Pudgett blinked first at Arthur and then at Dan McReady, and then disappeared to do what he was told. Arthur hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his camel-coloured vest and gave Dan McReady a thin but quite triumphant smile.
Outside the Frémonts’ white-pillared house overlooking the southern curve of San Francisco Bay, the carriages of the Chivalry and the richer members of the Shovelry were drawn up in gleaming, jingling ranks. Their horses snuffled from time to time and shook their heads, while their coachmen sat on the low stone wall that bordered the driveway, playing dice and smoking pipes. It was a cold evening, and the waters of the Bay were a dull lilac colour, flecked with spray.
Through the glass walls of Jessie’s veranda, chandeliers sparkled and elegantly-dressed men and women could be seen talking and laughing. Bret Harte, who came along later, observed, ‘There are more diamonds in this one house tonight than in the whole of South Africa, and enough silk to wrap up an elephant.’
It was one of those occasions which Jessie Frémont, as a hostess, enjoyed the most: an occasion when she brought together the wealthy, the socially graceful, the glib, the coquettish, and the pretty. She would mix them in ways in which they had rarely been mixed before, so that florid clerics would find themselves arguing with sallow-faced Sansome Street gamblers, and stiff-necked South Park ladies would find themselves provocatively entertained by tousled young radical writers. As a Northerner, and the wife of the last Republican Presidential candidate, Jessie had been treated warily at first by the Southern aristocracy of Rincon Hill; but her dinners and soirées had proved to be witty, glittering and bright, and were circled on the social calendar as emphatically as Mary Bell Gwin’s costume balls, or Isaac Friedlander’s monumental dinners.
Collis and Andy had arrived in a rented brougham at eight, after a couple of glasses of Pisco punch at the bar of the International Hotel. Collis, as he mounted the steps of the Frémont porch, looked unnaturally pale, and there were dark smudges under his eyes. But in his evening coat and his starched white collar, his pallor gave him the look of romantic dissolution, and from within the house there was a soft twittering among the fans and frills of South Park’s pioneer daughters.
They entered the brightly-lit hallway and crossed the figured marble floor. A black footman in a powdered periwig was waiting to take their hats, their canes, and their cloaks, and then another footman led them through to the door of the main reception room to have their names announced. As Collis saw the sparkling mirrors and spangled lights, and as he heard the warbling of courteous conversation, he felt a sharp twinge of nostalgia for New York. He felt like a man in a foreign country who suddenly hears a traveller speaking English, or who catches the smell of codfish chowder after years of curried lamb. He hadn’t attended a single society party since his arrival in San Francisco, and he had almost forgotten the pleasures of flirting with silly young girls, and of talking preposterous small talk with half-drunk gentlemen of wealth and position. After the way that Hannah had rejected him, and after his weeks among hardware-store managers and fussy middle-class women in Sacramento, his pride hungered for nothing more desperately than flattery from the opposite sex, and recognition from his social equals.
He stood tall, with his shoulders back and his chest well filled with air, as the footman called out: ‘Mr Andrew Hunt, and Mr Collis Edmonds!’
Through the nearest throng of black-coated husbands and jewel-bedecked wives, a small, dark-haired woman appeared, dressed in a simple but expensive dress of soft white lawn, layer upon layer, embroidered with pale-blue flowers. Her face was oval and gentle, with full lips and almost Egyptian eyes. She held out her hand to Andy and said, ‘Mr Hunt. We’re so pleased that you could come. I see you’ve brought a friend.’
Andy bowed his head. ‘I hope you don’t object, Mrs Frémont. But I guessed you’d want to get to know him sooner or later, seeing as how he’s going to make his mark on this city in any event. Mrs Frémont, this is Mr Collis Edmonds, from New York. Collis, this is Mrs Jessie Benton Frémont.’
‘Well, well,’ said Mrs Frémont, as Collis took her hand and brushed her diamond rings with a light kiss. ‘I do warrant that I’ve heard of you already, Mr Edmonds. You’ve made yourself a small reputation for – what shall I call it? – immediacy.’
‘Immediacy, ma’am?’ asked Collis, amused. He was surprised to see how young Mrs Frémont was, considering that she had been married to John Frémont more than ten years ago, when he had explored the Oregon Trail and the Rocky Mountain passes with Kit Carson and Broken Hand Fitzpatrick, and that she had helped him in those days write a best-selling book about the West. She couldn’t have been much older than thirty-one or thirty-two, and she was fresh and poised as a girl of twenty.
Mrs Frémont lowered her gaze, in a pretence of shyness. ‘If blowing people’s hats to bits, and rowing a Whitehall boat out into the Bay to corner the market in blankets, well, if those aren’t examples of immediacy, I don’t know what are.’
Collis put his hands stiffly to his sides and gave a mildly mocking bow. ‘Personally, Mrs Frémont, I prefer to look on them as examples of contemporary humour.’
Mrs Frémont gave a high, light trill of laughter. Those of her guests who were standing nearest turned around suspiciously to see what it was that had delighted her so much. There were nudges and whispers, and more than one disapproving frown. San Francisco society was still sensitive to the point of mania about its rude Bear Flag beginnings and the shortness of its history, and it protected its golden circle by treating merchants, gate-crashers, and parvenus with elaborate disdain. What was disturbing them now, though, was that Collis had all the appearance and manners of an Eastern gentleman; and if he had managed to make Jessie Frémont laugh within one minute of meeting her, then perhaps he had all the necessary background and breeding to make him a social prize. It was all very disturbing, particularly to those covetous hostesses who didn’t know who he was, or where he had come from, or if he might be the new ‘catch’ of the coming season. All around the room, the chatter of coversation changed tone, and became a whispery exchange of gossip.
‘You must come over and meet my husband,’ said Jessie Frémont. ‘I’m not sure that he’ll appreciate your sense of fun, but he always likes to meet newcomers to San Francisco, and hear what they think of it.’
‘I thought at first that San Francisco was a gypsy carnival, held on a hill,’ said Collis. ‘But tonight I see that it has its beauties, its manners, and its graces, and that all three of these virtues have their queen.’
Mrs Frémont coloured. ‘You’re most flattering, Mr Edmonds. Perhaps you’d better come see my husband before you sweep me off my feet.’
She excused herself from her previous circle of friends and led Collis and Andy through the milling, curious guests as if they were visiting royalty from Europe (always a great social coup, even if they were only half-witted barons from Schleswig-Holstein). Collis played up to the general curiosity by nodding and smiling to everyone as they walked down the length of the reception room, with its palms and statues and rococo furniture.
Out in the glass-walled veranda it was cooler, and the conversation was more subdued. Collis recognized bank presidents and Montgomery Street financiers, and several other whiskery and respectable faces from Barry and Patten’s and the Auction Lunch. In one corner, in a basketwork chair, a bearded man with concentrated eyes was talking with almost frightening intensity to a circle of enthralled young women. ‘That’s Herman Melville,’ Jessie Frémont whispered, in passing. ‘A very promising young talent. Have you read anything of his?’
Collis shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to say that my recent reading has been confined to the labels of patent hangover cures. But I guess that’s San Francisco for you. Libation first, luncheon second, and literature last of all.’
Jessie Frémont took them to the far end of the veranda, overlooking the Bay. It was dark outside now, except for a last mauvish swirl of clouds over the western hills behind th
em.
Collis recognized John Frémont from pictures in the San Francisco newspapers. He wasn’t much more than medium height, with a faded suntan, and eyes that were hooded and sad. He was talking to a tall man who stood with his back to Collis; and while he talked, he stroked his beard as if he needed reassurance that he was still there, and that he wasn’t out on some dust-blasted trail, or up to his waist in snow in the High Sierras. His evening coat hung on him as if he had lost weight since he was first measured up for it, and his necktie was floppy and carelessly tied. But he was good-looking, in a melancholy way, and when Jessie came up he gave her a look of welcome that would have charmed anyone.
Jessie took his arm. ‘John, my dear. You must meet Mr Collis Edmonds, from New York. You already know Mr Andrew Hunt.’
John Frémont gave a brief nod, and shook hands absent-mindedly. ‘I’m pleased to know you, Mr Edmonds. Welcome to San Francisco.’
It was then that the tall man to whom he had been talking turned around. It was Laurence Melford. He was looking tired, with that particular tiredness brought on by too many late-night dinners and too much champagne. He kept his hands by his sides, but he nodded to Andy, and then to Collis, and said, ‘Gentlemen,’ in a bass voice that was both dignified and warning.
‘How do you like our city, Mr Edmonds?’ asked John Frémont. ‘Have you found a place to live yet? Our hotels are fine, well up to New York standards, but I’m afraid they’re rather crowded. New people arriving by the minute.’
‘It must have changed a great deal since the early days,’ remarked Collis. He was talking to John Frémont, but he kept his eyes fixed on Laurence Melford. Melford, in his turn, was directing his attention towards the veranda’s tiled floor, and listening to what was being said like a collage principal who has heard more trumped-up excuses than St Peter at the gates of heaven.
‘Changed?’ said Frémont. ‘Yes, it’s changed.’ He sounded almost nostalgic. ‘For instance, when Sam Upham first came here in the summer of ’49, he set himself up in a ship’s galley, which he’d bought himself for one hundred dollars, and all he had was a flour barrel for a table, and a nail keg for a chair. He was obliged to sleep crosswise, because the galley was eight inches shorter than he was. That was in Happy Valley, the wetlands south of Market Street ridge. And do you know something? He went away for a year, and came back to find the whole place burned down, and fine frame buildings standing right where his galley had been. That’s how much it’s changed.’
‘You sound as if you miss the old days.’
‘Do I?’ said Frémont. ‘I don’t really think that I do. Maybe I miss the pioneering spirit. The roughness. The early people were honest, too. You could leave your stores for weeks, and nobody would touch them. It’s not the same today.’
‘It’s a hive of cardsharps and villains these days, this city,’ said Laurence Melford, as if he were talking to himself. ‘And all the whores and crimps and raggle-taggle that go with them.’
John Frémont gave a quick, uneasy frown. ‘But you haven’t told us your business, Mr Edmonds, have you? Are you in business, or are you just touring?’
‘I’m in hardware,’ Collis told him. ‘Do you know Leland McCormick and Charles Tucker? I’m their partner, out in Sacramento.’
‘They’re worthy men,’ Frémont said. ‘Both very worthy. You could have done a great deal worse than join up with them.’
‘It’s a beginning,’ said Collis. ‘Ultimately, though, I’m thinking of building a railroad.’
Laurence Melford stared at him sourly. Then he turned away and looked out across the veranda as if Collis’s ideas about railroads were too tiresome to be listened to twice.
‘A railroad?’ echoed John Frémont. ‘Well, that’s most interesting. I undertook some survey work myself, for a railroad. Something a little more ambitious than anything that you’re planning, I expect. A Pacific railroad across the Rockies. And it was rough, I can tell you. Blizzards such as you’ve never seen. We lost eleven men, frozen stiff. They said it was the worst snow for years.’
Frémont gave a vague smile. He seemed to be thinking about something else. ‘I got most of my party out alive, thank God. And we did find a route for a railroad, the Buffalo Trail. But they were hard times. Very hard times.’
‘Is the railroad going to be built?’ asked Collis carefully.
‘What?’ asked Frémont. ‘Built? Well, yes. All in good time. Congress has to budget money, and agree to apportion land. Then the way must be surveyed, and cleared, and the tracks laid. But I wouldn’t be surprised if trains are running to and fro across America on the Buffalo Trail before I go to meet my Maker at last. And if they name one of those Rocky Mountain passes after me, well, I shan’t be displeased.’
He stroked his beard some more, and nodded. Then he realized he wasn’t being particularly attentive to his guests, and he looked up at Collis and asked, ‘But how about your railroad? You must tell me something about it. Sacramento, you say. Is it connected with the Sacramento Valley line? What are you building? A branch of some kind?’
‘No, sir,’ said Collis. ‘Nothing quite as modest as that.’
‘Then let me guess. You’re going to connect up Oakland and Sacramento by rail.’
Collis shook his head. ‘Wrong direction. I want to build a road from Sacramento eastward, across the Sierras to Salt Lake City, and maybe further, to Laramie, and eastward on the Forty-first Parallel to Omaha, Nebraska.’
Laurence Melford gave a dismissive snort, and even John Frémont seemed wary. He looked at Collis with his head tilted to one side, as if to make certain that Collis was neither a crank, nor a joker, and it took him a long time to make his reply.
‘Well, Mr Edmonds,’ he said after a while, ‘that’s a very ambitious idea. But, if you don’t think I’m being rude, where is your expertise? Are you an engineer, or a topographer?’
‘No,’ said Collis.
‘Well, then, do you have friends in Congress? Do you have wealth?’
‘Not much of the latter, Mr Frémont, and not very many of the former.’
‘Then, my dear fellow,’ said John Frémont, ‘I regret to say that you can never succeed. I can understand your ambition. I sympathise with your motives. I don’t necessarily agree with your route. But, all these things apart, you just don’t have the wherewithal to get a railroad of thirty miles started, let alone three thousand.’
Frémont looked towards Laurence Melford for support, and he could see by Melford’s indifference that Collis was probably nothing more than a talkative upstart, without funds or backers or friends in Washington. He was reassured by that. Pacific railroads were still a slightly tender subject in the Frémont household, in spite of John’s boasts about the Buffalo Trail, and he privately preferred the idea of a transcontinental train to remain as a glorious unfulfilled national fantasy. It wasn’t very comfortable for the Pathfinder’s self-esteem to think that somebody else might lay tracks where he had met only frostbite and wretched failure. Particularly when that somebody was a jaded rake like Collis Edmonds, from out of the gambling clubs and drawing-rooms of upper-class New York.
‘Take your very first obstacle,’ Frémont said, with a twitchy smile. ‘Not just a hill. The Sierra Nevada! Why, the Sierras are pretty well impassable for locomotives. The Donner Pass must be six thousand feet above sea level. And, er, the gradients are very steep. And in the places where they aren’t, there are very few straight ways. So your railroad topographer is caught, as it were, between the grades and the curves.’
Collis stepped back as a footman brought a tray of champagne. They took a glass each, and then Collis said, quite gently, ‘You’re absolutely right about the Sierras. Or at least, I’ve been told they’re almost impossible to cross. But why should my railroad not be able to negotiate them when yours apparently could?’
Frémont coughed. ‘It’s a question of expertise, Mr Edmonds. My railroad could find a way because it was expertly planned, and was not the devising of ama
teurs. Don’t forget my nickname. The Pathfinder!’
‘Yes,’ said Collis, in a voice that bore just the slightest trace of sarcasm.
‘Yes,’ insisted Frémont. ‘Because don’t forget that when you were still at school, I was a railroad surveyor for the Army Topographical Corps, and I ran a line from Charleston to Cincinnati. And don’t forget that I know about the ins and outs of drumming up political support in Congress. You can’t just go around building Pacific railroads however you please. You have to have the backing and funding of Washington.’
‘Of course,’ said Collis. ‘I forgot that your good wife’s father is Senator Benton, of Missouri. He’s a great supporter of Pacific railroads, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Frémont. His tone was edgy. ‘Yes, I guess you could say that.’
‘You know something,’ Collis went on, ‘it always struck me as remarkably good chance that you found the Buffalo Trail to be the most satisfactory route for a transcontinental railroad. Especially the way it runs west out of St Louis, and links up your father-in-law’s state with the Pacific Coast. Remarkably good chance.’
Frémont looked at Collis with eyes as hard as pebbles. Collis, in return, gave him a friendly and guileless grin, and even turned to Andy and asked, ‘Don’t you agree with that, Andy? What remarkably good chance that was?’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that Senator Benton and I were acting in self-interested collusion,’ said John Frémont. ‘Because if you are, I must demand that you withdraw that implication at once.’
Collis blinked in surprise. ‘My dear Mr Frémont, why should I ever suggest anything as low-minded as that?’
‘I’m damned if I’m sure,’ said Frémont.
‘It wasn’t a criticism,’ said Collis. ‘Far from it. It was a tribute to your surveying skill. Who else could have found a passable route along the Thirty-eighth Parallel but you? My railroad expert tells me that he’d no more think of surveying a track over the Sangre de Cristo mountains than he would up the side of City Hall. Yet you did it. You confounded everybody who didn’t believe that a railroad route could be determined in advance by a politician and then confirmed by a surveyor, instead of the way these things are usually done, which is the other way about.’
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