Chapter 12
Sacramento City
December 1853
The front door of the Golden Hotel flew open, shaking the paintings when it banged against the wall. Isabelle looked up from the ledger as a Negro boy dressed in torn breeches and a stained linen shirt rushed into the lobby.
The boy scanned the small room, and Isabelle recognized the look on his face. It was one of terror.
Outside the door, on the walk crowded with miners and businessmen, she heard a man yell, “Micah!”
She’d told Aunt Emeline that she wanted to be faithful to help whomever God sent her way. Perhaps God had directed this boy right to her. Perhaps now was the time to continue what her uncle and aunt started long ago.
“Hurry,” she said, beckoning the boy behind the counter and toward the elevated desk where she sat. Then she pushed aside her chair and lifted the panel to her hiding space.
The laws of this new state might support slave owners’ rights, but no matter what the government said, she could never send a boy back into slavery—if this boy was a slave.
She would have to evaluate his status later. For now, she had to be faithful to what God required of her.
The boy hesitated, staring down into the dark space. Outside the window stood a fleshy man dressed in a gray sack coat. His head ticked back and forth between his shoulders, like a clock keeping time.
The boy rubbed his hands together. “Master Bridges is gonna kill me.”
“You’ll be safe in here,” she assured him. “If you move quickly.”
He glanced back at the window and then climbed down into the dark room. Isabelle replaced the rug and sat back on her chair to continue recording expenses in her ledger.
While California was officially a free state, slaveholders who were just passing through didn’t relinquish the ownership of any slaves traveling with them. Some slave owners spent months in the goldfields, claiming they weren’t going to stay permanently, and the law seemed to be on their side. She’d seen advertisements of slaves even being sold in San Francisco, and now other blacks—freed men and women—were in danger of being kidnapped and sold too.
It didn’t matter to her whether or not this boy hidden below her was legally free. In her mind, no person should be bought or sold.
The front bell chimed as Mr. Bridges stepped into her hotel. In his fingers, he clutched a cheap cigar, the stench overpowering the scent of lemon verbena in the lobby.
“Micah!” he shouted. His head continued its strange ticktock rhythm, looking back and forth as if she weren’t even there.
Her heart pounding, Isabelle looked up casually from her accounts, pointing with the wooden handle of her pen at the list of rules hung beside the counter. “Rule number six,” she stated. “There is no smoking inside this establishment.”
Mr. Bridges held up the cigar and made a grand sweep with it, trailing the smoke through the room before he spoke again. “Where’s the proprietor of this place?”
She closed the ledger, tapping the sole of her patent boot on the rug. “How can I assist you, monsieur?”
“I want to speak with the person in charge.”
“I am the person in charge.”
His eyes narrowed in on her. “You own this hotel?”
“I’m the manager.” She dipped the nib of her pen into the inkwell. “Would you like to reserve a room for the evening?”
He shook his head. “I’m looking for my slave. Someone said they saw a colored boy run in here.”
“What does he look like?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.
His eyes narrowed, searching her face as if trying to determine if she was being obstinate or if she was just inept. “The same as any other darky, only shorter.”
A retort rose in her throat, but she swallowed it. In this situation, honey would be a more effective deterrent than rebuke.
She rose slowly, directing the man away from the hiding space. “Come with me,” she said as she walked through the entrance into the restaurant. “I will enlist my staff to search for him.”
Mr. Bridges followed her through the open doorway into the vacant dining room and reluctantly sat at a table near the kitchen. Then he took a draw on his cigar and puffed out the smoke in her face.
She waved her hand in front of her face, resisting the urge to gag. She would have required any other man to extinguish his cigar, but she would appease Mr. Bridges this afternoon, for Micah’s sake.
“Stephan,” she called. When her dark-skinned steward came up from the cellar, she waved him toward her. “This gentleman is looking for a Negro boy.”
Mr. Bridges ignored him. “Micah’s a slave,” he reminded her. “Eleven or twelve years old and darn good at hiding.”
“He said that Micah came into the hotel,” she told Stephan, nodding toward the steps. “Could you please search the rooms upstairs?”
“You’re sending him to search for Micah?” the man asked incredulously, as if Stephan wasn’t standing right there—as if her steward were incapable of looking for a missing person because his skin was a shade darker than the man across from her. Her blood felt as if it might boil over, but she maintained her composure on the outside, for Micah’s sake. Stephan’s face remained aloof as well.
“He is quite capable,” she explained. “Stephan will search the top floors of the hotel, and I will look on the bottom.”
Mr. Bridges returned to his feet. “I will search with you.”
She shook her head. “Only guests and my employees are allowed upstairs.”
Stephan moved toward the steps, and Fanny appeared in the kitchen doorway, flour sprinkled on her apron. She’d spent her day helping Janette, the hotel cook, prepare for their evening meal.
“Could you please bring this gentleman some of the raspberry tarts you baked?” Isabelle asked.
“Of course,” Fanny replied. “Should I bring coffee too?”
“No—I will retrieve some wine from downstairs.”
Fanny’s eyebrows arched, but she didn’t say anything about Isabelle indulging the man.
Thankfully, Mr. Bridges didn’t seem to realize her insincerity. “Micah’s a wily boy,” he said, his eyes skimming the room.
“If he’s in the hotel, I’m certain Stephan or I will find him.”
Mr. Bridges took a step toward the cellar door. “I will look downstairs.”
Isabelle moved to stop him. “Where are you from?” she asked, blocking the entrance.
“Texas.”
“I don’t know what it’s like in Texas, but I don’t tolerate trespassing here—and the sheriff is on my side.”
When Fanny brought out the tarts, the man settled back into the chair. At least he was deterred for the moment.
Excusing herself, Isabelle stepped down into the cellar. Mr. Bridges wouldn’t be able to see Micah if he came down here, but it was possible he could hear him between the walls.
Isabelle slowly retrieved Mr. Walsh’s Madeira from her limited collection of fine wines, regretting that she had to waste some of it on this man fuming in her dining room. But better to distract him than let him tear up her hotel. Once he left, she’d help Micah escape, but it would be better for all of them if Mr. Bridges’s senses were dulled before he continued his search.
When she emerged back into the dining room, she shook her head, trying to appear disappointed by her news. “There’s no one hiding downstairs.”
The man shifted in his seat, but his eyes were focused on his goblet as she filled it with the dark, sweet wine. He didn’t bother to sniff it, guzzling it instead. Then she refilled his glass.
After drinking three glasses of wine, he looked over at the wooden staircase that linked her dining room with the second floor. “Where is your man?”
“He’s very thorough in his work,” she explained. “I’m certain he’s still searching.”
“He best find Micah, or I’m going to enlist your sheriff to help me.”
She walked to the bottom of the tall staircase and glanced up. Stephan was waiting for her signal at the top.
When he walked back down into the dining room, Stephan spoke to her. “There’s no one upstairs except the guests in rooms 2 and 8.”
Mr. Bridges leaped up, knocking over his fourth glass of wine. The brown liquid spilled across the white tablecloth. “He’s lying.”
Isabelle crossed her arms. “Neither my steward nor I can produce a child who clearly isn’t here.”
He backed away. “I’ll return with your sheriff.”
She smiled. “Rodney is always welcome.”
Mr. Bridges stomped out of the dining room, and as she watched him pass by the window, Stephan moved up beside her. They were alone in the room, but still she whispered. “Micah’s safe, but if that dreadful man brings back a dog, he’ll find him.”
“I know where to take him,” Stephan said.
She looked back at her steward, a man who’d worked hard for her during the past year. He hadn’t volunteered much of his story, but she knew it hadn’t always been easy. The lobe was missing below his right ear, and he walked with a limp.
“Will he be safe?” she asked.
“Much safer than here.”
Isabelle glanced back out the window. “Let’s move quickly, then.”
The sun had fallen below the horizon, the coal lamps emitting their orange glow along K Street. Taking her cap and black cloak from behind the reception counter, she slipped outside into the fading twilight. The walkway was still crowded with workers leaving the wharf and shop owners finishing the day. She slipped around the side of the building and into the alley behind it, then waited a few moments to see if anyone followed her.
When no one emerged, she stepped into the tiny courtyard between her building and the one next door. Then she rolled an empty barrel to the side and swung down the hatch behind it. After bundling up the hem of her dress in one hand, she crawled back through the passage.
A faint ray of light stole through a crack between the buildings, and when the passage opened into a narrow room, she saw the boy sitting on the dirt floor, his legs drawn up to his chest. Near him was her metal lockbox.
“I’m Isabelle,” she said, sitting between him and her gold. “You must come with me.”
He shook his head. “I ain’t going back.”
“I don’t blame you,” she said. While they needed to hurry, she knew that fear could immobilize a person—what scared someone could end up destroying them simply because they were too afraid to act. “Mr. Bridges says you’re from Texas.”
“He’s from Texas, but that ain’t my home.”
“I’d like to help you find a real home.”
He eyed the entrance into the passage. “He’ll catch me if I leave here.”
“I fear he’ll catch you if you stay.” She scooted back toward the passage. “I have a friend who can take you to a safe place.”
“How do you know it’s safe?”
“I suppose I can’t promise, but it’s much better than if you stay here.”
She retrieved three gold coins from the lockbox and pressed them into his palm for the journey ahead. Then she crawled back through the passage, not knowing if Micah was following her until she climbed out into the courtyard. Thankfully, he emerged seconds later, closing the small door as she dusted off her skirt and pinned her escaping curls back into place.
Stephan stepped around the side of the building. “Here’s my friend,” she said, introducing Micah.
When the boy hesitated again, Stephan leaned down beside him. “There’s no telling what your master might do if we don’t hurry.”
“I’m afraid,” Micah told him.
Stephan pointed to his earlobe. “My master clipped off my ear the first time I ran away.”
Both Isabelle and the boy shuddered.
“I won’t tell you what he did the second time.”
With that, Micah agreed to leave. Isabelle draped the black cloak over his shoulders and covered his hair with her cap. She didn’t ask where they were going, but as the sky grew darker, she prayed they would be safe.
Two customers were waiting for her when she returned to the lobby, and she seated them in the dining room. Fanny stepped out of the kitchen, her flour-doused apron replaced with a pastel green one.
“Stephan had to fetch something for me,” Isabelle told her.
Fanny reached for a menu. “I’ll take their order.”
She didn’t know how long Stephan would be gone, and in that moment, she was grateful that Fanny was there to help.
Back in the lobby, she waited for the return of Mr. Bridges. Ross would say she was crazy to risk everything for a slave boy—a stranger they didn’t know and shouldn’t believe. He wasn’t proslavery, just probusiness. And now she realized, pro-Ross. It seemed he had no problem using people to get exactly what he wanted—the money for his passage to California, the ownership of a hotel, the gold he thought would make him rich.
The door bell chimed, and she took a deep breath as the inevitable arrived. Mr. Bridges stomped back into her hotel, along with the sheriff. Thankfully, they didn’t bring a bloodhound.
“Evenin’, Miss Labrie,” the sheriff said, removing his fedora.
She welcomed him with a smile. “Good evening, Rodney.”
Rodney nodded toward the man stewing beside him, still clutching a cigar. “Mr. Bridges here is looking for his slave.”
Isabelle stepped back around the counter. “I thought slavery was illegal in this state.”
“The federal government sees it differently.”
“Either way,” she said, motioning to the man beside him, “I already explained to Mr. Bridges that I don’t know where his slave is. If he’s allowed to bring a slave into California, then he should be responsible for his whereabouts.”
Rodney glanced toward the restaurant. “He said you wouldn’t let him look through your hotel.”
“Mr. Bridges is a stranger to me and one who refused to obey my basic rules.” She pointed again to the sign beside the counter, toward the clearly stated rule against smoking.
“I will search with him,” Rodney said.
“Do you have a warrant?”
Rodney’s eyes narrowed. “Do I need one?”
“Stephan and I searched every floor and found nothing, but Mr. Bridges is welcome to search as long as you stay with him.” She pointed toward the man’s hand. “And as long as he leaves his cigar outside.”
When Mr. Bridges continued clinging to the cigar, irritation flooded Rodney’s face. The sheriff had only been in Sacramento City for a few months. He was a fair man under the obligation to keep law and order in a town that didn’t value either. He didn’t have time for insolence.
Mr. Bridges held up his cigar. “There’s no law in California against smoking.”
“Miss Labrie is entitled to enforce the rules of her establishment.”
“And I’m entitled to my cigar.”
Rodney shoved his hat back on his head. “If your cigar is more important than your slave, so be it. I’ve got plenty of other things to do.”
Mr. Bridges eyed him for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure whether the sheriff was serious. He must have determined that Rodney was in earnest because he stepped back outside, returning seconds later empty handed. She didn’t know what he did with the cigar. Hopefully he didn’t hide it someplace that would set the town on fire.
Rodney removed his hat again, and the two men stepped through the archway at the right of the room, into the restaurant. Then she heard them walking up the stairs, heard the scraping of furniture on the floor overhead, the stomping of their boots.
There were eighteen people staying in the Golden right now. Hopefully they wouldn’t harass any of the guests as they looked for Micah.
Any other time, she would have protested a search—for the sake of her guests—but she didn’t want Rodney to think she was hiding anything from him. And the longer it took them to look through her establishment, the more time Stephan had to hide the boy. Perhaps it would take Mr. Bridges a few hours before he relented.
Outside her window, the sky was completely black now. The walkways were still filled with men, most of them heading to the saloons or gambling halls two streets over. Some were just in Sacramento City for a few days or weeks. Others had stayed long enough to become citizens of the town. She knew almost everyone who’d decided to call this place home.
As she waited for Rodney and Mr. Bridges, she escorted customers back into the dining room and checked two miners into vacant rooms. They’d spent months, the men said, in a wet tent in the Mother Lode. They quickly agreed to her list of rules—payment due before they occupied a room, extinguishing all lanterns before they left, no spitting on the floor, no gambling, at least one bath per week at the local bathhouse, no hard liquor, no prostitution, and no smoking cigars anywhere inside the hotel. They paid twenty dollars each to reserve a room for a week, and with the keys at her side, she took the miners upstairs.
When she stepped back into the corridor, she looked for Mr. Bridges and Rodney, but she didn’t see either man. Perhaps they were up on the third floor now.
Each time she escorted another customer into the dining room, Fanny flashed her a panicked look, but even if she felt overwhelmed, Fanny was handling the flood of customers perfectly fine on her own.
Isabelle was sitting at her desk, writing an order for more wine, when the sheriff and Mr. Bridges appeared back in the lobby. Rodney looked annoyed, Mr. Bridges livid.
Mr. Bridges leaned onto the counter. “Where did he go?”
She flashed Rodney a look, eyebrows raised as if the man in front of her might be crazy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Where’s my slave?”
“Did you search the entire hotel?” she asked, equally annoyed at his interruption.
Rodney stepped up to the counter, drumming his fingers on the wood. “Two people claim they saw a colored boy run into your lobby. They never saw him leave.”
She glanced around the lobby. “I’m not hiding a boy here.”
“You said that your steward helped you search.”
Isabelle pasted a smile on her face, much less welcoming this time. “He looked upstairs.”
“I’d like to speak to him,” Rodney said.
Isabelle’s confidence began to falter. “I don’t know if he’s available.”
“Miss Labrie”—Rodney’s smile was condescending—“I’m certain you can open up his availability.”
As far as she knew, the sheriff didn’t drink, at least not while he was on duty. She’d have to think of another way to distract him until Stephan returned.
She stood slowly before stepping around the counter. “I’ll retrieve him from the kitchen.”
“There’s no need,” Stephan said from the doorway. “How can I help you?”
Mr. Bridges took a cigar from his cloak pocket along with a box of matches. He lit the cigar as Rodney turned to speak with Stephan. “I’m told you helped search for a runaway slave this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did you locate him?”
“I did not.”
Rodney moved closer to him, studying his black waistcoat and trousers along with the linen draped over his arm. “Did you go out this evening, Stephan?”
“The dining room is full, sir. I’ve been quite busy serving Miss Labrie’s clientele.”
Rodney paused. “If I find out you left the hotel, I’ll take it before the judge.”
Stephan nodded calmly, though Isabelle knew he must be terrified inside. A colored person wasn’t allowed to testify before a judge, even if there was a crime. Her steward may have achieved freedom to work and live in California, but his tongue wasn’t free here, at least not in a courtroom.
“You won’t find out anything different,” Stephan assured him.
Rodney tilted his hat toward her. “Good evening, Miss Labrie.”
“But . . . ,” Mr. Bridges protested.
Rodney glared at him and the cigar in his hand. “It seems to me, sir, that you need to keep as good account of your slaves as you do your cigars.”