“There is a difference between truly listening and waiting for your turn to talk.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
The temptation to implement Sister Rosa’s technique of rhythmic clapping to regain order stood at the threshold of Scott’s patience. He assumed only a herd of exuberant children could create the verbal chaos currently ricocheting off the walls. Wrong. Add to the list a group of men sitting at a table while simultaneously expressing opinions and spouting promises sure to be broken. When his brain requested his ears for a description, the answer was simple.
The Tower of Babel.
Scott removed two items from his coat pocket - his timepiece and the silver-cased pencil. He opened the watch and placed it in front of him with a raised eyebrow of disbelief. Two hours had passed, not two days. The muscles in his legs screamed for a walk while his ass lost its battle with the hard wooden chair and fell asleep. Picking up the pencil, he scratched out a few words on a scrap of paper and slid it to his left. When do the fruitful discussions begin?
Seth smirked at the note while he penned his reply. Those were the morning introductions.
Scott thumbed through the stack of distributed documents which had started these fruitLESS discussions two hours and… a glance at his watch… five minutes ago. The search ended as he removed one page from the rest. Eyes squinted at the letters which appeared slightly smudged but readable and a mental vote for necessary reading spectacles was tabled. The document’s fuzzy title must have been produced by a dilapidated printing press similar to the one used by Will Jenkins.
United States Census San Joaquin District.
Which Scott translated to:
The Haves and the Have-nots.
The paper cataloged the district’s vignerons, their acreage and grape production. Viewing each man’s property status, Scott’s finger traced down through the townships.
Douglass, O’Neal, Tulare, Castoria, Stockton, Elk Horn...
He discovered the census applied two terms to define acreage: improved and vineyard. Scott began to draw his imaginary line between the Haves and Have-nots as he scanned the page.
8 acres improved; 2 acres vineyard
49 acres improved; 24 acres vineyard
4 acres improved; 4 acres vineyard
Harvest from established grape vines yielded the funds to improve land for future vineyard expansion. Expansion meant more grapes, larger harvests and bigger returns for family business investments, Expanding too quickly or too slowly could cause trouble. Supply and demand. It was a tricky balance to maintain and show a profit at the end of the growing season. Columned numbers in a ranch ledger came to mind. Cattle and grapes had one aspect in common - successfully providing an income to survive.
The division of the Haves and Have-nots became more prominent with the next piece of information listed for each vineyard: pounds of grapes.
1,000 lbs. of grapes
40,000 lbs. of grapes
6,000 lbs. of grapes
12,000 lbs. of grapes
“Gentleman! Please!” The chairman’s voice cracked to be heard above the various side conversations. “If we could regain protocol and speak one at a time!”
Scott rolled his eyes. His kingdom for a nun and her ruler at this moment. Better yet,
Kinsey Rose Furlong and her condescending announcement when she witnessed the Lancer brothers fighting. Stupid boys. Bloody hell. The little general would be in her glory.
He needed a purposeful task to sidestep this group’s quagmire of personal agendas. Picking up his pencil, Scott read the first name on the census document. Henry Porkenfeld. Observing the faces around the table and occupying the study’s corners, Henry, with his pig-like snout, was located. Scott penciled a checkmark next to the name and continued down the list.
Bragging Samuel Braghetta. Check.
Hammerhead Alden Hammond. Check.
George Cobb. Absent.
John Moore. Absent.
Eagle beak William Hawk. Check.
Scott felt Westcott’s eyes watching him match names with faces. When finished, the list slid over to the left for confirmation. Seth’s pen hovered and then landed on Harold Waters. A thin line crossed off absent and a checkmark took its place. With a nod across the room, he quietly pointed out a man towering over several of his colleagues. Scott smiled and remembered his little cousin’s description of Murdoch - a tall drink of water.
Tall Drink Harold Waters. Check.
Before returning the document, Westcott chose two more names which required an additional identical correction - a line through absent followed by the word foreclosure.
Foreclosure. Scott knew the word well. He’d witnessed the phrase tossed around the Union Club as Harlan, along with his business colleagues, read the newspaper, sipped their brandies and spoke of the less fortunate. In Lancer’s Great Room, foreclosure took on new meaning. Sitting beside his father during the Cattlemen’s Association meetings, Scott detected the underlying panic when fellow ranchers uttered the term. Now, as if the word had traveled full circle from the Union Club, it reappeared pointing out the Haves and Have-nots sitting in Leland Stanford’s affluent mansion were more fortunate than the Have-nones”.
The final piece of information the census offered not only darkened Scott’s imaginary line of division, it built a stone wall.
Gallons of wine.
Only three names possessed this status in the San Joaquin District: George West, Henry Meyer and Phillip Westcott. The three men who could turn sun-ripened grapes into a commodity demanded by the finest establishments touching the west coast.
Having the means to turn the gallons of grape juice into popular wine and champagne held high in a toast or enhancing an intimate meal was the ultimate goal. Even though the three wineries grew their own fruit, processing the harvest from other vineyards proved to be good business practice. Similar to heads of cattle, fair prices were established for pounds of grapes. All involved profited… until someone got greedy.
“Gentlemen.” A gavel sounded. Not the same as Sister Margaret’s ruler or Kinsey’s icy stare, however, the authoritative rapping seemed to do the trick as the room quieted down. “I know these documents create many questions which will be answered -” The murmuring waves crashing back on shore were cut short by another burst from the chairman’s gavel. “I suggest a thirty minute break. Fresh air to clear our heads.”
Mirroring each other's movements, the two business partners sat back with crossed arms and patiently waited for the room to empty. When the last man stepped away, Scott let the deafening silence sink in a moment before expressing his profound observation. “That went well.”
Seth choked on a snorted laugh while running his hand through his hair. “My God. What a mess.”
Hung across the room, a large detailed map of the San Joaquin Valley displaying the various counties had caught Scott’s eye at the onset of the meeting. Ever since his boyhood pastime of drawing intricate routes to buried treasures, maps had held an interest. Several years later, maps served him well during the war in defining troop movements and strategies. Rising in the quiet room, Scott seized the opportunity to walk off his cramped muscles and gain a closer look at Leland Stanford’s impressive topographical illustration.
The map’s details were a far cry from x marks the spot. Township areas were represented in subtle hues for easy distinction. Roads connected the largest cities to the smallest towns. Railroad tracks traveled pass Stockton and headed north to Sacramento. Others headed west to San Francisco or east to Philadelphia, Washington...
Boston.
Assuming a familiar stance of concentration, Scott placed his hands on hips, studied the map and waited for it to speak to him. His first inquiry took shape. “The two foreclosures - where are those vineyards located?”
Seth stood, placed his left hand on his right shoulder and slightly windmilled his arm which produced several popping sounds. Approaching the map, the same motion was applied to the opposite shoulder which created a similar response. “Outside of Mokelumne. Here…” A pointed finger assisted. “Along the river.”
Puzzled, Scott frowned. “That’s good ground.”
“Vines didn't fail.” Westcott's finger traced the journey downward until it reached Stockton. “The travel expenses to the nearest winery for processing took its toll.”
“But the Central Pacific has a direct line from Stockton to Sacramento -”
“With no depot in Mokelumne.” Seth lowered his voice. “Although I hear that situation is being resolved in the near future.”
“Tell me …” Scott shifted his stance and rubbed the back of his neck. “Who bought up the foreclosures?”
“I did.” West stood in the study's doorway.
“Geeeeooorge. Come join us.” Seth’s Cheshire Cat grin struggled to achieve sincerity. “I was about to compliment your prowess in the business world.”
Clearing his voice to mask a chuckle, Scott gestured toward the map. “I was admiring this fine example of topography.”
“Leland commissioned a Massachusetts man for the illustration. I’m sure you’ve heard of him - Joseph Hutchins Colton. The gentleman’s skill is unmatched and worth every penny. I’d be happy to contact J.H. on your behalf. No need to covet a man’s possession when you can simply buy it.”
Scott smiled and nodded “Sir, your offer is tempting, however, I believe I’ll pass. I prefer collecting cherished possessions which lack attached strings and price tags.”
“Mr. West.” The photographer poked his head in. “A reporter from the Sacramento Daily requests a moment of your time.”
“Yes, of course. Coming.” West’s hand rested on Scott’s shoulder as if to offer a piece of fatherly advice. The inflection of his voice suggested the opposite. “You may want to rethink your decision on a map, son. It’s easy for a man to stumble and lose his way.”
Watching George West strut out of room, Seth posed a question in his matter-of-fact manner. “Do you easily make friends like this often?”
“On a regular basis, sir.” Scott grinned. “It's a gift. I hate to brag.”