Chapter Three
"This is rather more like it!" said Charles as the cab came to halt outside their hotel.
He'd had his head half out of the window all the way from the Oakland ferry, giving a running commentary on everything en route, from the dizzy steepness of the hills ("What idiot thought it would be a good idea to build a city where every pavement is soaring up or plunging down a precipice? Großer Gott! We'll founder on this hill!") to the buildings ("Italianate and Classic in style, mostly, with a hint of Early Grandiosity influenced by Pretentious Perpendicular.") to the weather that was depressingly similar to what they'd left behind ("The guidebooks lied again. A soft and gentle climate indeed! Pneumonia. I foresee pneumonia.")
But their hotel, in one of San Francisco's finest streets, was a welcome surprise. "Civilisation, at last!"
Scott Lancer laughed, as he'd laughed at all of Charles's comments, and agreed. "More than I was expecting, I admit."
"I'm relieved. At least here in San Francisco I might find something worthwhile to write about." Charles admired the impressive Italianate façade that took up almost the entire eastern side of Montgomery Street. It was quite a building, and not even the largest hotel in the city.
Even so, the Occidental Hotel was one of the grandest that San Francisco had to offer; and from what Charles had managed to see from the cab on their way into the city, there was no shortage of large and grand, with the streets around their hotel as well built and as well lit as any that he'd seen back East. San Francisco was no grubbing little settlement hiding barns behind the illusion of false fronts and pretending they were hotels or restaurants. This was a real city, as rich and sophisticated as Boston or New York, with real buildings, elegantly designed and stone-built, set along paved streets lit by flaring gas lamps.
Make that wet paved streets, slippery with rain and mud. San Francisco on a dark, wet March evening was as chilly as New York. Thankfully a bellboy rushed out with an umbrella to get them into the lobby as dry as he could manage it, given the persistent drizzle. Lancer, of course, stood for a moment to look around him, heedless of the raindrops dripping from the brim of his hat. Rain hissed and spat on the hot glass of the gas lamp above his head.
"Not as old as Boston, of course," he murmured. "But it's an interesting coincidence that they were both founded by religiously minded colonists, don't you think? I'd like to take a look at the original mission, while I'm here."
Religion, opined Charles, could be an uncomfortable commodity, although it doubtless had its uses. He preferred his own life to be a little more rational. Too rational to stand around in the dark getting wet while contemplating historical influences, thank you very much, and would Scott care to get a move on?
"Religion's very useful. So many pretty girls attend church," said Scott, and grinned. He nodded his thanks to the bellboy and footed it for the lobby, hooking his arm in Charles's in passing and carting him along into the welcome warmth and light.
"Well now! Very welcoming." Charles took a moment to look around him.
The lobby was vast, opening up onto an even larger, and just as stylish, parlour. Fires in the hearths made the rooms warm and merry, and lamplight deepened the sheen of polished mahogany and glittered from more crystal than Charles had seen in any one place before. Very nice! Everything from the latest in wall coverings and velvet furniture to the most ornate and dazzling of chandeliers, to people in elegant and fashionable dress... yes. This would do.
"Something to write home about, at least! As fine as anything in New York. I'll admit I'm surprised. Whoever recommended this hotel to you, Scott, is to be congratulated on his taste."
Scott tipped the man bringing their luggage from the cab and joined Charles. "It was the gentleman I met in Boston who brought me my invitation to visit m... to come to California. He made most of the arrangements for my journey, actually. A useful sort of man. Good at finding things, he told me."
"Good at finding hotels, at any rate." But Charles was speaking to Scott's back: he was already on his way to the desk to claim his room. Charles hurried along behind him, wishing his legs were as long as Scott's. It wasn't dignified to be always bustling along behind the man trying to catch up. The Bostonian was so very long and lean.
"Lancer? Mr Lancer...?" The desk clerk frowned for an instant, a questioning note to his voice. His expression cleared. He hunted in the roll-top desk behind him and retrieved a letter. "Oh yes, of course. Mr Lancer. We were expecting you, sir. Mr Lancer—Mr Murdoch Lancer, I mean to say, sir—left instructions for your stay. He was quite particular about the details."
Scott stiffened. "I beg your pardon? He left instructions? But he's not a resident of San Francisco..."
"Mr Murdoch Lancer usually stays here when he visits the city, sir. He sent word that we were to expect you and, as I say, was most particular about his requirements. As you doubtless know, he can be exacting in what he expects—"
"I've never met the gentleman. He stays here, you say?"
"He's been a regular guest of ours since we first opened almost ten years ago, sir."
For the first time, Charles saw those polished social manners falter. Scott stood silent, the back of his neck and his ears reddening, though his face was pale. Charles frowned at the tightening of that thin-lipped mouth, seeing how the chin was set, that even Scott's nostrils had whitened and thinned down. Scott's hands curled into loose fists. He rubbed at his face with one, before cupping it with the other and pressing them together.
What in heaven's name had that cool Brahmin exterior showing the cracks?
"Scott?" Charles waited a moment. "Scott?"
It took that moment for Scott to see him and for his jaw to unclench. He raised a hand to his mouth to wipe it. "Tell me, Charles, would you say that this was an expensive hotel?"
"Oh yes." Would he be here if it weren't for the 'all expenses paid' part of this assignment? Hardly!
"We're one of the best in the city, sir," said the clerk.
"So not lack of money." Scott glanced at the letter, still clutched in the clerk's hand, and looked down at his boots. He shook his head, and when he looked up again, he seemed to be back to normal, to have regained control, but for the fact his hands were still clenched. "I'm sorry, Charles. A family matter. I was taken by surprise, that was all."
A family matter? The family that may meet somewhere in the Bible, if Charles remembered those bitter words aright and the family that Scott was going to meet for the first time. Charles said nothing. Indeed, even he couldn't think of anything to say since he wasn't certain what had set Scott off. After all, why get agitated at the thought that the unknown relative you were visiting was better heeled than you expected? Better than having them hanging on your pocket book all the time and if Scott doubted that, Charles would lend him Mrs Nordhoff's brother for a month. That would teach him.
A story there, for certain. But although he and Scott were, he thought, friends now that they'd reached all the intimacy of using first names, they were not such good friends that Charles could, or would, ask. And perhaps too good friends for Charles to be so unmannerly as to dig out answers. A journalistic dilemma, that.
The clerk was well trained. If he'd seen Scott's reaction—and really he couldn't have missed it—he pretended he hadn't. "I have a room reserved for you, sir. Seven nights, I believe."
"I'm supposed to be leaving a week today." Scott sounded a touch uncertain.
The clerk checked the register. "Yes, sir. That's what I have here. The account has been paid until the morning of April fifth."
"I see." Scott's mouth tightened again. "Yes. That's very considerate of Mr Murdoch Lancer. Very considerate indeed."
.
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By the time they reconvened outside the hotel dining room for dinner, Scott was back to his equable, good-mannered self. He had changed into evening dress: dark trousers, a well-cut coat with tails over a silk shirt with stand-up collar and neat narrow-banded bow tie.
"Very elegant! Did you travel with a valet hidden in your valise?"
"The hotel provided one, Charles. All I had to do was ask."
Charles looked down at his own rather less well-cut coat and smoothed out a few wrinkles. He really should have thought of that. These hotels had all the amenities.
"I'd rather like a drink and cigarillo in the Gentleman's Saloon before dinner. Would you mind? I reserved us a table in the dining room for half-an-hour from now."
Charles hid his surprise at this slight departure from the norm—drinks and cigars usually came after dinner—and rubbed his hands together. "Excellent idea."
They crossed the parlour, bowing to the people they passed; all fashionably dressed, the ladies resplendent in rich silks, priceless old lace and jewels. One woman glittered in so many diamonds that Charles put his hand to his eyes when they were past, affecting blindness.
"I wanted to try the Gentleman's Saloon in any event. I was delighted when I realised that this was to be our hotel." He looked around in approval. It was altogether a dimmer, cosier place than the parlour outside. No ladies here, of course, so instead of all the light fripperies they liked so much, it was all mahogany and dark green leather, and comfort rather than fashion. A haze of cigar smoke hung on the air. Altogether a welcoming sort of haven for a man of taste. "I had dinner with Manton Marble last week... do you know him?"
Scott headed for the capacious bar. "Not at all. Is he real? It's a very improbable name!"
"Oh, he's real all right. There's rather too much of Marble to be a non-corporeal vision. He's the editor of the New York World. He has some sort of political anti-corruption coup in the works and he's enjoying himself hugely running about in the shadows around Tammany Hall." Charles shrugged. "Waste of time and energy, I expect, but he's in his element. He'd hoped to enlist my help, I believe and he was quite put out when I said I was to be away for a few months, but he did give me one tip about this hotel. Trust me on the drinks?"
Scott looked puzzled. But bless the boy, he was unfailingly polite, as always. "Of course."
Charles found himself rubbing his hands together again. He'd have to watch that little bad habit. "Excellent." And that little bad habit, too: he was starting to repeat himself. There were five bartenders working behind the long, polished wooden bar. Charles beckoned to the closest. "Trained by Jerry Thomas, I hope?"
The man grinned. "We all were, sir, and we use his recipes still. The Professor is very fondly remembered here. What can I get you?"
"Which of your mixed drinks do you recommend?"
"Well, our most popular mixtures are the Brandy Daisy, the Fizz, the Flip and the Sour, sir, but personally I think the Professor's best drink is the Blue Blazer. It's said he created it last year for the President himself."
"Well, if it's good enough for Grant..." Charles looked the question at Scott, who laughed and nodded. "We'll have one each of those, please. And bring the cigar box. Have you had a mixed drink before, Scott?"
"Hot toddies, of course. And punch."
"These are special. They were invented by the head bartender here, one Jerry Thomas. He's so celebrated that he was reputed to be earning more here in San Francisco than the President earned running the country. Thomas is in New York now. He's one of Marble's cronies. I've never met him, but Marble said to be sure to try out one of his drinks in the hotel where they were created. It seemed fitting."
Scott selected a thin cigarillo from the case proffered by the bartender. "What you're saying is that this will be an experience."
"Oh yes." Charles lit his cigar and together they watched the preparations. It apparently took two bartenders, this one. A bigger tip would be required, he supposed. Still, the expenses would cover it, although he may have to hide this one in the 'Sundries' column.
"It looks like a hot toddy," said Scott, indicating the preparations.
Whiskey, water, sugar and lemons... Mmmn. It did. Still, given the chill spring night, it would be welcome. If only to ward off incipient pneumonia...
But no hot toddy Charles had ever had—and he'd had a few—were made in quite the same way as this one. It was a performance. The bartender held out his hands like a pianist and flexed and exercised his fingers while Scott and Charles hid their smiles and the assistant heated the whiskey and the water in two separate vessels over small spirit lamps.
The assistant folded powdered sugar and the lemon peel into the whiskey, stirred it three times clockwise and three anti-clockwise. "Ready, Mr Williams."
The bartender took two silver cups and held them out. The assistant filled one with whiskey, and the other with hot water, waited for the bartender's nod and struck a match over the cup of whiskey. He jumped back when the fumes caught in a whoosh of blue flame. Someone exclaimed at the other end of the bar and there was a shout of laughter and one or two of the other patrons pressed closer.
"The trick's in the mixing them, you see, sirs." The bartender raised the flaming glass and from at least a yard away, he poured the whiskey into the hot water, and then poured the mixture back again between the cups, somehow without quenching the flames. He did it again, his expression intent and focused; and again, and again and again, pouring faster and faster between the two cups, until he had an arc of sapphire flame running between them, lighting up the entire saloon with its fire. The saloon was loud with clapping, Charles and Scott laughing and cheering with the rest.
Scott clamped the cigarillo between his teeth to free up his hands to applaud the bartender's skill. He was laughing, the shadow gone from his eyes. Charles nodded with satisfaction. It was as good a way as any to distract the younger man from whatever had troubled him earlier.
The bartender finally allowed the flames to die and poured the drinks into warmed glasses. He smiled, but the line of perspiration on his hairline showed just how difficult the task had been.
Charles sighed internally. Well, it was an experience and it had cheered up Scott, but the bartender had just earned the sort of tip that would take a very large Sundry to hide it. A very large Sundry indeed.
Perhaps he could itemise it as 'research'.
.
.
They dined, as Charles remarked, "Rather better, and with quite as much form and a more elegant and perfect service than in New York. I daresay the company is the best sauce." He toasted Scott with a very fine champagne, a Krug that Scott had insisted on to celebrate their arrival, and if his mouth had twisted over the words then Charles pretended he hadn't seen it.
The joy and cheer of the Blue Blazer had died away with its flames. Scott was quiet and reserved again, but still the ease of his company manners bore him through it. Charles could envy him that, the social polish that Scott probably barely realised he had. All his kind were social chameleons: Scott had brought up from birth to conform with his surroundings, to blend in, not to make himself conspicuous because a gentleman just did not do that. It would carry him through many a difficult situation with grace.
"I'll take that as a compliment, since you're no longer compelled to keep my company now we're free of the train at last." Scott returned the salute and downed his glass in one.
"It was less like a journey, and more like taking up one's residence there, wasn't it? Still, my dear Brahmin, take it as the compliment I intended. You've been the best of travelling companions, and I hope we can spend a few days exploring the city before you go south."
"I'd like that. I have tomorrow completely free, then on Thursday I must meet an acquaintance of my grandfather's. I have some business to conduct with him that should take a few hours and I'm already committed to spending the weekend with him and his family, I'm afraid, Charles. That was arranged before I left Boston. But outside of those commitments, consider me at your disposal."
"Thank you, I will! There's a lot we can see in the city before you go. We can breakfast at the Cliff House, and dine in the Chinese quarter before visiting the theatre there and looking our fill at the oriental beauties. How's that for a cultural contrast?"
Scott laughed and his mood seemed to lift as they planned their sight-seeing for the next week.
"How are you travelling south, Scott? They're just starting to build the north-south connecting railroads, I know, so are you condemned to the stage?"
"Sadly, yes. I'm taking an early eastbound train as far as Stockton and leaving the next day by stage to Morro Coyo. It takes a day and a half, they tell me. Something to be endured, I think."
Charles laughed and nodded. "I fear it won't be as comfortable as the railroad."
"No," said Scott. He looked gloomy.
"Well, my schedule is very unstructured. I may go back with you as far as Stockton, and then go on to the Yosemite valley. I intend to spend a couple of weeks exploring the wilderness there." Charles caught the little grin on Scott's face. "Now, now! I may not have the figure of the man of action, but"—and here he grinned himself—"I'm told that you can get to everything the discerning tourist may wish to see by horseback or wagon. I'm very prepared to see the wilderness from the upholstered seat of a surrey. I only wish you were coming with me."
"I wish I were, too, Charles, but I'm committed to Morro Coyo. Not that I think it will anywhere near as entertaining as exploring the Yosemite Valley. To be honest, I don't think much will come of my journey south. I don't think that there's anything for me there. Nothing I... " Scott blew out a soft breath. "I never had much in the way of expectation, but now I'm almost there, I have less."
"Must you go?" Charles caught himself up. "No, that was stupid. You wouldn't come all this way and turn back at the last moment."
"No. No, I won't do that. I gave my word, when I accepted the invitation. I can't renege on it."
"And I wouldn't ask it of you. But you can put off going for a few weeks, can't you? Come to Yosemite instead. I'm told there's good hunting there."
"My itinerary's fixed, I'm afraid, and the tickets already purchased. I won't put m... the gentleman who invited me to more expense. It doesn't really matter. It won't make any difference, not that I can see, except to delay my visit to Yosemite. I don't know how long I'll be in Morro Coyo—my invitation was open-ended—but perhaps we can join forces later. And in the meantime I'll be very glad of your company to Stockton, next week." Scott's smile was thin. "Very glad indeed."
Charles bowed and would have said more, but at that moment the waiter appeared with two servings of Beef Richelieu with Madeira sauce, served with Chateau potatoes and Flamiche aux Poireaux, and Charles was rather too occupied with that for some little time to bother with conversation. Indeed, it was several minutes before he had attention to spare for anything other than the refreshment of his inner man.
Scott picked at the food. He didn't appear to be hungry, yet the beef was wonderfully succulent.
"Locally procured, I believe, sir, from one of the larger ranches in the south," said the waiter when Charles complimented him. "I'll tell the chef it pleased you. As for dessert—"
"Just some fruit, please," said Scott.
"Of course, sir. We have fresh peaches, strawberries, pomegranates—"
"At this time of year?" Charles stared. Good lord. Fresh fruit in March? He'd been expecting tinned peaches again.
"Yes, sir. I'll bring a selection. We always have fresh fruit here." The waiter smiled and bowed. "You're in California now, sir."
It appeared that they most certainly were.
.
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Scott was cheerful at an annoyingly early hour the next morning.
"Well, you did say that you wanted to breakfast at the Cliff House, Charles." And he bundled Charles into a cab with no respect for Charles's more advanced age and the unexpected (although thankfully, mild) bilious attack that an unsympathetic Scott put down to the champagne and the three Brandy Daisies that followed.
Charles, his eyes a little sensitive to the bright clear light of the Pacific coast, tipped his hat over his eyes and enjoyed the Cliff House as well as he could while feeling a trifle under par. He ignored Scott's imputation about the brandies; everyone knew of the hard heads of the Teutonic race. It was obviously something he'd eaten. For all that, they made a hearty breakfast and walked it off with a brisk tramp around the coastal paths before heading back into the city.
By daylight, the city was impressive. The newer buildings were every bit as grand as they'd seemed by lamplight the previous evening, but the streets still had something that set them apart from the cities of the east. Here and there stood the thick-walled adobe buildings that showed the city's Spanish-Mexican Heritage, mostly in the form of white-walled missions and churches that stood in massive testament to the power of religion or a great house surrounded by high walls.
"My grandfather said that when he was here twenty five years ago, this was a city of mud huts." Scott shook his head, smiling. "I should have remembered that he has a prejudice against California. His mud hut is obviously another man's adobe palace." His smile became a frown.
"He wasn't impressed, I take it?"
"Not at all. He said it lacked the refinement and culture of Boston or even"—and here Scott's smile looked a trifle forced—"New York."
Charles snorted.
"I have to make my own mind up," said Scott.
"Very wise. The older generation isn't as right as it thinks it is."
"No, but he has his reasons. And I can imagine that all those years ago, it may not have looked as it does now. Most of the building appears to be recent."
"Gold," said Charles. "It's been the making of the state." He clutched Scott's arm and nodded down the street. "Mind you, I have some sympathy for your grandfather. That is not at all refined and cultured."
The young man in clothes of the kind they'd seen in Laramie and the other small towns slouched past, his eyes on the buildings and not where he was going. He walked as if he expected everyone to make way from him. Hardly a surprise, given the young man's armament. They dodged around him, Scott grinning as he pointed out that all the pedestrians were giving the visitor in country garb a wide berth.
"And by country garb, you mean a plaid shirt and a revolver," murmured Charles. "Good Lord! I'd rather like to give him a wider berth, if you don't mind."
Scott made no objection. "I may not mention that to my grandfather. I wouldn't want to increase his prejudice, if that's possible. I'll tell him how cultured San Francisco has grown, instead."
"Although," observed Charles, several hours later, when they found themselves in a box at the Chinese Theatre, watching acrobats tumbling and listening to discordant Oriental music, "this is not a culture that I'm used to. I was right about the cultural contrasts to be had here!"
"I don't think grandfather would appreciate it either. Nor the fact we had to get a policeman to escort us here."
"It seemed a wise precaution. Scott, do you have any idea at all what's going on, on stage? I can't follow the plot at all."
"I'd rather watch her than that. Look, Charles. What a beauty!" Scott nodded towards the area across the theatre from their box, where all the Chinese women sat, segregated from the menfolk in the pit beneath.
Scott had a good eye. The girl he indicated was indeed lovely, dressed in rich embroidered brocades, a gold and kingfisher-blue headdress spiked into thick hair so glossy it gleamed even in the muted theatre lights. She leant forward, watching the stage intently, presenting a perfect little profile to their admiring gaze.
"Ah, that's the sort of culture that interests you!"
"And again, not one I can mention to my grandfather."
"You're lucky dogs, you single men. I can't afford to be dazzled by the exotic. Mrs Nordhoff has a good eye and an accurate aim with the frying pan."
Scott laughed. The pretty Chinese girl leaned back until she was screened by an obvious duenna.
"Besides," said Charles, gently. He indicated the crowds of Chinese in the pit. "She's too risky. They may not carry revolvers down there, but I'm told that many go armed with knives and have an acute sense of honour. You're better off with one of the ladies in that box over on this side instead." He jerked a thumb towards a box full of the sort of lady that would give Elizabeth an apoplexy. A pretty blonde had been giving Scott the glad eye for several minutes. She had a very come-hitherish sort of smile, too, when Scott turned his attention to her. Probably rather an expensive article, that young lady, but Scott wasn't a poor man and could probably afford her.
Scott and the blonde traded glances that Charles could only describe as significant. It looked like he'd have to forgo the usual brandy and cigars before retiring for the night. It was entirely possible that Scott would have other, shapelier, companionship.
Well, he'd have to get used to exploring the city alone, since Scott was to desert him for the weekend and then for the delights of the country in the south. "I have to start some serious sightseeing if I'm to go with you to Stockton on Tuesday, to take my trip up to Yosemite to see the Big Trees. Unlike you social butterflies, I can't afford to slack off. This is work for me, don't forget."
"It's a hard life." The sympathy was entirely false. Scott's attention was on the blonde, one raised eyebrow and a nod sealing whatever silent negotiations they were carrying on.
Charles took the nobler road and forbore to box Scott's ears. He had learned to be good at resisting temptation. Life with Elizabeth had taught him the value of self-restraint.
.
.
The Big Trees at Yosemite were very... big.
Very.
And in all directions. He had never seen trees so vast around the trunk or so very tall.
Charles tipped his head back so far to try and see to the top of them that his hat was in danger of falling off. He clamped it on with one hand and stared upwards. Gott im Himmel. That trees should grow so tall and yet still not touch the sky... he should perhaps apologise to Alden.
Then again. Perhaps not.
"Big, eh?"
Charles turned to face the guide he'd hired from the hotel at Calaveras Grove and who'd been his companion for the last week. "Pardon?"
Bill Franks waved a hand at the trees. "The trees. Big."
It was pointless allowing himself to get agitated. Franks had the most infuriating habit of stating the obvious. "You'll find that mud a little sticky, Mr Nordhoff," after Charles had fallen in it. "That grass is wet, Mr Nordhoff," after Charles had sat down for a picnic lunch and regretted it the instant he felt the chill seeping into his nether regions. "Your hat's blown off, Mr Nordhoff," after the wind snatched Charles's headgear and blew it merrily over the Nevada Falls. Charles suspected the man of wilful, subtle insolence, but every time Charles looked sharply at him, Franks looked back with such guileless innocence that he couldn't be certain.
It was infuriating, all the same, to listen to Franks' soft drawled absurdities instead of some pithy, intelligent conversion in the clipped tones of the East. Scott Lancer wouldn't have said "Big, eh?" He'd have looked at Charles sidelong and murmured, provocatively, "Now tall Agrippa lived close by—so tall, he almost touched the sky," and wait for Charles to splutter out a furious denunciation of the barbarities that translators perpetuated on the beautiful language of the Fatherland and their destruction of one of his happiest childhood memories. And Scott would have laughed and patted him on the shoulder in consolation, and they could have enjoyed an invigorating discussion of literature or morality poems or arboriculture or even the Harvard curriculum. One of the delights of a conversation with an intelligent man was not being able to predict where it would end up. Lancer's absence was hard to bear in the face of the inanity of "Big, eh?"
He nodded to Franks and settled more comfortably into the wagon seat, pulling his copy of Whitney's "Guide to Yosemite" from his pocket. Franks had learned not to disturb him when the guide book appeared; instead he lay down under one of those Big Trees, tipped his hat over his eyes and went to sleep. Peace, at last. Charles took out his notebook.
In the ten days since he and Scott had parted company at Stockton, he'd seen a great deal more wilderness than any rational man could envisage existed. The Yosemite valley was dramatic and beautiful, more wild and untamed than anything the East had to offer. He had, despite Bill Franks' best efforts, enjoyed himself. The scenery was spectacular and the weather had brightened as spring settled in. If there were moments of stunned disbelief at some of the joys on offer to the tourist (he still couldn't quite credit the children outside Murphy's Inn trying to sell him a tarantula nest as a souvenir– what on earth did one do with a tarantula nest? And what if it still had an occupant in there, sitting on its eggs or whatever it was that spiders did in their nests?), they were balanced with those of quiet joy when he sat for hours watching the waters tumble down the Nevada Falls or fished one of the dozens of clear-watered lakes. He couldn't quite see himself as the fearless hunter looking for trophy kills in Yosemite, although Franks had offered it, but each day's excursion to a new lake or fall or outlook had been a very pleasant diversion.
But he'd had enough of it. He had more than enough notes to write an article that would rival Whitney for completeness. He didn't need any more. Time to go back to the hotel, buy a souvenir or two to take home to Elizabeth—she'd love a pincushion carved from sequoia bark, he was sure—and pack his bags.
Time to go back to San Francisco. The wilderness was all very well, but Charles was a city man, through and through – urban man, personified. Not urbane perhaps, but most definitely urban. There was only so much green that he could take before being overcome with schwermut, and an intense longing for paved streets, stone buildings and the company of people who could manage more than "Big, eh?" as a conversational ploy.
He just wasn't bucolic enough to appreciate the country. And he didn't regret that for a moment.
He got to San Francisco in time to join the crowds on Telegraph Hill on what turned out to be a pleasantly exciting day. He sent a short account to the Morro Coyo address that Scott had given him, along with a description of the delights of Yosemite that Scott had ...sacrificed on the altar of familial duty, being the stern Puritan you are. But more to the point, my dear Scott, you missed a true spectacle yesterday when a Mr Von Schmidt, an engineer (and a fellow Prussian whose acquaintance I have now made), dynamited a large rock out of the Bay here in San Francisco. He told me that Blossom Rock was so called because a ship of that name discovered the rock by scraping its keel over it, and it is considered a serious impediment to navigation. I dare say the captain of the Blossom would not argue with that conclusion. Von Schmidt's engineers have worked for six months to excavate the interior of the rock and fill it with explosive and yesterday afternoon was the denouement, the grand moment when all his work would be successful or for naught... At three thirty, they used wires and batteries, and with whatever legerdemain it takes for these affairs, effected an explosion that sent a column of rock and water more than two hundred feet into the air! Such a noise, like the clap of thunder on Judgement Day. I don't know if I was deafened more by the explosion or by the cheers of the crowds around me—the citizens made it a holiday and came in their thousands to enjoy the sight of water and rocks hurling themselves towards heaven only to fall again within seconds, as even a passing acquaintance with Newton might have warned them would be the outcome had any of them been of scientific bent. Still they made a carnival of it and were very convivial. I've never had so much hospitality pressed on me by so many strangers... I find myself a trifle under the weather this morning...
He was travelling after that and it was a few weeks before he got a reply, and that was guarded and said very little. Scott had had some adventure or other, it appeared, although details were not forthcoming, and was staying with his relatives for the foreseeable future. I don't know when I'll return to Boston. Not for some time, I think. And he was very wry about the adjustments to be made: I'd prepared myself for meeting family that I knew about and had never seen, but let me assure you, Charles, that's a sinecure compared to meeting, unprepared, family I'd not only never met but didn't know about either. I'm still reeling from that little surprise. Still he was well and settling in to country life down in the San Joaquin learning to be a rancher and cattleman, and hoped Charles was enjoying his tour.
Charles was enjoying himself, on the whole. It would have been pleasanter to have had a travelling companion to share it with, of course; sightseeing alone wasn't as satisfying. And heavens, to a devoted family man it seemed far too long since he'd seen Elizabeth and the boys. The occasional letter and the increasing pile of presents—the boys would love the Indian arrowheads—weren't enough to fill a gap that he hadn't expected to feel so keenly. Scott was luckier than he knew, visiting family, however unexpected they were. Charles pushed the letter into the side pocket of his valise. In the meantime there were new acquaintances to make and if he didn't get a move on, he'd be late for dinner with Von Schmidt, who had a private supply of proper beer imported from Bavaria. In the absence of family and friendly travelling companions, courting another of those odd bilious attacks by spending time with a convivial fellow countryman would have to be some sort of compensation.
For the next month, Charles divided his time between exploring every last corner of the city, and the countryside round about. He wandered north into the Napa valley to admire the farms and vineyards there, spending more than a week at the spa at Calistoga, watching the geysers and taking a daily soda bath in the hot springs. In his twice-weekly letter to Elizabeth, he made a great story (he hoped) to amuse her and the children, recounting his trials and tribulations in being wrapped in healthful mud and hosed down later with hot spring water. It did nothing for his health, so far as he could see, except to provide him with some amusement and pickle him like a walnut in brine.
At the end of May he went to Sacramento. Alden wrote to say that he had pulled some strings and Charles was to interview none other than C P Huntingdon, one of the four businessmen behind the Central Pacific Railroad, and get the story of the Transcontinental direct from this important and influential equine's mouth. And that meant, of course, that Alden had been reminded who was paying for this little jaunt and what, exactly, was required in return. A large part of Charles's article would have to be given over to extolling the greatness of the man and Charles wasn't naive enough to think he could do anything about it. Except make the story stirring and interesting, of course. He was just the man for that.
Still, he treated himself to a new notebook. He rather thought that he'd need all the help he could get.
He bought the notebook in a shop on J street. It was a dark and curious place, where he had to almost wriggle his way in past a porcelain Chinaman with a nodding head, almost as tall as he was—and the Nordhoff physique, sturdy and as upright as the moral rectitude embodied therein, was not one that lent itself to wriggling. Charles, performing the manoeuvre with as much grace as he could muster, spent a happy hour in a shop full of curios imported from the Far East, from China or Nippon. He bought himself a notebook bound in padded boards over which a dark green Shantung silk had been stretched, the silk ornamented with Chinese alphabet characters embroidered in a dull gold thread picked out with scarlet. A motto, translated the clerk, that ensured that he who wrote within the notebook would pen words of burning gold that would speak to the hearts of men for a thousand generations.
In all probability it really translated to something closer to "Laundry List", but Charles allowed himself to be charmed and bought Elizabeth a pretty Chinese Goddess, all white porcelain and gold leaf, in gratitude for the compliment. The clerk, obviously a heretic at heart, wrapped the Goddess in newspaper.
It was two days later that, having found a pretty silk scarf to protect the Goddess better for her journey to New York and coincidentally provide another present to propitiate his own domestic goddess on his return home, Charles unwrapped the little statuette and in an idle moment, smoothed out the old wrapping and read the front page of the Sacramento Daily Record Union for 19 April. The newspaper was more than six weeks old. He didn't expect to find anything to interest him beyond some idle speculation about the advertisements and the stories behind them. Some were just sad, but some were fascinating. Whyever would anyone want to exchange a sewing machine for a horse? The two weren't even slightly comparable!
His eye was drawn to the second news article.
He wasn't normally given to leaping to his feet with a shout of dismay loud enough to bring the landlady of his boarding house running, or rushing around his room pushing his belongings into valises and giving poor Mrs Dane a dozen conflicting instructions for her harried staff—one superannuated Mexican and a cook-maid—or yelling for someone to take a telegram down and run to the nearest telegraph office with it and be quick about it, or shouting for Mrs Dane to find him a map of the San Joaquin valley, or loudly demanding the stage timetable, or scattering tips in all directions and running, literally running, to the stagecoach stop with his coat-tails flying and his hat gone.
But he did all these things, ending by hurling himself onto the afternoon stage for Merced-Fresno-Green River just before the driver slammed shut the door and started the horses for the south.
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Author note: If you want to read the front page of The Sacramento Daily Record Union, April 19 edition and see the article that excites Charles so much (and another one or two of interest to Lancer) go here : h-t-t-p : / celestialdome dot com / LancerFiction / Stories / THERECORD1 dot pdf - take out the hyphens, replace the 'dot' with . (twice) and close up all the gaps. I'm sorry I can't put in the proper url - FFN net doesn't allow them.
