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California Gold Rush Journal

PART 2

CHAPTER TWO

San Francisco — July 1851

Manon was finishing preparing a hearty fish soup loaded with chunks of local bass, mussels, clams and oysters in our ship’s galley when I returned in late afternoon. “What took you so long, Big Boy? Your Manon slaves away in the kitchen while you eat Italian goodies and drink lots of red wine, yes?” She said, waving her big wooden spoon at my blushed nose and rosy cheeks and gave me that “naughty boy” look of hers. I hid Salterini’s bag of salamis and other foods behind my back and threw her my best “boys will be boys” sheepish look. We both laughed.

“What are you hiding behind your back, eh? Better be something special for Manon.” She said as she slowly and seductively loosened and discarded her cook’s apron and released the pins in her hair. She gave me a wistful smile as she let her lustrous black tresses tumble down her shoulders and back, then crooked her finger for me to approach. As I reached out to take her in my arms, she raised her finger to say “wait.” Then she pointed to her belly which now showed the presence of our child. She did a pirouette so I could embrace her from behind. I massaged her belly and whispered in her ear, “Je t’aime.”

“And what about your baby?” She said nuzzling my cheek with her head.

“I’ll love him too, when he gets here,” I whispered.

“And what if your baby is a girl, huh?”

“I’ll be a jealous Papa. If she’s as beautiful as you, I’ll have to keep all her suitors at bay even while she’s a kid. She’ll be our pride and joy.”

“You promise?” She said turning to kiss me.

“Yes. And if she’s got your character and spunk, she’ll probably be able to handle the boys on her own. So we’ll just have to wait and see what we get, won’t we?”

“The doctor said maybe we gonna get two babies. Lots of twins in my family. So what do you say to that, Big Boy?”

I gave her a long, lingering kiss before replying. “You really are full of surprises. How could he know so early?”

“He doesn’t know. He just said it’s a big possibility because of my family history,” she said looking me in the eye.

“You know what the Americans say, ‘two for the price of one is a better deal,’ so we should consider ourselves lucky if blessed with twins.”

“Our kid or kids were made with love and passion in Valparaiso and they have loving parents, and that’s probably more than most kids could hope for.”

Manon looked at me with tears in her eyes. “Since you gonna be such a good papa, maybe we should have triplets, non?” We both laughed.

“We can try to add another tonight, if Manon is not too tired, non?” I said mimicking her, tongue-in-cheek.

“Well let’s see what’s in that bag you been hiding. If Manon likes what you bring her, then maybe Big Boy earns a reward with his pregnant wife, non?”

I handed her the satchel full of Italian goodies and the two bottles of Tuscan red wine and recounted my meeting with Luigi Salterini.

“So, he wants to trade for shellfish and other food, yes?”

“I am sure he does. His eyes got bigger than yours at the mention of fresh clams, baby squid, mussels, scallops and shrimps. He was licking his lips at the thought of calamari fritti, pasta con frutti di mare and all the other dishes he could prepare with shellfish. He’s obviously tired of eating and preparing dishes with oysters which every cook can obtain easily. He can get some shellfish with Italian fishermen, but they’ll be quite expensive. So, I think he’ll be pleased to work with us on a wholesale trade basis.”

I told her of my plan to meet and interview Salterini’s nephew for a position as my assistant. With Georges gone for several months I needed help with the letter concession and someone who could be my guide to the French mining camps in the southern placers.

Manon gave me her most devilish look. “So you gonna abandon your very pregnant wife again and gallivant around the mining camps with a young Italian Lothario, yes?”

“Your Pierre will have no time to chase the señoritas. He has a family to feed and if Manon’s doctor is right, he’ll soon have a nursery full of hungry mouths hollering for food. Let’s try the salami with a glass of Italian red wine and see if your Pierre has earned his reward.”

After helping Giselle and Teri set up our stands to sell Manon’s soup, slices of fresh brioche, pâté of wild venison and duck sandwiches and our wines and spirits by the glass, I headed to my makeshift office at the back of a pharmacy to pick up my messages. As the morning fog over the city had not yet dissipated and had left everything clingy-damp, I bought all the daily newspapers and headed through the Clay Street side of Portsmouth Square to take refuge in Pierre-Louis’ restaurant, Les Bons Amis. I could always count on Pierre-Louis for the latest tidbits of gossip he picked up from early morning clients, police, firemen, and merchants, some of whom were members of the notorious Committee of Vigilance.

As usual, I took a rear table where I could see all who entered. Pierre-Louis brought me a strong coffee during a lull in business.

“So, what’s the latest with the Committee?” I asked.

He sat down, added water to his pastis and took a sip of the cloudy colored mixture before replying. “Well, one of the Committee members had coffee this morning and said there’s conflicting evidence in the trial in Marysville whether the guy calling himself “Berdue” is really James Stuart. Evidently, two of the members of the court testified the Berdue character was not Stuart. They claimed he was two inches shorter and eyes were a different color.”

“Does that mean he’ll walk free?”

“Dunno. The prosecution claims it’s got to be Stuart based on physical evidence. They say Stuart had a finger tattoo, a stiff middle finger and a scar on the right side of the jaw. All of which this “Berdue” character has. So it’s pretty sure they’ll convict and hang him.”

“So, they think they got the right guy who killed the sheriff?”

“Dunno for sure.” Pierre-Louis took a long slug from his glass before replying. “The guy’s a Duck and that’s enough for me to see him hang given what they’ve done to our town. Hanging a bunch of ‘em quickly is the only message they understand. They didn’t pull up stakes when they hung Jenkins, so maybe if the Committee hangs enough of them fast this time, they’ll clear out for good.”

While I didn’t like the idea of vigilante justice, I understood Pierre-Louis’ position and hatred of the Sydney Ducks and all the other hooligans that preyed the city’s citizens and merchants. Manon and I were with him during both the recent arson fires and saw how close he had come both times to losing his business and life’s savings. I told Pierre-Louis that I was meeting a potential employee for lunch and asked him to prepare a special shellfish lunch for us. I ordered a carafe of white wine and settled in to read the papers and enjoy a good cigar.

All the newspapers featured the sensational story about the hanging of a Mexican beauty in Downieville, a rough mining town high up on the north fork of the Yuba River in the northern placers. According to the papers, the young Mexican señorita was twenty-three, slender, with striking black hair worn in two braids and was “well set-up,” according to one journalist who claimed to be present at her trial. According to all accounts, though she was vivacious and quick-tempered, she was not a whore. She lived in a cabin with her beau, a Mexican gambler.

A Scotsman named Cannon (nick-named “Loose Cannon” by one wag) got drunk and gambled at Juanita’s boyfriend’s table and lost. Angry, he went to the gambler’s house, intruded and made a drunken scene. According to the Scotsman’s confidants, he returned to the gambler’s cabin the next day “to apologize” for is drunken behavior of the previous evening. According to Juanita and the boyfriend, Cannon used the word puta referring to Juanita and she grabbed a knife, stabbed him in the heart, killing him.

After the stabbing, she and her boyfriend both fled to a saloon in town seeking refuge. On hearing of the stabbing, an angry mob of miners seized both of them, hauled them to the town plaza to try them for murder while screaming “hang her!”

Juanita verbally defended her actions, but the mob was hell bent on hanging her. The miner who attempted to defend her was knocked off the barrel he was standing on pleading her case and beaten up. The mob chanted, “hang her, she’s guilty.” A local doctor, Cyrus Aiken, declared to the “trial court,” made up of members of the mob, that Juanita was three months pregnant and thus by law, couldn’t be hanged. The mob ordered Dr. Aiken to leave town “or else.”

According to eyewitnesses, Juanita calmly accepted her fate and even put the noose over her own head, let them tie her hands and said “adios señores” as her executioners cut the rope and she dropped to her death. She died proud and unrepentant to the end. Her paramour was acquitted and beat it out of town as fast as his horse would carry him.

I was touched by the story of this beautiful, defiant woman. I had heard stories of miners’ juries hastily trying and hanging claim jumpers, thieves and murderers at the diggings, but this case gave me cause to worry about more travel to miners’ camps. If the Yankee hatred of foreigners could be quickly coalesced and focused on a beautiful, pregnant Mexicana, then any foreigner could suffer the same fate if the object of mob hatred in this lawless land. The journalists now referred to Downieville as “Hangtown.” My musings were interrupted by the appearance of a handsome young man with a lady-killer smile.

One look confirmed Manon’s claim of an Italian “Lothario.” Gino Lamberti was a tall, sinewy, olive-skinned Adonis. His deceptive “baby face” with dimples and a patrician nose was encased in long black, curly hair tied in a pony tail that had a raven’s glossy sheen. Unlike most Italians, Gino’s eyes were dark blue. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties and was dressed casually in tight trousers, open-necked shirt, suede vest and Italian moccasins. Around his neck hung a gold chain and icon of his patron saint. After a brief question to the waiter, he strode confidently back to my table, threw me a charming smile and jutted out his hand. “Monsieur Dubois, I am pleased to meet you. I’m Gino Lamberti, Luigi Salterini’s nephew,” he said in French with a pleasing accent.

I grasped his hand and was surprised at his steely grip. His hands were tough and hardened by physical labor which I deemed a good sign. “Pleased to meet you Gino. Call me Pierre. Have a seat. Your uncle recommended you to me as I’m in need of an assistant who speaks and writes French and English, can gather information from all sorts of people from snooty bankers to rough speaking miners of all nationalities, and has a good knowledge of the French mining camps in the southern placers.”

Gino nodded his head in agreement. “I can do all of that except write English. But I can speak Spanish as well as French and that could help getting information as well. In the southern diggings, many of the French work with and alongside Mexicans, Chileans, Peruvians and other groups from South America. I’m an experienced and successful miner and I can easily navigate the trouble spots in the southern mines. I’ve been to most of the foreign mining camps and know the lay of the land. I’d be pleased to be your guide.”

I was pleased that he’d listened carefully to what I’d relayed to his uncle and seemed to want the job. He spoke easily without exaggeration or conceit and maintained good eye contact at all times. “As you are a successful miner, I’m surprised you’d want to work as an assistant to a notaire and private detective, especially as I can pay only $16.00 a day.”

I was surprised he didn’t blink or show surprise at my proposed compensation. “Some days in the placers, we made nothing and some weeks we only made enough to buy American beans, flour and coffee. Most miners I saw never made a dollar’s profit after a season of back-breaking work and many ruined their health. In the end, you either make a lucky strike or you fail and go home with your tail between your legs to face your family who counted on you to buy them out of poverty. It’s not a job with a possibility to use your brain and learn new things or a trade. In Genoa, I worked as a shipping clerk for a firm that exported wine, olives and oil. It was interesting at first, but became routine and boring with no chance for advancement even though I had a better education than my boss, so my cousin and I decided to try to make our fortune in the New World.”

I poured him a glass of white wine which he accepted gratefully. “Since you were one of the lucky ones to hit pay dirt, how come you don’t use the money to start your own business and be your own boss?” I asked as we both emptied our shallow bistro glasses in a go.

“My uncle financed our trip and we paid him back. The only other way we could have come was as indentured servants on a contract to rich masters. When he lost his trattoria, which was the love of his life, we were honor bound to invest our gold to rebuild his restaurant. I could work in his restaurant, but it’s not what I want to do. I like to travel, meet new people, and learn new things. When uncle mentioned I might be able to work for you, I jumped at the chance. My cousin, Antonio, is happy to work in the restaurant, but I’m not. So, I’d be happy to work for $16.00 day and try my hardest to help your businesses grow profitable.”

“Some of the work, for instance replying to letters and dealing with the mail, may prove to be tiresome and boring,” I said refilling our glasses.

“Of course, probably for you as well. But my uncle said you were an entrepreneur and seeking to establish many businesses. That’s what I like. I want to stay in America where there is so much opportunity. I hope to learn what I can do working for you,” he said seriously.

I was really starting to like this young man who was only a few years younger than me. He had Georges’ good looks and charm, but there was a serious side and hunger in him to make something of himself. I signaled to Pierre-Louis that we were ready to start lunch. I decided to hire him on a trial basis that would last through our trip to the southern placers and we could reevaluate our relationship at that time.

I made sure Gino got his fill of shellfish which Pierre-Louis incorporated in a tomato-based soup. I wanted him to be able to report to his uncle how the French could cook a tasty fish dish. For our main course, we ate braised venison served with a savory brown hunter’s sauce with cream and chanterelle mushrooms. We parted with a friendly handshake and agreement that he could start work in three days once he’d completed a plan for visiting the French diggings in the southern placers and an invitation for him and his uncle to join us for dinner on our brig two nights hence.