Sea to Shining Sea

by Michael Phillips

  We stopped in Sacramento long enough for Pa to meet with Mr. Dalton and tell him what he decided.

  “I’m pleased to hear of your decision, Hollister,” Mr. Dalton said.

  “I still don’t have much notion of what I’m supposed to do,” Pa said sheepishly. I knew he felt awkward around smooth politicians like Alexander Dalton.

  “You just leave everything to me. All you have to do is try to spread the word around your area that folks need to vote for you. Since you’ve already run for mayor a time or two, it ought not to be too difficult.”

  “We’ll make up some more handbills, Pa,” I suggested, “just like last time.”

  “Good girl!” said Mr. Dalton, giving me a gentle slap on the back. “I like how she thinks, Hollister,” he added to Pa. “Political acumen must run in the family! Like I say, you just leave the rest of the territory north of Sacramento to me. I’ll be in touch with you and let you know everything you need to do.”

  Pa nodded his head agreeably. “And as for you, young lady,” he went on, turning to me, “that was some article you wrote!”

  “You read it?” I asked, half embarrassed, the other half astonished.

  “Did I ever! So did the rest of the state. It appeared three days ago in the Alta, and another half dozen papers have already picked it up. I don’t suppose I should be surprised after that speech you gave here in town about freedom. Some of the people I’m in touch with are already starting to say you just might be one of the best weapons Abraham Lincoln has in this state. In fact, because of that speech of yours, the Rev. Thomas Starr King, who was in the audience that day, has decided to become even more actively involved than he had planned. He wants to work with you!”

  “That’s my Corrie!” exclaimed Pa proudly. I tried to hide my embarrassment. I didn’t know Mr. Dalton that well, but ever since the first time we’d seen him in San Francisco I couldn’t escape the feeling that he sometimes exaggerated how he said things just to make me feel good, so that I’d be more inclined to do what he might want me to do later. I suppose politicians had to do that sometimes, but I hoped what he said about Mr. King was true. I liked Mr. Dalton well enough, but I didn’t like having to wonder what he really thought. It seemed to me a man’s words ought to be exactly what they were—no more and no less. In his case, I always had the feeling they were just a little bit more than he truly meant.

  Nevertheless, I was just vain enough to enjoy his compliment anyway. I hoped there was some truth in his words, and that my article would do some good.

  “In fact,” he was saying, “there are two more large rallies we’ve got scheduled—one right here in Sacramento and another in San Francisco. I hope you’ll be able to join us both times.”

  I shrugged noncommittally and glanced at Pa, but the expression on his face didn’t give me any help.

  “I realize it’s a great distance to come,” he added hurriedly. “But we’ll pay for all your expenses, of course, just like before. And you can know that you’re having a great impact for the good of our country and its future . . . for liberty, just as you said in your speech!”

  “I’ll think about it,” I answered him.

  “I’ve already talked to Cal about bringing you down for them.” He paused, and when he went on I wasn’t sure I liked the sly look in his eye or the tone of his voice. “He’s taking good care of you, I understand,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Since you and he seemed to, ah . . . hit it off, as it were, I took the liberty of asking Leland—that’s Mr. Stanford—to allow me to borrow young Cal now and then to help out with the election, and to make sure my favorite young newspaper writer is kept just as happy as she can be.”

  Again he smiled, with a look I didn’t altogether like. Now I was sure his words said more than he meant. I knew, after all the years he’d been involved in important things, that I wasn’t his favorite newspaper writer. But he’d said it just as plain as day. You couldn’t actually call something like that a lie, but it certainly wasn’t the whole truth. I didn’t think Mr. Dalton was intentionally trying to deceive me. He probably considered it a nice thing to say. But it still wasn’t the truth—the whole truth, anyway. I don’t suppose Alexander Dalton was the kind of man who had made truth the same kind of priority as I had. I hoped it wasn’t politics that had made him the way he was. I didn’t want Pa to get like that if he went to Sacramento—saying one thing but always having a slightly different meaning to it that he didn’t say.

  “You like Cal, don’t you?” Mr. Dalton asked, seeing me hesitate.

  “Yes,” I answered, blushing a little.

  “Good, good! People like to see a nice young man and woman standing up for principles and involving themselves in the nation’s affairs. I’m very happy to hear that we’ll see you again up on the platform representing the Republican party!”

  “I don’t think you heard my daughter, Mr. Dalton,” said Pa. “At least, I never heard her say for sure what she was going to do.”

  “Did I misunderstand?” he said, looking at me bewildered.

  “I said I would think about it,” I said. “And I will.”

  “Fine! That’s all I can expect. I will have Cal get in touch with you about the details.”

  Chapter 34

  Warning Signs

  I did speak both times Mr. Dalton had told me about. How could I say no when Cal practically begged me? And why would I have wanted to say no, anyway? I wouldn’t have turned down another chance to be with Cal.

  The most memorable part of September, however, wasn’t the two speeches I gave. They weren’t much different than the first, although I wasn’t quite so nervous even though there were more people listening. But after we were through in San Francisco, instead of going straight back home, Cal invited me down to Mr. Stanford’s ranch south of San Francisco in a little town called Palo Alto.

  “He raises horses,” Cal said. “There’s a big ranch house where you’ll be very comfortable. I’ll show you his estate. We’ll saddle up two of his finest horses and I’ll show you the peninsula. It’s beautiful country!”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I hesitated. “I suppose it would be all right. It does sound fun.” Inside, my heart was beating wildly. It sounded like a dream come true—a fairy tale!

  “How will we get there?” I asked, not even knowing what I was saying.

  “I’ve got one of Mr. Stanford’s finest carriages here in the city. I’m heading back down to the estate bright and early in the morning. Say you’ll join me!”

  “But . . . how will I get back here, and then home?”

  “Don’t worry, Corrie. With a man of the world like me to take care of everything, you need have no concerns. I’ll see to your every need!”

  In the thrill of the moment, I totally believed him. Not until later, as I lay in bed that night, did I realize that something about his words had struck a tiny chord of dissonance somewhere inside my brain.

  Just then, as we were still talking about it, Mr. Dalton walked up. He greeted me kindly, congratulated me on a job well done, as he put it, and then turned to Cal and began speaking more quietly and more seriously. It was clear they didn’t intend for me to listen, but they made no particular attempt to keep me from hearing, either. Men have a way of ignoring women when they want to, and paying attention to them when they want to. And when they’re ignoring them, they seem to think they’re not there at all, or that their minds don’t work because they’re not being paid attention to. But women are generally smarter and more aware of things than men realize. In this case I was listening, and I found their conversation very interesting, even though I know they probably thought my head was off in the clouds someplace.

  “One of Senator Gwin’s Breckinridge people is making trouble for us down in the South,” Dalton was saying. “There’s talk of a Breckinridge-Douglas coalition to smear Lincoln, to insure that one of the two Democrats wins California. Apparently they’ve sent someone up this way to spread the lie
s into northern California, too.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Cal.

  “Jewks . . . Terrance Jewks.”

  “Where is he? How do I find him?”

  “Their people are said to be putting him up someplace in the city.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” Cal said after a while. “I’ll take care of it. If he’s in one of the San Francisco hotels, I’ll find him.”

  “You know what to do?”

  “I’ve run into just this sort of thing with Mr. Stanford. I’ve got ways of handling his sort.”

  “Leland tells me you are very resourceful,” said Mr. Dalton, a grin breaking over his face.

  “My goal is to be useful,” replied Cal, returning the smile.

  “Nothing more?” queried Dalton. “Leland is a powerful man, a man whose star is on the rise.”

  The look on Cal’s face told that he knew exactly what that meant.

  “All the more reason for me to serve him faithfully,” said Cal, “as well as the whole party. To answer your question—yes, I know what to do. And I’ve got just the people to do it. Believe me, Mr. Jewks will not prove troublesome. He’ll wish he stayed in the South and left northern politics to the Republicans!”

  “Good. I knew I could count on you,” said Dalton. The two shook hands, and I was left alone with Cal again.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “Nothing . . . nothing, Corrie, my dear. Just the details of politics.”

  “It didn’t sound too pleasant.”

  “Politics sometimes gets a little messy, Corrie. You must know that. Your father is a politician.”

  “He’s mayor of Miracle Springs,” I replied. “I don’t know that I’d call him a politician.”

  “Well, he soon will be, from what I understand,” Cal persisted. “Once he’s sitting in the statehouse in Sacramento, his hands will get dirty, too.”

  “Not Pa’s,” I insisted.

  Cal laughed. “Don’t worry, Corrie. I’m not talking about anything serious. But it can’t be helped. Your pa will explain it to you someday. In the meantime, you and I don’t have to worry about all that! How about me taking you out for a fancy first-class dinner and a night on the town to celebrate your speech today? Then I’ll get you safe and sound back to Miss Bean’s later, and pick you up tomorrow morning for Palo Alto!”

  Cal made me feel special, more like a real woman than I’d ever imagined I’d feel. I don’t suppose I really believed half the sweet things he said to me. Yet I wanted to believe them so badly that I convinced myself to ignore the uncomfortable warning signs.

  Besides, Cal Burton was not the kind of man a girl says no to. And I didn’t really want to say no, after all.

  Chapter 35

  Memories on Horseback

  Palo Alto was all Cal promised it would be . . . and more!

  Mr. Stanford and his wife treated me as if I were the most honored guest they’d ever had on the estate. I could hardly believe that a short time ago I was out in the desolate land of Nevada nearly being burned alive by Indians, and now I was hobnobbing with one of California’s wealthiest men—and, according to Cal, one of its most influential politicians too!

  The Stanford estate was completely different from the primitive Fremont estate at Mariposa. Mr. Fremont was also rich, of course, but he spent so little time in California, and Mariposa was so far away from everywhere else that he never did much to fancy it up. But I could tell instantly that the Stanfords intended to live on their new estate a long time. Besides politics and railroads, Mr. Stanford loved horses, and told me it had always been a lifelong dream of his to raise them. Now that he had a place and the means to do it, he intended to make his dream come true, right there in Palo Alto.

  Mr. Stanford was a good friend of John and Jessie Fremont, and once Cal explained to him my connection with the campaign of 1856, he told me many interesting things I hadn’t known.

  “John Fremont may have lost the election in ’56,” he said, “but as far as I’m concerned it was a great victory. For a man to come so close to becoming president only four years after the formation of a new party is remarkable, in my opinion, and we Republicans owe him a great debt of gratitude. We’ll win this year with Lincoln, thanks to people like you throughout the country, Corrie. The John Fremont campaign four years ago laid the groundwork for this year’s victory.”

  “Was he considered as a candidate again this year?” I asked.

  “By a few people. But to be honest with you, there wasn’t a great deal of support for him at the convention. Lincoln represents the rising new tide of the party, Corrie, although John’s name was bandied about for vice-president. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him with a cabinet appointment in the new administration, however. Lincoln thinks highly of him, from what I understand.”

  Just then Cal walked in.

  “The horses are all saddled, Corrie. Shall we head out over the hills and see what kind of adventure we can find?”

  “You be sure to take her up to the top of the ridge, Cal,” said Mr. Stanford. “On a clear day like this, Corrie, from up there you can see out to the Pacific to the west, down into the bay to the east, and, if it’s clear as crystal like it gets after a rain, you can just make out a bit of San Francisco at the tip of the peninsula. It’s the most stunning view in all of California, if you ask me. And it’s right here on my estate!”

  “I’ll be sure she sees it,” said Cal.

  “I probably won’t see you again, Corrie,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting with the Crocker brothers this evening, and tomorrow I have to get up to Sacramento early to see Judah, Huntington, and Hopkins on some railroad business. But you enjoy the rest of your stay, and you let my wife or Cal here know if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “You are very kind.”

  It was still fairly early in the morning when we set out. Cal led the way at a leisurely pace, westward from the house and barns, down through a grassy little valley, and then up the gradual incline at the far end. The grass was dry and brown at this time of the year, and the hills were gently rolling, with oaks scattered thinly about. The air was not hot, just pleasantly warm. There was no breeze yet.

  Gradually the climb grew steeper, though still nothing like the mountains I was used to back in the foothills country around Miracle. There was no trail, but the grass was almost meadowlike. We wound around gnarled old oaks, crossed several small streams, came across little glens that interrupted the upward ascent, and if I had let myself daydream, I could have easily thought we might crest a small rise and see the snowcapped Sierras in the distance. It was hard to believe we were actually going in the exact opposite direction.

  Finally a clearing spread out before us, with a rise about four or five hundred yards farther that seemed to taper off at its crest into a flat plateau.

  “There it is!” said Cal.

  “What?”

  “The top. That’s the summit.”

  “The summit!” I repeated with a laugh. “That makes it sound like a mountain.”

  “Okay, maybe it’s not a mountain peak. But it’s the highest hill for thirty miles in either direction. It’s the one Mr. Stanford told me to show you.”

  “I’ll race you there!” I cried.

  “You’re on!” Cal yelled back, giving his horse a slap on the rump and lurching into a gallop.

  I let him get about twenty yards out in front, just enough of a lead for him to look back to see me sitting at the starting point calmly. Then I dug my heels into the mare Mr. Stanford had let me pick out earlier in the morning. I had liked her looks immediately, and had tested her speed a couple times on the way up, so I was confident of what kind of mount I had under me.

  By the time Cal looked back again I had closed half the distance between us, and drew alongside him before we were halfway to the top. I didn’t even look over, but just leaned forward against my mare’s neck and whisked by. I reached the top, reined in the mare, an
d was sitting calmly in the saddle regaining my breath by the time Cal galloped up alongside ten or fifteen seconds later.

  “What took you so long?” I asked, grinning.

  “Let me answer with a question—where did you learn to ride like that?” laughed Cal. “You put me to shame.”

  “I’m just a country girl,” I answered. “I told you I’ve been riding for years. When you don’t live in a city, you learn to ride.”

  “Maybe it’s you who ought to be riding for the Pony Express instead of your brother!”

  “I might if they let girls join,” I said.

  “Don’t you dare! We need you too much in this campaign!”

  Now that the race to the top of the hill was behind us, I had a chance to look around and see where we were.

  “It’s absolutely breathtaking!” I exclaimed.

  Spread out, not above us as the Sierras would have been, but rather below us like a distant blue infinite carpet stretching all the way to the horizon, was the Pacific Ocean. The day was perfect. The sky was nearly as blue as the sea, with a few billows of clouds suspended lazily here and there. As we had come up over the ridge, the gentlest whisper of a breeze had met us, and now as I drew in deep breaths I could smell just the faintest hint of the ocean’s fragrance.

  I stretched all around in my saddle, looking down upon the long blue fingers of San Francisco’s huge bay in the other direction, just as Mr. Stanford had described it. Then I turned north to see if the city itself was in view. It hadn’t rained in the last several days, but it was just clear enough that I thought I could see fuzzy glimpses of it. If it wasn’t the actual buildings of the city I saw, perhaps it was just the rounding part of the end of the peninsula, with my imagination filling in shapes where I knew the city was.