“Curiosity is lying in wait for every secret.”
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
“There it is, as far as the eye can see. The most beautiful place in the whole wide world. Lancer.” ~ Teresa O’Brien
“So tell me sir, was it the allure of California’s beauty that transported you from one coast to the other?”
Scott’s eyes drank in the passing San Joaquin Valley’s autumn landscape stretching out under a cloudless cornflower sky; a view which had obviously inspired Emily’s question. “I’d have to say it was more curiosity that packed my Boston bags, however, California’s beauty did insist I stay.”
Poppycock. The tied-down Boneshaker shifted slightly, creating the sensation that an additional passenger had hitched a ride on the buckboard. I’d use stronger language, old boy, but there’s a lady present.
Exactly. So leave, MacCallister.
We need a bit of honesty here if you don’t mind me saying.
I do.
Very well, but let the record show it wasn’t no damn ‘curiosity’ packing a derby. And it sure as hell wasn’t ‘beauty’ begging your Boston backside to stay.
All right. Then what was it?
“Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.” Emily’s smile gently interrupted. “Obviously California’s beauty succeeded in satisfying Scott Lancer’s initial curiosity upon his arrival.”
“Tenfold.”
Poppycock.
Scott’s escaped heavy sigh tugged the corners of his companion's rose-tinted lips with concern. “Is there a problem?”
“Our cargo has acquired an annoying rattle.” Pulled reins slowed travel to a stop. “I’d best tighten those ropes before my bi-wheeled wedding gift jumps ship and rolls into Stockton before we do.”
With boots hitting the ground, Scott’s strides carried him to the back of the wagon; his outward appearance remaining focused solely on loosening and retying knots. Get it said, George.
Resentment.
Fingers slowed in their task.
When your ears heard ‘Murdoch Lancer’ tumble out of that Pinkerton's mouth, it was resentment packing a bag and putting you on a train heading West.
Scott yanked on a rope harder than needed.
Ho, ho! But here’s the tell: your expression as the lovely Miss O’Brien pointed out Lancer land. A puffed breeze brushed Scott’s ear with George’s whisper. When seeing it with your own eyes for the first time, what you’d guessed for years was now confirmed. Old Harlan, not your father, deserved the verdict of familial betrayal.
Memory offered Scott the vast rolling vista of Murdoch Lancer’s domain and how on that day it permitted tamped-down resentment to be properly placed - on the head of a grandfather’s deceitful intent.
A split-seconded epiphany of misguided judgment and repacking your ruffled shirt bound for Boston went up in smoke.
Scott’s attention lifted to meet the wink from his boyhood friend perched on the back of the buckboard.
Well, well. George grinned. It appears you’re not so hard to get to know after all.
“A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Lancer.”
Emily’s light-hearted query gliding down from the buckboard’s bench seat bridged for Scott the ravine between past and present, dipping his chin with slight embarrassment. “Daydreaming. My apologies.”
“Don’t be pushed by your problems, be led by your dreams.”
By God, Lancer! She quotes the poet of transcendental rumination! A charming woman, indeed. Let’s say we hold on to this one.
I can manage, sir. Your assistance is unnecessary.
Past history begs to differ.
An eye roll aided in tightening the last of the ropes. Don’t flatter yourself, George.
If I don’t, old boy, who will? A passing crow cawed MacCallister’s chortle.
Scott’s customary smirk at his friend’s humor surfaced to call a truce. I see your sharp wit hasn’t changed.
Hell, rather late to improve on that considering my current state of demise. Don’t keep the lady waiting, Lancer.
“Onward.” Steadying the horse while the Boneshaker was adjusted, Emily presented the return of the reins to her reseated driver.
Gathering delicate hands with his, Scott leaned in for a soft kiss which he hoped would not be considered stolen.
Cheeks blushed. “And what brings about this?”
“A thank you for preventing the wagon from becoming a runaway as I wrestled with our stubborn passenger.”
“My pleasure. And may I suggest, sir, you stop and grapple with the Velocipede several more times before we reach the vineyards.”
“Noted.” No longer deemed a thief, Scott felt a longer, deeper thank you was in order.
********
In 1849, Captain Charles Maria Weber purchased land which had originally been part of Rancho del Campo de Los Franceses and began to lay out a town he christened Tuleburg. However, due to its wet surroundings, the new name failed to shake off the earlier settlement’s moniker of Mudville. The captain finally selected Stockton in honor of Commodore Robert F. Stockton who’d claimed California for the United States. In Scott’s opinion, Stockton citizens should remain eternally grateful to Weber and his wise choice which prevented their fate from being recorded in history books as Mudonians.
The beginnings of Stockton’s Chinese population grew with the gold-nugget dreams and religious-rebellion nightmares that made immigration from China attractive. Once the Gold Rush ended, other developments, specifically the railroad, offered jobs to those who’d traveled to seek their fortune and failed.
By 1869, Chinese immigrants made up as much as 90% of the workforce for the Central Pacific Railroad which connected Sacramento to Stockton that same year. Unfortunately, hard labor, low wages and much too often loss of life due to working conditions on the rails of the Transcontinental earned this manpower little gratitude, respect or rights.
As Scott drove the buckboard, they passed Channel Street’s Chinese community,one of Stockton’s towns-within-a-town with its substandard living conditions highlighting the prejudice and hatred funneled toward immigrants. An emotional mixture of anger and sadness bubbled up.
“Mankind as a whole has learned little from the War.”
The inflection of Emily’s statement mirrored Scott’s thoughts. Placing his arm around her shoulders, a comforting squeeze agreed.
Turning onto Center Street, the travelers were greeted with Stockton’s flourishing and ever-expanding business district. Although heavy rains could still muddy things up at times, it was obvious the town would someday acquire city status and be a feather in California’s cultural cap.
With every intention to continue through Stockton and on to the Westcott Vineyards, Scott slowed the buckboard to a stop.
The storefront window displayed the following declaration:
Horactio’s Haberdashery
Where fine men and fine clothing meet
It wasn’t the business’ distinguished gold leaf lettering that caught Scott’s eye.
No.
It was the familiar palomino tied at the business’ wooden hitching post. A grin surfaced.
“We’re stopping?” The female query reflected modest curiosity.
“I need a new ascot for Kinsey’s wedding.” The grin widened. “Come help me pick it out.”
Comments