Authors: H.W. Brands
The other topic of sustained debate was the boundary of California, in particular the eastern boundary. The western boundary was as undeniable as oceans generally are. The northern border—the 42nd parallel, separating California from Oregon—had been fixed by treaty with Spain in 1819. The southern border was the frontier with Mexico, as of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. But the eastern border was undetermined. Conceivably it might lie as far east as the western border of Texas, which itself was subject to dispute. It certainly was no farther west than the summit of the Sierras. Congress hadn’t spoken in the matter; consequently the California convention felt compelled to do so.
Several considerations informed the discussion. Slavery was one, which reentered the convention hall through the back door of the boundary debate. Some of the southerners fantasized about dividing California, sooner or later, along the 36° 30′ line of the Missouri Compromise, with slavery being allowed south of the line. Such an outcome presumably would result more readily if California were larger rather than smaller; hence this group wanted a more easterly border. On the other hand, if the north-south division did
not
occur, then a generous eastern border would serve only to lock slavery out of a larger region. This was precisely the hope of the more ardent antislavery men at the convention: better to settle the slavery question here and now for the entire region taken from Mexico. Yet an overly ambitious boundary might stir up the pro-slavery forces in Congress, the body that would have to approve any California constitution. Finally, the presence of some thirty thousand Mormons around the Great Salt Lake complicated jurisdictional questions. The Mormons hadn’t sent any delegates to the Monterey convention, nor been asked to send any. How could the Monterey convention presume to speak for them? For that matter, did it
want
to speak for them? Mormons were hardly the most popular people in North America, as their unfortunate and turbulent history demonstrated. Many in California wished nothing to do with them.
The delegates probed all aspects of the issue, declaiming on the merits of this line or that, even as they understood that their projections regarding the consequences of alternative boundaries were merely guesses. Sarcasm
(Why not make the boundary the Mississippi River? asked one opponent of the more grandiose schemes. For that matter, why not include Cuba?) mingled with seriousness; pragmatism (Whatever we decide, Congress will have the final say) contested with principle. Ultimately the convention accepted what became the modern boundary of the state: the 120th meridian south from the 42nd parallel to the 39th, thence southeast to the Colorado River, thence to the Mexican border.
Minor issues consumed less time but hardly less emotion. Whether and how much the delegates ought to be paid for their efforts was one sore point. Some patriots volunteered to work for free, but others noted that time devoted to the public weal was time taken from private profit. The convention settled on a per diem allowance of $16 per day, and $16 per 20 miles traveled to and from Monterey. Several members proposed to ban state-run lotteries. An astonished Roman Price, a retired U.S. naval officer and a delegate from San Francisco, thought this the height of absurdity, considering Californians’ passion for all other sorts of gambling. “The people of California are essentially a gambling people,” he declared. Henry W. Halleck, representing Monterey, retorted, “We may be a gambling community, but let us not in this constitution create a gambling state.” The lottery ban survived. A proposal to disfranchise duelists led to a sharp exchange that almost culminated in demands for satisfaction; evidently convinced of the need, the delegates adopted the measure. Various members expressed what another lampooned as a “holy horror of banking”; the antibank faction tried to prohibit the chartering of banks entirely, but other delegates succeeded in softening the ban to allow “associations” for the deposit of gold and silver—which associations, however, could not issue banknotes or anything else that might circulate as money. A proposal to permit women to keep control of their property upon marrying led to discussion of the relative merits of the common-law and civil-law traditions. “I am not wedded either to the common law or the civil law,” observed Halleck, “nor, as yet, to a woman; but having some hopes that some time or other I may be wedded, and wishing to avoid the fate of my friend from San Francisco [a crotchety old misogynist], I shall advocate this section
in the constitution, and I would call upon all the bachelors in this convention to vote for it.” Enough did to win the measure’s approval.
T
HE DELEGATES BROUGHT
their work to a close on October 12, six weeks after the convention began. That night was devoted to a grand ball hosted by the people of Monterey (but paid for by contributions of $25 each from the delegates). Bayard Taylor described the celebration:
The hall was cleared of the forum and tables and decorated with young pines from the forest. At each end were the American colors, tastefully disposed across the boughs. Three chandeliers, neither of bronze nor cut-glass, but neat and brilliant withal, poured their light on the festivities. At eight o’clock—the fashionable ball-hour in Monterey—the guests began to assemble, and in an hour afterward the hall was crowded with nearly all the Californian and American residents. There were sixty or seventy ladies present, and an equal number of gentlemen, in addition to the members of the convention. The dark-eyed daughters of Monterey, Los Angeles and Santa Barbara mingled in pleasing contrast with the fairer bloom of the trans-Nevadian belles. The variety of feature and complexion was fully equalled by the variety of dress. In the whirl of the waltz, a plain, dark, nun-like robe would be followed by one of pink satin and gauze; next, perhaps, a bodice of scarlet velvet with gold buttons, and then a rich figured brocade, such as one sees on the stately dames of Titian.
The dresses of the gentlemen showed considerable variety, but were much less picturesque. A complete ball-dress was a happiness attained only by the fortunate few. White kids [kid gloves] could not be had in Monterey for love or money, and as much as $50 was paid by one gentleman for a pair of patent-leather boots. Scarcely a single dress that was seen belonged entirely to its wearer, and I thought, if the clothes had power to leap severally back to their respective
owners, some persons would have been in a state of utter destitution….
Gen. Riley was there in full uniform, with the yellow sash he won at Contreras; Majors Canby, Hill and Smith, Captains Burton and Kane, and the others stationed in Monterey, accompanying him. In one group might be seen Captain Sutter’s soldierly mustache and clear blue eye; in another, the erect figure and quiet, dignified bearing of Gen. Vallejo. Don Pablo de la Guerra, with his handsome, aristocratic features, was the floor manager, and gallantly discharged his office. Conspicuous among the native members were Don Miguel de Pedrorena and Jacinto Rodriguez, both polished gentlemen and deservedly popular. Dominguez, the Indian member, took no part in the dance, but evidently enjoyed the scene as much as anyone present.
The dancing lasted till midnight, when dinner was served. The guests feasted on turkey, roast pig, beef, tongue, and paté, washed down with assorted wines, liquors, and coffee. The dancing thereupon resumed, and continued till dawn.
After a few hours’ sleep, the delegates regathered to sign the constitution. One by one they affixed their names to the document. At the appropriate moment, the guns at the fort of Monterey boomed a salute to the delegates and to the new constitution—thirty-one times, for the thirty-first state.
John Sutter may still have been merry from the night before, but the symbolism and significance of the moment overwhelmed him. “All the native enthusiasm of Capt. Sutter’s Swiss blood was aroused,” Taylor recorded. “He was the old soldier again. He sprang from his seat, and, waving his hand around his head, as if swinging a sword, exclaimed: ‘Gentlemen, this is the happiest day of my life! It makes me glad to hear those cannon: they remind me of the time when I was a soldier. Yes, I am glad to hear them—this is a great day for California!’ Then, recollecting himself, he sat down, the tears streaming from his eyes.”
To Sutter was accorded the honor of leading the delegates to the quarters of Governor Riley. “General,” Sutter declared, “I have been appointed by the delegates elected by the people of California to form a Constitution, to address you in their names and in behalf of the whole people of California, and express the thanks of the Convention for the aid and cooperation they have received from you in the discharge of the responsible duty of creating a State Government.”
To which Riley replied, “Gentlemen, I congratulate you upon the successful conclusion of your arduous labors, and I wish you all happiness and prosperity.”
To carry the new constitution east to Washington, Californians chose John Frémont. The master of the Mariposa was California’s leading citizen—which said as much about California as about him. Whether many of those who voted for the state legislature specified under the Monterey constitution recalled Frémont’s arrest for mutiny in California and his subsequent court-martial is unclear; nearly all those voters were far from California at the time and next to none had ever dreamed of going there. If they did remember Frémont’s clash with the army and the president, they apparently were more impressed with his role in exploring the West and conquering California. Those who didn’t remember or never knew could simply admire the enormous wealth that was pouring from Frémont’s part of the Mother Lode into the Pathfinder’s pockets. By this measure alone, Frémont was the embodiment of success in Gold Rush California; and when the new legislature met, it was proud to select Colonel Frémont to be California’s first senator.
Yet Frémont’s election was as much Jessie’s doing as his own. John Frémont was elected senator not only for his wealth and fame, but also for his opposition to slavery. And his opposition to slavery, while principled enough, had become an article of his political faith primarily at the insistence of his wife. This was somewhat surprising, given that Missouri, the
home of the Bentons, was a slave state (as all those overlanders noticed). But the Benton household rejected slavery. Jessie’s mother set the tone on the issue. As Jessie recalled, her mother “gave freedom to her slaves because of her conscientious feeling on the subject.” Elizabeth Benton’s conscience in turn dictated the actions of Thomas Benton. “While he did not share these ideas from the same religious and logical thoughts that made them obligatory on my mother, he yet made it thoroughly easy for her to carry out her feelings.” Twice the Bentons turned down large inheritances because they came encumbered by slaves. Whatever John Frémont’s original feelings on slavery, he discovered at the time of courting Jessie that there would be no slaves in her household.
Jessie’s California acquaintances learned the same thing in Monterey. No wages could persuade any of the few American women in the area to do the Frémont wash, so Jessie tried to get some Indian women to take on the task. They agreed, but followed their own custom of beating the dirty clothes between flat stones in a stream, employing as soap a native plant called amole. “Everything looked very white and smelled fresh, but they had been merely washed and dried; there was no starching, no ironing, and a very distorted-looking lot of garments they were,” Jessie recalled. The Indians had never heard of pressing clothes and, upon having the concept explained, wondered why on earth anyone would go to the trouble. They certainly wouldn’t and, saying so, departed. Jessie had just about resigned herself to becoming the family’s laundress when a neighbor from one of the southern states loaned her a black woman servant to do the job. Jessie’s initial delight evaporated when the lender insisted that the Frémonts purchase the woman, a slave. “We gave her up,” Jessie wrote. “It required no thinking or effort to make this decision; it was simply following out the habit of mind which came from my education and the example shown me at home.”
The daughter of the distinguished senator, the wife of the famous explorer and soldier, was always in the public eye in California, and this decision increased the scrutiny. Jessie determined to demonstrate that even on this frontier, where good help really
was
hard to find, one could maintain a respectable household without bound labor. “Everyone knows the
important part of a good dinner in diplomacy,” she recounted. “The great Napoleon knew and acted on this.” So did Jessie Frémont. The public eating houses in Monterey were expensive and of notoriously poor quality; Jessie made a point of hosting dinners for the delegates. She and two Indian men—who worked for wages—set a hearty and festive board, served on the best Frémont china (“I had to get used to Juan and Gregorio breaking a great deal of this”). “Our house and table were open, after the hospitable fashion of a new country, to all who had been, or would like to be, friends, and they saw for themselves that it was quite possible for the most cheerful hospitality to exist without the usual working forces.” She recalled one fence-sitter making up his mind: “All these women here are crying out to have ‘suv-vents’—but if you, a Virginia lady [Jessie didn’t bother to correct him], can get along without, they shan’t have them—we’ll keep clear of slave labor.”
In another sense as well, the Frémonts were considered a test case regarding slavery. The Mariposa mines seemed suited to slave labor if anything in California was. Advocates of slavery told John that his labor troubles—this at a moment when the Sonoran miners were about to go home, and no replacements had been found—would end if he could simply
purchase
replacements. But Jessie wouldn’t hear of it, and neither would he.
As a result of their opposition to slavery, the Frémont household in Monterey became a meeting place for the antislavery men of the constitutional convention—which was another reason Jessie placed such store in setting a good table. And when the convention decided against slavery, John became a leading candidate for one of the state’s two Senate seats.