To his chagrin, with his reelection achieved and the California voters having overwhelmingly approved the secession issue, Turner found himself actually in love with Franklin’s original idea and proud of the part he had played in its creation. At service clubs throughout California, he continued to carry the message, as here today in the Woodland Rotary, to the ever-growing number of people who enjoyed the thrill of starting over-and took a certain satisfaction in standing up to Washington and its never-ending bureaucratic rat race.
For over twenty minutes, Senator Turner continued to preach the message he had honed under John Henry Franklin’s subtle tutoring, castigating the federal court system for not listening to the voice of the people, but softening his radical rhetoric with a generous application of his own brand of rural humor. With the audience in the palm of his hand, he wrapped it up by recalling one of Yolo County’s favorite sayings.
“. . and my daddy always said, ‘If it grows anywhere in the world, it can be grown in Yolo County.’”
Dan watched with some amazement as the room again erupted in applause. A large cluster of young men and several older men stood in the back of the room, clapping loudly, as Malcolm Turner remained triumphantly at the lectern. He had reached for his audience, found their pulse, and raised them to a fever pitch. Though Dan found Turner’s proposals outrageous, he was nevertheless in agreement with many of Turner’s historical landmarks. Dan’s own grandfather, Jack Rumsey, had said much the same thing while Dan was growing up, helping his grandfather move sprinkler pipes between the rows of almond trees and tending the ten acres Jack had given him to run as his “business.” The smooth-talking politician was quite right about the plight of the small farmer, but his proposed solution was too radical. Dan viewed the voter approval for secession with alarm. He had understood the political expediency of Turner’s position during the elections, especially with the competition of a younger, articulate, well-financed opponent, but it had surprised Dan as much as anyone to see Turner continue the call after securing his Senate seat. To point out federal abuses and excesses was one thing, but to propose severing ties with the United States was irresponsible, at least to Dan’s way of thinking.
City Manager Roger Dahlgren was seated several tables across from Dan with a contingent of associates, none of whom Dan recognized. They were cheering loudly and encouraging all around them to join in the fracas.
Dan leaned closer to Jim Thompson. “Who are those guys with Roger?”
“Brigade boys, most likely.”
Senator Malcolm Turner stood smiling and waving, accepting the accolades as the audience concluded their applause and again took their seats.
“Gentlemen, it would be my pleasure to entertain questions for the next few minutes. I would ask the reporters who are here to defer to the local members.” Hands shot up throughout the room, and Turner pointed to a man seated at one of the front tables. “Jake Petersen. You’ve been around here for many years, and we’ve served on several committees together. I value your opinion.” Turner smiled. “What’s on your mind?”
Petersen was over seventy and had farmed about four hundred acres northwest of Woodland for as long as anyone could remember. His three sons had opted out for other professions after seeing no profitable future in farming. After the last son went into accounting, Jake had sold his farm to a large corporation and moved into town. He stood slowly, using his cane for leverage.
“Well, Malcolm, I’ll tell ya. We don’t need none of this baloney I’ve been readin’ in the papers about giving Washington a chance. You just need to go back to the president and Congress and tell them to kiss off. We voted to get out, and we’re through with ’em. Just tell the president to get his bleedin’ heart liberal judges out of California and let us get on with our lives. Then, Malcolm,” the old man said, banging his cane on the tiled floor for emphasis, “we need you to get back here and help us form a new nation.” The old man started to sit down and then paused, looking back toward the lectern. “And remember this,” he said, waving his cane, “protect the farmer. They’re the life’s blood of this country. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
The audience erupted, and Senator Turner smiled broadly, initiating the applause for Jake and his popular point of view. Though most of the Rotarians were independent businessmen and corporate managers, their livelihood depended on the prosperity of the Yolo County farmers.
Dan Rawlings looked at Jim Thompson and shook his head. The members and guests continued making comments and asking questions for several minutes, strengthened in their exuberance by the many visitors who came from outside the normal membership of local Woodland businessmen and farmers. Dan could see that Roger’s new visitors had come to the meeting expressly to support Senator Turner’s presentation and to vocally intimidate the crowd and garner support-or at least to stifle any opposition. And from what he could see, none of those Dan knew to be opposed to the secession seemed inclined to voice that opposition, perhaps intimidated by the presence of the overwhelming support evident in the room.
Chapter 8
Woodland, California
Captain Dan Rawlings left the Woodland Rotary luncheon and headed straight for his apartment in Davis, where he changed into his Class “A” dress greens. Driving over the Yolo County Causeway toward the funeral home, the image of Lieutenant McFarland’s bloated, purplish face kept recurring, and Dan’s mood turned somber.
Not since he’d buried his wife had he dredged up the courage to attend another funeral, but Lieutenant McFarland was a brother-in-arms-and more. Dan-in his incarnation as Captain Rawlings-had actually met with McFarland on several occasions and, under General Del Valle’s directive, had been the one to accept the young man’s reports on the status of the Shasta Brigade. To his sorrow, Dan had also been the one to recommend McFarland to General Del Valle as an officer with the suitable temperament to infiltrate the Shasta Brigade.
Dan crossed the Sacramento River and drove east along the northern boundary of Sacramento, beginning the gentle climb into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. He left the freeway at the Roseville exit and turned north toward a golf course he had played on many occasions. About a mile beyond the golf course, he came to the funeral home where McFarland’s service was to be held, pulled into the parking lot and shut off his engine. Seeing the lush, green grounds of the cemetery that surrounded the building, Dan broke into a light sweat, and memories flooded his mind. He had been a witness to Susan’s accident and had since dreamed about it often. Unable to alter its outcome, the scene always unfolded before him the same way, whether awake or asleep.
They had been skiing high in the Sierra Nevada Mountains near Susanville. Just before pushing off, his young wife smiled and winked at him. Then, racing ahead down the mountain through the flat light of an overcast day, Susan plunged into a steep field of tall moguls, her legs acting as powerful pistons, absorbing the impact as she worked her way down, down, down the steep slope. Nearly a world-class skier and fearless on the mountain, she combined both strength and grace in a way that amazed Dan. Not nearly her equal, he followed at a slower pace.
As she continued to work her way through the steep, bumpy run, he pulled to a stop at the top of the field of moguls, admiring his young wife’s fierce attack on the deep ruts and giant mounds.