Jessie

by Judy Alter

  "It is a cruel and selfish experiment on his part," Mr. Buchanan exploded one evening, "to expect you to travel clear around the Horn to join him."

  "It will be an easier journey than having gone overland with my husband," I said, mustering all my strength in order to sound tranquil.

  "Your place," he said firmly, "is to stay here, raise your child, help your father, and wait for... for your husband to return."

  I knew he had wanted to add adjectives to the noun "your husband" but had at the last minute thought better of it.

  "That's just the point, Mr. Buchanan. John will not be returning. We are going to make our home in California."

  He threw up his hands in disgust. "I give up, Tom. You talk to her."

  Father smiled only slightly. "I have tried," he said, shaking his head. "Her mother needs her....I need her, and she should not set off on a dangerous trip by herself, let alone take Lily with her. But I have made no progress in telling her all these things."

  "My mother," I said, "has many others to care for her. My husband has none. And Lily and I will be perfectly safe." I wished I believed it with as much assurance as I said it.

  Just before I left Washington I received a letter from John, written at Bent's Fort in November. "The snows are early and deep this year," he wrote, "but I am confident we can find the South Pass, and I am anxious to be off on our adventure."

  Damn his adventures! I thought. Had he learned nothing about deep snow from his disastrous passage over the Sierras? Why would he now tempt the fates by crossing the Rockies in a bad winter? Even as I ranted—silently, of course, to myself, alone in the privacy of my chambers—I knew the answer. John Charles Frémont had to do what no other men could do. And, yes, he had learned from the Sierras—he had learned how to survive and, having once done it, had no doubt he could do it again. And there was a practical matter—if he had turned back in November, he would still be at Bent's Fort, and Lily and I would arrive alone in California to survive without his protection for endless months. No, the plan must be followed. I prayed that he was safely in California even as I read the letter.

  By March, Lily and I were in New York, prepared to board a mail steamer to Panama. When John left in October, the plan had been for me to take ship around the Horn, but just about then we began to hear rumors of the discovery of gold in California. Within months, as these rumors grew, the government decided to subsidize mail steamers to Panama, from where passengers could make the overland crossing to the Pacific. It was a far shorter trip but one far more rigorous. Still, we decided that was the best way to go.

  It seemed to me that New York was overrun with gold seekers. Everywhere—on the streets, in the restaurants, even sometimes sleeping in the lobbies of the poorer hotels—were men who had left their lives behind. I was reminded of the old childhood chant about "Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief," for they were all there—professional men, farmers, and, I was sure, a thief or two. They talked of gold as passionately as Coronado must once have as he sought the Seven Cities of Gold, and they were as sure of success. Underneath, though, were disturbing rumors—of men dying of disease by the hundreds in Panama and of lawlessness in California, where it was every man for himself.

  "I would not let a daughter of mine go off to that there wild place alone," the hotel clerk said to Father, shaking his head at me as though already contemplating my funeral.

  Father shrugged and thanked the man for his concern. I saw the worry in his eyes, and it made me only the more anxious to be away. The agony of parting was drawing on too long, and it seemed to me that a clean break would be kinder.

  Sophie had positively refused to accompany us on the journey, in spite of Mathilde's threatening orders and our fervent pleas. "Not going off to some wild land among naked savages," she said emphatically, and nothing could change her mind.

  So at the last minute Father secured a companion for me, upon the recommendation of a friend in New York. Mrs. Pfeiffer looked to be in her fifties, and they had apparently been fifty hard years. Her face wore a perpetually grim expression, and her eyes were cold as metal. When introduced, she had to make an effort to raise the corners of her mouth in a slight smile. She was dressed all in black, though her gown fitted poorly and her shoes were shabbily in need of shining.

  "Father," I said, drawing him into the passageway outside our stateroom in the steamer, "I would rather, much rather, be alone than be accompanied by this woman. She is worse... worse than the teachers at Miss English's Seminary."

  He smiled a bit at that reference to my youth, but he was firm. "She will protect you," he said.

  "I've no doubt of that. Dragons could not get by her," I said.

  At last the call was given for visitors to leave the steamer, and Father reluctantly hugged us, then, turning quickly to hide his tears, hurried down the gangplank. I heard him say to the friend who'd come aboard with him, "It's like leaving her in her grave." Lily and I stood at the rail watching him, me with a cold, hard lump in my throat, and she sobbing uncontrollably. I had no words to comfort her.

  As the steamer pulled slowly out into the harbor, I took my first note of those around me. There was not another woman—save the grim Mrs. Pfeiffer—on the boat, but there were men—hundreds of them, it seemed—most dressed as workmen. Red flannel shirts, denim pants, and heavy leather boots seemed the uniform of the day, though here and there one spotted a man in a suit and top hat. I immediately decided they were gamblers, much like those who lived on the riverboats in the middle of the country, there to prey on the hopeful, some of whom would undoubtedly lose all their equipment and what little money they had before they even reached Panama. Men, I decided, were given to folly.

  Once out of the harbor, the seas proved rough and the wind high. The captain urged me to retire to my cabin, since it was not safe to walk the decks. With a moment of pity for the men who would be sleeping rolled in blankets on those unsafe decks, I took Lily and went below. The cabin was filled with fruit and flowers, but these tokens from well-wishers just made me all the sadder. Whatever was I doing fleeing from everything and everyone I held dear? And then, of course, I knew—John was dearer than any amount of flowers and fruits or those who sent them, and I was going to join him. I raised my chin with renewed determination.

  Through tears and sobs Lily gulped, "I want Grandfather. He makes me feel safe." And then she collapsed in my arms.

  Holding her, I rocked back and forth and spoke as soothingly as I could, telling her how safe we were, how good the captain was to us. But it is hard to be comforting when you don't feel safe yourself. At last I suggested we crawl into our bunk, early though it was, and we lay there together, in our nightclothes, my arms around her, until at last she cried herself to sleep and left me alone with my thoughts.

  Some time later I was still awake when I heard the door open slowly. Some instinct of self-protection made me feign sleep, even when a light shone in my face. Apparently satisfied that I slept soundly, the intruder crossed the room to my trunk and began to paw through its contents.

  By the light I could now see that it was Mrs. Pfeiffer, only in one hand she held a wig, which proved to be that iron-gray hair that had added age to her appearance. She was, in truth, light-haired and probably no more than ten years older than I. Lying motionless, I watched through slitted eyes as she helped herself to buttons, jewelry, and a tatted lace collar that was a particular favorite of mine. Finally she left the room.

  Instantly I jumped out of bed, locked the door, and began to call for help at the top of my lungs. Mrs. Pfeiffer outside beat on the door, demanding to come in—"I'm here to help you! Let me in!"—but I continued to scream and yell until I heard the captain's voice. Shouting through the door, I explained what happened. Then there were the sounds of running, a scuffle, and the captain returned to tell me that it was perfectly safe for me to open the door.

  Through it all Lily cowered under the covers, until I went to comfort her. Then she told me solemnly, "Grandfather sh
ould never have hired that woman, but you were brave, Mama."

  That gave me great comfort and some small measure of increased self-confidence. Perhaps I really could take care of us on this awful journey; more than that, perhaps Lily now believed in me and regretted the loss of her Grandfather's protection just a little less.

  Mrs. Pfeiffer was held in custody the rest of the trip, to be returned to New York on the next boat. She bragged to the captain that she had been masquerading, and that Father's friend had recommended her only in the hopes that getting her away from New York would mend her ways. I, it seemed, had been sacrificed in the experiment.

  Once the seas calmed, the captain invited me to walk on the deck, and I found the ocean spellbinding. Somehow, looking out at endless water, I had a sense of how John must have felt as he set out across endless prairies. I experienced—to a lesser degree, to be sure—his stirring sense of exploration. This voyage was my expedition, just as crossing the Rockies was his. That sense of shared adventure roused in me a passion that I could not explain but that made the lonely nights in my bunk seem long and empty. Lily, having overcome her sadness and taken to life on the ship with great happiness, slept peacefully in her own bunk those nights.

  Nine days later we neared Chagres, and I saw the tropics for the first time. The whole world was greener than anything I could have imagined. We were to disembark into a tender, so tiny by comparison that it looked a toy boat. Clutching Lily firmly by the hand, I stepped into the tiny vessel and consigned myself to whatever fate awaited me. Lily, by contrast, had not only her spirits back, but her curiosity.

  She asked about everything as we proceeded down the river, and so we learned that the bright scarlet flowers and the white ones were passion flowers, and discovered a hundred other plant varieties, which I can no longer name. Tall trees arched over the river and in some spots bent their tops low to the water, and the river banks were matted with creeping flowers of all colors and kinds, so that the effect was of being in a conservatory.

  After only eight miles it was decreed that the tender could go no farther because of the shallows. All passengers were to disembark again, this time getting into tiny dugout canoes manned by natives.

  Lily clutched my hand tightly at this news, for the natives—few of whom had on much clothing—shouted and waved their boat poles wildly, each trying to attract passengers to his canoe. I had heard rumors—surely they were not true—that these Indians were given to murder if antagonized by their passengers. As I looked fearfully at the scene, wishing desperately for the moment that we were safely back in Washington, the captain of the tender came forward to tell me that the owner of the mail steamers—a Mr. Aspinwall, who also hoped to own the first railroad across the Isthmus of Panama—had offered me the services of the company boat, manned by their own men. I accepted most gratefully.

  But even that boat had to be poled along the river, and the currents were stiff in that mountain stream. Sometimes the boat had to pull to shore, and we would all disembark so the crew could hack away at the growth that grew so thickly it blocked passage down the river. The canoes, with the less fortunate passengers, followed in our wake, taking good advantage of the path we made. Still, we managed only a few miles each day, and it took three days to reach Gorgona, where we were to exchange the boat for mules to cross the mountains to Panama.

  We traveled in luxury not available to those in the canoes. We spent our nights in clean tents with canvas floors and linen cots, and we ate clean rice and drank tea. At night, fires were burned to keep away troublesome vapors, as well as monkeys and other creatures of the jungle. My less fortunate fellow travelers had to put up with dirty food, filthy huts, and unclean people. I was eternally grateful for the reputation of my father or my husband, whichever had preceded me and entitled me to special treatment. And I had no qualms about accepting that treatment. Still, the mosquitoes could not distinguish between any of us and bit Lily and me as ferociously as the passengers in the canoes, and the sun burned down on all of us equally.

  "Mother? Why are there so many tents?" Lily was apprehensive again, and I did not blame her. The hillsides all around us were covered with makeshift tents, and the very earth seemed to swarm with people.

  "They're waiting for passage out of Panama, ma'am," the boat captain said. "Some of 'em been here quite a spell, livin' on salt rations and fightin' off the sickness as best they can."

  "What sickness?"

  "Mostly yellow fever, some cholera, some malaria."

  "Why can they not leave Panama?" I asked suspiciously, fear beginning to tug at me.

  "No steamers," he said matter-of-factly. "Every one that goes up the coast to California loses its crew. They all jump ship to search for gold, so there's no one to bring the ships back down here for the next load of passengers."

  "But I have booked passage!" I said indignantly.

  He shook his head sympathetically. "Won't do no good, ma'am. Booked or no, there's no boats goin' to California."

  "Mother?"

  "Hush, Lily. It will be fine. I'm sure there's some mistake."

  There was no mistake. The only blessing was that Mr. Aspinwall had also sent word ahead that we were on the boat. Accordingly, we were invited to breakfast with the alcalde of Gorgona.

  Pulling Lily along behind me, I walked up the hillside, through that tent village, to the alcalde's house. On either side of me I saw men with hopelessness written on their faces. Some called out pleasantly, and one or two rudely asked what a fine lady like myself was doing among them. Startled, I realized that I saw only two or three women and almost no children. Like everything else about the gold rush, this was a man's adventure—and in this case, a man's disaster.

  "Look, Mother, look at that house."

  Before us stood a house mounted on high poles, with a thatched roof and sides woven of mud and sticks. It looked like nothing so much as a giant vegetable crate. "Shh, Lily, we must be polite."

  Little did I realize to what test our politeness would be put. When the meal was served, the entree proved to be roasted monkey. It looked like a small child that had been burned to death, and I had to stifle a gasp of horror when it was proudly carried to the table. For a side dish we had iguana. Lily and I both did admirably, taking the requisite three bites for politeness—how many times had the poor child been told that over dishes far more palatable!—and pleading that the tiring journey had robbed us of our appetite.

  We left Gorgona with relief, and once safely beyond hearing, Lily and I shared nervous giggles over the meal we had been served. It was good to be able to laugh, and I was most grateful for Lily's company—at six she was young to be considered a companion, but she rose to the challenge with great ease.

  There was no road to Panama, only a mule track over the mountains, which had been followed for centuries. On the theory that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, this track proceeded straight up the highest mountain to the summit, then straight down again on the opposite side. There were no bridges across the streams, so the mules simply gathered their legs under them and jumped—several of our fellow riders got a good soaking this way, and one unfortunate fellow got a broken arm. I cautioned Lily to hold on tightly at all times.

  John, I thought, can you see us? Can you imagine what we're experiencing, just so we can all be a family in California? Once, under my breath, I muttered, "It had better indeed be the promised land!"

  "What, Mother?"

  "Nothing, dear. Hold tight now."

  Sometimes the passage between the rocks was so narrow, we were forced into single file. At one such passage, a cow, loaded with trunks and bags, could not proceed straight through—the length of her horns would not allow, but her baggage kept her from twisting to make the passage. Watching her, I thought no one could ever talk to me again about dumb animals, for she simply backed up to the rock wall, rubbed her baggage off her back, and went on, leaving behind smashed trunks and broken luggage. I thanked God that none of it
belonged to us.

  But there came the moment when we topped the last mountain and there, before me, was spread the mighty Pacific Ocean, the sea about which John talked so incessantly. Once I saw it, I was at one with John again, and I knew that we would have our home by the sea. The hardships of the trip fell away from me, and I was positively enthusiastic.

  "Mrs. Frémont," the chief guide said—he was of course an employee of the mail company—"I feared to take you on this trip, feared it was too hard for a lady like you. But you've done right well. I... well, ma'am, I want to compliment you on your courage."

  I was so moved, I nearly cried when I thanked him. Only the thought that crying would have erased all my courage kept my upper lip stiff.

  Panama was even more crowded with Americans than Gorgona had been, and I despaired of finding quarters for us, as it was apparent that we would not be boarding a steamer for California any time soon. Every day boats from New York brought more gold seekers, but no boats left to take them to California. It was as if the small isthmus country would soon be overrun with people. It reminded me, unpleasantly, of pictures one saw of the Middle Ages, where whole cities were overrun with rats.

  "Ma'am?" It was the boat captain. "Madame Arce sends her respects and requests that you and your daughter stay with her."

  I did not know who Madame Arce was except that she seemed a savior sent from heaven. It turned out that her nephew had been an ambassador from Panama, and I had indeed met him, though he was fuzzy in my memory. Nonetheless, we were soon ensconced in luxury, quarters as comfortable as our own back in the house on C Street—what a beloved memory that had become! So far and yet so near! Only this time our luxury had a tropical cast to it—grass hammocks to sleep in, red tiles everywhere throughout the house, and beautiful young women to wait on our every need.