Sea to Shining Sea

by Michael Phillips

  “Perhaps not,” the man went on. “You may have considered all that happened a waste of time and energy, but I would disagree with you.”

  “The story I wrote about Mr. Fremont was killed,” I said.

  “True enough. Your article was never printed. But what would you say if I told you I had read it?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m not sure I would believe you.”

  The man laughed, and all the others in the small group listening to our conversation followed his lead. It was the first time I had seen Cal Burton laugh, and I enjoyed the sound of it. His even white teeth and broad smile gave me a whole new reason to like his looks. But the man was still talking to me, so I had to do my best to pay attention.

  “Well, I have,” he said. “I should have known from reading your words that you would be a plain-talking young lady, even if it means calling an important man a liar to his face!”

  He chuckled again, but as I started to tell him I hadn’t meant anything by it, he held up his hand and spoke again.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Hollister,” he said. “I took no offense at what you said. I admire a woman who’s not afraid to speak her mind in front of men. Especially a young pretty one like you.”

  I blushed immediately. It was an awful embarrassment!

  I’m not pretty and you know it, I said to him in my mind. But outwardly I just glanced down at the floor for a minute. My first reaction was that he was probably poking fun at me like Uncle Nick always did. But then I realized he hadn’t been doing that at all. Neither he nor any of the other men seemed to make light of his words a bit. I recovered myself and looked up. His face was serious, and I could see that he’d meant what he’d said.

  “I’m very earnest, Miss Hollister, in what I say. You see, my friends consider me a pretty straightforward man myself. So I recognize honesty and fearlessness for the virtues they are. A lot of folks who are involved in politics do so much double-talking you can’t tell what they’re saying. Most of them aren’t saying much worth listening to. But I’ve always been of a mind to speak out what’s on my heart, and then people can do what they want with your words. Wouldn’t you agree that’s the best way of going about it when you have something to say?”

  “I reckon so,” I answered.

  “That’s another thing I like about you, Miss Hollister. You don’t try to put on airs. You’re a country girl and you never try to hide it. You speak honestly, you speak out as the young lady you are, and as far as I can tell, you aren’t much afraid of anyone or worried what they’ll think.” He paused and looked me straight in the eye. “Would you say that is an accurate representation of yourself?” he asked after a moment.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I said, stumbling a little. The man certainly was straightforward, I’ll say that for him! “I wouldn’t say I’m not afraid of anything. But I guess you’re right about speaking my mind honestly. My minister back home, and my mother—my stepmother, I should say—”

  “That would be Almeda Parrish, would it not?” he interrupted.

  “Almeda Parrish Hollister,” I corrected him.

  “Yes, of course. I knew of Mrs. Parrish before I had heard of either you or your father. A woman with a fine reputation. But I don’t suppose you need me to sing her praises, do you?”

  I smiled and shook my head.

  “And I read some of your articles about the Miracle Springs election, the whole feud between your family and that skunk of a banker Royce. You see, I do some checking to make sure of myself before I become involved with anyone. I make a habit of going into things with my eyes open.”

  “I can see that,” I said.

  “I admire your stepmother, and I have been keeping an eye on your father as well. He strikes me as a man California might hear more from one day.”

  “He’s here,” I said eagerly, “if you would like to meet him.”

  The man chuckled again. “Of course he’s here. I’m the one who arranged for both of you to be invited! I have every intention of speaking with your father before the night is done. But right now I’m speaking with you, and we were talking about your work for the Fremont cause four years ago, and the bravery you displayed in uncovering that story. Printed or not, it was a fine piece of work, and a courageous thing to do. But a great many things have changed since 1856. Our party was just in its infancy then, and John Fremont did not have the nationwide strength to stand up against Buchanan. Even had your article made it into the Alta, it is doubtful it would have had much of an impact, and it would have been too late even to be picked up in the East. Therefore, what I want to talk with you about, Miss Hollister, is not your work of the past, but what you might do for the Republican party in the future.”

  He stopped, looking at me intently.

  “I’m not sure I understand you,” I said. “I don’t know much about politics. I haven’t paid much attention since then. Except for what my pa does as mayor, that is.”

  “I’m not concerned how much you know of what used to be. This is a new day, Miss Hollister. This election of 1860 is the one that’s going to change the direction of this nation forever. Don’t any of the rest of you tell John what I’ve said,” he warned, glancing around at the other men in the small group before turning his eyes back to me. “But John Fremont, as much as I admire the man, represents the Republican party of the past. He was an explorer, after all. That is how he will be remembered. But the future, both of our party and of this country, lies with the man from Illinois who is heading our presidential ticket this year. I’m sure you’ve heard of Abraham Lincoln, Miss Hollister?”

  “Of course,” I answered. “There was already talk about him in 1856.”

  “Well, I am convinced his time has finally come, and that he is the man to take our country forward—into the new decade, into the future, and away from the Democratic control that has dominated Washington for the past thirty years.”

  He stopped again, still looking at me with an almost inquisitive expression.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I said finally. “You’re probably right about everything you say. But I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

  “Simple, Miss Hollister. I want to enlist your support in the cause. I want you to help us with the campaign, in even a more active way than you did for John Fremont four years ago.”

  “Help . . . in what way? How could I possibly help?”

  “Writing articles on Mr. Lincoln’s behalf. Perhaps even taking to the stump once in a while. Women might not be able to vote, but men sure pay attention when a woman speaks out!”

  “The stump . . . what do you mean?”

  “Speaking, Miss Hollister. Giving speeches to go along with your writing, helping us raise money and votes for the Republican ticket in November.”

  “You’re talking about speechmaking—me?” I exclaimed.

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” he replied with a broad smile. “I want you on our side.”

  Chapter 4

  Wondering What to Do

  The rest of the evening was lost in a blur.

  There was music and more discussions and a few other speeches and refreshments. I stayed close to Pa. There weren’t but a handful of other women present, and I’m sure no one as young as I was. But Cal Burton seemed to be keeping an eye on me. He was very polite and not the least bit forward; he treated me as if I was the most important person there.

  As Pa and I walked back to Miss Sandy Bean’s Boarding House from the downtown district, the night fog had rolled in and a chill was in the air. But my face felt hot, even more so in the brisk night, and I felt so full and alive that I could hardly keep from skipping up the walk. I tried my best to keep it under control, but I know Pa couldn’t help but notice.

  He walked along beside me, the sound of his boots clumping along the boards of the walkways and thudding dully on the hard-packed dirt of the streets we crossed, talking and smiling and laughing lightly with me. He didn’t do a thin
g to make me feel foolish for being . . . well, just for being the way a young woman sometimes is!

  Before we parted for the night, Pa took me in his arms, gave me a tight squeeze, then said, “You’re some lady, Corrie Belle. You do your pa right proud, whether it’s ridin’ a horse in the woods or at some fancy big-city political gathering.”

  Then he kissed me good-night and sent me into my room.

  The next morning we left Miss Bean’s and caught the steamer across the bay and up the river to Sacramento. As we moved out across the water, although it was still early, some of the fog had lifted back to reveal a portion of the city in bright sunlight. It was different than any time I’d left the city before. Instead of being anxious to get home, there was a lump in the pit of my stomach, pulling at me and making me wish I could stay. Pa seemed to know I was full of new and unaccustomed thoughts, and neither of us said much during the quiet boat ride across the bay.

  About halfway across, a small cloud of lingering fog drifted by and settled down on top of the boat. With the sun gone, suddenly a chill came over me. I shivered and turned away from the railing, then sat down on a nearby bench with a sigh.

  The fog seemed to fit my mood perfectly, although I didn’t even know what my mood was. A cloud had settled over my spirits just as the fog had engulfed the boat in its white, quiet chill. Pa stayed at the railing, leaning over, looking down into the water as it splashed rhythmically by. I was so absorbed in my own thoughts that I was hardly aware that he had a lot on his mind, too.

  It was still pretty early in the day, and as the river narrowed and we lost sight of the city, we went inside and took some seats next to a window. We floated along awhile in silence. Then all of a sudden, without hardly even thinking what I was saying, I blurted out:

  “Well, Pa, do you think I ought to do it?”

  “Do what?” he said, glancing over at me. He had no idea what I could be talking about.

  “Get involved with the election,” I answered. “You know, try to help Mr. Lincoln get elected.”

  “My daughter, the speechmaker!” said Pa with the first smile I’d seen on his face all day.

  “Come on, Pa! You know I’ll never be that kind of person. Maybe I’ll just write some, like I did about the election before.”

  “It’d be sure to help the Republican cause,” he said. “You ain’t just a curiosity no more. You saw the byline Kemble put on your article last winter about the flood of California’s rivers—Corrie Belle Hollister, California’s Woman Reporter.”

  “That doesn’t mean much.”

  “Sure it does! You’re not just a kid wantin’ to write any more. You’re just about Kemble’s most famous reporter.”

  “But not the best paid!” I said, trying to laugh.

  “You’re still a woman, and you can’t expect to get close to what a man does. But if Kemble knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep you happy. That’s just what I told him too, last night.”

  “Pa, you didn’t!”

  “‘Course I did. It’s the truth, too. He’s got all kinds of men writin’ for his paper. There are hundreds of men writing for the papers in San Francisco and Sacramento. But there’s only one woman. And you’re it, and he’s got you. So I told him he’d better treat you like the important young lady you are or else I’d tell you to take your writing someplace else.”

  “Pa, that’s downright embarrassing.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Aw, you know Kemble. He flustered some, but he didn’t deny a word of it. That fellow Cal Burton was listening too, and he gave Kemble a few words to back up what I’d said besides.”

  I glanced away. I didn’t want Pa to see the red in my cheeks just from the mention of Cal’s name. He kept right on talking, but I’m sure he knew. Pa usually knew most things I was thinking . . . more than he liked to let on.

  “I tell you, Corrie, you shouldn’t underestimate yourself. You just might have the chance to influence this election. You know that folks pay attention to what you write—men as well as women. You wanted to be a writer, and you’ve done it. You just might be able to help elect the first Republican president this country’s ever had.”

  “My writing’s not that important. You just think so because you’re my Pa.”

  “Well, I got a right to be proud! If you ask me, there’s not a better person they could get to stand up and tell folks they oughta vote for Mr. Lincoln for president. When folks hear your name, they’re all gonna know who you are. Corrie Belle Hollister. Why, maybe nobody thought nothing of it back in ’55 when you wrote about the blizzard. But now when folks see those words above a piece of writing, they know they’d better pay attention, because the woman newspaper writer of California is speaking to them. And they’re gonna know your name just as well if you’re speaking out to a crowd of people.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I said. “I don’t know if I want to do that anyway. It sounds pretty frightening to me, getting up in front of a bunch of men. What if they yell at me or don’t listen or say rude things?”

  “Then you yell right back at them and tell ’em to shut their mouths and pay attention. Ain’t that what Almeda’d do if a group of rowdy men got rude at her?”

  I smiled at the thought. That was exactly what Almeda would do.

  “Besides, if word got out that you were gonna be someplace, I got no doubt there’d be plenty of women there too, and they’d keep the men quiet.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “You got a duty to your country, Corrie. Maybe when me and Nick was fighting the Mexicans back in ’47, it wasn’t all that patriotic a thing. We were just a couple of men not knowing what to do with ourselves. We didn’t know much about all the disputes with President Polk. But you see, now you’ve got a chance to do something and know it’s important at the same time.”

  “I’d like to hear about the Mexican war, Pa.”

  “Ask Almeda about it.”

  “Almeda?” I said. “Why her? You’re the one who fought in it.”

  “Nick and I may have fought in it, but we didn’t know anything of what it was about. Your pa wasn’t much of a literate man back in those days, I’m sorry to say, Corrie. Almeda told me what I was really fighting for.”

  “What was it, then, you and Uncle Nick were fighting for? Wasn’t it just to keep the Mexicans from taking our territory?”

  “That’s the way Polk and the Democrats would like to tell it. But according to Almeda, that wasn’t it at all. It was actually the other way around—we were taking their territory in the Southwest, just like we’ve been doing from the Indians in the North.”

  “So what were you fighting for?”

  “You sure you want to know? It ain’t too pleasant a notion.”

  “Of course I want to know.”

  “We were fighting for slavery, Corrie—nothing less than just that. Even in California like we were, that’s what it was about.”

  “But . . . how could it have been about slavery way back then, Pa?”

  “The southerners have been trying to hedge their bets for a long time. Grabbing up all that land in the Southwest, all the way from Texas to California. You see, that was the Democrats’ way to get their hands on lots of new territory that would become slave states someday. Polk wasn’t no fool. He was a southerner himself, and he saw the handwriting on the wall. They knew clear back then that slavery didn’t have much of a chance unless they got lots of new slave states eventually.”

  “That’s what Almeda says?”

  “She gets downright hot in her breeches about slavery. Being a northerner herself, and a woman mighty full of strong ideas, she hates the very thought of it. She says that we attacked the Mexicans and forced the war ourselves, even though the government was saying they attacked us and we were only defending the cause of freedom. Hoots, that’s just exactly what Nick and I was told when we joined up.”

  “How does she know all that?”

 
“She says it comes from reading what she calls between the lines, reading what nobody says but what’s there if you know how to look for it.”

  I was quiet a while, thinking about all he’d said.

  “But you see, Corrie,” Pa went on, “that’s all the more reason for you maybe to help Mr. Lincoln. Back then, without knowing it, I helped the South and the Democrats. Now you can do something about it on the other side.”

  “It still doesn’t seem as if I’d make much of a difference.”

  “I’m telling you, Corrie, people aren’t just listening to you out of curiosity. You’re writing news that’s important. You know as well as I do what Kemble said, that folks back East read your articles on the flooding and it was their way of finding out what was happening here. News, Corrie, not just curiosity writing. You’re a genuine newspaper reporter whose words are being read from the Pacific all the way to the Atlantic. You’re making a way for a lot of women who never figured they could do anything in this man’s world. You’re doing it, and they’re proud of you—just like I am.”

  “You make it sound so important, Pa,” I said.

  “Maybe I am your pa, but I still say it is important. Your articles are sure more important than anything that weasel O’Flaridy’s ever done!”

  I laughed at the thought of Robin’s condescension toward me the first time we met in Mr. Kemble’s office.

  “I’m glad to see you can laugh,” said Pa. “You were downright furious with him over the Fremont article. Whatever became of him? I haven’t heard you mention his name in more than a year.”

  “Mr. Kemble told me he left the Alta and went back East somewhere. St. Louis, I think it was at first. He always did have big ambitions, and I know it stuck in his craw that I was getting more well known than he. He couldn’t abide getting outdone by a woman, and I think he wanted to get out of here and make a name for himself.”

  “Well, he can make his name however he pleases, but I’m proud of my own Corrie’s name and what she’s done with it. And I think you oughta do what the man asked you to do and help out the Republicans to get Mr. Lincoln elected.”