Chapter 45: Return to Sacramento

 

Mac rode Valiente back to Sacramento. The young town now almost filled the delta formed by the American and Sacramento Rivers. Mac heard the din of pounding hammers long before he saw the new construction.

After he reached the Golden Nugget and settled into a room, Mac discovered news of the delegates’ work and the Constitution’s terms had already spread. Most men seemed predisposed to accept what the convention had decided. They easily agreed to vote for approval of the Constitution.

Men seeking seats in the new legislature campaigned for votes throughout the region. John Sutter, son of the Sutter who had built the fort, was a candidate for governor. He’d been a convention delegate, but Mac had little interest in politicking for the man. He relished the process of making laws, not promoting the personalities of elected officials.

Mac rode out to the gold claim and found Clarence Tanner laboring with Joel and Huntington. “How’s mining life?” he asked Tanner.

“Like anythin’ else,” Tanner replied. “Man gits out what he puts in.”

“How’s Hatty?”

“Doin’ fine.” Tanner smiled. “Leavin’ Oregon was good for her. She’s takin’ in laundry from men in these parts. Earns as much gold dust with her hands in clean water as I take out of the dirty ground.”

Huntington’s cough had worsened in the cool autumn weather. “I ’spect this is my last winter,” he told Mac.

“You mean you’ll pack it in next spring? Quit mining?” Mac asked.

“Nope,” Huntington replied. “I mean I’ll be packed under the earth come spring.”

Mac grimaced. He hadn’t realized the old man was so ill. “Leave now and go to town. You have your gold to live on.”

Huntington shook his head. “Minin’ is what I know. I’ll die with my boots on and my feet in the creek.”

Mac pushed his hat back on his forehead. “Well, I’m not so stupid as to keep doing what’s hurting me. I’m planning to winter in town. Come look me up if you change your mind.”

After spending one night on the claim, Mac headed back to Sacramento. He went to the postal office and asked for his mail, receiving in return a letter from Oregon City—from Jenny. Had she seen the letter from Consuela yet? If so, why was she writing?

He opened the letter outside the postal office and sighed. It contained only old news—Jenny had explained why she was teaching and told him the Tanners were leaving. The letter was dated at the end of April—why had it taken so long to reach Sacramento? Or had he missed it before he went to Monterey?

If he’d known the Tanners were headed to California before he’d dictated the letter for Consuela to write, would it have made a difference? Mac didn’t know. He’d planned all along to have someone write Jenny that he was dead. But he’d thought then that the Tanners were still with her.

That evening Mac sat alone in the Golden Nugget, drinking whiskey into the night. He worried about Jenny and wondered why he had nothing to look forward to in life.

Consuela ignored him until he was one of the few men still at a table. “You look lonely,” she said, passing by his table with an open bottle. “Or angry.”

“Not angry,” Mac said. “Just don’t have anywhere I need to be.”

“Then you’re lonely. And so you spend your time and money on whiskey.” She filled his glass.

“Seems so.”

“At least you’re not a gambler like your young friend Joel. Takes longer to lose your money with drink.” Consuela wiped the neck of the whiskey bottle. “Did you post the letter I wrote for you?”

Mac nodded.

“Still searching for what makes you happy?”

He didn’t want to talk about himself. “What about you, Consuela?” he challenged. “Are you happy?”

Consuela looked up toward the chandelier, then turned back to Mac, tears glistening in her eyes. She shook her head.

“Then why do you stay here? Tanner’s wife takes in laundry in the gold country. You could make your living another way.”

“I’m with child,” she whispered.

“What?” Mac tugged on her arm until she sat in the chair beside him. “When?”

“Come spring, I’ll have a niño.”

“Who’s the father?”

Consuela stared at Mac. “I’m a whore. Yo que se.”

“Joel Pershing?”

“I doubt it.” She lifted a shoulder. “Only Dios knows.”

“What will you do?”

She shrugged. “Prospectors don’t mind if a whore is pregnant.”

“But how will you care for the baby?”

“Two of the other girls have niños.”

“It’s no place for a child.”

“That’s not your problem.” Consuela rose and flounced away.

Mac seethed as if it were his problem. He thought of Bridget and his unborn child. Of Jenny and William. Of Consuela—now alone and pregnant. He finished his drink and headed to his room, where he paced and plotted. Then he pulled out his journal and wrote:

 

October 25, 1849. Consuela is expecting a child. I need to talk to Joel.

Early the next morning Mac rode out of town, pushing Valiente to a fast canter toward the mining claim. He shouldn’t be angry about Consuela’s situation—he’d done nothing to cause it. He’d atoned for his sin with Bridget by saving Jenny and then freeing her. Hadn’t he?

If anyone he knew was responsible, it was Joel, and there was no way to know if Joel had fathered the child. So many times he’d told himself Joel would have to learn his own lessons. Well, it was time for Joel to face the consequences of his actions. Time for Joel to step up.

If Joel wouldn’t take responsibility, Mac had no obligation to Consuela. Other than the obligation of friendship. Someone had to help Consuela and her child.

Mac’s irritation grew with every mile he and Valiente traveled. He kept the horse moving with few rests. New snow was visible in the mountains as they approached the mining valley, but the trail they followed was clear. With no pack animal trailing behind, Mac arrived at the end of a single day of hard riding.

The evening sky was almost as dark as the hills above the valley when he dismounted. Only Hatty Tanner was outside, tending a kettle hung over a small campfire. “Hello, Hatty. Where’s Joel?” Mac asked.

Hatty greeted him with a smile. “In the cabin with Huntington, I ’spect. I ain’t seen him since supper.”

“Thanks.” Mac tied Valiente’s reins to a tree and strode to the cabin. He threw open the door without knocking. “Joel,” he said through his teeth. “Consuela’s pregnant.”

Joel looked up from the bunk where he sat whittling. “So?”

“It could be your child.”

Joel frowned, thinking, then shook his head. “Nope. I ain’t been with her in a while. I been seeing Ethel. Lot of men more likely to have knocked her up than me. Besides, what’s it to you?”

“She can’t raise a child in a whorehouse.”

“Ain’t you seen the other brats upstairs? She won’t be the first.”

“So you won’t take responsibility for Consuela and the child?” Mac knew he wasn’t handling this well. But he wanted Joel to be the man he hadn’t been with Bridget. Or with Jenny.

“Damn it, Mac,” Joel said, standing up. “Consuela’s bastard ain’t my concern. I told you—I ain’t been with her in months, I don’t think. Even if I had, she’s a whore. Ain’t no man the father. You sure you ain’t been with her? Way you’re acting—”

Mac lunged for Joel.

Huntington shoved an arm between them. Mac checked his fist before he struck the old man.

“Calm down, boys,” Huntington said. “Y’all sit.” Huntington pushed Mac into a chair, saying, “You can’t make Joel do nothin’ ’bout the brat. ’Tain’t your concern neither.”

That’s what Mac had told himself, but he wasn’t convinced it was true. He blew out a deep breath. “She needs help.”

“She’s a grown woman,” Huntington said. “She’s made her choices.”

“But now there’s a child.”

“You made that clear,” Huntington said. “Now sleep off your mad, and take yourself back to town in the mornin’. Unless you want to git back to minin’.”

Mac shook his head and went outside to sleep by the Tanners’ fire. In the light of the dying embers, he wrote:

 

October 27, 1849. Joel will not help. It is up to me.

The next day Mac headed back to Sacramento after eating the breakfast Hatty made him. He kept Valiente to a slower pace than the breakneck trip to the claim the day before. The autumn sky was clear, and the aspen leaves golden as the sunrise. But snow had fallen in the higher altitudes during the night.

Mac mulled over his options. He considered Consuela a friend—he couldn’t abandon her. He needed to offer her an alternative to prostitution.

He arrived at noon on Monday and went directly to Nate’s store. “Your offer to sell still good?” Mac asked the older man.

Nate continued weighing the gold sample in front of him. When he finished, he asked, “What’s changed your mind?”

“Looking for something new. Something to tide me over until spring. Running your store will do.”

“Ships are still sailing from San Francisco to Panama. And there’s a steamship from here to San Francisco. You could be on your way to Boston in a week.”

“I did enough lawyering in Monterey to last me awhile. Not ready to go back to Boston yet.”

“The gold claim?”

“You know I sold my interest to Joel. They don’t need me hanging around.”

Nate squinted at Mac. “Minding the store isn’t easy. And you’ll need to learn to work the scales.”

“I’m not looking for easy. I’m looking for busy.”

“Does this have anything to do with Susan?” Nate asked.

“No.”

“She’s back from Monterey now. Told me you spent a lot of time with the Frémonts while she visited.” Nate wiped off the counter.

“I enjoyed our conversations very much. Susan’s a nice girl. But I’m only looking for something to do through the winter.” Mac couldn’t look Nate in the eye. He’d spoken the truth that buying the store had nothing to do with Susan. But he didn’t want to explain his intentions to Nate. What he wanted was a place for Consuela, even though she’d made it clear she didn’t need him. And he wanted a reason to delay going back to Boston.

“Just want a way to keep your mind off your troubles, huh?” Nate said with an eyebrow raised.

“Something like that.”

Nate harrumphed. “What troubles do you have, son? You’re young. You’re rich. Most men don’t have nearly the education or breeding you have.”

“Will you sell me the store or not?”

“Sure, I’ll sell you the store.” Nate named a price, then frowned at Mac. “You draw up the papers. But I’ll bet you five pounds of gold dust you’ll want to sell it back in the spring.”

“I’ll bring you a contract in the morning.” Mac slapped his hat on his head and left the shop.