GOLD FEVER Part Two. Ken Salter
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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.
California Gold Rush Journal
CHAPTER THREE
San Francisco — July 1851
Consul Dillon at the French Consulate recommended an American attorney he had recent dealings with and whose work he found satisfactory. The young man was trying, like me, to establish a new practice in the nearly lawless city and Dillon assured me that he was not a hired gun for the mayor and his cronies.
I had flirted with the idea of trying to practice law in the city’s civil courts on my own, but on reflection thought it better to associate with an experienced lawyer given the destruction of the court house in the recent fire. I had been fortunate to secure an order to seize the replacement Chilean wine Teri’s ex-beau had ordered after the fire using her savings. I couldn’t count on another American judge accepting my pleadings as I had no legal degree or experience pleading cases in court. Many French lawyers had come to California to seek their fortune in gold, but none were qualified to practice law after going bust in the placers. American civil law was based on English common law principles and case law precedent, while French civil law was based on an outdated Napoleonic Code. Further, no legal education was available in the city other than to become apprentice to an American lawyer. As most French did not speak fluent English, even that option was out.
Thomas Hawthorne’s office was a cubby-hole off the second floor stairs of a newly