SOME WAR REACTIONS
San Francisco adjusted itself to war conditions with its usual impulsive
facility. Terry, who had resigned from the Supreme bench following
Broderick's death, and who had passed through the technicalities of a
farcical trial, left for Texas. He joined the Southern forces and for
years California knew him no more. Albert Sydney Johnson, after being
displaced by General Sumner, offered his services to Jefferson Davis and
was killed at Shiloh. Edward Baker, now a Senator from Oregon, left the
halls of Congress for a Union command. At the head of the California
volunteer regiment he charged the enemy at Ball's Bluff and fell, his
body pierced by half a dozen bullets. Curiously different was the record
of Broderick's old foeman, William Gwin. In October, 1861, he started
East via the Isthmus of Panama, accompanied by Calhoun Benham, one of
Terry's seconds in the fateful duel. On the same steamer was General
Sumner, relieved of his command in San Francisco, en route to active
service. Convinced that Gwin and Benham plotted treason, he ordered
their arrest, but not before they threw overboard maps and other papers.
They escaped conviction. But Gwin found Paris safer than America--until
the war had reached its close.
When the first call came for volunteers by way of the pony express,
Benito and Adrian talked of enlisting. Even thirteen-year Francisco, to
his mother's horror, spoke of going as a drummer boy.
"One would think you men asked nothing better than to kill each other,"
Inez Windham stormed.
Yet she was secretly proud. She would have felt a mite ashamed had
Adrian displayed less martial ardor. And to her little son she showed
the portrait of Francisco Garvez, who had ridden with Ortega and d'Anza
in the days of Spanish glory.
Lithographs of President Lincoln appeared in household and office. Flags
flew from many staffs and windows. News was eagerly awaited from the
battle-front.
Adrian had been rejected by a recruiting board because of a slight limp.
He had never quite recovered from a knife wound in the groin inflicted
by McTurpin. Benito had been brusquely informed that his family needed
him more than the Union cause at present. Still unsatisfied he found a
substitute, an Englishman named Dart, who fell at Gettysburg, and to
whose heirs in distant Liverpool he gladly paid $5000.
But Herbert Waters went to war. Alice kissed the lad good-by and pinned
a rosebud on his uniform as he departed on the steamer. Little Robert
clung to him and wept when they were separated. Adrian, Benito and a
host of others shook his hand.
A whistle blew; he had to scamper for the gang-plank. The vessel moved
slowly, turning in her course toward the Golden Gate. Men were waving
their hats and weeping women their handkerchiefs. Alice stood misty eyed
and moveless, till the steamer passed from sight.
* * * * *
Though one heard loud-chorused sentiments of Unionism, there were many
secret friends of slavery in San Francisco. One felt them like an
undercurrent, covert and disquieting. To determine where men stood, a
public meeting had been called for May 11. Where Post ran into Market
street, affording wide expanse for out-door gathering, a speaker's stand
was built. Here the issues of war, it was announced, would be discussed
by men of note.
"Starr King, our pulpit Demosthenes, is to talk," Benito told his wife.
"They tell me King's a power for the Union. He's so eloquent that even
Southerners applaud him."
They were interrupted by Po Lun, their Chinese servitor, who entered,
leading Robert by the hand. The boy had a soldier cap, fashioned from
newspaper by the ingenious celestial; it was embellished with plumes
from a feather duster. A toy drum was suspended from his neck; the hilt
of a play-time saber showed at his belt. The Chinaman carried a flag and
both were marching in rhythmic step, which taxed the long legs of Po Lun
severely by way of repression.
"Where in the world are you two going?" Alice laughed.
"We go public meeting, Missee," said Po Lun. "We hea' all same Miste'
Stah King pleach-em 'bout Ablaham Lincoln."
"Hurrah!" cried Benito with enthusiasm. "Let's go with them, Alice." He
caught her about the waist and hurried her onward. Bareheaded, they ran
out into the morning sunshine.
* * * * *
At Post and Market streets, thousands waited, though the day was young.
Constantly the crowd increased. From all directions came pedestrians,
horsemen, folks in carriages, buggies--all manner of vehicles, even farm
wagons from the outlying districts. Most of them looked upon attendance
as a test of loyalty. When it was learned that Governor Downey had sent
his regrets a murmur of disapproval ran through the throng. He had been
very popular in San Francisco, for he had vetoed the infamous Bulkhead
bill, which planned to give private interests the control of the
waterfront. He also pocketed a libel measure aimed at San Francisco's
independent press. But in the national crisis--a time when political
temporizing was not tolerated--he "did not believe that war should be
waged upon any section of the Confederacy, nor that the Union should be
preserved by a coercive policy."
"I saw the letter," Adrian told Benito. "They were going to read it at
first, but they decided not to. After all, the little Governor's not
afraid to utter his thoughts."
"I've more respect for him than for Latham," Windham answered. "He's to
make a speech today. Only a few weeks ago he damned us up and down in
Congress. Now he's for the Union. I despise a turn-coat."
They were interrupted by a voice that made announcements from the
platform.
Starr King arose amid cheers. The preacher was a man of marvelous
enthusiasm. His slight, frail figure gave small hint of his dynamic
talents. He had come to California for rest and health. But in the
maelstrom of pre-war politics, he found neither "dolce far niente" nor
recuperation. He plunged without a thought of self into the fight for
California.
As he began to talk the crowd pressed forward, packed itself into a
smaller ring. Medlied sounds of converse died into a silence, which was
almost breathless.
For an hour King went on discussing clearly, logically and deeply, all
the issues of the Civil War; the attitude, responsibilities and
influences of California, particularly San Francisco. He made no great
emotional appeals; he dealt in no impassioned oratory nor invective.
At the close there was a little pause, so deep the concentration of
their listening, before the concourse broke into applause. Then it was
hysteria, pandemonium. Hats flew in the air; whistles, cheers and bravos
mingled. The striking of palm against palm was like a great volley.
Again and again the preacher rose, bowed, retired. Finally he thanked
them, called the meeting closed, and bade them a good afternoon. Only
then the crowd began to melt. Fifty thousand people knew their city--and
their State no doubt--were safe for anti-slavery.
[Illustration: The concourse broke into applause. Then it was hysteria,
pandemonium. Fifty thousand knew their city was safe for Anti-Slavery.]