THE COMMITTEE STRIKES
On Sunday morning, May 18th, all of San Francisco was astir at dawn.
There was none of the usual late breakfasting, the leisurely perusal of
a morning paper.
In some mysterious fashion word had gone abroad that history would be
made this morning. The odd and feverish expectancy which rides, an
unseen herald in the van of large events, was everywhere.
A part of this undue activity resulted from the summoning of male
members out of nearly three thousand households for military duty to
begin at 9 o'clock. Long before that hour the general headquarters of
the Vigilantes swarmed with members.
* * * * *
As a neighboring clock struck noon, the Vigilantes debouched into the
street, an advance guard of riders clearing that thoroughfare of
crowding spectators. First came Captain James N. Olney commanding the
Citizens' Guard of sixty picked men, so soldierly in appearance that
their coming evoked a cheer.
Company 11, officered by Captain Donnelly and Lieutenant Frank Eastman
came next, and after them a company of French citizens, very straight
and gallant in appearance; then a German company. Followed at precise
and military intervals a score or more of companies, with their gleaming
bayonets, each standing at attention until the entire host had been
assembled. Now and then some bystander cried a greeting. On the roofs
were now a fringe of colored parasols, a fluttering of handkerchiefs.
One might have deemed it a parade save for a certain grimness, the
absence of bands. There was a hush as Marshal Doane rode all along the
line and paused at the head to review his troops. One could hear him
clearly as he raised his sabre and commanded, "Forward, march!" At the
sidelines the lieutenants chanted:
"Hup! Hup! Hup-hup-hup!"
Legs began to move in an impressive clock-work unison. Gradually the
thousands of bayonets took motion, seemed to flow along like some
strange stream of scintillating lights.
* * * * *
On the roof of the International Hotel the Governor, the Mayor,
Major-General Sherman of the State Militia, Volney Howard and a little
group of others watched the Vigilantes as they marched up Sacramento
street. The Governor seemed calm enough; only the spasmodic puffs from
his cigar betrayed agitation. Van Ness walked back and forth, cramming
his hands into his breeches pockets and withdrawing them every ten
seconds. Volney looked down with his usual sardonic smile but his eyes
were bitter with hate. Sherman alone displayed the placidity of
a soldier.
"Look at the damned rabble!" exclaimed Howard. "They're dividing. Some
are going up Pacific street to Kearney, some to Dupont and ... yes, a
part of them on Stockton."
"It's what you call an enfilading movement," said Sherman quietly.
* * * * *
In the county jail were Sheriff Scannell, Harrison his deputy, Marshal
North, Billy Mulligan the jailor, and a small guard. Some of these
watched proceedings from the roof, now and then descending to report to
Scannell. Cora, in his cell, played solitaire and Casey made pretense of
reading a book.
Presently Scannell entered the room where Casey sat; it was not a cell
nor had the door been locked since the withdrawal of the Vigilante
guard. Casey looked up quickly. "What's the latest news from King?"
"He's dying, so they say," retorted Scannell.
"Dave," it was almost a whisper. "You've been to Broderick? Curse him,
won't he turn his hand to help a friend?"
"Easy, Billy," said the Sheriff. "Broderick's never been your friend;
you know that well enough. Your boss, perhaps. But even so, he couldn't
help you. No one can.... This town's gone mad."
"What d'ye mean?" asked Casey in a frightened whisper.
"Billy," spoke the Sheriff, "have a drink." He poured a liberal potion
from a bottle standing on the table. Casey drained the glass, his eyes
never leaving Scannell's. "Now," resumed the Sheriff, "listen, boy, and
take it cool. THEY'RE COMING FOR YOU!"
At first Casey made no reply. One might have thought he had not heard,
save for the widening of his eyes.
"You--you'll not let them take me, Dave?" he said, after a silence.
"You'll fight?"
Scannell's hand fell on the other's shoulder. "I've only thirty men;
they're a hundred to one. They've a cannon."
They looked at one another. Casey closed his fists and straightened
slightly. "Give me a case-knife, Dave," he pleaded. "I'll not let them
take me. I'll--"
Silently, Scannell drew from his boot a knife in a leather sheath. Casey
grasped it, feverishly, concealing it beneath his vest. "How soon?" he
asked, "how soon?"
Scannell strode to the window. "They're outside now," he informed the
shrinking Casey. "The executive committee's in front ... the Citizens'
Guard is forming a hollow square around them.... Miers Truett's coming
to the door."
Casey drew the knife; raised it dramatically. "I'll not let them take
me," he shouted, as if to bolster up courage by the sound of his own
voice. "I'll never leave this place alive."
Sheriff Scannell, summoned by a deputy, looked over his shoulder. "Oh,
yes, you will," he muttered. In his tone were pity and disdain.
* * * * *
Early Tuesday afternoon Benito and Broderick met in front of the
Montgomery Block. The former had just been released from duty at
Committee Headquarters, where a guard of 300 men was, night and day,
maintained.
"Casey has spent most of his time writing since we captured him," Benito
told his friend. "He recovered his nerve when he found we'd no intention
of hanging him without a trial. Of course, if King should live, he'll
get off lightly. And then, there's Cora--"
"Yes, he'll be a problem, if the other one's released," said Broderick.
"Unless King dies this whole eruption of the Vigilantes will fall flat."
Benito nodded, half reluctantly. "It seems--like destiny," he muttered.
Suddenly his head jerked upward. "What is that?"
A man came running out of the Montgomery Block. He seemed excited. His
accelerated pace continued as he sped down Sacramento street. Presently
another made his exit; ran like mad, uphill, toward the jail.
Dr. Hammond, looking very grim, came hurriedly out of the door and
entered a closed carriage. It drove off instantly. Then everything went
on as usual. The two men stood there, watchful, expectant. The town
seemed unusually still. A flag on a two-story building flapped
monotonously. Then a man across the street ran out of his store and
pointed upward. A rope was thrown from an upper window of the Montgomery
Block. Someone picked it up and carried it to The Bulletin Building,
pulled it taut. On a strip of linen had been hastily inscribed the
following announcement, stretched across the street:
"THE GREAT AND GOOD IS DEAD. WHO WILL NOT MOURN?"