefore, it seems best to me that I make sure we come to an agreement beforehand. And after we’ve reached an agreement, then you can see the entire article.”
While I spoke his face changed first to red then to white. I don’t know if he’d ever been spoken to by any of his reporters that way, but he certainly wasn’t used to it from a nineteen-year-old woman!
On the Trail of the Truth Page 20
