GOLD FEVER Part Two. Ken Salter

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СКАЧАТЬ I couldn’t locate, I sent a letter back to France informing the anxious relative that their loved one arrived safely in San Francisco and had been dispatched by the consulate to join other French miners. For a fee, I promised to try to locate the loved one and deliver the letter and mail a reply. Fortunately, the cost of mailing letters from California to France was only a few cents. The consulate paid me $1.00 for each letter the overwhelmed post office couldn’t deliver or decipher the name of the sender or addressee.

      While there was little profit in this activity, it made important contacts I hoped would translate into increased business. I calculated that my offer to locate miners and others who’d not made contact would promote my detective service with those who could afford my daily fee of $64.00 (four ounces of gold) plus expenses. I was reminded of how John Sutter abandoned his wife and kids in Switzerland in order to try his luck first in the Sandwich Islands and then the fertile lands of the Sacramento Valley. I was sure he wasn’t the only scoundrel to seek his fortune in the gold fields while leaving a family and debts behind. Time would tell if my gamble paid off.

      I was curious to see how the Italians in the “Little Italy” part of town that burned were making do. Manon had been impressed with the quality of the Italian salumi we had sampled in the trattoria Bella Toscana before the fire. She was considering adding Italian cold cuts and spicy sausage panini and pasta with cheese from Parma to her lunch menu if we could secure a reliable supply at a reasonable price. As the proprietor, Luigi Salterini, spoke French, I was determined to find him and sound him out on the idea.

      As I made my way down the burned part of Dupont Street toward Broadway, I had to dodge tenacious carters hauling lumber, bricks and building supplies through the bog the street had become. Reluctant horses bellowed their displeasure at the slippery slog along the once elegant street while their carters whipped, yelled and cursed at their reticent animals. One cart full of barrels of nails and metal doors had broken an axel in a deep pot hole and now blocked half the street with its spilled load and frenzied horses. The gridlock and resulting chaos would be funny if the two carters seeking to pass the accident in opposite directions were not threatening to shoot each other for the right to pass first.

      When I reached Pacific Street and the start of “Little Italy,” I was surprised to see that while very little new construction was underway, lots had been cleared of burned structures and debris and were now occupied by Italian merchants selling goods from makeshift stalls — rough-planed lumber supported by barrels to make a stand for merchandise, the bed of a lumber cart, or a tent with makeshift tables and goods stacked on barrels. Each merchant had a tent to stow goods and a shotgun to defend against thieves and squatters during the night.

      As I approached Broadway and the area where Luigi Salterini’s trattoria once stood, I hailed a merchant selling olive oil and pasta. “Donde posso trovare Luigi Salterini?” I muttered in halting Italian. The merchant, a bright-eyed, bushy-haired, olive-skinned man in his forties, laughed and waved his arm to indicate down the street somewhere.

      I turned left on Broadway, as I remembered when Manon and I first sought out his restaurant after visiting “Little China,” with Manon disguised as an American sailor boy the day the Committee of Vigilance hanged the Sydney Duck, Jenkins, in Portsmouth Square for armed robbery. I strolled along the street pleased to hear the sing-song lyricism and beauty of the Italian language as buyers with colorful baskets haggled the price of the wares for sale.

      Salterini was clapping his hands together to ward off the chill breeze now blowing down the street while he chatted animatedly with customers for his panini, sausages, salamis, cheeses and Italian red wines on a makeshift counter inside a large tent. I admired his friendly, sociable selling manner as his customers selected his appetizing foods and their favorite wines. For some customers he knew, he marked their purchases in a ledger for payment later, while others paid in gold dust or coin.

      Once the transactions were completed and the little store emptied of customers, I made my presence known.

      “I’m pleased to see you survived the fire and are still in business,” I said in French and thrust out my hand to him. “Bravo!” I added as he pumped my hand with gusto. Despite his losses, this small, full-fleshed man with rosy cheeks and bulbous nose the color of the wine he sold looked cheerful and upbeat.

      “We Italians are used to hard times. That’s why we left Italy for California. The Ducks aren’t going to drive us out. We’ll rebuild and let the Committee of Vigilance stretch their necks at the end of a rope,” he said with conviction.

      “I’m glad you and the rest of the community feel that way. The French merchants are of the same opinion. Will it take long to rebuild your trattoria?”

      “Hopefully, not too long. I have two nephews who managed to strike some good gold in Mariposa. With what I’ve saved and their help, I can build again. The problem is we are last on the list to get materials and skilled carpenters. We are merchants, not artisans, so we must wait our turn until the Yankee gambling houses and stores are rebuilt and back in business. Until then, we sell out of our lots and keep the bad guys out.”

      “I’m surprised to see so much good merchandise for sale. I would have thought it would have burned with the businesses,” I said pointing to his panini sandwiches and the heaps of sausages, salamis and other goods.

      He laughed and rubbed his ample belly. “When you live and work so close to crooks and robbers, you don’t leave all your eggs in one basket. We learned our lesson after the first fire and knew there would be more. We hired a ship to store our goods. My nephews and others live on the ship and guard it where it’s anchored in the bay. We take off what we need or can sell each day and nothing more.”

      “Smart,” I beamed. “That’s what my wife and her associates do as well. We have our ship docked at the Long Wharf and pull up the gang plank each evening. She sells breakfast and lunch to the dock workers and travelers going to and from Sacramento on the paddle steamers that leave from the wharf. She’d like to supplement her French offerings with some Italian dishes as well. She would like to offer Italian sausage and salami sandwiches and pasta with a marinara sauce and cheese from Parma. Is it possible to get a steady supply of these items?”

      Salterini pointed to a rough stool and motioned me to sit down. From behind the counter he pulled out a half-full, corked bottle of Chianti and swiftly filled two glasses. “We’re not gonna discuss business without a glass of wine and some of my best smoked sausage.” From behind the counter, he pulled out a wooden cutting board and large butcher’s knife and began to slice one of the sausages on his counter. That done, he popped a large slice in his mouth and washed it down with a healthy slug of wine.

      “Ah bellisimo. Que combinazione—salciccia e vino rosso, che divino, no? Sorry, I got carried away. Please try some sausage with the wine; it’s almost as good as red wine with Italian cheeses. Sadly, so many of our cheeses don’t keep during the voyage through the tropics. Only the hard parmesan cheeses come through okay.” He hacked off a big sliver of parmesan from a huge round and thrust it at me. “Try this with the wine,” he said with big grin as he shoveled another slice of sausage into his mouth.

      After sampling both the sausage and cheese with a refilled glass of wine, I beamed my appreciation. “Divine it is as you say. It’s almost as good as a glass of Gigondas with a slice of saucisson sec de l’Ardèche or an aged fromage de Salers.” I said tongue-in-cheek.

      Salterini guffawed so hard he spit out his mouth full of wine and sausage despite an effort to control it. “My friend, you must be kidding. You French have very good wines and cheeses but not better than the best from Italy,” he said seriously as if Italian honor was at stake.

      “Let’s agree that the French and Italian СКАЧАТЬ