Sea to Shining Sea

by Michael Phillips

  “Now I know I was not mistaken!”

  “About what?”

  “About your being a philosopher.”

  “Nonsense!” I replied. “It’s all there for anyone to see. That’s what I love so much about the country, about life. Everything is just as full of marvels and secret mysteries as the stream. Just the other day I was looking at the bark on the pine trees in the woods and found myself thinking about the mysteries of how the trees grow and gather nourishment from the ground. Nothing is without a meaning, almost a personality—if you know how to look for it and what you are looking for.”

  “And what is the meaning, the mystery, the significance of it all, Corrie?”

  “Why, that God made it, of course.”

  “I don’t see what is so mysterious about that. Everybody believes that. Everything has to be made somehow, by someone.”

  “The mystery is in what it tells us about God. He put himself into every tiniest thing.”

  “Even an ugly old gray rock?”

  “Of course. His hand can’t touch anything without leaving his fingerprints behind—even on the simplest of rocks.”

  “Hmm . . . you do have a way of looking at things differently than most people. Is this how you write, too?”

  “I don’t know,” I laughed.

  “Have you ever written about streams and pine trees?”

  “No. I just think about things when I’m watching them. Sometimes they find their way into things I write, but mostly they just get into my journal where nobody else sees them.”

  “You mentioned your journal before—tell me about it.”

  “I keep journals of things I do and think about. Sometimes I draw pictures in it or respond to books I’ve read. When I’m writing in my journal, I don’t have to be as careful as if I’m writing an article, so I just let it be as personal as I want.”

  “You said journals. How many journals do you have?”

  “I’ve filled up five—no, let’s see . . . yes, five. I just started my sixth book in the almost eight years I’ve been keeping a journal.”

  He drew in a sigh, then turned to glance out the window. The pause in conversation suddenly made me realize how much I’d forgotten my nervousness and how much talking I’d been doing. A fresh wave of embarrassment swept over me.

  “I can hardly believe it. I must have babbled on for ten or fifteen miles!”

  “Please, don’t fret about it,” said Cal, turning slowly back to face me. His voice was soft and reflective. “I enjoy listening to you, Corrie. It takes me back to a simpler time in my own life when some of those things were important to me, too.”

  “Did you once live in the country?” I asked.

  “A long time ago,” he answered, and again that same wistful look filled his eyes and I heard the longing in his voice that I had detected earlier.

  “I’d love to hear about it,” I said.

  A long silence followed. I could see a look of pain cross his face, and he turned to gaze outside for a while again. When he finally spoke, it was only to close the door into himself that he had opened just for an instant, and only a crack.

  “Maybe someday, Corrie,” he said slowly. “But I don’t think I’m up to it right now.”

  Chapter 22

  Truth or Opportunity

  We were just coming to Auburn, where the stage stopped for half an hour to pick up one more passenger, get the mail, and give the passengers time for coffee and food if anyone wanted it. Cal asked me if I’d like to join him in the restaurant for something to eat, but I said I’d rather just walk around and stretch my legs. After I’d answered him, I realized I was a little hungry, yet somehow I’d thought maybe he’d rather be alone after the way our conversation had ended. I opened my bag and pulled out the apple I’d brought along and munched on it as I walked up and down the main street of Auburn.

  When we climbed back into the stage, Cal’s gaiety had returned. It was more crowded now, but he was just as genial as ever, talking to the others, helping the elderly lady who had gotten on at Auburn to adjust to the bumps and noises, and speaking to me again in a way that put me completely at ease.

  We talked back and forth, gradually working our way around to the reason for the ride in the first place.

  “What am I supposed to say when we get there?” I asked him. “I’ve never made a speech before in my life.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Of course. How could I not be?”

  “Don’t worry about a thing, Corrie. All you have to do is be yourself and people will love you.”

  “I’ve got to do a little more than that,” I said. “I have to say something.”

  “Sure, but it hardly matters what you say. What the people are coming out to see is a woman standing up there—and a pretty one!—with the men. Standing up and saying, ‘Vote for Lincoln.’”

  I don’t know what got into me, but suddenly I lost my shyness and out of my mouth popped the words, “Come on, Cal. I’m not pretty, and you shouldn’t lie like that.”

  The instant I said it, I wanted to retract the words! But he just laughed. “You are something, Corrie Hollister!” he said, still laughing. “Not afraid to speak your mind one bit. But you won’t object if I disagree with you, will you? You’re going to stand up there and folks are going to say to themselves, ‘There’s one beautiful young woman, and I’m going to listen to what she has to say!’ So there, Corrie—like it or not. I’m not taking back a word of it!”

  Now I was embarrassed again!

  “But is it really true that it doesn’t matter how good a speech I make?” I asked, trying to turn the discussion back toward Sacramento.

  “Doesn’t matter a bit. We want you there because of who you are, that’s all. Dalton and the others know you’re not a speechmaker.”

  “There’s a big difference between speaking in front of people and writing down thoughts on paper when you’re all alone,” I said.

  We bounced along for a while, then Cal asked me, “Why are you interested in politics, Corrie? How did you get involved in the first place?”

  I stopped to think. “I suppose it was my mother’s decision to run for mayor of Miracle Springs,” I answered after a bit. “Actually, she’s my stepmother—Almeda, you know. And it turned out she didn’t run, but my pa did instead. It all happened in 1856, and we were so involved in it as a family, how could I help but be interested? So I wrote a few articles about the Miracle Springs election. Then with the presidential election going on at the same time, and Mr. Fremont being a Californian, well, I just kind of got drawn into it.”

  “But why did you stay interested? Why did you get so involved with the Fremont cause as to risk your life and do all you did, especially when you’d never met the man?”

  “I don’t know; I suppose it seemed the right thing to do.”

  “The right thing?”

  “Yes. The more I found out about everything, the more I knew I had to stand up for the truth, and to write the truth so that people would know how things really were.”

  “Truth . . . hmm.”

  “For me there’s no other reason to write at all. That’s what everything’s about—all of life, in fact.”

  “Like the Miracle Springs Creek?” suggested Cal.

  “Yes,” I said. “The creek, the election in ’56, what kind of person I want to be. It’s all about truth. The creek’s got truth in it, if you know where to look for it. It seems to me that life’s about learning to be a true person. That’s what being a Christian is to me—not knowing a lot of religious things, but becoming a true person, a true daughter of God. That’s what my writing’s about too—learning to find life’s good things, life’s right things, life’s true things—and then writing about them in a way folks can understand, in a way that gets down inside them. Whether I’m writing about creeks or trees or politics, I’ve got to make sure inside myself that it’s truth I’m writing about.”

  Cal was very thoughtful for a minute.
“An unusual approach to political reporting,” he said at length. “And so,” he added, “have you satisfied yourself that supporting Lincoln is the right and true thing to do?”

  “I had to spend a lot of time thinking and praying about it,” I answered. “It wasn’t an easy decision. But, yes, I’m satisfied now that it’s what I’m supposed to do, and so I’ll give myself to stand up for the truth as I see it just as much as I did before with Mr. Fremont. What about you? Isn’t that why you’re in favor of Mr. Lincoln?”

  Cal thought for a moment. Then a smile spread across his face. “My boss, Mr. Stanford, would not take it too kindly if I didn’t,” he said. “He is one of California’s leading Republicans!”

  “Why did you go to work for him,” I asked, “if it wasn’t because you believed in what he stood for?”

  “Leland Stanford believes in himself,” laughed Cal, “and his businesses and his railroad and making money.”

  “But surely you believe in him?”

  “Of course I do. But I’m afraid it’s on a more pragmatic level than because he stands for the truth. I hope you won’t hate me, Corrie, but I believe in Mr. Stanford because I believe he represents the future, and therefore offers me the greatest opportunity to be in step with the future when it comes. Truth doesn’t seem to me as important in this case as who holds the key to the future. Does Leland Stanford, or does former governor Latham, or does Congressman Burch with his idea of a separate California republic, or do the Breckinridge southern Democrats, or does Governor Downey, or does the state’s new golden-tongued orator Thomas Starr King? Where does the future lie, Corrie? That seems to me the question. That is why I have cast my lot with Mr. Stanford and his cause. He’ll be governor one day, mark my words. His railroad will span the continent. He may one day even live in the White House. And I want to be standing beside him if he does!”

  “What about Mr. Lincoln? Do you believe in him in the same way?” I asked.

  Cal’s face turned thoughtful. “I can’t say as I do, Corrie,” he answered. “I think the North is very weak, both politically and economically. In a financial battle between North and South, the southern states would win hands down. With regard to the future of this nation, I do not see the North leading the way. For now it seems to me that the West is where the true future exists.”

  “For now?”

  “Change that. Let me just say I came to the West because I saw the future moving in this direction.”

  We rode along for a while in silence. The three other passengers were occasionally making some attempts to carry on a conversation, but I think they were mostly listening to us. Whenever Cal and I stopped talking, it generally quieted down as if they were waiting for us to continue. Finally I picked the discussion up again.

  “Is it all right if I ask you the same question you asked me?” I said. “Why did you get involved in politics?”

  “A fair enough question,” answered Cal. “I’ll see if I can give you as straightforward an answer as you gave me.”

  He paused, thought for a minute, then went on. “The answer is very simple really—politics has been in my family as long as I have. Does the name Stephens mean anything to you?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s my mother’s maiden name. My uncle, her brother, spent sixteen years in Congress in Washington, until just last year, and had served six terms in his state legislature before that. He is such a political creature that his very name raises images of the founding of the country itself—Alexander Hamilton Stephens.”

  “So it was in your blood?”

  “In more ways than one. And I began to love it early in my life. I was only eight when my uncle packed his bags for Washington, but I remember it as distinctly as if it were yesterday. When we went up to visit him there, the sense of power the place exuded got into me and I knew I wanted to be part of it someday too. My uncle was a Whig. But he was a pragmatic man too, and he taught me to look for opportunity wherever and however it came. And so now here I am working for the new Republican party, which didn’t even exist eight years ago.”

  He laughed at the thought.

  “Don’t you see, Corrie? It’s all about opportunity! That’s what politics represents to me. It’s where the power is, where the future is. That’s why my uncle said to me, ‘Cal, the future’s in the West. If you want a life in politics that’ll take you to the top, seek it in California. That’s where tomorrow’s leaders are going to come from.’ So I took his advice, and here I am!”

  “You’re involved in politics and with Mr. Stanford for where they will take you?”

  “Do I detect a slightly negative tone?”

  “I just wanted to know,” I answered. “I never thought of that before, at least in relation to myself. I don’t envision my writing taking me anywhere—at least not in the way you mean it.”

  “Your reputation is growing in importance. That doesn’t mean anything to you?”

  “I never think about it. I want to grow inside, as a person. But I never think about becoming important.”

  “Well, I do. I want to be somebody. I want my life to count. Don’t you see, Corrie? People like you and me, young men and women with ideas and enthusiasm, we’re going to be tomorrow’s leaders of the country. Doesn’t that excite you? Don’t you want to be part of it?”

  “I’ve never thought of it. What about what you said two hours ago about the simpler life? You told me never to leave the simple country life behind. It even sounded as if you wished you could go back to it yourself. Now you’re saying that I ought to want to be important.”

  “I grew up in the country too,” said Cal. “I suppose part of me looks back on my childhood with a kind of longing. But once the lure of politics began to get hold of me, with all the opportunities it afforded, I vowed to myself that I would use every opportunity, every situation, to the fullest.”

  “To the fullest . . . in what way?”

  “For where it could take me, what it could do for me—for taking advantage of the opportunity in whatever ways I was able.”

  I fell silent, and we didn’t pick up the same conversation again. Cal had certainly given me a lot to think about. We were both on our way to Sacramento to be involved in Mr. Lincoln’s campaign together, and yet our reasons and motives seemed very different.

  Chapter 23

  Speechmaking in Sacramento

  They had offered to put me up in a big hotel in Sacramento, but I said I preferred to stay with Miss Baxter in her boardinghouse.

  The meeting was scheduled for the afternoon after we arrived. I must have taken an hour to get ready. Just pulling the dress over my head and trying to button the buttons with my trembling fingers was so hard I finally had to ask Miss Baxter to help me. The dress was a light brown cotton, with full sleeves, navy piping around the collar and lapels, and a matching navy ribbon around the waist. I wished Almeda had been there to help me get it all just right and brush my hair and tie it up with its ribbon. But Miss Baxter was a fine substitute. It was so nice to have a woman there to share the anxious moments with me!

  Cal came to pick me up in a fancy buggy and complimented me on how I looked. But I was still dreadfully nervous.

  A platform had been built downtown near the capital buildings and decorated with red, white, and blue banners. Flags were flying, and a band was playing peppy patriotic songs. Quite a crowd had already gathered, and wagons and buggies were still pulling up. It reminded me of the festive day in Miracle Springs back in ’52, but one look around told me this was a much bigger and more important event. All the men were dressed in expensive suits, and just the looks on their faces told me they were probably important men in California’s politics.

  Most of them were, too. Cal introduced me to more than a dozen people that day, and I can hardly remember a single one of them. I was so nervous before and so relieved after my brief time up on the platform that my mind was blank of everything else.

  There were going to be speeches on beh
alf of all three of the candidates for president. In addition to me, Mr. Stanford and some other of his friends, Mr. Dalton and a famous orator named Edward D. Baker, all spoke for Abraham Lincoln. The Republicans were in the minority in California, as they were in the rest of the country. Up until this time, in the national elections California had always sided with the party that favored slavery. But now in 1860, when the line came to be drawn so clearly between North and South, and between slavery and antislavery, the Republicans hoped to break this record and bring California around and make it a free, pro-Union Republican state.

  The split of the Democratic party, Cal told me, would help more than anything to make this possible. After the nomination of Stephen Douglas by the moderate wing of the party, the southern faction set up John Breckinridge as a candidate as well. On this day in Sacramento, many prominent Californians came out in favor of both men.

  Governor Downey gave a speech in support of Douglas. I was surprised at how many famous western politicians were in favor of the southern cause and slavery. Former governor Latham supported Breckinridge, although he wasn’t there that day because he was now serving in the U.S. Senate representing California. California’s other senator, William Gwin, formerly from Mississippi, did happen to be present, and spoke on behalf of the southern cause and candidate Breckinridge. John Weller, also speaking for Breckinridge, actually brought up the issue of the South seceding from the Union. I couldn’t believe slavery could be so important to the South that they would actually try to start a new country rather than to see the slaves set free.

  I had my journal with me and I tried to write down some of what was said. But all the newspapers told about the speeches anyway, and I got copies the next day so I could read them over again. Weller said this: “I do not know whether Lincoln will be elected or not. I will personally urge every Californian to vote instead for John C. Breckinridge of the Southern Democratic party. I do know this, that if our efforts fail and if Lincoln is elected, and if he attempts to carry out his doctrines, the South will surely withdraw from the Union. And I should consider them less than men if they did not.”