"Be careful," I warned, "you'll get your feet wet."
We stood on the corner of Montgomery and Commercial Streets, having
carried out our resolution of the day previous to continue our search
for old landmarks. The Bostonian moved uncomfortably under the warmth of
the noonday sun, and glanced down at the dry, glaring pavement; then he
stooped to turn up his trousers.
"All right," he announced, "is it an arroyo or has the hose used in
putting out 'the fire' suddenly burst?"
"Neither. The arroyo was a block further south. It ran down what is now
Sacramento Street, and you ought to know enough about the fire to
realize that we couldn't use our fire hose, because the earthquake broke
the water mains."
"Then there was an earthquake!" He shot an amused glance at me. "You're
the first Californian I've heard acknowledge it."
"Oh yes, there was an earthquake--but it didn't do much damage," I
hastened to add. "Just 'knocked down a few chimneys and rickety
buildings that the city was going to pull down anyway. It was the fire
that destroyed the city."
"So Mother Nature was just favoring 'Frisco by lending a helping hand to
the city officials," he laughed. "Well, you see I'm prepared for the
deluge." He indicated his upturned trousers. "But if it isn't an arroyo--"
"It's the bay," I explained. "It used to touch the shore about where we
are standing, forming a little inlet called Yerba Buena Cove."
"But," objected the man, mentally measuring the distance down the
straight paved street to where the slender shaft-like tower of the Ferry
Building broke the sky line, "it must be seven blocks from here to the
present waterfront, two thousand feet at least."
"Yes, fully that," I agreed. "A large part of the business section of
San Francisco stands on made-land. The water along the shore, here at
Montgomery street, was very shallow, and at the time of the gold rush,
when seven or eight hundred vessels were waiting in the bay to discharge
their freight and passengers, a corporation of energetic Americans built
a long wharf from here to the deep water, where the ships were anchored.
Look down Commercial Street to the Ferry Building and, instead of the
houses on either side, imagine it open to the water. Then you will see
Central Wharf as it was in 'forty-nine.'"
"Central Wharf!" The name had caught his interest.
"Yes, it was called that from the one you have in Bost."
"Bost?" he repeated, mystified. "Bost?"
"Yes, Bost!" I answered. "You called our, city 'Frisco, not five minutes
ago, so why shouldn't I--"
"I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I will never offend in that way
again."
"But the building of the wharves and the filling in of the waterfront
belong to a later time and we are back in Spanish days. When Vancouver
landed he tells us that he cast anchor within a small inlet surrounded
by green hills, on which herds and cattle were grazing. Historians say
that his ship lay about where the Ferry Building now stands and that the
crew put off for the shore in small boats. This place was a waste of
sand-dunes and chaparral but the Englishmen were refreshed by the cool
waters of the arroyo and spent a pleasant morning shooting quail and
grouse."
"Quail, grouse and chaparral," he repeated, as his eyes traveled up and
down the solidly built blocks and rested on the pedestrians hurrying in
and out of the buildings. "Let's take a look at the bed of the arroyo."
We paused at the corner and for a moment watched the car laboriously
climb the Sacramento Street hill and disappear over the crest; then we
turned for another look at the mass of buildings now resting on the
solid ground which had taken the place of the shining waters of Yerba
Buena Cove.
"It was about here," I announced, "that the arroyo opened out into the
Laguna Dulce, a little fresh water pool where Richardson's Indians
delighted to take a cold plunge on leaving their steaming temescal."
"Richardson? Hardly a Spanish name!"
"No, but a Spaniard by naturalization and marriage. He was an Englishman
who had come to the coast in the whaler 'Orion,' and being fascinated by
the country and the carefree Spanish life, had married a lovely little
señorita, the daughter of Lieutenant Martinez, later Comandante of the
Presidio. Richardson settled on a ranch at Sausalito and in 1835, when
Governor Figueroa decided to establish a commercial city on the shore of
Yerba Buena Cove, he appointed as harbor master, this Englishman, who
was already carrying on a small business with the Yankee skippers, and
the future town was made a port of entry for all vessels trading up and
down the coast. Richardson built the first house in the little
settlement of Yerba Buena, afterwards San Francisco."
"Since this is an historic pilgrimage, we must take a look at the spot
where the first house stood. Is it far?"
"Only a few blocks," I assured him. "But we shall have to venture into
the heart of Chinatown."
We made our way up Sacramento Street, where the straight-lined grey
business blocks gave way to fantastic pagoda-like buildings gaily
decorated in green, red, and yellow. Bits of carved ivory, rich lacquer
ware and choice pieces of satsuma and cloisonné appeared in the windows.
In quiet, padded shoes, the sallow-faced, almond-eyed throng shuffled
by, us; here a man with a delicate lavender lining showing below his
blue coat, there a slant-eyed woman with her sleek black hair rolled
over a brilliant jade ornament, leading by the hand a little boy who
looked as if he had stepped out of a picture book with his yellow
trousers and pink coat.
We turned to the right at Grant Avenue, passing a building conspicuous
on account of its elaborately carved balconies hung with yellow lanterns
and ornamented with plants growing in large blue and white china pots.
The Bostonian looked curiously at the Orientals lounging about the door,
then his face brightened as he read the words, "Chop Suey."
"It's a Chinese restaurant," he exclaimed delightedly. "Let's go in for
a cup of tea, as soon as we have taken a look at your historic
landmarks."
On the northwest corner of Grant Avenue and Clay Street, we paused
before a dingy four-story brick building on whose sides were pasted long
strips of red paper ornamented with quaint Chinese characters. I
secretly wished that the building had been designed as a gay pagoda with
bright colored, turned-up eaves like many of those in Chinatown and that
its windows had displayed the choice embroideries and carved ivories of
some of its neighbors, but as we peered through the glass, we saw only
utilitarian articles for the coolie Chinaman.
"Rather a sordid setting for my story," I bemoaned. "The first house in
commercial San Francisco stood here. It was only a sail stretched around
four pine posts, but two years later was replaced by a picturesque,
red-tiled adobe, so commodious that the Spaniards called it the Casa
Grande. I am afraid the building now occupying the spot where the second
house stood will be equally disappointing," I said ruefully, as we
recrossed the street to where a Chinese butcher and vegetable vender was
displaying his wares. We gazed curiously at the dangling pieces of dried
fish, strings of sausage-like meat, unfamiliar vegetables, lichee nuts
and sticks of green sugar cane.
"Somewhat different from the silks, satins and laces displayed on this
spot by Jacob Leese in Spanish days," I reflected. "He was a Bostonian,
who like Richardson had become an adopted son of California and settled
at Yerba Buena for the purpose of trading with the American vessels."
"This must have been a lively business center." The man raised his voice
above the rumble of the wagons and cars. "Two little houses in the midst
of a sea of sand-dunes and no settlement nearer than the Mission."
"Oh, it didn't take the American long to make things hum," I assured
him. "He arrived here on July second. Two days later he had built a
house and was entertaining all the Spaniards from miles around, at a
grand Fourth of July celebration."
"Quick work even for a Yankee," laughed my companion. "But rather hard
on his English neighbor, I should think. Did Richardson attend?"
"Of course he did! Delivered the invitations, too! Leese was busy
building his house, so the Englishman, in his little launch, called at
all the ranchos and settlements about the bay and invited the Spaniards
to come to Yerba Buena for a Fourth of July fandango."
We retraced our steps and a few doors beyond entered the gay, balconied
restaurant, in quest of a cup of tea served in Oriental style. Climbing
the steep stairs, we passed the first floor where laborers were being
served with steaming bowls of rice; then mounted to the more
aristocratic level where we were seated at elaborately carved teakwood
tables, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. While waiting for our tea, we
stepped onto the balcony which we had regarded with so much interest
from the street. Above us hung the gorgeous lanterns, swaying like
bright bubbles in the breeze, and below moved the silent blue-coated
throng.
"So there was a Fourth of July celebration here even in Spanish times?"
said the man. "Somewhat prophetic of the American days to come, wasn't
it?"
We caught a glint of color in the street and leaned far over the balcony
to watch a violet-coated Chinese girl thread her way among the sombre
crowd.
"It must have been just below us that the early festivities were held,"
I suggested. "Leese's house was not large enough to accommodate his
guests, so a big marquee surmounted by Mexican and American flags, and
gaily decorated with bunting, was spread about where the street now
runs. Can't you picture it all? The dainty little señoritas in their
silk and satin gowns, with filmy mantillas thrown over their heads and
shoulders, and the men not less gorgeous in lace-trimmed velvet suits
and elaborate serapes. I can almost hear the applause and the booming of
the cannon that followed General Vallejo's glowing tribute to
Washington, and see the graceful Spanish dancers as they assembled for
the evening ball. It was doubtless at this time that Leese met General
Vallejo's fascinating sister, whom he married after a short and
business-like courtship."
"Short, and she a Californian?" He sent me an amused glance.
"Perhaps Leese thought delay dangerous," I suggested, "for Señorita
María Rosalia was one of the belles of the new military outpost at
Sonomá and more than one gaily clad caballero was suing for her hand."
"No wonder the American pushed the matter," laughed my companion. "Did
many Boston men marry Spanish Señoritas?"
"Nearly all who came to the Coast," I answered. "The California women
were among the most fascinating in the world and held a peculiar charm
for these sturdy New Englanders."
"I can understand that," he said, bending for a better look at my face.
"But what could the dainty señoritas see in these crude; raw-boned
Yankees?"
"Just what any woman would see," I declared. "Men of sterling character,
working against terrible odds, with that courage which does not know the
word failure. They saw men of perseverance, energy and brains who were
bringing into the country the indomitable spirit of New England."
"I am glad you have a good word for the early Yankees," he said, "and I
wish your enthusiasm extended to a later generation."
He turned toward me and I felt the telltale color sweep my cheeks as I
became conscious that I was thinking less of Leese and his compatriots
than of the Bostonian at my side.
"It wasn't the New England spirit," he declared, "that gave these early
settlers the strength and determination to succeed. It was the women who
had faith in them. A man can accomplish anything if the woman he loves--
" My companion had moved close to my side, and his voice was low as he
bent over me. "Little girl," he began, "last year in Boston when you
came into my life--"
The harsh jangle of a Chinese orchestra broke the dull murmur of the
street and in an instant the little balcony was crowded with gazers
eager to catch a glimpse of the musicians through the windows opposite.
My companion and I moved aside for the new corners and turned again
toward the interior. Through the open door we could see the waiter
placing steaming cups of tea upon the table we had deserted, and
re-entering the room, we seated ourselves in the big carved arm-chairs.
Sipping the delicious beverage, we glanced toward the other tables,
where groups of Chinamen were talking in a curious jargon and
dexterously handling the thin ebony chop-sticks. On the wide
matting-covered couches extending along the sidewalls, lounged
sallow-faced Orientals, while in and out among the diners noiselessly
moved the waiters, balancing on their heads, large brown straw trays.
Snowy rice cakes, shreds of candied cocoanut, preserved ginger and brown
paper-shell nuts with the usual Chinese eating utensils were placed
before us. We tried the slender chop-sticks with laughable failure and
then, declaring that fingers were made first, we had no further trouble.
We took a farewell look at the gilt carved screens and long banners,
which in quaint Chinese characters wished us health and happiness. Then
following our smiling attendant to the door, we were bowed down the
stairway. A Chinaman leaned over the railing and called the amount of
our bill to the attendant on the second floor, who like an echo took it
up and sent it on to the main entrance, where we settled our account.
Again on the sidewalk, we mingled with the Oriental throng whose
expressionless yellow faces gave no hint of joy or sorrow. At the corner
we turned east and made our way toward Portsmouth Square. I paused and
let my eyes run over my companion, from his emaculate linen collar to
his well-polished shoes.
"You'll look sadly out of place here," I warned. "No artist would ever
take such a well-groomed person for a model, nor would you be suspected
of belonging to the great army of the unemployed."
"Are they the only classes allowed? Then I speak now for the purchasing
right of your portrait."
"Oh, I'll pose very well as the 'Amelican' teacher of those little
Chinese butterflies fluttering after that kite. Aren't they attractive
in their lavender, pink, and blue sahms?" I said, as we seated ourselves
on the bench.
"To be honest, to be kind, to earn a little, to spend a little less,'"
he read from the face of the fountain standing against a clump of trees
whose soft foliage drooped caressingly over it. "Why, that's from
Stevenson's Christmas sermon. Look at that unappreciative brute! He
drank without reading a word!" exclaimed the man indignantly.
"Yes, but he feels the better for coming here. He received the
refreshment most needed and that is what Stevenson would have wished.
Some other may need and will receive the spiritual help."
"Why is it here?" he asked.
"Because Stevenson loved this place and came often to sit on the benches
and study the wrecked and drifting lives of the men who lounged in the
square."
"And the gilded ship on top with its full blown sails--that must
suggest his Treasure Island, doesn't it?"
"Yes, and also the Manila Galleon, that splendid treasure-ship ladened
with silk, wax and spices from the Philippines and China, which once
each year made its landfall near Cape Mendocino and followed the line of
the coast down to Mexico."
He leaned with arm outstretched along the back of the bench and surveyed
the park.
"This, you said, was the old Spanish Plaza. What was here then?"
"At first just a sweep of tawny sand-dunes, surrounded by scrub oak and
chaparral." I dropped my eyes to the gravel walk, that I might shut out
the emerald green lawns, and flowering shrubs. "Over the shifting
hillocks wandered a little minty vine bearing a delicate white and
lavender flower not unlike your trailing arbutus. It was from the
medicinal qualities of this plant that the little settlement was named
Yerba Buena, the good herb. Over there on the northwest corner where
that dingy Chinese restaurant now floats the flag of Chop Suey stood the
old adobe Custom House, the first building erected on the Plaza, and it
was in front of this that the Stars and Stripes were run up when General
Montgomery, who had arrived in the sloop-of-war Portsmouth, took
possession in the name of the United States."
"So that is where the square got its name--from the ship 'Portsmouth?'"
His voice rang with the joy of discovery.
"Yes, but the new name never completely replaced the old. We love the
terms which come to us from Spanish days, and so, to many of us, this is
still the Plaza."
"I presume there was a great outcry when Montgomery pulled down the
Mexican flag and ran up the American. But I understand the country was
helpless."
"Yes, it was poorly fortified, and the Californians had known for some
time that Mexico was losing its hold, so the event was not unexpected.
But there was no flag to pull down for the receiver of customs,
realizing that resistance was useless, had packed the Mexican flag in a
trunk with his official papers for safe keeping, so without opposition
General Montgomery marched with seventy men accompanied by fife and drum
from the waterfront to the Plaza, and raised the Stars and Stripes on
the vacant flag pole. Thus the country came into the possession of the
Americans and our historic pilgrimage is at an end," I concluded,
rising.
But my companion seemed loath to leave the place. We sauntered by
dark-eyed Italian girls lolling on the benches, shaggy bearded old
sailors, whose scarred faces told of fierce battles with the elements,
and stopped to examine the plaster casts presented for our inspection by
a weary-eyed street vender. At a distance, a laughing gypsy girl in a
white waist and much beruffled red plaid skirt was enticing the crowd to
cross her hand with silver that she might tell their fortunes.
"What need have we for gypsies?" he demanded pulling me down on a bench.
"I'll, read your palm."
"Can you tell fortunes?" I questioned as I drew off my glove.
"I can tell yours," he declared straightening out my fingers in his big
strong hand, and examining the lines.
"He's a tall dark man, wearing glasses--"
Instinctively I looked up into the uncovered brown eyes, then dropped
mine in confusion as I met his laughing gaze.
"Only when he reads," added the Bostonian, holding on to my fingers, as
I tried to withdraw my hand.
An angry voice broke the silence and we sprang to our feet to see an old
man shaking his fist in the face of a young Irish policeman.
"You let me alone!" he shouted. "You let me alone!"
For a moment the officer hesitated. Then he seized the old man by the
collar. "Come along quietly! There ain't no use making a howl. There's a
vagrancy law in this city and I'll show you it ain't to be sniffed at.
I've been watching you ever since I've been on this beat and you ain't
done nothing but sit around this Plaza."
"And ain't I a right to sit 'round this Plaza?" The man pulled himself
free and again defied the officer of the law with a clenched fist.
"Didn't I help make it? When you were playing with a rattle in your crib
over in Dublin, I was a-stringing up a man to the eaves of the old
Custom House over there on the corner. And now you try to arrest me--me
a Vigilante of '51--" His fury choked him, and with a quick turn of the
hand, the officer again had him by the collar. But the old man wrenched
himself loose.
"You keep your hands off me." He raised his angry voice in warning. Then
drawing a bundle of papers from his pocket he thrust them into the
officer's face. "Look at that--and that--and that--biggest business
blocks in San Francisco. If I choose to wear a loose shirt and sit
'round the Plaza it isn't any business of yours. In the good old days of
forty-nine--"
I touched the Bostonian on the arm. "Let's go to the Exposition," I
suggested. "We've seen everything here."
"There's no need to hurry! We've all the afternoon before us." He edged
a little closer to the old man, about whom a crowd was gathering.
"In the good old days of forty-nine," rang out again and I glanced
nervously at my companion. "We didn't have any dipper-dapper policemen
making mistakes." He snapped his fingers in the officer's face. "We had
good red-shirted miners who knew their business."
The policeman moved uneasily and handed back the papers. "I guess
they're all right," he acknowledged. "The law doesn't seem to touch
you."
"Touch me! Well, I guess not!" The officer moved off and the old man
returned to his bench. Before I realized my companion's intention, we
were seated beside the miner. He was still muttering maledictions on the
head of the Irish policeman.
"The scoundrel!" He dug his stick into the gravel path. "Had the nerve
to arrest me! Me, who strung up Jenkins in the first Vigilante
Committee, and Casey and Cora in the second."
"You must have come here in early days," remarked the Bostonian.
"Early days," echoed the miner, "well, I guess I did. I'm a
forty-niner." He straightened himself proudly and looked to see the
effect of his words.
"I think we had better go." Again I touched the Antiquary's arm but he
gave no heed to my signal.
"There must have been some stirring times here in the days of the gold
rush."
"You bet there were," agreed the forty-niner, "and the entire history of
San Francisco was made around this Plaza. Here were built the first
hotel, the first school-house, the first bank; within a stone's throw
the first Protestant sermon was preached, the first newspaper was
printed and the first post office was opened. It was through the Plaza
that Sam Brannan ran with a bottle of yellow dust in one hand, waving
his hat with the other and shouting, 'Gold! gold! from the American
River!' It was here that the big gambling houses sprang up, where
fortunes were made and lost in a night, and here the first Vigilance
Committee met and executed justice." The old man paused for breath.
I was on the edge of the bench ready for flight. All my good work of the
last two days was rapidly being undermined. I heard again the skeptic's
contemptuous tone of yesterday. "It's either before the fire" or "in the
good old days of forty-nine."
"We--we must go," I stammered, "it's getting very late." The Bostonian
looked at his watch. "Not three o'clock yet." He leaned back
comfortably. "You ought to be interested in this. Your grandfather was a
forty-niner."
I looked at him searchingly. I ought to be interested! I, who cherished
every memory of pioneer days! I, who had bitten my lips a dozen times
that afternoon, and was glorying in the tact and strength of mind which
had avoided this period of our history!
The miner, apparently aware of my presence for the first time, sent me a
piercing glance from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. "So your grandfather--"
"He wasn't exactly a forty-niner," I acknowledged. "He arrived outside
the Heads the night of December thirty-first but there was a heavy fog
and the vessel didn't get inside until the next morning."
"Hard luck," sympathized the old man, "coming near to being a
forty-niner and missing it."
"But it's practically the same thing," persisted the Bostonian. "Only a
few hours."
"The same thing!" scornfully repeated the miner. "There's as much
difference as between Christmas and Fourth of July. A forty-niner's a
forty-niner, and a man that came in fifty--well, he might as well have
come in sixty or seventy, or even in the twentieth century. It's the
forty-niner that counts in this community." He drew himself up proudly.
Then plunging his hand deep into his pocket, drew out a nugget.
"Picked that up off my first claim," he explained, "but the dirt didn't
pan out so well. I've carried it in my pocket all these years, just for
the sentiment of the thing, I suppose. Many a time I was tempted to
throw it on a table in the El Dorado, but I hung on to it."
"The El Dorado?" questioned the Easterner.
"Yes, one of the big gambling places here on the Plaza. Everybody took a
chance in those days, even some of the preachers. You met all your
friends there, and heard the best music and the latest news."
"Did they gamble with nuggets?" my companion led the old man on.
"Well, I guess they did! and gold dust in piles. The few children in
town used to pan out the dirt of the Plaza in front of the Temples of
Chance every morning after the places were swept out. The Californians
put up parts of their ranchos, too, sometimes."
"How high did the stakes run?" Evidently this descendant of the Pilgrims
had not lost all the sporting blood of his earlier English ancestors.
"Often as high as five hundred or a thousand dollars. The largest stake
I ever saw change hands was forty-five thousand. Many a miner went back
to the placers in the spring without a dollar in his pockets. But
everybody was doing it and you could almost count the nationalities in
the crowd around the table by the kinds of coins in the stacks. There
were French francs, English crowns, East Indian rupees, Spanish pesos
and United States dollars. The dress was as different as the money. We
miners wore red and blue shirts, slouch hats and wide belts to carry our
dust. The Californians were gorgeous in coats trimmed in gold lace,
short pantaloons and high deer-skin boots, and the Chinese ran a close
second in their colored brocaded silks. You knew the professional
gamblers by their long black coats and white linen--real gentlemen, many
of 'em and the most honest in the country.
"Ever see a picture of the Plaza in forty-nine," he asked abruptly.
"Never."
The miner drew a square on the gravel path with his stick. "The El
Dorado was here, the Veranda here and the Bella Union here," he said,
punching holes on the three corners of Kearny and Washington. "They were
the finest and they had the best locations in town. The El Dorado paid
forty thousand dollars a year for a tent and twenty-five thousand a
month for a building on the same site later." The end of his stick
deepened the hole on the southeast corner.
My eyes wandered from the plan to the real location. "Why, there is the
name 'Veranda' over there now," I exclaimed as the black letters on a
white awning caught my eye.
"Yes, it is pretty near the old site, but it's a poor substitute for its
predecessor," he added scornfully. "There was great style in those days
--fine bars, lots of glass and mirrors and pictures worth thousands of
dollars. The doors were always open from eleven in the morning 'til
daylight the next morning, and a steady stream of people were pouring in
and out all the time. Everybody was there. There weren't no special
inducement to stay home nights, when your residence was a bunk on the
wall of a shanty and the fellers over you and under you and across the
room weren't even acquaintances. I got a pretty good room after awhile
in the Parker House"--he drew a small oblong south of the El Dorado--
"for a hundred dollars a week, but I didn't stay long."
"I should think not--at that price."
"Oh, it wasn't the price. One of my friends paid two hundred and fifty.
But you see it got pretty warm at the Parker House, that Christmas eve,
and so we all moved. They cleared away the hot ashes of the hotel and
built the Jenny Lind Theatre on the spot. That was the first big fire.
We had them right along after that, every few weeks. Six big ones in
eighteen months, with lots' of little ones in between."
"Then the last fire wasn't a new experience for you," the Bostonian
suggested.
"Lord, no! Rebuilding was a habit with us early San Franciscans. We
didn't begin to feel sorry for a man 'til he'd lost everything he owned
three times. The Jenny Lind Theatre went down six times and the seventh
building was sold for the City Hall. It stood right there"--he pointed
to the handsome new Hall of Justice--"until it went up in the last
fire."
"You are sure it wasn't the earthquake that finished it?" inquired the
skeptic.
"Certainly not," I flared. "The Relief Committee met there that morning
to lay their plans while the fires were raging south of Market Street."
He acknowledged defeat by changing the subject. "Was the old Spanish
Custom House here?" he asked, pointing to the western side of the
diagram.
"Yes," assented the miner, and he traced an oblong on the northern end,
"and just behind it, on Washington Street, was Sam Brannan's house. He
was the Mormon leader, you know, and brought a shipload of his followers
to establish a settlement in forty-six. He published our first
newspaper, the 'California Star,' in his house."
"Was it where that little green Chinese building with the bracketed
columns and turned-up eaves is?" I interposed.
"The telephone exchange, you mean? Exact spot. They used to ring a hand
bell in the Plaza on Sunday mornings to call the Mormons to hear Brannan
preach in the Casa Grande."
"Richardson's house!" My companion sent me an appreciative glance.
"Sure, but that was before most of 'em, including Sam, went back on
their faith. Next to the Custom House on the south," he continued, "was
the Public Institute. It wasn't much to look at--just pine boards--but
it was considerable useful. They held the Public School there and had
preaching on Sundays 'til the teacher, the preacher and all the audience
went off to the mines. They tried the Hounds there, too."
"The Hounds?" my friend looked dazed.
"Yes, the Sidney Coves that lived in Sidneyville, along there on Kearny
near Pacific." Light had failed to dawn.
"Here on the corner of Kearny," continued the Forty-niner, "was an old
adobe building with a red-tiled roof and a veranda around it."
"The City Hotel!" I exclaimed delightedly.
"How did you know?" He eyed me curiously.
"My grandfather was a near-forty-niner," I reminded him.
"Oh yes. Too bad! Too bad!" he added sympathetically. "It was the house
and store of a fellow named Leidesdorff," he continued, "who did a lot
of trading with the Yankee skippers in Mexican days, and it was turned
into a hotel in the gold rush. It was always the swell place for
blowouts. They had a big banquet and ball there for Governor Stockton,
I'm told, after the procession and speeches in the Plaza, and another
the next year for Governor Kearny; the first Relief Committee met here,
called by Brannan, Howard and Vallejo, to send rescuers to the Sierras
for the survivors of the Donner Party. There wasn't much of any
importance in the way of gathering that didn't happen there."
We instinctively looked across at the square, three-story, pressed-brick
home of the Chinese Consulate and bank.
"Every big fire took at least one side of the Plaza, and the sixth, in
June of fifty-one, wiped out the whole square. That adobe was the last
link between the Spanish village of Yerba Buena and its American
successor, San Francisco," he regretted, "but it was a good thing for
the city, for they began to build with stone and brick after that. Did
you see the Parrott Building, as you came along, on California and
Montgomery?" he asked.
The Easterner turned to me. "You didn't show me that," he said,
reprovingly.
"No, why should I? It wasn't built until fifty-two."
He ignored my insinuation and turned back to his informer. "What about
the Parrott Building? It sounds like an aviary."
"Not exactly," he smiled. "It was made of granite blocks, cut and
dressed and marked in China and then shipped over and set up by the
'China Boys,' as the Orientals here called themselves."
"It's a curious coincidence," I ventured, "that the Hong Kong Bank now
occupies the lower floor. What a freak of the winds it was that swept
the big fire around that and the Montgomery block, and left them both
for posterity!"
"Your fire seemed to have had a special veneration for historic
structures," the Easterner commented. "It respected the Mission in like
manner."
"Yes, somewhat," returned the miner, "but it might have had a little
more respect and spared the Tehama House and the What Cheer House. I
hated to see them go."
"And the Niantic Hotel and Fort Gunnybags," I added.
"Here! Here! I rise for a point of information," cried the alien. "Did
the cheer inebriate and what is the technical difference between
gunny-sacks and carpet bags?"
"Oh, that was our Vigilance Headquarters of fifty-six, where we hung
Casey and Cora," elucidated the Forty-niner.
"Help," gasped the Bostonian, sinking upon the bench.
"Tell him," I nodded to the miner.
"The Tehama House, on the waterfront at California and Sansome, was the
swell hotel for army and navy people and all the Spanish rancheros when
they came to town. You couldn't keep even your thoughts to yourself in
that house, for it had thin board sidings and cloth and paper
partitions, but it had lots of style, and Rafael set a great table. They
moved it over to Montgomery and Broadway to make room for the Bank of
California, and the fire caught it there. The What Cheer House," the old
man's eyes brightened, "was on Sacramento and Leidesdorff, and that's
where we miners went, if we could get in. Woodward was a queer chap.
Took you in whether you could pay or not. But it was only a man's hotel.
There wasn't a woman allowed about the place. He had the only library in
town and everybody was welcome to use it. I've often seen Mark Twain and
Bret Harte reading at the table."
"And the sacks?" queried the Bostonian.
But the old man had leaned back on the bench and his eyes wandered over
the green grass and trees of the square. "It's much prettier than it
used to be," he admitted, "but nothing happens here now. The Chinese
children fly kites and the unemployed loaf on the benches and the grass,
and I'm one of them. I wish you could have seen it in the early days."
His eyes kindled with excitement. "It was only a barren hillside, but
there was always something doing then. All the town meetings were held
here in the open air and all the parades ended here for the speeches.
The biggest celebration was in 1850, when the October steamer, flying
all her flags, brought the news that California was admitted to the
Union. We went wild, for we had waited for that word for more than a
year. Every ship in the harbor displayed all her bunting and at night
every house was as brilliant as candles and coal oil could make it.
Bonfires blazed on all the hills and the islands and we had music and
dancing all over the town 'til morning."
He paused in reminiscence. "But it wasn't so gay that moonlight night,
the next February, when we hung Jenkins. He was a Sidney Cove and had
just stole a safe, but that was the least of his crimes and of the whole
gang. When we Vigilantes heard the taps on the firebell here in the
Plaza, we gathered in front of the committee rooms. Nobody was excited;
we just had to drive out the Sidney Coves and put an end to crime. We
marched Jenkins here and hung him over there to the beam on the south
end of the Custom House. Forty of us pulled on the rope, while a
thousand more stood 'round as solemn as a prayer meeting to give us
moral support and shoulder the responsibility. It wasn't no joke hanging
a man, but it had to be done, if decent men was to live here."
He shook off his depression. "Everybody was in the Plaza sometime in the
day, and once a month when Telegraph Hill signaled a steamer, everybody
was here."
"Telegraph Hill? I never heard of it," he cast an accusing glance in my
direction.
"It belongs to forty-nine," I retorted.
"All the shops closed immediately," continued the miner, "and Postmaster
Geary was the most important man in town. The post-office was a block up
the hill at Clay and Pike Streets, but the lines from the windows
stretched down into the Plaza, and over among the tents and chaparral on
California Street Hill. Men stood for hours, sometimes all night, in the
pouring rain, and many a time I sold my place for ten dollars, and even
twenty, to some fellow who had less patience or less time than I.
"But you should have been here on election day in fifty-one." The miner
threw back his head and laughed aloud. "Colonel Jack Hays was running
for sheriff," he resumed, "and his opponent hired a band to play in
front of his store here on the Plaza as an advertisement. It worked
fine! He was polling all the votes and the Colonel was about out of the
running, 'til he got on his horse that he'd used on the Texas ranges and
came cavorting into the square. He showed 'em some fancy turns they
weren't used to and kept it up 'til the polls closed."
"Did he win?" I asked excitedly.
"Well, I guess he did! Hands down. But a sheriff ain't no use when the
laws won't stick. That's why we had to have the Vigilance Committees."
I arose. That was a long story and the afternoon was fast going. My
companion took the hint. He extended his hand and grasped the old
miner's heartily.
"I thank you," he said, "you have opened up a new epoch to me and I
shall not soon forget you. I shall come again and the place will have
lost much of its interest if you are not here."
"Oh, I'll be here," laughed the old fellow. "It's home to me."