SAN FRANCISCO--AN UNEXPECTED DESERTION--CAPTAIN BUNTING TAKES A GLOOMY
VIEW OF THINGS IN GENERAL--NEW FRIENDS AND NEW PLANS--SINGULAR FACTS AND
CURIOUS FANCIES.
The "Golden Gates," as they are called, of San Francisco, are two rocky
headlands, about a mile apart, which form the entrance to one of the
finest harbours, or rather land-locked seas, in the world. This harbour
is upwards of forty miles long, by about twelve miles broad at its
widest point, and receives at its northern end the waters of the noble
Sacramento river, into which all the other rivers in California flow.
Nearly opposite to the mouth of the Sacramento, on the southern shores
of the bay, stands the famous city of San Francisco, close to which the
_Roving Bess_ let go her anchor and clasped the golden strand.
The old adage that, "truth is strange, stranger than fiction," was never
more forcibly verified than in the growth and career of this wonderful
city. No dreams of Arabian romance ever surpassed the inconceivable
wonders that were matters of every-day occurrence there during the first
years of the gold-fever; and many of the results attributed to Aladdin's
wonderful lamp were almost literally accomplished--in some cases
actually surpassed--in and around the cities of California.
Before the discovery of gold, San Francisco was a mere hamlet. It
consisted of a few rude cottages, built of sun-dried bricks, which were
tenanted by native Californians; there were also a few merchants who
trafficked in hides and horns. Cruisers and whalers occasionally put
into the harbour to obtain fresh supplies of water, but beyond these and
the vessels engaged in the hide-trade few ships ever visited the port,
and the name of San Francisco was almost unknown.
But the instant the rumour got abroad that gold had been discovered
there, the eyes of the world were turned towards it. In a few months
men and ships began to pour into the capacious harbour; a city of tents
overspread the sand-hills on which the hamlet stood; thousands upon
thousands of gold-hunters rushed to the mines; the golden treasures of
the land were laid bare, and immense fortunes were made, literally in
the course of a few weeks. In many cases these were squandered or
gambled away almost as soon as made; but hundreds of men retired from
the gold-fields after a few months' labour, and returned home possessed
of ample fortunes. Thousands, too, failed--some from physical inability
to stand the fatiguing labour of the mines, and some from what they
termed "want of luck," though want of perseverance was, in nine cases
out of ten, the real cause; while many hundreds perished from exposure
and from the diseases that were prevalent in the country.
Well would it have been for these last had they remembered God's word,
"Make not haste to be rich;" but the thirst for gold, and the prospect
of the sudden acquisition of enormous wealth, had blinded them to the
fact that their frames were not equal to the rough life at the mines.
The excitement was at its height when the _Roving Bess_ anchored off the
shores of this land of gold.
The sun was just setting as the anchor dropped, and the crippled ship
swung round towards the shore, for the tide had just begun to rise.
"Faix, it's a quare town," said Larry O'Neil to Ned, who was gazing in
wrapt, astonishment and admiration ever the stern.
It was indeed "quare." The entire city was made up of the most flimsy
and make-shift materials that can be conceived. Many of the shops were
mere tents with an open framework of wood in front; some were made of
sheet-iron nailed to wooden posts; some were made of zinc; others,
(imported from the States), of wood, painted white, and edged with
green; a few were built of sun-dried bricks, still fewer of corrugated
iron, and many of all these materials pieced together in a sort of fancy
patchwork. Even boats were used as dwellings, turned keel up, with a
hole cut in their sides for the egress of a tin smoke-pipe, and two
others of larger size to serve as door and window.
Finding space scarce, owing to the abrupt rise of the hills from the
shore, many enterprising individuals had encroached upon the sea, and
built houses on piles driven into the sand nearly half-a-mile below the
original high water mark.
Almost every nation under the sun had representatives there, and the
consequent confusion of tongues was equal to that of Babel.
The hills overhanging the lower part of the town were also well covered
with tents, temporary houses, and cottages that had some appearance of
comfort about them.
Such was the city on which the sun went down that night, and many were
the quaint, sagacious, and comic remarks made by the men as they sat
round their various mess-tables in the forecastle of the _Roving Bess_,
speculating noisily and half-seriously on the possibility of getting a
run into the interior for a day or two.
But there was a party of men in the ship whose conversation that night
was neither so light-hearted nor so loud. They sat in a dark corner of
the forecastle talking earnestly in subdued tones after the watch for
the night was set. Their chief spokesman was a rough, ill-looking
fellow, named Elliot.
"Ye see, lads," said this man to the half-dozen comrades around him, "we
must do it to-night, if we're to do it at all. There's the captain's
small boat layin' out astarn, which comes quite handy, an', as we lose
all our pay by the dodge, I don't see why we shouldn't take it."
The man struck his fist into his left palm, and looked round the circle
for opinions.
"I don't half like it," said one; "it seems to me a sneaking way of
doin' it."
"Bah!" ejaculated another, "wot gammon you do talk. If _he_ lose the
boat, don't _we_ lose the tin? Besides, are we agoin' to let sich a
trifle stand in the way o' us an' our fortins?"
"Have ye spoken to the other men, Elliot?" inquired one of the group.
"Ay, in coorse I have; an' they're all agreeable. Young Spense stood
out pretty stiff at first; but I talked him over. Only I said nothing
to Larry O'Neil or Bill Jones. I know it's of no use. They'll never
agree; and if we wos to speak of it to either on 'em, he'd go right away
aft an' tell the captain. Their watch below 'll come on in an hour, an'
then the watch on deck'll be on our side. So, lads, go and git ready--
an' sharp's the word."
The party broke up, and went quietly below to prepare for flight,
leaving no one on deck except O'Neil and Jones, and two of their
comrades, who formed part of the watch. As Elliot had said, the watch
was changed in about an hour. The mate and captain came on deck, looked
round to see that all was right, and then returned to the cabin, to
consult about the preliminary arrangements for disposing of the remnant
of the cargo. Ned Sinton had turned in to have a good sleep before the
expected toil and bustle of the following day; O'Neil and Jones, being
relieved from duty, were glad to jump into their hammocks; and the deck
was left in charge of the conspirators.
It was a clear, lovely night. Not a zephyr stirred the surface of the
sea, in whose depths the starry host and the images of a hundred ships
of all shapes and tonnage were faithfully mirrored. Bright lights
illumined the city, those in the tents giving to them the appearance of
cones and cubes of solid fire. The subdued din of thousands of human
voices floated over the water, and mingled with the occasional shout or
song that rose from the fleet and the splash of oars, as boats passed to
and from the shore. Over all, the young moon shed a pale, soft light,
threw into deep shadow the hills towards the north, which rose abruptly
to a height of 3000 feet, and tipped with a silver edge the peak of
Monte Diavolo, whose lofty summit overlooks all the golden land between
the great range of the Sierra Nevada and the ocean. It was a scene of
peaceful beauty, well fitted to call forth the adoration of man to the
great and good Creator. Doubtless there were some whose hearts rose
that night above the sordid thoughts of gain and gold; but few such were
recognisable by their fellow-men, compared with the numerous votaries of
sin and so-called pleasure.
Towards midnight, Captain Bunting turned in, ordering the steward to
call him at daybreak; and shortly afterwards the mate retired, having
previously looked round the deck and spoken the watch. A few minutes
after, Elliot and his comrades appeared on deck, with their boots and
small bundles in their hands.
"Is all right?" whispered Elliot.
"All right!" replied one of the watch.
Nothing more was said; the boat was hauled softly alongside, and held
firmly there while two men descended and muffled the oars; then one by
one the men slid down the side, and a bag of biscuit and a junk of beef
were lowered into it by the second mate, who was one of the
conspirators.
At that moment the first mate came on deck, and went forward to inquire
what was wrong.
"It's something in the boat, sir," replied the second mate.
The mate looked over the side, and the sailors felt that they must be
discovered, and that their plans were about to be frustrated. But the
second mate was a man of decision. He suddenly seized Williams round
the neck, and, covering his mouth with his hand, held him as if in a
vice until he was secured and gagged.
"Shall we leave him!" whisperingly inquired one of the men.
"No, he'd manage to kick up a row; take him with us."
The helpless mate was immediately passed over the side, the rope was
cast off; and the boat floated softly away. At first, the oars were
dipped so lightly that no sound was heard, even by those on board,
except the drops of brine that trickled from the blades as they rose
from the water; then, as the distance increased, the strokes were given
more vigorously, and, at last, the men bent to it "with a will;" and
they were soon shooting over the vast bay in the direction of the
Sacramento river, up which they meant to proceed to the "diggings."
With the exception of O'Neil and Jones, who had already reached the
diggings in their dreams, the whole crew, sixteen in all, levanted,
leaving Captain Bunting to navigate the ship back to Old England as he
best might.
It is easier to conceive than to describe the feelings of the captain,
when, on the following morning, he discovered that his crew had fled.
He stamped, and danced, and tugged his hair, and pursed up his lips so
tight that nothing but an occasional splutter escaped them! Then he sat
down on the cabin skylight, looked steadily at Ned, who came hurriedly
on deck in his shirt and drawers to see what was wrong, and burst into a
prolonged fit of laughter.
"Hallo, captain! what's up!"
"Nothin', lad, ha! ha! Oh yes, human flesh is up, Ned; sailors is riz,
an' we've been sold;--we have--uncommon!"
Hereupon the captain roared again; but there was a slight peculiarity in
the tone, that indicated a strong infusion of rage with the seeming
merriment.
"They're all gone--every man, Jack," said Jones, with a face of deep
solemnity, as he stood looking at the captain.
"So they are, the blackguards; an' that without biddin' us good mornin',
bad luck to them," added O'Neil.
At first, Ned Sinton felt little disposed to take a comic view of the
affair, and urged the captain strongly to take the lightest boat and set
off in pursuit; but the latter objected to this.
"It's of no use," he said, "the ship can't be repaired here without
heavy expense; so, as I don't mean to go to sea again for some time, the
desertion of the men matters little after all."
"Not go to sea again!" exclaimed Ned, in surprise. "What, then, do you
mean to do?"
"That's more than I can tell. I must see first how the cargo is to be
disposed of; after that, it will be time enough to concoct plans for the
future. It is quite clear that the tide of luck is out about as far as
it can go just now; perhaps it may turn soon."
"No doubt of it, captain," cried his young _protege_ with a degree of
energy that shewed he had made up his mind as to what _his_ course
should be, in the event of things coming to the worst. "I'll go down
and put on a few more articles of clothing, and then we'll have a talk
over matters."
The "talk," which was held over the breakfast-table in the cabin,
resulted in the captain resolving to go ashore, and call on a Scotch
merchant, named Thompson, to whom he had a letter of introduction.
Half-an-hour later this resolve was carried out. Jones rowed them
ashore in the smallest boat they had, and sculled back to the ship,
leaving O'Neil with them to assist in carrying up two boxes which were
consigned to Mr Thompson.
The quay on which they stood was crowded with men of all nations, whose
excited looks, and tones, and "go-ahead" movements, testified to the
high-pressure speed with which business in San Francisco was transacted.
"It's more nor I can do to carry them two boxes at wance," said Larry
O'Neil, regarding them with a puzzled look, "an' sorra a porter do I see
nowhere."
As he spoke, a tall, gentlemanly-looking young man, in a red-flannel
shirt, round-crowned wide-awake, long boots, and corduroys, stepped
forward, and said, "I'll help you, if you like."
"D'ye think ye can lift it!" inquired Larry, with a dubious look.
The youth replied by seizing one of the boxes, and lifting it with ease
on his shoulder, shewing that, though destitute of fat, he had more than
the average allowance of bone and sinew.
"I doubt if you could do it better than that yourself, Larry," said Ned,
laughing. "Come along, now, close at our heels, lest we get separated
in the crowd."
The young porter knew the residence of Mr Thompson well, and guided
them swiftly through the crowded thoroughfares towards it. Passing
completely through the town, he led them over the brow of one of the
sand-hills beyond it, and descended into a little valley, where several
neat villas were scattered along the sides of a pleasant green slope,
that descended towards another part of the bay. Turning into the little
garden in front of one of these villas, he placed the box on the wooden
platform before the door, and said, "This is Mr Thompson's house."
There was something striking in the appearance of this young porter; he
seemed much above his station in life; and Ned Sinton regarded his
bronzed and handsome, but somewhat haggard and dissipated countenance,
with interest, as he drew out his purse, and asked what was to pay.
"Two dollars," answered the man.
Ned looked up in surprise. The idea of paying eight shillings for so
slight a service had never entered his imagination. At that moment the
door opened, and Mr Thompson appeared, and invited them to enter. He
was a shrewd, business-like man, with stern, but kind expression of
countenance.
"Come in, come in, and welcome to California," he said, on perusing the
captain's letter of introduction. "Glad to see you, gentlemen. You've
not had breakfast, of course; we are just about to sit down. This
way," he added, throwing open the door of a comfortable and
elegantly-furnished parlour. "Bring the boxes into the passage--that
will do. Here, Lizette, pay the men, dear; two dollars a-piece, I
fancy--"
"Excuse me," interrupted Captain Bunting, "only one bas to be paid, the
other is one of my sailors."
"Ah! very good; which is he?"
Larry O'Neil stepped forward, hat in hand.
"Go in there, my man, and cook will attend to you."
Larry passed through the doorway pointed out with a pleasant, fluttering
sensation at the heart, which was quickly changed to a feeling of
considerable disappointment on discovering that "cook" was a negro.
Meanwhile Lizette took two dollars from her purse, and bowing modestly
to the strangers as she passed out of the room, advanced with them
towards the young porter.
Now, Lizette was _not_ beautiful--few women are, in the highest sense of
the term, and the few who are, are seldom interesting; but she was
pretty, and sweet, and innocent, and just turned sixteen. Fortunately
for the male part of the world, there are many such. She had
light-brown hair, which hung in dishevelled curls all round, a soft fair
complexion, blue eyes, and a turned-up nose--a pert little nose that
said plainly, "I _will_ have my own way; now see if I don't." But the
heart that animated the body to which that nose belonged, was a good,
kind, earnest one; therefore, the nose having its own way was rather a
blessing than otherwise to those happy individuals who dwelt habitually
in the sunshine of Lizette's presence.
At this particular time, ladies were scarce in California. The immense
rush of men from all parts of the earth to the diggings had not been
accompanied as yet by a corresponding rush of women, consequently the
sight of a female face was, as it always ought to be, a source of
comfort to mankind. We say "comfort" advisedly, because life at the
gold-mines was a hard, riotous, mammon-seeking, rugged, and, we regret
to say it, ungodly life; and men, in whom the soft memories of "other
days" were not entirely quenched, had need, sometimes, of the comforting
reflection that there still existed beings on the earth who didn't rant,
and roar, and drink, and swear, and wear beards, and boots, and
bowie-knives.
There was double cause, then, for the gaze of respectful admiration with
which the young porter regarded Lizette, as she said, "Here is your
fare, porter," and put the money into his hand, which he did not even
thank her for, but continued to hold extended as if he wished her to
take it back again.
Lizette did not observe the gaze, for she turned away immediately after
giving him the money, and re-entered the parlour, whereupon the youth
thrust both hands into his breeches-pockets, left the house, and
returned slowly to the city, with the expression on his countenance of
one who had seen a ghost.
Meanwhile Captain Bunting and Ned Sinton sat down with their host and
hostess to a second breakfast, over which the former related the
circumstances of the double loss of his crew and cargo.
"You are unfortunate," said Mr Thompson, when the captain paused; "but
there are hundreds in nearly the same predicament. Many of the
fine-looking vessels you see in the harbour have lain helplessly there
for months, the crews having taken French leave, and gone off to the
diggings."
"It's awkward," said the captain, with a troubled expression, as he
slowly raised a square lump of pork to his mouth; "what would you advise
me to do?"
"Sell off the remnant of the cargo, and set up a floating
boarding-house."
The square lump of pork disappeared, as the captain thrust it into his
cheek in order to say, "What?" with a look of intense amazement.
Lizette laughed inadvertently, and, feeling that this was somewhat rude,
she, in her effort to escape, plunged deeper into misfortune by turning
to Sinton, with a blushing countenance, and asking him to take another
cup of tea--a proposal that was obviously absurd, seeing that she had a
moment before filled up his second cup.
Thus suddenly appealed to, Ned stammered, "Thank you--if you--ah!--no,
thank you, not any more."
"Set up a floating boarding establishment," reiterated the merchant, in
a tone of decision that caused them all to laugh heartily.
"It may sound strange," he continued, "but I assure you it's not a bad
speculation. The captain of an American schooner, whose crew deserted
the very day she arrived, turned his vessel into a floating
boarding-house, about two months ago, and I believe he's making a
fortune."
"Indeed," ejaculated the captain, helping himself to another mass of
pork, and accepting Lizette's proffer of a third cup of tea.
"You have no idea," continued the merchant, as he handed the bread to
Ned, and pressed him to eat--"you have no idea of the strange state of
things here just now, and the odd ways in which men make money. Owing
to the rush of immigrants everything is enormously dear, and house-room
is not to be had for love or money, so that if you were to fit up your
ship for the purpose you could fill it at once. At the various hotels
in the city an ordinary meal at the _table d'hote_ costs from two to
three dollars--eight and twelve shillings of our money--and there are
some articles that bear fabulous prices. It's a fact that eggs at this
moment sell at a shilling each, and onions and potatoes at the same
price; but then wages are enormously high. How long this state of
things will last no one can tell; in the meantime, hundreds of men are
making fortunes. Only the other day a ship arrived from New York, and
one of the passengers, a `'cute' fellow, had brought out fifteen hundred
copies of several newspapers, which he sold for a dollar each in less
than two hours! Then, rents are tremendous. You will scarcely believe
me when I tell you that the rent paid by the landlord of one of the
hotels here is 110,000 dollars--about 22,000 pounds--a year, and it is
but a poor building too. My own warehouse, which is a building of only
one storey, with a front of twenty feet, is rented to me at 40,000
dollars--8000 pounds a year--and rents are rising."
Ned and the captain leaned back in their chairs aghast at such
statements, and began to entertain some doubts as to the sanity of their
host; but the worthy merchant was a grave, quiet man, without a particle
of romance in his composition, and he went on coolly telling them facts
which Ned afterwards said made his hair almost stand on end, when he
thought of how little money he possessed, and how much he would have to
pay for the bare necessaries of life.
After some further converse on men and things in general, and on
prospects at the mines, Mr Thompson said, "And now, Captain Bunting,
I'll tell you what I'll do. I will go down to your ship, overhaul the
cargo, and make you an offer for the whole in the lump, taking the
saleable with the unsaleable. This will, at any rate, put you in funds
at once, and enable you to follow what course seems best. Will that
suit you?"
"It will," said the captain, "and thank 'ee. As for turning a
boardin'-house keeper, I don't think I'm cut out for it. Neither is my
friend Sinton, eh?"
"Certainly not," answered Ned, laughing: "we might as well become
washerwomen."
"You'd make a pretty good thing of it if you did," retorted Mr
Thompson; "would they not, Lizette? you know more about these things
than I do."
"Indeed, I cannot tell, papa, as I do not know the capabilities of our
friends in that way; but I think the few washerwomen in the city must be
making fortunes, for they charge two shillings a-piece for everything,
large and small."
"Now, then, gentlemen," said the merchant, rising, "if you have quite
finished, we will walk down to the harbour and inspect the goods."
An arch smile played round Lizette's lips as she shook hands with Ned at
parting, and she seemed on the point of speaking, but checked herself.
"I beg pardon," said Ned, pausing, "did you--"
"Oh, it was nothing!" said Lizette; "I was only going to remark that--
that if you set up in the washing line, I shall be happy to give you all
the work I can."
"Ahem!" coughed Ned gravely, "and if we should set up in the _other_
line, will you kindly come and board with us?"
"Hallo, Ned, what's keeping you?" roared the captain.
"Coming," shouted Ned, as he ran after him. "Where has Larry O'Neil
gone?"
"He's away down before us to have a look at the town. We shall find
him, I doubt not, cruising about the quay."
In a few minutes the three friends were wending their way through the
crowded streets back to the shore.