Finding War: Ira Beard, #2

By Steve Bartholomew

Ira Beard came west to escape war.

War has found him. He'd hunted for Joaquin

Murietta, the bandit. Now he's supposed to

track down Confederate rebels stealing

California gold. He's become desperate

because his wife Octavia found them first.

Read the tale for yourself, and wonder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Bartholomew
• Release date: Jan 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215550113

Steve Bartholomew

I grew up in San Francisco, joined the Army after high school. That's where I got my most valuable education. Since then I've lived in a few other places, such as Mexico City and New York. Now I inhabit a small town in Northern California, where we have a volcano and a lake. What more could I ask? I have been writing since age 9. What more do you wish to know?

Book preview

Finding War

Chapter 1

Ira Beard, when he came home, was in a somber mood. Anyone else would have found his face hard to read, but his wife Octavia de LaLuz knew him well enough by now to read his mind.

Did you go and look again? she asked.

Her question caused him to laugh at his own foolishness. I’m sorry, he said. I know it’s stupid. Sometimes I have to go. I still cannot get him off my mind.

She said, Joaquin has been dead for years. He’s not about to talk. She meant the head of Joaquin Murietta. Ira was in the habit of visiting it now and then, where it was still on display, pickled in its jar of alcohol. Sometimes Ira would go for two or three months as if he had forgotten about it, then suddenly he would begin going back every week or so. Ira had been one of those who hunted Joaquin, though he had not been the one to find him. Now and then he felt glad of that.

Joaquin Murietta, the most feared bandit in the gold country of California, was also the most hunted. Ira had left the New York Police Department and come to California to escape the violence of New York. But he had found no escape. He had signed on as bounty hunter; he had not found Joaquin, but he had discovered the love of his life in Octavia de LaLuz. Another man had killed Joaquin and taken his head to prove it. Ira often felt glad he had not been the one to succeed.

He said, Sometimes I wonder what his head thinks about in that jar. I imagine myself speaking to him, but of course I can’t. I haven’t lost my mind yet.

Octavia shrugged and squinted at some needlework in her lap. After a moment she changed the subject. Ira was getting himself a cup of coffee. There was bad news today, she said.

Ira paused, turning. What sort of bad news? Not another bank failure, I hope.

She shook her head without looking up. "Worse. I went out for a walk earlier, down to the Chronicle office to see the broadsides. There was a crowd. It seems Fort Sumter has been fired upon."

Ira took a moment to remember what she was talking about. There had been rumors and stories about North Carolina for weeks. Now he recalled reading that Anderson had abandoned Fort Moultrie and occupied Sumter, which was blockaded by Charleston. No one had expected shots to be fired. No one really expected South Carolina to go ahead with secession. They could not be serious about that.

My God, he said. He stared out the window for a moment. Then, I’m going to see if there is more news. And he was out the door.

He went down to the Alta California office which was farther than the Chronicle, but Ira had always favored the Alta. There were still people on the sidewalk, looking at the posted broadsides. Of course the news was a couple of days old. Ira recognized one of his regular restaurant customers in the crowd, a broker of gold and silver. Ira nodded. Mr. Johnson. Any late news?

Johnson shook his head. I shall be happy when they finish that cross country telegraph they're working on. Or on second thought, maybe I won't be. It will mean getting bad news faster. They tell me the Pony Express is putting on some extra dispatches. There should be more coming in this evening.

Both men fell silent, studying the printed sheets on the wall. This was Sunday, when Ira and Octavia's restaurant was closed. Usually there were no dispatches on Sunday, either. The Express rider would be leaving from where the eastern wire ended somewhere west of Omaha and riding to where the western began in Nevada. From there, news would travel through the California wire network; the important publishers of news all had their own telegraphs by now. Still, news was late. When the wire was completed California would be getting news from the east minutes after it happened, but that wire would not be finished for months yet.

This happened Thursday, Ira said. I wonder if the fort has fallen? Johnson shook his head. He looked pale.

Walking back to his flat, it seemed to Ira that San Francisco had fallen silent, holding her breath. He passed people in the street, some of them in conversation with neighbors, others merely standing as if waiting for something. Ira went back to his flat; Octavia gave him a questioning look but he said nothing. He poured himself a glass of brandy. Octavia seemed intent on needlework.

Next day, they opened the restaurant as usual. La Cuisine, as they had named it, had been open for several years now and was known as one of the better places in San Francisco. Octavia was Spanish, but she had hired French people to do the actual work. Ira was mainly book keeper and purchasing agent while Octavia supervised, sometimes helping with the ledgers. She had hired Gustave to be the chef. Gustave had previously worked as a ship's cook; he'd jumped ship hoping to get to the gold fields, but Octavia had found him first. He wasn't exactly a gourmet cook, but he was willing to learn. The main thing was he spoke French and looked like a chef. The food served might not have passed muster in Paris, but for this town it was pretty good.

Gustave was inspecting the fresh bread he had just brought in from the bakery down the street. It still bore its sourdough aroma. He inhaled in apparent appreciation and began working on a pot of soup.

Did you see the news? Octavia asked him in French.

"Oui. Non. What news?" He was concentrating on beef broth.

It seems there's a war, she said.

"Quelle dommage. Maisou?"

Where? Back east. South Carolina. But everyone's worried. Ira went out to pick up some early newspapers.

Gustave nodded in thought and began stirring. Octavia didn't think he had more to say, but after a minute he said, If there is conscription I go to Canada.

She could think of no response, except to wonder where she might find another chef.

Ira came in a little later bearing six morning newspapers. He threw them down on a table. They all have the same news, but there are different opinions. It seems Lincoln will be raising an army and sending troops. Most editors here think he's in the rights to do so. But some don't think the war will last more than a month. Others say it could turn out worse. Who's to say?

She shrugged. At least it can't have much effect on us here in California.

He gave her a long thoughtful look. Who's to say?

Ira Beard left his restaurant at about noon, because he needed to deposit some receipts in a nearby bank. He was careful to keep money in several different banks in case one failed. Of course, if they were all to go down he’d be ruined, but then would everybody else. The war news was making people jittery.

Walking past Portsmouth square he noticed a small crowd gathered, nearly all men. Curious, he went closer. The crowd clustered around two men in uniform, one of them on a soapbox and waving a flag. Ira caught the phrases, Chance to serve your country! Save the Union and abolish slavery! Just step forward!

A recruiting rally already. Beard listened a few moments before moving on. Before returning to La Cuisine, he picked up a copy of The Morning Call. Glancing over it, he found no war news he hadn't heard before. There was however a report of a stage coach robbery near Sonora, with loss of a mine's payroll.  Beard shook his head. War or no, there would always be robbers and cops to chase them.

At the restaurant Octavia noticed him sitting quietly at a table and staring into space, as if thinking. She sat down across from him. Now his eyes refocused from the distant wall onto her face. She said, You are quiet. What do you think about?

He said, I have to go.

She did not need to ask what he meant. You will do what you must.

You know I have always been an abolitionist. A Republican. Slavery is a vile institution that will kill our nation if not destroyed.

She did not argue. When will you go?

I will speak to Colonel Hooker tomorrow. I will ask him for a commission.

She rose from the table. We will close early tonight, I think.

Chapter 2

Colonel Joe Hooker lived in Sonoma, but Ira found him at the San Francisco Palace Hotel, where he was visiting briefly while trying to organize some militia groups. Ira had not met him before, but found he had little trouble getting to see him. The man was imposing in his blue uniform and ramrod straight back, but something about his manner made Ira relax. Not the type to be bound by formalities, he offered Ira a cigar. What can I do for you, Mr. Beard? He looked Ira straight in the eye.

Ira began, Sir, we have not previously met . . .

Hooker interrupted. No, but I know you by reputation. You were one of those bounty hunters who went after Murietta. You may not know it, but I have been to your restaurant, and was favorably impressed. You were lucky to find me here, sir. I mean to return east in a few days. I shall be helping McClellan to train an army. I have accepted commission as brigadier. Now, I ask again. What can I do for you, sir?

Ira cleared his throat. Colonel. Or I should say, General. Congratulations on your promotion, I'd say it's about time. As for myself ... I wish also to be of service, sir. I was  captain in the New York City police force for several years. I served in the Mexican war. I have been in combat, and I believe I can lead men ─

Hooker interrupted him again. And you wish to apply for a commission. Am I correct? If so, I'd consider it. We need all the officers we can get.

Yes sir. I'm not clear about what units are being organized from California, but as I say I'm ready to serve.

Hooker rose from his desk, looking down at Ira as if inspecting his clothes. Then he turned to a filing cabinet. He said, "You mean, what units are being disorganized from California. There are a number of militia units, not under any unified command at present. Some will be going to join the fray in the south, others may remain here. I understand some men will be joining a Massachusetts regiment.  However, it occurs to me there may be a job suited to a man of your unique talents. You might say, an unusual command. This dispatch arrived yesterday from Sacramento." He opened a drawer and took out a thin folder, which he tossed into Ira's lap.

There have been some robberies of late. You may have read of some. Two weeks ago a stagecoach was taken. The other day the Buttercup mine lost its payroll in another stage robbery. The note in that folder was left with the stage driver.

Ira opened the note and read aloud:

"This is to give notice. This seizure of property is not a criminal act, but an act of war. The gold taken from this mine, and other such funds, will be used to finance the just cause of secession of the South. May the Confederacy live forever.

Signed, Col. Beauregard P. Butler, Esq."

Ira looked up at Hooker with a puzzled expression. An act of war, sir? Robbing stage coaches?

Hooker nodded. It's a serious business. Bushwhacking, I call it, war or no. This fellow must be stopped. We need a bounty hunter to hunt him down. He paused a moment, giving Ira a serious stare. If you're willing, I'm ready to offer you a commission in the California Militia as first lieutenant.

Ira didn't have to report for duty for several days, allowing him time to arrange his affairs. Of course he had to purchase his uniform and equipment. The various units in California, such as the City Guard or the Lancers, all wore their own individual styles, some highly stylish, some rather odd. Ira chose a simple blue outfit similar to the one General Hooker wore. Officers were supposed to wear swords, but Ira decided to forego that item. Swords were fine for ceremony, but he didn't think it would be much use in a gunfight. He still had his Walker Colt, and selected a carbine as his long gun. He would need a horse and tack, but chose to wait until he reached the field before dealing with that.

He told Octavia, At least I won't be leaving the West. We probably won't be going any further east than Nevada. We can keep in touch by telegraph.

She was busy polishing a silver tea kettle. She paused long enough to give him a stare. She said, Don't get yourself shot again. I'm tired of nursing you back to health.

He laughed. You mean you're tired of saving my life. I'll try not to get shot. Then his smile disappeared. But you never know.

When he was ready, Ira took a ferry to the army post at Alcatraz Island and reported to a Captain McCurdy, as Hooker had ordered. McCurdy glanced through Ira's papers and handed them back. General Hooker left instructions. I was to get up a squad for your command. A lieutenant usually commands a platoon, but you're going to have to do some recruiting on your own. We're short on staff here as it is. We have plenty of volunteers to join the Union cause, but they're all heading east. I've got twelve men for you, to start with. The Militia will take care of the payroll, up to platoon size. Here, I'll ring for Sergeant Rogers; he'll muster your troops.

And so was created Beard's Patrol. Twelve men lined up in the courtyard for inspection. One sergeant, the rest privates. Ira looked them over with misgivings. Their uniforms, such as they were, could mostly stand some laundering and patching. The men inside them didn't look much better.

Ira let them stand at ease and asked, How many of you men have combat experience? Raise your hand.

The sergeant said, Sir, I served under Hays in the Texas Rangers. Another man, a short fellow with whiskers, raised a hand. I fought the Lakota, sir. No one else raised a hand. Ira pointed to the man with whiskers. Your name, soldier?

Harley, sir.

You're now Corporal Harley. Now you men get your gear packed, we're moving out.

Ira planned to start in Placerville, which was not far from the most recent stage robbery.Getting there proved to be not an easy task. It took a couple of days to get his men off of Alcatraz, and then it was only by hiring a hay scow for transportation to Brisbane in the north bay. There was a regular ferry to San Francisco, but that was not where he wanted to go. Later, he realized he should have taken the ferry and then the long way around