Snow Mountain Passage (33 page)

“I have your petition, Reed, sent up by courier. It’s in my pocket here. Or perhaps it’s lying on my desk. I must say they make a case on your behalf, they surely do, some of my own officers among them, along with leading citizens of the pueblo. You evidently made a fine impression. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to say that I remain troubled by the outcome there, deeply troubled that the Mexicans got off so easily. We needed something more, as I believe my orders repeatedly conveyed. We needed a resounding victory!”

Jim would like to say, “Why weren’t you there?” but holds his tongue, trying to like this man on whom his future may depend.

“Well, sir,” Jim says, “they did surrender. And they did lay down their arms.”

“And now they run around loose again. I see them in the streets and on the roads. Is that a victory? We need to let them know who rules the West! We should have pursued them when we had the chance. When they retreated from the field of battle, when we had them on the run, we should have seized the advantage and trimmed them down to size!”

“With all due respect, sir,” says Jim, whose respect is slipping fast, “they still held seven hostages whose lives could have been at risk, Mr. Bartlett here among them.”

“And they were, of course, civilians, sir,” says Bartlett, “not soldiers, not regulars as we once suspected.”

“I know that, Bartlett. Or so I’ve heard it said more than once in recent days—though all of our informants told us otherwise. We had every reason to believe that a sizable force was on its way. Nonetheless, what you say may in the end be true …”

The Commandant walks at a forward tilt, with hands clasped behind his waist. As he carries on some inner debate, his jaws are squeezing like a chipmunk’s.

“All right, then,” he says. “Let’s say it’s true, for the sake of argument. Let’s say you have a point there. In the end perhaps it has worked out for the best. We’re not butchers, after all. We are men of goodwill. There seems to be a calm across the water. Only time will tell, of course. But there it is. There it is. And we are appreciative, Mr. Reed. We are indeed, all of us, most appreciative.”

They have reached the long customhouse. The Commandant stands outside a door as if he has decided to cut short this interview and must now move on to more pressing matters. With a cordial farewell smile, he extends his hand.

“Very good to have you here. With Lieutenant Bartlett, you’re in excellent hands.”

Jim is stunned. Is this man as foolish as he seems? He looks at Bartlett, who has placed a hand upon the door, as if to push it open, but in fact bars the way.

“About Reed’s petition, sir …”

“Certainly. Certainly. I was getting to that.” Again he pats his jacket and his hips. “I have it here about me. Or perhaps not. At any rate, I have weighed it in my mind. These things are terrible to contemplate. We have all read the story in the
California Star …
travelers struggling through a mountain winter, women among them, babes in arms. I sincerely wish there were something we might do on your behalf. As Commandant of the Northern Department I have certain resources at my disposal, but who is to say how long this peace will last. Are there any guarantees that these hot-blooded and inscrutable people might not rise again and wreak havoc in the towns …”

“I beg your pardon, sir!” says Jim, louder than he meant to speak. “You’re not saying you cannot help us mount an expedition!”

The Commandant’s eyes dart anxiously up and down the porch. “A month’s supplies for a team of men, plus wages, and the animals required—I simply cannot authorize such a thing without the approval of the Commodore himself, as Governor General of Alta California. And he remains in San Pedro, as far as we have heard, a week’s sail to the south, and even he might wonder if the Department of the Navy in Washington would honor such expenditures when our mission here is to hold the harbors in this period of adjustment and supervise the governance of the towns …”

To Jim’s ears the sonorous and endless flow of words is like the snowfall that blocked his way back in November. He leans toward the Commandant.

“My God, man! Have you ever seen that country?”

The Commandant steps back, as if to avoid a blow.

“Eighty people are trapped up there!” Jim shouts. “My wife. My own children. They’ll have beef for another month at most. At
most,
sir! And poor beef at that. We have to bring them out. I was told that the military here could lend a hand …”

“By whom? Who told you that?”

“Why, John Sutter himself, who has helped us in every way he could.”

The Commandant relaxes. A smile plays across his thin lips, a cautious and condescending smile. “I don’t believe this Sutter fellow can speak for the United States Navy.”

“He knows the land. He calculates that February is the earliest time anyone could try another crossing …”

“As I recall, he once fought for Mexico, and may still be a citizen of Mexico. Certainly he is not an American. I am afraid, Mr. Reed, that his proposal, whatever it may have been, cannot be taken seriously.”

Jim lifts the flap on his leather pouch and draws forth a sheaf of letters. In a hand quivering with anger the heavy pages rustle and scrape.

“Sir,” Jim says, “I beg of you …”

The Commandant takes the pages and gravely leafs through a letter of discharge after honorable service with the San Jose volunteer militia, a letter of safe passage south signed by the U.S. Army officer commanding at Sutter’s Fort, now renamed Fort Sacramento, a letter of guarantee signed by George Donner, leader of the wagon party, a letter of recommendation to all concerned, signed by the Governor of Illinois …

These documents seem to affect him in ways that spoken words do not. Into his eyes they bring a deeper fear, perhaps the fear of other letters that might find their way to Washington if the wrong decision is made today.

He glances toward the water, as if expecting some signal to appear on the mast of his ship. He seems to scan the offshore islands where seabirds swarm.

“I’m going to give this a great deal of thought. I’m going to consult with my counterpart, who commands the
Savannah.
I’ll bring this to his attention at the earliest moment. He knows these waters almost as well as I. Between us I have no doubt that we can work something out. Bear with us, Reed. I understand your concern. I admire your spirit. Believe me, I do. I most certainly do. If you’ll bear with us here just a short while longer.”

Jim can scarcely speak. “How much longer?”

“As I’ve already pointed out, these decisions are not mine alone to make. Whatever can be done
will
be done, and at the earliest moment, I assure …”

Jim turns to Bartlett, who does not look alarmed. He almost seems amused by these procrastinations.

“Sir,” says Bartlett.

“I don’t like to be interrupted!”

“My apologies, sir.”

“What is it, then?”

“Another possibility has occurred to me.”

“Don’t just stand there. Don’t keep it to yourself.”

“As mayor I have the authority to call a public meeting. While the options are being considered, there might be another way, in the interim, to raise some funds.”

For the first time the Commandant smiles broadly, revealing long and separated teeth. His narrow shoulders straighten.

“A public meeting?”

“We’ll pass a box around.”

“Splendid, Bartlett. Very good indeed.”

“I believe we’ll find considerable support.”

“Excellent. This has my full endorsement, my full and unqualified endorsement.”

He blinks as if afflicted by a speck of sand. Suddenly his eyes are moist, whether from compassion, or relief, or gratitude, it’s hard to tell. “Democracy at work! And isn’t that why we’ve come so far, by God? To bring the democratic way!”

Yet again he pats his seat, his pockets. “I’ll tell you what. You put me down as the first to make a contribution. This is personal, you understand. As commandant, alas, my hands are tied. But I do wish to be kept informed. I am your ally in this enterprise. Do you follow me, gentlemen? Yes. Put me down for fifty dollars.”

He opens the door—“I’ll leave it to you, then”—and steps into the customhouse.

After a moment Bartlett says quietly, “Forgive me for intervening. I simply felt that time is of the essence.”

“I’m glad you did. I was about to take him by the throat. But now he’s given us fifty dollars. Fifty dollars!”

“And there’s more to come,” says Bartlett, with a grin that spreads the whiskers in his dark moustache.

H
IS
CALL SPREADS
quickly through the inns and sheds along the beach and over the dunes to the compound at Mission Dolores, and out across the water to the anchored ships. That night in the hotel saloon all the tables are crowded. Men stand shoulder to shoulder along the bar and around the shadowed edges of the room. No one remembers a gathering this size in the town of Yerba Buena, two hundred men at least, and more pushing in from outside. The chatter is high. They are drinking fast and talking fast, talking about victories and the price of land and the fate of this unfortunate wagon party lost somewhere in the Sierras, which calls forth tales of their own brushes with disease and injury and death as they made their various ways across the continent or across the Pacific or around Cape Horn.

Now Bartlett is banging on the bar with an empty bottle. He bangs until the chatter settles. He wears his tailored coat, his maroon vest. Like a bantam rooster he stands with feet planted and swelling chest.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he proclaims. “It is my duty and honor to call this meeting to order.”

“Good luck, your majesty,” calls someone from the bar.

Bartlett lets the laughter ripple and subside.

“As I’m sure you’re all aware, this is a historic occasion. The citizens of our town have never before been called upon to contribute from their own pockets to a common cause. But never before have the families of our countrymen found themselves in such dire straits. I have spoken with the Commandant, who assures me that he will do all in his power to support our efforts here tonight. And with his permission”—nodding to a nearby table—“I will read to you a most timely petition sent up by courier from the Pueblo of San Jose.”

With a town crier’s flourish he unfolds the document and begins to read, his voice formal, striving for dignity:

Everyone has heard the story. But they are willing to hear it again, eager to hear it, a tale that gains power each time it is retold. Bartlett speaks so convincingly, with such a rising fervor, the crowd gives him a round of applause. Men pound the tables and stamp their feet. Before this thunder has entirely died down, he calls upon Jim Reed to describe for them what the rescue effort will require.

Jim has been sitting at a table with the Commandant and a few others. As he stands and turns to face the room, a voice from the back calls out, “Hey, boys, I want to tell ya. Ol’ Jim, now, he was with us there at Santa Clara. We rode together, Jim and me! We cut them greasers into a thousand pieces! I swear we did!”

From another table an arm swings up to clap Jim on the shoulder. “God bless you, brother. I heard about that show.”

From the bar comes a shrill voice. “I was with ‘em too!”

“And so were we!” cries a big marine from a table of marines who are standing with glasses raised. They call for a toast to the Battle on the Plain of Santa Clara.

“Hurrah!”

Then a toast to the fleet.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!”

And a toast to the defeat of Mexico.

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”

Again, Bartlett bangs the room to order. They all wait for Jim to speak.

“Thank you for this opportunity,” he says at last, with a nod to Bartlett. “My thanks to all of you for coming here tonight. It touches me deeply to know that so many can find it in their hearts …”

He has to stop. His chest feels wrapped around with heavy rope. He stands gazing at a spot high up the farther wall, above the heads of his listeners. He waits a while, amazed by the swelling in his throat.

He tries again.

“Last fall Bill McCutcheon and myself we took a party in from this side, hoping to get across with some relief. But our horses soon were stuck in drifts above their shoulders, and I saw then what it would take to get back in there and bring the others out. As some of you may know, my own children are among them and my wife, Margaret, who …”

This time his throat closes. He can’t go on. It is the sound of her name. He has not spoken it aloud or heard it said since the day he rode away from the wagons.

Margaret.

Mar-ga-ret.

The room blurs. The syllables stick where he swallows. He sees her face. His shoulders begin to shake. His hands cover his eyes as he drops into his chair and the tears spill down.

A man sitting next to Jim leaps to his feet. He wears the black coat and round white collar of a cleric. He has the blazing eyes of an evangelist.

“Men of Yerba Buena, listen to me now! These are not the tears of a weak man who has given up in the face of difficulty. No, not that at all. Quite the contrary. Our good brother here, James Frazier Reed, has reason to weep. These are the tears of a strong and courageous American who now throws himself upon your mercy and the great generosity of your spirits so that he himself can rise up again, like Lazarus wrapped in his winding sheet, and continue the quest that brought him here tonight!”

His voice rings out. His face glows with inspiration. Some here already know him. Some do not. On the emigrant trail he was known as the Reverend, a man who moved from wagon party to wagon party, to pray at burials, bless the births, preach the Gospel. Some say he rode away as soon as he had emptied the collection plate into his own saddlebags. Others saw him as a phantom minister who appeared when needed and was gone again before the sun rose. Tonight he embellishes the story that Bartlett began to tell, the saga of the long trek west, the dreams and hazards all have shared. He speaks for Jim, as if sent from on high, though Jim does not hear these words.