“Did I say that?”
“I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“You think I’d say something like that? Hell, no. Any more than you would say something like that! But if a man can’t get through, he can’t get through. I just wish to hell I’d never left. I should’ve stayed with the company. I’d sooner be on that side now than this side, I can tell you that. But I ain’t. And you ain’t. And I sure can’t see how to get there!”
Jim doesn’t want this kind of talk. He wants to tame the snow, tame the high country, get back to Margaret and his children before the season’s full force overwhelms them. He wonders now if the malaria could still be working on Mac, even though the high color has subsided and the coughing only comes in early-morning darkness, when the air turns damp.
As they ford the American River again and see the fort, Jim is counting on Sutter to reassure them. It all depends on Sutter. His settlement is close enough to the mountains and big enough to outfit the kind of rescue team they’re going to need. As soon as the captain hears our story, Jim figures, he’ll understand what has to be done.
And Jim is right. Sutter understands it all too well. When they appear before him, shabby and weathered and worn down, he is moved by the plight of the two gallant fathers, the two husbands.
This time he invites them to eat and drink. They sit on wooden benches, at a plank table made of pine. Overhead, in elegant incongruity, hangs a candelabra of hammered iron, with twelve unlit white candles. The table is furnished with kerosene lamps and a brandy jug, three sterling silver spoons to catch the light, and three china bowls steaming with potato soup that smells of garlic and pepper.
Outside the walls, Indian guards pace back and forth in blue jackets of heavy cotton, their ancient muskets pointed toward the sky. Inside, the compound seems oddly altered. When Jim and Mac stepped through the gate, a few Indians could be seen, a scattering of half-breed children, half a dozen troops. But the place has the look of a town emptied by news of rising floodwaters. In Sutter’s rustic dining room a woodstove fire crackles, and he is eager for some company.
Jim is struck by how ordinary he looks for such a famous man. In the pages of the travel books he stands larger than life, a wilderness legend. Fremont is “the Pathfinder.” Sutter is “the Empire Builder,” self-appointed ambassador at the farthest edge of the civilized world. Upon close inspection, he is a short and balding fellow who has difficulty sitting still, as if pestered by a boil on his backside, or some affliction of his private parts. He wears his unbuttoned military jacket, blue with gold braid beginning to unravel. From a distance he still has a youthful look, his smile cordial, even jovial. From across the narrow table one sees the webbing around burdened eyes that seem to say he knows a truth too troubling to speak.
Sutter has been drinking for hours. His eyes are too steady now, his cheeks bright red, his voice animated yet maudlin. As he fills their cups a third time with his fort-made brandy, he apologizes for the runaway Indians.
“They would rather steal a horse, you know, than raise one from a colt and feed it and make it their own.”
Jim and Mac give their full attention to the soup. Bathed in aromatic steam, their eyes grow large and fill with the water of gratitude.
“They take pleasure in the stealing,” Sutter says.
Mac lifts his eyes but not his head. “I chased ‘em halfway down the mountain, captain. They got clean away.”
Jim says, “We meant to bring back every last one of those horses.”
Sutter’s smile is ironic. “When my own vaqueros are the thieves, I can hardly hold you gentlemen responsible. What saddens me is the loss. Each animal is so precious, now that Colonel Fremont has taken every horse we had for his so-called battalion. Do you have any idea how many animals it takes to work the fields and ranches here?”
Jim hears belligerence creeping into this question and thinks it’s aimed at him. “We’ll make it up to you, captain.”
“Not long ago we had four hundred horses. Today we have your herd and a drawerful of receipts, the colonel’s way of saying thank you. Knowing Fremont, I’ll never see him again or my horses. I suppose I should be glad he made the gesture. It is the territorial policy now, to give receipts for whatever is commandeered. When they will be honored, or by whom, is anyone’s guess. This war has stripped us, gentlemen. Not a hand left at the fort, or in the valley. Nor any horses. Indians steal them. Californians steal them. Americans steal them.”
When Sutter pauses to sip, his anger has subsided. He is not one to spoil his own dinner party with grievances.
“What do you mean,” Jim says, “not a hand left at the fort?”
“The recruiters did their work too well. You yourself were one of them.”
“Yes, sir. At Johnson’s we signed up half a dozen.”
Again Sutter smiles the resigned and ironic smile of a man outdone by circumstances.
“Dozens more have been recruited. Emigrants. Hired hands. Drifters. Every able-bodied man up and down this valley has gone south to ride with Fremont.”
Jim looks at Mac, who is watching him with fearful eyes that seem to say, Didn’t I tell you we were stuck?
“You people may have to wait the winter out,” says Sutter. “I don’t see what else you can do until the worst of it is finished and the snow packs down.”
“And when will that be?” Jim demands.
“February, I would say …”
“Good God!”
“At the earliest. Maybe longer.”
“That’s two months, captain!”
“The war is against us now. The weather, too.”
Jim’s stare is almost suspicious, as if Sutter and Mac are in collusion, both bent on raising obstacles. Why did you let so many go? he wants to ask, though Jim knows how close he came himself to joining the battalion.
Mac says, “We saw some weather, all right. Snow got so deep we flat couldn’t move a hand or a foot.”
Jim pounces on this. “I guess the captain’s news suits you just fine!”
“Hell, no, it don’t suit me, Jim!”
“How can you sit here like this when we were so damn close to making it across …?”
“You’re sitting here too!”
“You think I want to be sitting here? You think this is my idea?”
Mac winces, as if poked with a knife. Jim’s face is flushed. His hands grip the table edge, ready to push back his chair and challenge his huge companion.
Sutter the peacemaker spreads wide his open hands. “Gentlemen. Gentlemen. Please help yourself.”
An Indian fellow has appeared, to gather up the china bowls and replace them with a large tin platter of beef, half of it boiled, half fried, surrounded with fried and boiled onions.
Mac leans across the table with a wink. As if to make amends for their manners and any possible show of ingratitude, he says, “This castle has a pleasant seat, captain, a very pleasant seat.”
Sutter returns the wink. “Now you test me, Mr. McCutcheon. That has a familiar ring.”
“What I just said?”
“It’s from a play, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I believe it’s from Macbeth, sir, and a fine play it is.”
“Of course, of course. Years ago I saw it performed, by a traveling company passing through St. Louis.”
With another wink Mac says, “May good digestion waste your appetite. And health on both.”
“Indeed,” says Sutter, delighted, as he lifts a ceremonious fork. “And health on both.”
Jim has already surrendered to the meat. Now Mac forks two slabs from the platter and in the same move somehow slices and shoves a chunk into his mouth.
Sutter says, “I hope you’ll forgive the primitive conditions.”
Through working teeth Mac says, “We’re mighty content, after nothing but dry jerky and half-cooked beans …” He winks. He chews.
“You have no idea how difficult it is to obtain the most rudimentary convenien
ces of modern life. A ship from Boston can take three months. An order sent to San Francisco tomorrow will be filled half a year from now, and then must come up the river from the bay, which takes another week or more, depending on the season and the tide. To have a watch repaired you might send it across to Honolulu, though you run the risk of never seeing it again.”
Sutter likes to talk and hear himself talk. His guests only half listen. While Mac assaults the beef, Jim is dabbling, distracted, gazing at his brandy cup, stunned by Sutter’s news. Seeing this, the captain tries to ease the blow. He wants these men to know they’re not alone, that others have been delayed by bad weather and made it through.
He empties his brandy cup and begins the story of a wagon party who crossed the Sierras two years back, led by a tough old Irishman named Murphy, the first party to bring wagons overland to California, though they decided to leave three at Truckee Lake rather than pull them over the summit. One fellow stayed to guard the belongings, built a cabin, and spent a winter there alone. Those who went ahead hit heavy snow right along the Yuba. They were driving cattle and didn’t want to lose them, so some kept going and drove the cattle down into this valley ahead of the worst storms, while a couple of men stayed behind with a dozen women and children, who put up shelters and lasted through almost till spring.
“The men who went ahead,” says Sutter, “they finally packed back up there and brought the others out. It wasn’t an easy time. But no one died, Mr. Reed. No one died. In fact, they added to their numbers. A baby girl was born, right there by the river. They are quite a clan. Catholics, you know. Murphy Senior had nine children, and some of those had traveled with children of their own. They are spread from here to San Jose, with herds and ranches, and to hear them tell it, they all came through in fine fashion.”
Jim listens hard, calculating as he listens. He and Mac made it to the Yuba and saw no sign. Had the families camped somewhere higher up? Or did they stop at Truckee Lake like the fellow who stayed to guard the Murphy wagons? What about Charlie Stanton? How many of his mules survived the crossing? And how long did those two Indians last? Jim is counting head of livestock now, counting out loud, remembering the size of the teams and herds on the day he last saw George Donner, on the banks of the Humboldt.
With a reassuring smile, Sutter nods. “If they have that many cattle, if they slaughter them in time and conserve the meat, they should have enough to last them, gentlemen. They should have enough.”
Jim examines his plateful of beef and onions and begins to eat, sawing off large forkfuls. Sutter is eating. The three men chew with noisy vigor, their jaws pumping and flexing and crunching as they devour the meat, the onions, washing down each bite with water and with brandy. Jim’s head hums with the elixir of food and drink. But still he can’t relax.
Between mouthfuls he says, “Yes, sir, they might do fine. Then again, they might not. My boy Tommy is three years old. Mac’s girl is only one. Young ones like that, all winter in the mountains … it’s a big risk to take.”
Jim chews a while and swallows.
“We’re new in these parts, captain, don’t know our way around yet. Seems like there has to be somebody somewhere can give us a hand. I have money. George Donner has money. We pay our way. I hear Californians are the best horsemen in the West. They can’t all be thieves and kidnappers. I’d hire Californians if they could be found …”
Sutter sips, wags his head. “Some are quite honorable, Mr. Reed. Hearing your story they would weep from their hearts with compassion, as I myself could weep while we are sitting here. They would pour you a drink, man to man, as I pour you a drink …”
He refills the cups, raises his in a little toast, and they all sip. Sutter shrugs and laughs his melancholy laugh. “But your country is at war with these people. Your warships are anchored in the Bay of San Francisco. The skillful horsemen you have heard about, why should they ride up into the Sierras in the dead of winter to rescue a band of foreigners? What would be the point, in their eyes? There are already too many foreigners in California.”
Above the smeared and greasy plate, Jim’s face sags. He is getting drunk. They are catching up with Sutter, who now regrets his last remark and wants to lift the mood, be the bearer of better tidings. Like a prophet he lifts his arms above his head.
“But the warships! Aha! Now there is a ray of hope! There you will find more of your countrymen. Americans. And American resources. It is worth a try, yes it is. If I were you, Mr. Reed, I would call upon the military command in the Bay of San Francisco. A strong case can be made that they have a duty to look after emigrants in trouble. Isn’t that so? I would go straight to the commander of the fleet!”
As if this settles something, Sutter slaps his hand upon the table, causing plates and cutlery to leap and clatter.
Jim looks at his ruddy face, his glittering eyes. “And who might that be?”
“Well now, it is Captain … I’ve been told his name is Captain … Captain something, yes. Though at the moment it escapes me. A new man has been put in charge of their Northern Command, and there is some confusion, since he may have less seniority than another captain on another ship whose name also escapes me. Commanders there have changed so often, no one can keep track of it from so far away. But no matter. Whichever man is now in charge, please bring greetings from Captain John Augustus Sutter, formerly of His Majesty’s Swiss Guard. We have not met, of course. But he will know me. Please assure him that when he has the chance to visit us here he will be most welcome. I am eager to cooperate … most eager …”
Again the Indian fellow appears to clear the plates. Not a scrap remains. Every morsel has been consumed, every speck of grease and gravy. This time Manuiki follows with the final course, a platter of fresh-baked breads, pale green slices of melon, a block of cheese. She sets it in the center of the table, with a slow glance at Sutter. He nods his approval and touches her arm.
“Gentlemen, meet my kanaka.”
“My goodness,” says Mac, leaning toward her for a better look.
“She’s from the Sandwich Islands,” Sutter says.
“I’ve heard of the Sandwich Islands,” says Jim. “I’ve heard the whalers stop there.”
“All the trade goes that way now. You fellows ought to visit those islands. The men are sturdy and good-humored. All the women are just like her.” Sutter winks a lewd wink.
“Well, captain, I salute you,” says Mac, his cup raised high. “The hostess of our tavern is a most sweet wench.”
Groping at her waist, Sutter leans back with a proprietary and self-satisfied grin. She regards him with neutral eyes.
“Manuiki keeps the garden here. The vegetables we eat have come from her garden, though I of course taught her how to make the soup. Potatoes are not common fare among the kanakas in their native land.”
“Mighty fine vegetables,” says Jim, nodding toward her with a wrinkled, brandy grin. “What’s that name again?”
“Manuiki,” Sutter says. “It’s kanaka. It means ‘little bird.’”
“She know any English?”
Sutter turns to look up at her, his eyebrows raised, like a professor encouraging a prize student to speak.
Manuiki’s sudden smile is radiant, seeming to fill the room with light. She gestures toward the melon. “Please. Eat,” she says, then steps back, gliding through the doorway.
The visitors are transfixed. “I’ll be damned,” says Jim.
“First time I have seen a kanaka up close,” says Mac.
With another wink Sutter says, “I highly recommend it.”
There is one knife to slice the cheese. They break off dark chunks of bread, holding bread and cheese in one hand, melon in the other. Jim has not tasted anything this succulent and fresh in months. He thought the hearty soup and slabs of meat had quelled his hunger. The sight of Manuiki stirs all his appetites anew. He takes his time, sipping brandy, sucking in the melon’s juice, regarding Sutter now with a kind of wonder. He regards the unlit ch
andelier, the table heaped with fruit and cheese. Another jug of brandy has appeared. Who is this balding and potbellied man in his officer’s tunic in the midst of an untamed, trackless country? How did he find this distant valley? Jim feels a kinship with Sutter, who got here ahead of almost anyone and saw the possibilities and staked his claim. He is a charming man, and generous, and Jim would like to trust him. Perhaps he is vain and drinks too much and talks too much, but Jim wants to trust his advice. He has to. He can’t think of a better plan, and he needs a plan.
He lets the melon juice spill over his lip and trickle through his beard, ready to hear the next story, the one Sutter most wants to tell, about his trip across the Oregon Trail to the Rocky Mountain fur rendezvous of 1838 and from there to points farther west—so far west he left this continent behind. It was winter when he reached the mouth of the Columbia, where they told him that with so much rain and snow, no one could make it south to California. From Fort Vancouver he caught a merchant ship bound for Honolulu. He remembers dolphins leaping along beside them in the crystal blue water, a sign of good luck, he says, a sign that he would soon have his wish and find another ship heading back the other way.
Jim listens, munching, sipping, trying to stay with him, as Sutter recounts his days among “the influential people of the islands,” the consuls and traders, the plantation families, and the king himself. They all wrote glowing letters recommending Sutter to the officials here. Months went by. At last he found the ship that would take him east again. When he stepped ashore at Monterey, he brought such high reports of his character and reputation the gobernador had no choice but to grant him even more land than he petitioned for.
This is the part Jim wants to hear, about the land, how Sutter found it, and so much of it, countless thousands of acres. But the story has wandered into the night, with asides and anecdotes and laborious digressions. The brandy fumes have reached Jim’s brain and plugged his ears. He listens but can scarcely hear. He glances at Mac, whose eyes are slits, whose long torso is bent, in shadow. Only his face and arm are seen, a cupped hand beneath the chin.
Snow Mountain Passage Page 14