From the snowsheds only a hundred miles remained to Sacramento. Half of it was a roller coaster of straining ascents, breath-squeezing curves, and stomach-wrenching descents. Brakemen ran atop the cars spinning the brake wheels—air brakes didn’t exist yet—adjusting to prevent the cars picking up too much speed. Or separating from each other due to uneven braking. Or going into a skid if wheels overheated from friction. Only two brakemen worked the entire length of bumping cars. Their thudding feet overhead reminded us how close we were to catastrophe.
We careened through Blue Canon and Dutch Flat and Gold Run, halted at Cape Horn to look down a dizzying abyss at the American River, a green ribbon two thousand feet below. We thundered through another stretch of snowsheds, where, reflected in the windows of workers’ houses, I saw our axle boxes smoking and our wheels glowing like fiery discs.
After hours of it we finally leveled off and emerged into the brilliant sunshine of the Sacramento Valley. At our next stop we sniffed the air and gazed around in wonder at flower-strewn meadows watered by curving streams. After the desert wastes and the Sierra chill, it all seemed like paradise. We stood silently. Insects buzzed. Birdsong floated around us.
“We did it” somebody said. “Crossed the whole blessed country.”
A woman started singing “America.”
I have to admit it gave me a rush, goose bumps and all, as the rest joined in. Johnny and I sang too.
“Hurrah for the Union!” came the shout.
Simply by making the trip I felt I had achieved something powerful. I think we all felt it.
We rolled along Front Street toward the CP terminal, boggling at the sight of thousands of blooms. The guidebooks called Sacramento “Flower City” and “Queen City of the Plain.” I’d forgotten the lushness of California’s river valleys. In a single mile we passed orchards and fields teeming with apricots, cherries, apples, blackberries, strawberries, oranges, and peaches.
The dome of the state capitol reflected tracers of sunlight in the distance. Carpenters and gilders swarmed over it like so many ants. Somebody said it was nearly ready for occupancy.
“Who’s governor?” I asked.
Nobody knew.
We moved along the oak-bordered river, where Central Pacific yards were heaped with rails and ties, and idled into a huge new twenty-nine-stall brick roundhouse. It was landscaped with eucalyptus saplings recently introduced from Australia. Funny to see for myself that the trees of my youth hadn’t always been here.
We came to a halt.
And that was it. For many, this was the limit of their trip. They would visit Sutter’s Mill, perhaps journey to Yosemite, and return home to recount their adventures.
Those of us pushing on to San Francisco still had 120 miles before us. With no direct rail link, we had three choices: ride the Western Pacific, opened just two weeks ago, to Stockton, then connect with Alameda and take a ferry across the bay; train to Vallejo and board a steamer; or journey by water all the way down the Sacramento.
From the ticket agent I learned that the Stockings had passed through earlier that afternoon.
“What a fuss!” he exclaimed. “Hundreds jostling to see, all the bigwigs on hand. Them with their little red stockings on their coats, fit and handsome. Why, that Harry’s Wright’s the very picture of a man!”
I agreed that Harry was and asked which route they’d taken.
“Steamed on the riverboat Capitol, their flag trailing out behind ’em in the breeze. A grand sight!”
“Can I catch them tonight?”
“Not ’till way after dark. Trip takes nine hours. Last boat leaves in a few minutes.”
I started to turn away. “Oh, you hear anything about gold today?”
“Heard a whole lot,” he said, grinning. “Got shares myself. Price jumped two dollars, up to one forty-five.”
I grinned back. Today’s increase on my modest holdings would more than cover the steamer tickets. I wished I’d bought more shares. Gold was a long way from two hundred an ounce, but things were moving fast.
Johnny and I stood on the deck of the stern-wheeler Yosemite beneath a black plume of coal smoke, watching the bank pass by lazily. A rust-red sunset tinted the river.
“You’re quiet, Sam,” said Johnny. “You got feelings about coming home?”
I didn’t have an answer. I was definitely feeling something: a ball in my stomach seemed to combine expectancy and apprehension. Maybe dread. It was one thing to go off in time and geographical distance. It was another to come back to face the reality that “home” did not exist.
We slid past Benicia, its boatworks and fort barely visible in the darkness. We churned the dark waters of the Carquinez Strait between low treeless banks, and moved into San Pablo Bay. Finally we rounded San Rafael Point and were in San Francisco Bay. My chest tightened as I peered into the blackness.
Tiny lights glowed on a cluster of distant hills. I was confused by darkness to their right, where I was used to seeing the Golden Gate Bridge, but then I recognized the black humps of Angel and Alcatraz islands, and I knew where I was. I watched silently as the city’s night-draped hills drew gradually closer. Sensing something wrong, Johnny stepped close and for a moment gripped my arm with his good hand.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt lonelier in my life.
Chapter 27
Johnny was up at seven. Wagons rumbled and men shouted on the docks outside. Instead of trying to find the team’s hotel, we’d walked from the Broadway wharf and come upon the Blue Anchor, a seamen’s rooming house, at the foot of Washington. It wasn’t too bad if you ignored the fleas.
“Sam, I’m out of laudanum. Hand’s paining me again.” He pulled away the bandage. The wound was messy but seemed to be healing. “Someplace’ll likely be open
