Читать книгу GOLD FEVER Part Three - Ken Salter - Страница 19

We learned from Attorney Hawthorne that despite California being a non-slave state, the bills of sale of Chinese men and women slaves were legal in American courts so long as the slaves sold were Chinese. When asked why the contradiction, Hawthorne just shrugged and said, “It recognizes Chinese law where these sales are legal, just as in the southern states with Negroes.”

Manon couldn’t see the rationale. “The black slaves were forcibly brought here. Their tribal government didn’t accept their enslavement, so how could it be legal?”

Hawthorne sighed. “Alas, the African tribes did condone slavery. They enslaved and sold their rivals and those they captured in battle to European and Arab slave traders. Even certain American Indian tribes did the same and it’s legal under American law because by treaty they are independent nations. It’s a nasty and complicated history that has not been resolved even though the importation of slaves has been banned in some foreign countries. The great civilizations all practiced slavery. The grandeurs of Egypt, Greece, Rome, India and China were built mostly by slaves.”

“Well, it’s wrong and must be changed,” Manon snorted. “In any case, you better see that Antonio signs the papers giving Lillie her freedom. If he doesn’t, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Hawthorne promised to do his best. We learned later that Antonio did sign the documents manumitting Lillie. His uncle and the rest of the Italian community shamed him into it.

Building was underway on our bilingual school with the end of the rainy season and a mild spring and summer. Jacques Boucher, our chef Rose’s brother, assembled a work force of carpenters and other artisans to lay the foundation and erect the walls. Jacques assured us the building would be ready to inaugurate by September 1st.

With Mary Ellen Pleasant’s investment and those of my friend, Pierre-Louis Lerouge, and Marie Suize, known by the miners in the southern placers as “Marie Pantalon” as she worked beside her brother in male attire mining placer gold, the work pants partnership was fully funded. With these three investors plus Attorney Hawthorne with ten percent and Levi Strauss with 25 percent of profits, I had given up 60 percent of the profit to be realized selling denim work pants to miners and artisans.

Teri’s bodega was remodeled and now open for business and attracting lots of attention and customers. The combination of a voluptuous blonde-haired, blue-eyed, coppery-skinned Chilean proprietress dressed in colorful scoop-necked peasant dresses from South America and the energetic Levi Strauss promoting his designer work pants with copper rivets was a hit from the first day the store opened. Teri was receiving a lot of free press as the newspaper gossip scribblers loved to drink wine and brandy at her bar and watch to see who was being fitted for the now “must have” pants with copper rivets.

Justinian Caire and his employees wore denim work aprons designed by Manon and the work pants called “Levis” were selling like hot cakes in his mining supply store. We’d rented warehouse space near the Long Wharf and ten cutters and seamstresses produced the work pants. As our inventory grew, it was time to set up a distribution system where the majority of miners bought their supplies for the summer mining season. We decided on Marysville, Nevada City, and Sonora which Gino and I had visited and where we had contacts. My plan was to send Gino to Sonora to consign the new “Levis” to the mining emporiums we visited and to buy or rent space to house my express company business and an assay office. Gino was eager to go as he had been corresponding with Virginie, the girl he’d fallen in love with on our trip there. She was encouraging him to come and offered to help him find suitable office space. We sent him off on a paddlewheel steamer to Stockton with several trunks filled with Levis and all the accumulated French mail for the southern placers.

When I announced my plans to visit Nevada City and Marysville, Manon looked me straight in the eye and said, “I’m going with you Big Boy.” I did a double take.

“What about the restaurant and our twins?” I blurted out.

“Ha! Disappearing Daddy thinks he’ll just slip away the way he did after poor Manon gave birth to his kids and had both sucking on a nipple, yes?”

“I had to go or lose the mail contract.” That was a weak argument as she knew. It was winter and I risked my life and our family’s future in an effort to promote my interests. I was lucky to avoid being stuck there by mud and swollen rivers or drowned by the fierce storms that chased behind me.

“Well times have changed Big Boy. Giselle and Nellie can run the restaurant for a few days and Monique and Ming can care for and feed the twins and stay in our apartment while we’re gone. Manon needs a break from domestic duties. She plans to see some of her new country, stay in the best hotels and eat somebody else’s cooking for a change.” Manon gave me that look that said “plus I’m going to make sure there is no hanky-panky on the part of Disappearing Daddy.”

Manon never really believed when Gino and I traveled to the mining camps we hadn’t sampled the wares of the camp followers. She had no illusions about male weaknesses for a pretty face, nicely turned ankles, a buxom figure and a look that said “come on and get it before I hook up with someone else.” The towns near the mining camps tripled in size over the weekend as miners came to dance in fandango halls, drink, gamble, and buy the prettiest woman the gold in their poke could afford. She knew we’d been in Sacramento when Belle Cora ran the top parlor house in town and we’d just seen Lola Montez’ sexy performance. Lots of good looking women were on the make and available for a steep price which they mostly got. Several French gambling “hostesses” already made their fortunes on their backs and returned to France endowed for life. Others married well after plying their trade and now were chic “grand dames” at the top of the social register in San Francisco. They were building the big mansions with stunning bay views near us and probably would be sending their kids to our school.

I booked a first class stateroom on the side-wheel steamer “Bolinas” headed for Sacramento. Manon packed a gourmet lunch and I ordered the best champagne from the river boat’s menu. It was the first time Manon and I were alone together without our twins. Manon didn’t have to worry about any hanky-panky on my part. We spent the greater part of the journey enjoying the big double bed in our stateroom despite the challenges of our ship’s rocking and rolling as it bucked the whitecaps in San Pablo bay.

Sacramento was a beehive of activity as it was still recovering from a disastrous fire and major flooding from the winter before. Despite the muddy streets and frenzied rebuilding going on, the gambling palaces were packed and several luxury hotels offered fancy dining and well-appointed rooms for the well-heeled. As it would probably be the last time we stayed in such comfort, we ordered an American meal from room service, uncorked wine we brought, and got our money’s worth out of the large four poster bed.

The next stage of our journey to Marysville was by Wells Fargo stage. On my previous trip, I’d gone by river schooner. This time I wanted to gauge my competition and we paid the price by bumping and bouncing in the deep ruts in the muddy track the stage had to negotiate. The three other passengers, a husband and wife in their forties and her younger brother spoke English with heavy Swedish accents. They were dressed in heavy woolens as if they expected snow at any moment.

“So, what brings you to Marysville?” Manon asked politely.

“Vee vant ta see vut be the possibilities for business. Zee wife can cook an’ zee bruder can help. So, maybe we make vat is called boarding house, yes?” Manon rolled her eyes at me to signal it would be a long trip with these three for company. We decided to let the Swede chatter in Swedish with his portly wife and tall, skinny brother-in-law who ogled Manon’s full figure on the sly rather than try to communicate in pidgin English. We arrived in Marysville in late afternoon and headed directly to L’Hotel de France.

“Welcome, welcome! I was so glad to get your letter and the chance to see you again,” M. Ricard, the owner, greeted us with open arms. “And this must be your lovely wife,” he said amiably gazing at Manon who held out her hand which Ricard took, bowed slightly, and bussed warmly.

Ricard was a portly, affable man in his mid-fifties with receding pepper-brown hair and inquisitive eyes. He’d been invited by a fellow Frenchman, Charles Covillaud, from the Department of Charente, France, to come to Marysville and build a hotel. Covillaud had been in the area in 1848 when gold was discovered by Marshall on the American River and he’d quickly made his pile mining the tributaries of the Yuba River and bought all the land on which the town was situated.

He’d helped to finance the hotel’s construction in order to get his old friend to join in the building of the town. It was a smart move as the town bordered on the Sacramento River flowing to Sacramento and into the bay and the south fork of the Yuba River which joined the Sacramento River at Marysville.

When Gino and I visited Marysville in 1851, it was a tent city apart from the hotel, a few wood-framed residences, some saloons, boarding houses and mostly empty lots. After the cramped, jolting carriage ride, Manon proposed we walk the town before the sun set. The former tent city was now a bustling commercial center with many two-storey buildings housing banks, bodegas, mining supply emporiums, saloons, bakeries and food stores all on the ground floor with apartments above. There were wharves and warehouses on both sides by the rivers with small river boats and lighters tied to the docks.

Sharp-eyed Manon spotted a pretty young woman in fancy dress as she entered an ornate two-storey dwelling. “Ooh la la! How did Belle Cora miss that one? Did you have a good time visiting the house with Gino?” Manon said baiting me.

“Hardly, since the house wasn’t there during our trip. The only females available in this part of town were some broken-down Chilean whores operating out of tents and waiting for sex-starved miners to come on the weekend to resupply or lose their hard-earned gold.” I replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Hmmm. I wonder,” Manon riposted.

On the next block we encountered two restaurants — one Chinese and the other American featuring meat stews, roasted venison, bear and wild pig all garnished with boiled potatoes and gravy for $2.50 a serving. Manon gave me a funny look and said, “Is this the best they can do with fresh meat?”

I laughed. “It’s probably better fare than we’ll get at the hotel. It’s the best meal most miners will get for a long time. We didn’t have a decent meal until we got to the French mining camps. Welcome to how the Americans live. You can see why we were anxious to visit the mining camps and get home to your cooking,” I said rubbing my belly. Manon did look a bit worried as she is used to cooking and eating gourmet food accompanied by the best French wines.

We stepped into a liquor store. It was stocked primarily with black glass bottles of whisky and rum as well as Scotch beers in pottery bottles. There were no labeled wines; the few corked wine bottles had been filled from barrels and probably contained what we French call la piquette — a thin, watery wine with an acidic aftertaste. When we returned from our stroll, Manon checked the menu posted for the hotel restaurant which featured mostly fried meats and potatoes and I chuckled as she turned up her nose.

“So, Big Boy, you were honest about one thing; American food outside big cities is very uninteresting. Tonight we eat Chinese. Even if it’s not up to the standards of Chinese cooking in San Francisco, it couldn’t be worse than what the Americans are eating.”

We had a drink with Henri Ricard and I made an appointment to discuss my new express company business with him in the morning. We’d spend the afternoon visiting mining emporiums to solicit orders for denim work pants and aprons.

The Chinese restaurant turned out to be a hole-in-the-wall operation. The cook operated his “kitchen” behind a floral screen depicting trees with cherry blossoms and well dressed Chinese strolling among the alleys of trees and admiring the white blooms. There were six small tables, each with 3 or 4 rickety bamboo chairs. The menu in Chinese characters was posted on a large slate at the entrance. Two tables were occupied by Chinese men in silk pants and embroidered tunics; they were drinking what looked to be alcohol from large pottery bottles with blue Chinese characters in the white glaze.

A portly Chinese man with a greasy apron tied loosely around his huge belly and a long queue down his back greeted us with a toothy smile that showcased his two gold teeth. He seemed mesmerized by Manon’s beauty. “You likee eatee or drinkee?” He said timidly in heavily accented English.

Manon replied sweetly, “We’d like to do both. Do you have a menu in English?”

Our host looked confused. It was apparent he didn’t understand Manon’s request. He bowed and said, “Solly.”

I was prepared to leave, but Manon said in French, “Hold your horses, Big Boy.” To our host she said, “We likee eatee and drinkee.” This brought a radiant gold-toothed smile and the rapt attention of all the male Chinese patrons. “We likee drinkee that,” she said pointing to the large, white glazed bottle on the nearest occupied table. Manon got out of her chair, went to the slate menu board and pointed to four sets of Chinese characters and said, “We likee eatee.” Her performance brought amused smiles to the faces of everyone present and vigorous nods of appreciation from our host who bowed deeply to his important guest. It was apparent that only Chinese ate here and Manon’s presence would be something of a landmark event giving our host, the probable owner, increased status and importance in the eyes of his customers. Word would spread the moment we left the eatery.

“So, Big Boy, our dinner tonight is going to be a culinary adventure. Whatever they serve us has to be more interesting than overcooked deer or pig smothered in brown gravy,” Manon said with a mischievous smile.

Our host trotted out of the kitchen with one of the large pottery bottles and two Chinese porcelain drinking cups on a tin tray. He poured us each a half a cup’s worth of a strong-smelling, white liquid. We each took a tiny sip and nodded our appreciation to our beaming host. The drink was tangy and alcoholic, but I couldn’t place it. It was different from any bitters or aperitif drink I knew. The males at the other tables watched our sipping with interest as well as every move Manon made. When I poured a second round, a Chinese gentleman in the garb and hat of a Chinese merchant that we’d seen in Little China in the city, called out to us, “Rice wine.” While we sipped the pleasant wine, our host began serving dinner to his local customers. He brought heaping plates of piping hot meats and mixed vegetables with different sauces in little dishes, bowls of noodles, plates of rice seasoned with saffron and even a round metal pot with a lid that looked like it contained stewed meats and vegetables.

We watched the Chinese eat while we alternated sips of rice wine with sips of hot green tea which was served to us and the other diners. With long wooden chopsticks they loaded small bowls with rice and added meat and vegetables from the serving plates along with sauces including dark, pungent soya sauce from a round brown-glazed pottery pot with a tiny pouring spout. Once the little bowl was full of rice and meat or vegetables, the men put the bowls up to their chins and scooped the food into their mouths using their chopsticks as shovels. There were no knives, forks or spoons; all was done by manipulating the chopsticks.

Our host served us a large bowl of seasoned rice and a platter of meat and mixed green vegetables in a sauce of red peppers and small black beans. Following the lead of other diners, we used the chopsticks to scoop rice into the small bowl and poured soya sauce over the rice. Picking up pieces of meat and vegetables with the chopsticks was more challenging. Our first efforts were unsuccessful as the food kept slipping out of the sticks as we tried to lift the morsels to our rice bowls. Our host came running with ceramic soup spoons for us to use. Manon waved them off. She held up her chopsticks and motioned for him to arrange them properly in her right hand. He seemed reluctant to touch her fingers, but we both urged him on non-verbally. He went back to the kitchen and brought to our table another pair of chopsticks. He demonstrated the proper way to hold, pick up and carry the food morsels to the rice bowl. After several errant tries Manon succeeded. She gave our host a big smile of gratitude for the lesson. By now, all the diners had stopped eating to watch the amusing scene. When we’d both loaded our rice bowls and started to eat Chinese style, three of the onlookers bowed their heads to us to acknowledge our willingness to eat with chopsticks rather than soup spoons.

The meat in the first dish was tender wild pork in a very spicy and tasty black bean sauce. The red pepper specks in the sauce warned us not to eat the small, whole red peppers served with the dish. We were surprised at how crispy the cauliflower and green beans were.

The next plate contained tender, diced chicken bits in a ginger sauce mixed with fresh peas in the pod. The last plate was heaped with doughy dumplings. Each was filled with a savory sauce and tidbits of meat. Manon wanted to know how the Chinese managed to cook the vegetable al dente—crispy like the Italians. When it was time to pay the bill, Manon motioned towards the kitchen screen and mimed “to look.” Before our host could react, Manon was up and disappeared behind the screen. She returned to our table shortly with a triumphant look.

Our meal with rice wine cost us $4.75. I gave our host a generous tip as Manon wanted to keep the very decorative rice wine bottle to use as a flower pot. We sauntered hand-in-hand slowly back to our hotel. Our tummies were full and the wine left us pleasantly flushed; we hardly noticed the spartan nature of our small hotel room. We tumbled into bed and in the morning hoped we hadn’t made another kid or two.

Henri Ricard was enthused about my plan to start an express company to service the needs of French and Chilean miners in the north. “Now we have only Wells Fargo and Adams express companies servicing this area. They’ll carry French gold but not our mail or parcels. The Chileans don’t have anyone to deliver their mail. As you know from your first trip here, our little mail service for French miners is dependent on someone bringing the mail, papers, and parcels to the hotel and someone to deliver them to the miners, most of whom are too far from Marysville to provision here or pick up mail. So, you’d provide a needed service. How would it work?” Ricard asked, lighting a cigar from the box I’d brought him.

“I’ve an agreement with the French Consul that he’ll transfer our miners’ gold to French banks in Sacramento and San Francisco once it gets that far. What I need here and in Nevada City are reliable and trustworthy assayers to assay our miners’ gold and transform it into standard-weight ingots that can be stored in vaults, sold on the market, exported or sold to the U.S. government mint they’re setting up in San Francisco. The banks will pay a premium for gold in standard ingots just like they do for gold coins. I’m sure you know about the fortune David Broderick made buying gold and minting $5 shag coins containing only $4.00 in gold. I know from visiting our mining camps that our miners don’t trust the American banks or the big express companies. So, I want to provide a reliable and trustworthy service. Is there an assayer here I could trust?” I asked.

Ricard paused to reflect. “No, the only assayer here works for Wells Fargo and they don’t do any more than assay samples and weigh gold. There’s more and more hard rock mining now that placer gold is petering out. Big mining companies are using hydraulic monitors bigger than cannons to blow off the overburden and expose bedrock and literally hose the gold into the river for recovery. They have their own assayers. There is an independent assayer in Nevada City and most of the gold from the Yuba River goes there. I think his name is James Ott. Since you’re going there, you should talk with him. From what I’ve heard, he could be your man.”

Ricard has a guy who sorts mail alphabetically and stores it in cubbyholes for miners to pick up, and they can also mail letters when in town. We’d have to set up the express office in Nevada City and ship mail to Marysville from there. Ricard agreed to cooperate in this arrangement. He’d direct miners with gold to sell, and parcels and mail to send or pick up, to my office in Nevada City as soon as I established it.

Manon and I spent the afternoon visiting stores that sold mining supplies and equipment. Manon used her charm and good looks to solicit confirmed orders for denim aprons as well as work pants. “If you weren’t indispensable in your restaurant, you’d be our top salesperson for our denim products,” I teased.

“Ha, Big Boy, remember I own fifty percent of our profit from the venture. California is a community property state. So, you better behave or I’ll own one hundred percent with our twins if Papa is a bad boy,” she said in mock seriousness, then shook her finger at me and pointed to her reticule bulging with orders and bank drafts for fifty percent down payment and promissory notes for the balance upon receipt of the goods. Hawthorne had drafted the legal papers for the trip.

“How could I possibly be a bad boyo with my beautiful wife watching my every move like a hawk eyeing its prey? I don’t even dare look at any of the pretty ladies or señoritas on the make, but every male in town undresses you with his eyes and drools at the thought of getting you in his bed,” I retorted. Even the Chinese men in the restaurant couldn’t keep their eyes off of Manon’s mop of curly black hair and full figure even though she dressed very modestly.

“Ha, Big Boy, maybe it will teach you to appreciate what you’ve got and no more solo trips to places where sexy señoritas entertain naughty travelers, yes?”

“I’ll do my best,” I said in my little boy voice. Instead of the cheeky reply I expected, Manon dashed into a tent-covered shop past two Chinese men in black cotton trousers with long, braided queues hanging down their back; they were seated on rickety stools and playing a dice game on a shipping crate bearing Chinese characters in beautiful calligraphy. I entered the store meekly. Manon held a large, conically shaped metal item in her hands and was trying to bargain for it in the pidgin English she’d used in the restaurant. Her efforts were to no avail. I pulled out my poke and took out a silver dollar and held it up. The vendor, an older man in embroidered silk trousers and tunic nodded “no.” I held up two fingers; same response. He nodded his assent to three fingers. I handed over 3 Mexican silver coins and we left with the new item.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s what the Chinese cook used to fry our vegetables last night; he dropped cooking oil into this pan over a hot fire, added vegetables and quickly stirred them in the cooking oil. He cooked them the way we do abalone—hot, oiled skillet and only 30 seconds each side. The bowl shape of the pan is more practical for vegetables than a skillet,” Manon said beaming. We later learned the cooker was called a “wok.”