by Judy Alter
"The family," he thundered, "will not stand for this. Sally's reputation is above reproach, and there will be no problem proving that the man is a fool... a damned fool!"
Cousin James seemed somewhat relieved, and the two men went off for a brandy, leaving me with Sally, who had changed a great deal from the young bride I remembered. Then she had been bright and full of the promise of the future; now there was a great sadness in her eyes and a drawn tightness to her mouth. It was a change that I had not discerned in her letters, in spite of her hints.
"I cannot believe it," she sobbed. "I cannot believe that Francis would do such a thing."
"Did you... did you not suspect," I asked delicately, "that his judgment was... well, impaired?"
She stopped sobbing long enough to give a wry laugh. "Impaired? Jessie, how tactful you are! That wonderful man I married turned into a mean-spirited, suspicious being who watched every move I made... and I made none wrong, I assure you. But this... to make a public scandal."
"I am quite sure, Sally, that you gave him no cause," I told her. I remembered that tall, thin, nervous man in ill-fitting clothes whose blank expression and hooded eyes had made me uncomfortable.
Sally and her father stayed with us a fortnight, mostly, I think, to gain courage from our support. In some ways their visit had the opposite effect, for when they returned to Virginia, Francis Thomas began to accuse Father of corrupting his wife by persuading her against him. Father and Cousin James had decided, however, that nothing would clear Sally's reputation except a lawsuit, and they determined to bring that.
We had contrived in every way possible to keep Sally's predicament from Mother. "It would upset her unnecessarily," Father insisted over and over, and so we had told her that Sally and Cousin James were merely visiting on a pleasure trip. To my consternation, when Sally bid her good-bye, Mother said, "It will all come out all right, my dear. That husband of yours is no good. I told him so the other day when he came to call."
Sally looked alarmed, but I knew that Mother was once again mixing reality and the strange fantasy of her mind. What always puzzled me was how accurate she sometimes was about reality.
From then on, until the case was finally settled in her favor in March, I wrote to Sally frequently, hoping to keep her spirits up, and found in her replies that she was bright and determined not to be beaten down. Still, it was an awful thing for a woman to be accused of infidelity, and she bore a stigma.
I cannot walk out to do ordinary shopping," she wrote, "without people staring and whispering."
I, who could not walk out those days without notice, knew what she felt—only when I walked out, people oohed and aahed because I was married to the famous explorer, not because I was an unfaithful woman. I could not imagine how Sally must have felt... but, then, I would not have chosen the husband she did. Maybe, in the end, our lives depended on the choices we made.
In November, Father and Liza and I testified in Sally's behalf. The courtroom was packed, and we were all nervous, but I remember saying in a clear voice that I had always thought Francis Thomas a queer man. The spectators giggled when I quoted Aunt Jasmine about "a trifling poor fellow," and the judge pounded his gavel for order.
In spite of the fact that we were all convincing and that other friends and neighbors testified to the strength of Sally's character, the judge postponed his decision, and we experienced that dissatisfaction that comes from an issue left unresolved.
"It's awful to have such disgrace in our family," Liza moaned.
"Don't worry," I said. "Maybe Mr. Jones will never know you come from a family of sinners."
"Jessie!" she said angrily. "That was not what I was thinking."
But I knew better. Father, lost in his own thoughts, ignored both of us.
The strain of the trial showed on me, and when it was over, I took to my bed for two days with a severe headache. Poor Lily stood at my bedside, asking softly, "Mama sick?" until I realized that I could be following in my own mother's footsteps—or lack of them—and rose from my bed.
"Mama," Lily said, "you have a funny red spot on your face."
I looked in the mirror and saw that my own King George's mark—that red spot at the corner of my mouth—had returned. I would not tell John of it in my letter to him.
* * *
President Polk notified Father that he was sending an emissary to California—"It's a secret mission, Jessie," Father said solemnly, repeating an involved story about how this young man, Archibald Gillespie, would travel in disguise through Mexico into California.
"What is his purpose?" I asked.
Father shook his head. "Polk won't say, even to me. But he did say that Gillespie expects to meet John and that we might send a packet of letters if we wished."
I flew on wings of happiness to the library, where I spent several hours penning a long letter. "My darling," I wrote, "it is with joy that I write a letter to be sent by courier—a much more reliable means of delivery than we have had up till now. I know it will be months before you read these lines, but still, knowing they will be carried to you by hand makes you seem so much closer to me." I did not tell Father that I had included in my letter secret references that warned John to be ready for military action. I wanted to write, "Seize the moment, my darling!" but that seemed too blatant, given the strong possibility that my letter could fall into the wrong hands.
Just before the holidays the crisis with Mexico seemed to lift a bit. The government there agreed to entertain an envoy, and President Polk prepared to send off one John Slidell, empowered to offer $5 million for New Mexico, $25 million for California north to the Monterrey area, and another $20 million if the purchase could include land north to San Francisco.
My own spirits soared accordingly. If the United States could buy California—I cared not a fig for New Mexico or even Texas at that point, though I never told Father—John might well become the first governor, by virtue of being in the right place at the right time. And, of course, because he was a hero. Another heady thought, but one I judged it best not to put into writing in my letters to him. Instead I repeated our motto: Le bon temps viendra. I knew those good times were indeed coming!
This spirit of optimism carried me through the holidays, which we survived in good stead. Mother did not have any more of her "episodes," and Lily was enchanting with her conviction about Santa Claus and her delight in the modest presents she received—a doll, an orange, and, from Father, a toy soldier that would, he told her, remind her of her own father. She gave him a long look and said clearly, "I remember my father." The very words had a distant sound—as though he were a stranger she vaguely remembered—and I swore that John must spend more time with her.
* * *
Liza married William Carey Jones in March of 1846. The ceremony was small, owing to Mother's poor health, but it was in our parlor, with President Polk, George Bancroft, James Buchanan, and several other government notables in attendance. Though he and Father were at odds over Mexico, President Polk escorted the bride to the supper table, a great honor for the entire family. Lily carried a basket of rose petals, sent from the hothouses in Virginia at dear cost. That, I thought, was the prettiest thing about the wedding. But I was prejudiced, of course, and I did have to admit that Liza looked lovely in white peau de soie. William, in proper tails and gray trousers, looked nothing but ashen and nervous. Afterward there was champagne and a roast-duck dinner and much celebration.
Even Mother managed the festivities well, except for the time she demanded loudly, "What did you say his name was, Jessie? Carrie? Isn't that a woman's name?" I managed to hush her before either the bride or groom heard this impertinence.
At the end of the day—a long one, by anyone's standards—I sank into the comfortable chair in Father's library.
"Very different from my own wedding," I mused.
He looked sharply at me. "That was your choice," he said. But then he softened his tone. "No regrets, I trust? Even with your bridegroom a co
ntinent away?"
"No regrets," I said firmly. "When I look at Liza... or poor Sally... I realize what a good choice I made." Liza had, after all, married an unemployed lawyer, while my husband was off seeking glory.
Father grinned. "Modesty, your mother would remind you, modesty. Perhaps Mr. Frémont also made a good choice."
"That he did, of course," I said, rising to kiss the top of his head on my way to bed.
* * *
All the hopeful signs about relations between the United States and Mexico had dwindled to nothing by March. The Mexican government refused with finality to receive Slidell as an emissary, and anger at our country ran so high in Mexico that, against Father's opposition, troops were sent to the Rio Grande under the command of Zachary Taylor.
Though I was greatly disturbed by this turn of events, it would have paled to nothing had I but known that even then John and his little band had set themselves against the Mexican government in California, staking out their rebellion for three days on a small elevation called Hawk's Peak in the Galiban Mountains above the Santa Clara Valley and the Salinas plain. Innocently, I still believed that John would be home in May or June, and I waited in happy—well, impatient—anticipation. The second expedition, with its string of false arrival dates, had apparently taught me nothing.
Instead of holding my husband in my arms come May, I read disturbing and frightening news of him in a Mexican newspaper brought to me without comment by James Buchanan when he brought more papers for translation. The newspaper reported on the incident at Galiban, though I was sure it distorted the facts. John had been ordered out of California by Don Jose Castro, the commanding general in California, who had previously welcomed him and offered protection. Instead of leaving John had taken his men to Hawk's Peak and prepared to stand off an attack.
"Stand off an attack!" I exclaimed, but the imperturbable Mr. Buchanan merely shrugged, and Father said only, "We must avoid hostilities."
It appeared to me that it was too late to "avoid hostilities" and that John was already in danger—though the incident was some two months behind by the time I read of it. The Mexicans charged that John was in contact with Thomas Larkin, the American consul at Monterrey, and therefore taking orders from the American government. "He wasn't," Father said, "and that must be understood. Polk expects to buy California peaceably."
Meantime, the Mexicans cheered over their great victory when John retreated after three days.
"Retreated?" I demanded, and Mr. Buchanan solemnly handed me a packet of diplomatic dispatches from Mr. Larkin, in which Larkin successfully persuaded John that American honor was not at stake and that retreat was the prudent course of action. Over that great distance I shared John's frustration as he bowed to the order that war was to be avoided. If John could have conquered California and brought it into the Union with unsuspected swiftness—why, the world would be his! It would be the most important acquisition for our country since the Louisiana Purchase.
I was, of course, comforted to know that John was safe—or had been at the latest dispatch—but it occurred to me that had he been in similar peril during the second expedition, I would never have known. He could literally have fallen off the face of the earth, and I would simply never have heard any more of him. Now that he was a national hero, I was kept more apprised of his movements. Though it caused me some worry, I much preferred the hero's status.
Perhaps because of Galiban—who knows?—John was advanced to lieutenant colonel. I knew of it but had no idea when he himself would hear of the promotion. He would value it less for the honor, I thought, than for the recognition, the proof that an unknown from Charleston who had never attended West Point could rise in the army. With a twist of fear I began to see John as less explorer than soldier.
Anticlimactically, I received a letter from John. Though it was May when it finally reached my hands, the letter had been written in January, well before Galiban. It merely confirmed what we already knew—John was, or had been, in California. He was, he wrote, anxious to be home. The expedition, he said, had been harder than he had expected and, among other things, his hair had turned gray. He would travel north to the Willamette Valley, looking for a better wagon route to Oregon, but then he and his men would turn their horses homeward. "Le bon temps viendra," he wrote. By now I knew that those good times would not come in May or in June, and I began to pin my hopes on September.
Try as I might, I could not picture my handsome husband with gray hair. His daguerreotype, sent by his mother, hung over my bed—I called it my guardian angel—and after reading his letter I spent a long time staring at the likeness, trying to superimpose gray hair. But my vision was always riveted to the flag hanging next to it—the one John had brought me from his first trip to California and spread over me in bed just after Lily was born.
"Father," I said one evening as we sat alone in the library, "I think that the newspapers should be told about Galiban. The country deserves to know that John took a stand against the Mexican government."
"No, Jessie, Father said with a determination that startled me.
"We're trying to settle this peaceably, and we can't show public praise for open rebellion... even if it was John who rebelled."
"But," I persisted doggedly, "the public should know that he is a hero."
"They already know that," he said wryly. "And you've been telling anyone who will listen. Patience, Jessie! John has done great and good things for his country, and he will be duly recognized and honored. But don't you, as his wife, try to rush things."
I seethed, though whether from impatience or from what I perceived as a reprimand, I wasn't sure. I suspected, though, that Father had in a much more subtle way told me a variation of what Mother babbled in her disorientation: I should be content to be a wife and mother and let John attain glory on his own, without my help.
Never! I vowed. John and I were an equal partnership.
When John's action was made public, to great acclaim, neither Father nor I spoke of it to each other. But there was a gulf between us, the first since my marriage to John had almost split the family asunder. This time Father and I both knew the importance of what was at stake, and we treated each other courteously.
* * *
In the meantime Mexican troops crossed the Rio Grande, ambushed an American patrol, and killed sixteen men. Cries for war echoed everywhere, and President Polk sought Father's support, though Father was deeply troubled.
"It's not Texas," he told me, "it's Mexican soil. We are the invaders... much as I grieve for those sixteen men and their families."
When the President himself was unable to convince Father of the rightness of war—how, I wondered, could war ever be right?—he called for help, first from Mr. Buchanan, who had previously believed that California should be urged to declare itself independent, as Texas had done, and then join the Union. Now Buchanan favored war, but he was unable to convince Father, and neither could Mr. Bancroft. Finally Father's old friend Francis Blair came up from Virginia and talked to him in terms of his political career. "If you lose your seat over this, Tom," he warned, "you lose your chance to work for the causes important to you."
And, I added silently to myself, you lose your chance to support John.
Finally Father capitulated, though he never overcame his reluctance. Congress declared war on Mexico, and Taylor's troops were rapidly victorious at the battles of Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma. Father became once again a close confidant of the President, and it was at his suggestion that Mr. Polk sent General Stephen Kearny, an old friend of our family, west to Bent's Fort as the head of what became known as the Army of the West.
Things balance out sometimes. With all United States energy seemingly focused on Mexico, England reached terms with Polk's government, and the territories of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho became part of the United States, with the forty-ninth parallel as boundary. Manifest destiny had won on one front, but there remained the vexing problem of California. To me it
mattered not, except as it involved John.
Shortly after I heard of the standoff at Galiban, another opportunity presented itself to send a letter to John—by courier this time, on the person of a trader named James Magoffin, who was headed for Bent's Fort. In haste I wrote a lengthy letter about my pride in all that he had done—specifically Galiban and the promotion in rank. "Your merit has advanced you in eight years from an unknown second lieutenant to the most talked of and admired lieutenant colonel in the army," I wrote, telling him of the officers who had called at C Street to congratulate him. I hoped desperately that by the time Magoffin reached the fort—August or September—John would soon be there on his way home, but intuitively I knew that John would still be in California and still in danger. I clung to my vision of a triumphal return to Washington.
"Lily," I wrote in closing, "has your report read to her every night in bits, and she is very proud of her father." I didn't add that Lily was uncertain about why her father was away so long.
"My grandfather is here," she had said, as though that solved the need for a father.
* * *
By September we knew that California had been peacefully taken over by American troops in the summer. They had entered Monterrey, raised the flag, and put in place a constitutional government. My heart raced when I first heard that news, for I was sure John expected to be named the first territorial governor.
But hot on the heels of this good news came disturbing rumors about something called the Bear Flag Revolt, with John at the center. Though the details were vague, we learned that John's men had seized the town of Sonoma and raised their flag, which bore an awkwardly drawn grizzly bear. They took a few of the town's leading citizens prisoner, and John soon found himself head of a growing rebel army. But he was outmaneuvered—Mexico and America went to war, and the American navy raised our flag at Monterrey. Still, I told myself, John was the first!