Chapter 35: The President’s Emissary

 

In mid-June in the heat of the day, a man in a dark suit and silk cravat rode into the partners’ camp, accompanied by two soldiers in uniform. Mac paused in his work, as did Joel and Huntington nearby.

“I’m Thomas Butler King,” the man said, tipping his stovepipe hat toward them. “I have traveled from Washington at the behest of President Taylor. I’m here to tell you General Bennett Riley has called a constitutional convention for California in September.”

Joel mopped his brow with a dirty bandanna. “What’s that to us?”

“There will be an election in August for delegates to the convention,” King continued. “As the personal emissary of the President, I’m encouraging you to vote for delegates from this district.”

“Ain’t never voted before,” Huntington declared. “Why should I start now?”

“Isn’t Riley a military governor?” Mac asked. “How can he call a civil election?”

King ignored Huntington and answered Mac. “California has been a U.S. territory since early in 1847. But Congress still hasn’t seen fit to appoint a territorial governor or approve any territorial laws. General Riley is the only authority in California at this time. Might I trouble you fine gentlemen for a drink of water?”

Joel handed King his canteen.

With a flourish, King pulled a white handkerchief edged in lace from his pocket, wiped the mouth of the canteen, and took a drink. Then he handed the container back to Joel with a nod. “Confidentially, gentlemen,” he said, “President Taylor wants California to become a state, and a free state at that.”

Huntington spat, then muttered, “Damn Yankees.”

King continued, “Indeed, in the past year this region has grown in power and wealth, as if by magic, thanks to the discovery of gold, which you good men wrest from the ground. Our President sees no need for the interim step of a territorial government. Still, whether to seek statehood or continue as a territory will be one of the first orders of business at the convention.”

“Why should we leave off minin’ to listen to politicians palaver?” Huntington said. “I’ll be stayin’ right where I am. On my claim.”

“And you, sir?” King looked at Mac. “Your question shows you to be an educated man.”

“When is the vote?”

“August first. I beseech you to encourage the civic-minded men of this region to participate in creating the next state in our great Union.” King tipped his hat again. “Good day.”

As Mac and his partners watched King and the soldiers ride off, Joel said to Mac. “You know more’n we do ’bout what’s legal. Where to put the ‘whereases’ and ‘wherefores.’ You should go to this convention.”

Mac shook his head. “I’ve never been involved in politics. Don’t know that I have a mind to start.” But he remembered his father’s letter calling mining a dirty business.

Later in the day Joel caught Mac alone and urged again, “You oughta sign up to be a part of the law-making. The man’s right, even if he is a pompous prick. California’s gonna be a state someday. Don’t you want to help make that happen?”

“Who’d work the claim with you?” Mac asked. “Huntington’s not much good this year. And you didn’t want any other partners.”

Joel shrugged. “We ain’t finding so much gold now. Maybe I’ll pack it in myself. Though don’t know what else I might do. Move on, maybe.”

“Where?”

“Don’t matter. Stake another claim somewhere. You ain’t deciding anything any time fast—I don’t have decide now, do I?”

“No,” Mac said. “And I don’t either. Let’s see what the election brings.”

After his conversation with Joel, Mac had a hard time concentrating on his digging. His father had commanded him to return to Boston by Christmas. He would have to leave soon if he wanted to travel overland. But ships now routinely sailed between San Francisco and Panama—he could wait to leave in August if he went by sea. Maybe even early September.

 

June 15, 1849. There will be a vote on delegates to a Constitutional Convention on August 1. I shall stay for the vote, but then I must decide my future. Should I participate in Californian politics or not?

 

Mac stopped writing to think. Would his father see any value if he worked on a new government for California? His father respected many Massachusetts politicians. But California? Andrew McDougall had never thought much of the West. What profit would he see in forming the new state?

If Mac wasn’t going back to Boston, he owed it to his parents to let them know before Christmas when they expected him. He started composing a letter in his head, but couldn’t decide whether to declare he’d stay in California for the convention or not.

“What you mulling over, boy?” Huntington asked Mac that evening. “You ain’t been worth a piss all day.”

“He’s trying to decide whether to be a prospector or a politician,” Joel said with a grin.

Huntington grunted. “Politicians are all jackanapes. Can’t trust any of ’em.”

“I’m tired of mining,” Mac said.

“Hell, boy, I’m tired of minin’, too,” Huntington said. “But we been doin’ purty well at it. If’n you’re ready to hang it up, find yourself a good woman and live off your earnings. I’m too old to git a woman, so I’ll keep diggin’ till I drop. But you’re a good looker still.”

A good woman. Now where would Mac find a woman he could care for? Not in the saloons of California, like Joel did. There were hardly any women one could call “good” in California. If it was a woman he wanted, he should probably go back to Boston. Mac thought of Susan Abbott’s trim figure floating down the hotel staircase. More women like her would come to California.

Then he remembered Jenny’s small hand pushing a strand of sun-lightened brown hair out of her face as she smiled at him. He couldn’t help smiling to himself in response.

Mac and Joel learned from the July 7 issue of the Placer Times, a new weekly paper published in Sacramento and passed from claim to claim in the mining country, that their valley was in the Sutter’s Fort precinct for the August election. They would need to make another trip to the fort to vote.

Huntington refused to leave the claim. “I ain’t never voted afore. Don’t see no need to start.”

“Will you be all right alone?” Mac asked. “Any thieves around here aren’t likely to stop stealing while we vote.”

“I can keep myself alive till y’all return,” Huntington said. “If I can’t shoot ’em, I’ll hide in the woods.”

Mac shook his head at Huntington’s bravado. “We need to think about how to keep our mine going,” he told his partners. “I’m not staying on the claim past August. I’ve decided that much. Huntington, you’ve been coughing all year. You should take your money and settle down where you’re comfortable.”

Huntington’s face reddened above his gray beard. “You can’t put me out to pasture, boy. I’m fit enough to work.”

“You’re the only one who wants to leave, Mac,” Joel said. “So leave. We’ll fend for ourselves.”

“Mining is becoming more complicated,” Mac said. “There aren’t many sites where placer mines can still extract color. The new longer sluices require large companies of men to operate. You could hire some greenhorns to help after I’m gone. Men are starting to arrive from the East.”

“They all want to make their own fortunes,” Huntington said. “Like you boys did last year.”

“You could hire Indians,” Mac said. “Diggers. They’re likely to leave when the weather shifts, but some of them are honest.”

“I ain’t spending my time watching over no Indians,” Joel said. “We’ll make do on our own.”

Mac couldn’t make his partners take on more help. But as he continued to shake the rocker in the stream running along their claim, he worried what would happen to Joel and Huntington after he left.

It was no surprise Huntington’s health suffered, though he’d improved some in the summer heat. The men spent days standing in rushing water and laboring in the hot sun. They shoveled heavy sand and gravel into sluices and pushed the rocker arm for hours at a time. They ate bread and salt pork traded at the fort. They could see salmon jumping in the stream they stood in, but rarely took time to fish or hunt. Mac’s mouth watered as he remembered wide-ranging hunts along the trail to Oregon and fresh venison.

Auld lang syne. He would never have thought he’d recall the trek to Oregon with fondness. In retrospect, it had been the best six months of his life.