The clocks of San Francisco are striking the hour of ten. The moon has
risen over Monte Diablo, and sends her soft mellow beams across the
waters of the bay, imparting to their placid surface a sheen as of
silver. The forms of the ships at anchor are reflected as from a
mirror; their hulls, with every spar, stay, and brace, even to the most
delicate rope of their rigging, having a duplicated representative in
the fictitious counterfeit beneath. On none is there any canvas spread;
and the unfurled flags do not display their fields, but hang motionless
along masts, or droop dead down over taffrails.
Stillness, almost complete, reigns throughout; scarce a sound proceeding
either from the ships inshore, or those out in the offing; not even the
rattle of a chain dropping or weighing anchor, the chant of a
night-watch at the windlass, or the song of jovial tar entertaining his
messmates as they sit squatted around the forecastle stair.
Unusual this silence at such an early hour, though easily accounted for.
That there are so few noises from the ships in San Francisco Bay, is
explained by the fact of their being but few men to make them--in many
cases not a single soul aboard. All have deserted; either for good, and
are gone to the "diggings," or only for the night, to take part in the
pleasures and dissipations of the town. Now and then a boat may be
seen, putting off from, or returning to, the side of some vessel better
manned--by its laborious movement, and the unmeasured stroke of oars,
telling that even it lacks a full complement of crew.
Inside the town, everything is different. There, noises enough, with
plenty of people; crowded streets, flashing lights, and a Babel-like
confusion of voices. It is now the hour when iniquity has commenced its
nightly career, or, rather, reached its full flush; since in San
Francisco certain kinds of it are carried on throughout all hours of the
day. Business houses are closed; but these are in small proportion to
the places of pleasure, which keep their doors and windows wide open,
and where dissipation reigns paramount, as permanent. Into the
gambling-saloons go men laden with gold-dust, often coming out with
their wallets lighter than when they went in, but their hearts a deal
heavier. After toiling for months up to their middle, in the chill
waters of streams that course down from the eternal snows of the Sierra
Nevada, working, washing--while so occupied, half-starving--they return
to San Francisco to scatter in a single night--oft in one hour--the
hoarded gatherings of a half-year!
Into this pleasure-seeking city are about to enter two personages of
very different appearance from those usually seen loitering in its
saloons or hastening through its streets; for they are young officers
belonging to a British frigate--Edward Crozier and William Cadwallader.
They are returning to their ship; not directly, as they were rowed
ashore, but through the town; Crozier having ordered the boat to be
brought to one of the rough wooden wharfs recently erected.
They are advancing along the shore-road, afoot; having declined their
host's offer of horses--both saying they would prefer to walk;
Cadwallader adding, in his favourite sailor phrase, that he wished to
"kick the knots out of his legs"--a remark but obscurely comprehensible
to Don Gregorio.
For some time after leaving the Spaniard's house, not a word passes
between them. Each is occupied with his own thoughts, the sacredness of
which keeps him silent; absorbed in reflections, about that tender, but
painful parting, speculating on what may be before them in the far
uncertain future.
For a time, nought intrudes upon their reverie, to disturb its natural
course. The sough of the tidal surf breaking upon the beach, the
occasional cry of a soaring sea-bird, or the more continuous and
melancholy note of the chuck-will's-widow, do not attract their
attention. They are sounds in consonance with their thoughts, still a
little sad.
As they draw nearer to the city, see its flashing lights, and hear its
hum of voices, other and less doleful ideas come uppermost, leading to
conversation. Crozier commences it:
"Well, Will, old fellow, we've made a day of it!"
"That we have--a rousing, jolly day. I don't think I ever enjoyed one
more in my life."
"Only for its drawbacks."
"You mean our affair with those fellows? Why, that was the best part of
it--so far as fun. To see the one in the sky-blue wrap, after I'd
dirked his horse, go off like a ship in a gale, with nobody at the helm!
By Jove! it was equal to old Billy Button in the circus. And then the
other, you bundled over in the road, as he got up looking like a dog
just out of a dust-bin! Oh! 'twas delicious! The best shore adventure
I've had since leaving home--something to talk about when we get aboard
the ship."
"Ay, and something to do besides talking. We've got a little writing to
do; at least I have--a bit of a letter to this swaggerer, Mr Francisco
de Lara."
"But, surely, you don't intend challenging him--after what's happened?"
"Surely I do. Though, to say the truth, I've no great stomach for it,
seeing the sort he is. It's _infra dig_ having to fight one's inferior,
though it be with sword or pistol. It feels like getting into a row
with roughs in some slum of a seaport."
"You're right there; and as to calling the fellow out, I'd do nothing of
the kind, Ned. He's a bad lot; so is the other. Blackguards both, as
their behaviour has shown them. They don't deserve to be treated as
gentlemen."
"But we're in California, Will; where the code of the duello takes in
such as they. Here even thieves and cut-throats talk about protecting
their honour, as they term it; ay, and often act up to their talk. I've
been told of a duel that took place not long since between two
professional gamblers, in which one of them was shot dead in his tracks.
And only the other day a judge was called out by a man he had tried,
and convicted, of some misdemeanour! Well, the judge not only went, but
actually killed the cad who'd stood before him as a criminal! All that
seems very absurd, but so it is. And if this scarlet-cloaked cavalier
don't show the white-feather, and back out, I'll either have to kill, or
cripple him; though like as not he may do one or the other for me."
"But don't you think, Ned, you've had enough out of him?"
"In what way?"
"Why, in the way of _revanche_. For my part, I should decidedly say you
had by far the best of it. After your first encounter in the morning, I
thought differently; and would have so counselled you. Then the insult
offered you remained unpunished. The other has put a different face on
the affair; and now that he's got more than he gave, I think you should
rest satisfied, and let things stand as they are--if he do. Certainly,
after that knock and tumble, it's his place to sing out."
"There's something in what you say, Will. And now, on reflection, I'm
not so sure that I'll take further trouble about the fellow, unless he
insist on it; which he may not, seeing he's unquestionably base coin--as
you say, a blackguard. He appears a sort of Californian bravo; and if
we hadn't secured his pistol, I suppose he'd have done some shooting
with it. Well, we'll see whether he comes to reclaim it. If he don't,
I shall have to send it to him. Otherwise, he may have us up before one
of these duelling justices on a charge of robbing him!"
"Ha, ha, ha! That would be a rare joke; an appropriate ending to our
day's fun."
"Quite the contrary. It might be serious, if it should reach the ears
of Bracebridge. The old disciplinarian would never believe but that
we'd been in the wrong--taken the fellow's pistol from him for a lark,
or something of that sort. True, we could have the thing explained,
both to the San Francisco magistrate, and the frigate's captain; but not
without an exposure of names and circumstances. That, though it might
be proper enough, would be anything but a pleasant finale to our day's
fun, as you call it."
"Well, I know what will," rejoins Cadwallader, after listening patiently
to his comrade's explanatory speech, "and that's a glass of something
good to drink. Those sweet Spanish wines of Don Gregorio have made me
thirsty as a fish. Besides, parting with dear Inez has got my heart
down, and I need something to stir it up again."
"All right, my hearty!" exclaims Crozier; for the jest's sake, talking
sailor-slang--"I'm with you in that way. For this day at least we've
had enough of war, and, shall I say, women?"
"No--no!" protests Cadwallader; "that would be an ungallant speech,
after what's passed. We could never have enough of them--at least, not
I."
"Why, Will, we've grown wonderfully sentimental, and in such a short
time! Well, let's drop the subject of woman, and end our day with the
third of three w's--wine."
"Agreed!" responds the young Welshman. "But, for my part, I'd prefer
ending it with a different tipple, which has also a w for its initial
letter--that's whisky. If we could only get a glass of good Scotch or
Irish malt in this mushroom city, it would make a new man of me--which
just now I need making. As I tell you, Ned, my heart's down--dead down
to the heels of my boots. I can't say why, but there it is; and there I
suppose, it'll stay, unless Dutch courage come to the rescue."
"Well, you'll soon have an opportunity of getting that. As you see, we
are in the suburbs of this grand city, partly constructed of canvas;
where, though food may be scarce, and raiment scanty, there's liquor in
abundance. In the _Parker House_, which is, I believe, its best hotel,
we'll be sure of finding almost every beverage brewed upon the earth--
among them your favourite whisky, and mine--`Bass's Bitter.'"
"Again the Spanish saw, `_Cada uno a su gusto_,' as just now my
sweetheart said, after I had kissed the dear girl six times in
succession. But let us step out."
"Don't be in such hot haste. You forget we've something to do; which
must be done first--before everything else."
"What?"
"Look up Harry Blew; find him, if we can; and coax him to take service
in this Chilian ship."
"He won't require much coaxing, once you say the word. The old salt is
anything but ungrateful. Indeed, his regard for you, ever since you
saved him from that shark, is more like real gratitude than anything I
ever saw. He fairly worships you, Ned. He told me the day before he
left the _Crusader_, that parting with you was the only thing which
greatly grieved him. I saw the tears trickling down his cheeks, as you
shook hands with him over the rail. Even then, if you'd said stay, I
believe he'd have turned back into his old berth."
"I didn't, because I wished him to do better. You know he'd have a
splendid chance here in California--to get rich by gold-digging, which
no doubt he might, like a great many other humble sailors as himself.
But now, this other chance has turned up in his favour, which I should
say is surer. Don Gregorio has told us he can get from the Chilian
captain almost any pay he may please to ask; besides, a fair likelihood
of being made his first mate. That would suit Harry to a hair; in my
opinion, answering his purpose far better than any gold-washing
speculation. Though a man of first rating aboard ship, he's a mere
child when ashore; and would be no more able to protect himself against
the land-sharks of San Francisco, than he was to get out of the way of
that sea-skimmer at Guaymas. Even if he should succeed in growing rich
up the Sacramento River, I'd lay large odds, he'd be back here in port,
and poor as ever, within a week. We must save him from that if we can.
His natural element is the ocean. He has spent the greater part of his
life on it, and here's a fine opportunity for him to return to, and stay
upon it. That for life, if he likes, with better prospects than he
could ever have had on board a man-o'-war. The question is, how we
shall be able to find him in this rookery of a place. Did he say
anything, when you saw him, about where he was sojourning!"
"By Jove! he just did. Now, I recall our conversation, I remember him
telling me that he was staying at a sort of a boarding-house, or
restaurant, called the `Sailor's Home,' though he made no mention of the
street. But, if I mistake not, I know the place, and can steer pretty
straight for it."
"Straight or crooked, let's set head for it at once. We've plenty of
time, if that were all. I told the coxswain not to come for us till
well after eleven. I want to see something of this queer Californian
life, of which I haven't had much experience yet."
"The same with myself."
"Well, we may never again get such a chance. Indeed, it's not likely
we'll be allowed another night ashore, before the _Crusader_ sails.
Therefore, let us make hay while the sun shines, or, to speak less
figuratively, a little merriment by the light of the moon. We've been
either savage, or sentimental, all the day, and need changing our tune."
"You're right about that; but the music is not likely to be made by
moonlight--not much of it. See those great clouds rolling up yonder!
They'll be all over the sky in ten minutes' time, making it black as a
pot of pitch."
"No matter; for what we want, gas-light will serve as well; and there's
plenty of that in San Francisco. Now for Harry Blew. After him, whisky
punches at the _Parker_."
"And after that?"
"A _Hell_, if you feel that way inclined."
"Surely, Ned, you don't want to go gambling!"
"I want to see life in San Francisco, as I've said; and, as you know,
gambling's an important part of it. Yes; I wish to inspect the
elephant, and I don't mind making an attempt to draw the teeth of the
tiger. _Allons_! or, as I should say, in the softer language of
Andalusia, _Nos vamos_!"
Thus jocosely terminating the conversation, the young officers continue
on at increased speed, and are soon threading the streets of San
Francisco in search of the "Sailor's Home."