SAN FRANCISCO IN 1856.
The _Wizard_ sailed through a great bank of fog one August morning and
all at once the headlands of the Golden Gate came in sight. It was the
first land we had seen for four months. We sailed into the harbor,
anchored, and the San Francisco of 1856 lay before us.
The ship was tied up to the wharf. All but the officers and “boys” left
her. She seemed deserted, almost dead. We missed the ocean life of the
set sails, the ship bowing to the waves and all the stir of the elements
in the open ocean.
The captain called me one day into the cabin, paid me my scanty wages
and told me he did not think I “was cut out for a sailor,” I was not
handy enough about decks.
Considering that for two months I had been crippled by a felon on the
middle finger of my right hand, which on healing had left that finger
curved inward, with no power to straighten it, I thought the charge of
awkwardness somewhat unjust.
However, I accepted the Captain’s opinion regarding my maritime
capacities, as well as the hint that I was a superfluity on board.
I left the _Wizard_--left her for sixteen years of varied life in
California.
I had no plans, nor aims, nor purpose, save to exist from day to day and
take what the day might give me.
Let me say here never accept any person’s opinion of your qualifications
or capacities for any calling. If you feel that you are “cut out” for
any calling or that you desire to follow it, abide by that feeling, and
trust to it. It will carry you through in time.
I believe that thousands on thousands of lives have been blasted and
crippled through the discouragement thrown on them by relation, friend,
parent, or employer’s saying continually (or if not saying it verbally,
thinking it) “You are a dunce. You are stupid. You can’t do this or
that. It’s ridiculous for you to think of becoming this or that.”
The boy or girl goes off with this thought thrown on them by others. It
remains with them, becomes a part of them and chokes off aspiration and
effort.
Years afterward, I determined to find out for myself whether I was “cut
out for a sailor” or not. As a result I made myself master of a small
craft in all winds and weathers and proved to myself that if occasion
required, I could manage a bigger one.
San Francisco seemed to me then mostly fog in the morning, dust and wind
in the afternoon, and Vigilance Committee the remainder of the time.
San Francisco was then in the throes of the great “Vigilanteeism” of
1856. Companies of armed men were drilling in the streets at night. In
the city’s commercial centre stood “Fort Gunnybags”--the strong hold of
the Vigilantes--made, as its name implied, of sand-filled gunny sacks.
Carronades protruded from its port holes, sentinels paced the ramparts.
There was constant surging of men in and out of the building behind the
fort,--the headquarters and barracks of the Vigilantes. From its windows
a few days before our arrival they had hung Casey for the killing of
James King--one of the editors of the _Bulletin_. I saw two others hung
there on the sixth of August. Vigilanteeism was then the business and
talk of the town. The jail had just been captured from the “Law and
Order” men, who were not “orderly” at all, but who had captured the
city’s entire governmental and legal machinery and ran it to suit their
own purposes.
The local Munchausens of that era were busy; one day the U. S. ship of
war, _St. Mary’s_, was to open fire on Fort Gunnybags; the next,
Governor Johnson, backed by twenty thousand stalwart men, was to fall
upon the city and crush out the insurrection.
The up-country counties were arming or thought of arming to put down
this “rebellion.” The “Rebellion” was conducted by the respectability
and solidity of San Francisco, which had for a few years been so busily
engaged in money making as to allow their city government to drift into
rather irresponsible hands; many of the streets were unbridged, many not
lighted at night. Cause--lack of money to bridge and light. The money in
the hands of the city officials had gone more for private pleasure than
public good.
I speak of the streets being unbridged because at that time a large
portion of the streets were virtually bridges. One-fourth of the city at
least, was built over the water. You could row a boat far under the
town, and for miles in some directions. This amphibious part of the city
“bilged” like a ship’s hold, and white paint put on one day would be
lead colored the next, from the action on it of the gases let loose from
the ooze at low tide.
There were frequent holes in these bridges into which men frequently
tumbled, and occasionally a team and wagon. They were large enough for
either, and their only use was to show what the city officials had not
done with the city’s money.
Then Commercial street between Leidesdorff and Battery was full of Cheap
John auction stores, with all their clamor and attendant crowds at
night. Then the old Railroad Restaurant was in its prime, and the St.
Nicholas, on Sansome, was the crack hotel. Then, one saw sand-hills at
the further end of Montgomery street. To go to Long Bridge was a weary,
body-exhausting tramp. The Mission was reached by omnibus. Rows of old
hulks were moored off Market street wharf, maritime relics of “’49.”
That was “Rotten Row.” One by one they fell victims to Hare. Hare
purchased them, set Chinamen to picking their bones, broke them up, put
the shattered timbers in one pile, the iron bolts in another, the copper
in another, the cordage in another, and so in a short all time that
remained of these bluff-bowed, old-fashioned ships and brigs, that had
so often doubled the stormy corner of Cape Horn or smoked their try-pots
in the Arctic ocean was so many ghastly heaps of marine débris.
I had seen the _Niantic_, now entombed just below Clay street, leave my
native seaport, bound for the South Pacific to cruise for whale, years
ere the bars and gulches of California were turned up by pick and
shovel. The _Cadmus_, the vessel which brought Lafayette over in 1824,
was another of our “blubber hunters,” and afterward made her last
voyage with the rest to San Francisco.
Manners and customs still retained much of the old “’49” flavor. Women
were still scarce. Every river boat brought a shoal of miners in gray
shirts from “up country.” “Steamer Day,” twice a month, was an event. A
great crowd assembled on the wharf to witness the departure of those
“going East” and a lively orange bombardment from wharf to boat and
_vice versa_ was an inevitable feature of these occasions.
The Plaza was a bare, barren, unfenced spot. They fired salutes there on
Independence Day, and occasionally Chief Burke exhibited on its area
gangs of sneak thieves, tied two and two by their wrists to a rope--like
a string of onions.
There was a long low garret in my Commercial street lodgings. It was
filled with dust-covered sea-chests, trunks, valises, boxes, packages,
and bundles, many of which had been there unclaimed for years and whose
owners were quite forgotten. They were the belongings of lost and
strayed Long Islanders, ex-whaling captains, mates and others. For the
“Market” was the chief rendezvous. Every Long Islander coming from the
“States” made first for the “Market.” Storage then was very expensive.
It would soon “eat a trunk’s head off.” So on the score of old
acquaintance all this baggage accumulated in the Market loft and the
owners wandered off to the mines, to Oregon, to Arizona, to Nevada--to
all parts of the great territory lying east, north and south, both in
and out of California, and many never came back and some were never
heard of more. This baggage had been accumulating for years.
I used occasionally to go and wander about that garret alone. It was
like groping around your family vault. The shades of the forgotten dead
came there in the evening twilight and sat each one on his chest, his
trunk, his valise, his roll of blankets. In those dusty packages were
some of the closest ties, binding them to earth, Bibles, mother’s gifts,
tiny baby shoes, bits of blue ribbon, which years by-gone fluttered in
the tresses of some Long Island girl.
It was a sad, yet not a gloomy place. I could feel that the presence of
one, whose soul in sad memory met theirs, one who then and there
recalled familiar scenes, events and faces, one who again in memory
lived over their busy preparations for departure, their last adieux and
their bright anticipations of fortune, I could feel that even my
presence in that lone, seldom-visited garret, was for them a solace, a
comfort. Imagination? Yes, if you will. Even imagination, dreamy,
unprofitable imagination, may be a tangible and valuable something to
those who dwell in a world of thought.
One night--or, rather, one morning--I came home very late--or, rather,
very early. The doors of the Long Island House were locked. I wanted
rest. One of the window-panes in front, and a large window-pane at that,
was broken out. All the belated Long Islanders stopping at the place,
when locked out at night, used to crawl through that window-pane. So, I
crawled through it. Now, the sentinel on the ramparts of Fort Gunnybags,
having nothing better to do, had been watching me, and putting me up as
a suspicious midnight loiterer. And so, as he looked, he saw me by
degrees lose my physical identity, and vanish into the front of that
building; first, head, then shoulders, then chest, then diaphragm, then
legs, until naught but a pair of boot-soles were for a moment upturned
to his gaze, and they vanished, and darkness reigned supreme. The
sentinel deemed that the time for action had come. I had just got into
bed, congratulating myself on having thus entered that house without
disturbing the inmates, when there came loud and peremptory rappings at
the lower door. Luther and John, the proprietors, put their heads out of
the chamber windows. There was a squad of armed Vigilantes on the
sidewalk below; and, cried out one of them, “There’s a man just entered
your house!” Now I heard this, and said to myself, “Thou art the man!”
but it was so annoying to have to announce myself as the cause of all
this disturbance, that I concluded to wait and see how things would turn
out. John and Luther jumped from their beds, lit each a candle and
seized each a pistol; down-stairs they went and let the Vigilantes in.
All the Long Island captains, mates, coopers, cooks, and stewards then
resident in the house also turned out, lit each his candle, seized each
a pistol or a butcher-knife, of which there were plenty on the
meat-blocks below. John came rushing into my room where I lay,
pretending to be asleep. He shook me and exclaimed, “Get up! get up!
there’s a robber in the house secreted somewhere!” Then I arose, lit a
candle, seized a butcher-knife, and so all the Vigilantes with muskets,
and all the Long Island butchers, captains, mates, cooks, coopers, and
stewards went poking around, without any trousers on, and thrusting
their candles and knives and pistols into dark corners, and under beds
and behind beef barrels, after the robber. So did I; for the
disturbance had now assumed such immense proportions that I would not
have revealed myself for a hundred dollars. I never hunted for myself so
long before, and I did wish they would give up the search. I saw no use
in it; and besides, the night air felt raw and chill in our slim attire.
They kept it up for two hours.
Fort Gunnybags was on Sacramento Street; I slept directly opposite under
the deserted baggage referred to. The block between us and the fort was
vacant. About every fourth night a report would be circulated through
that house that an attack on Fort Gunnybags would be made by the Law and
Order men. Now, the guns of Fort Gunnybags bore directly on us, and as
they were loaded with hard iron balls, and as these balls,
notwithstanding whatever human Law and Order impediments they might meet
with while crossing the vacant block in front, were ultimately certain
to smash into our house, as well as into whatever stray Long Island
captains, mates, boat-steerers, cooks, and coopers might be lying in
their path, these reports resulted in great uneasiness to us, and both
watches used frequently to remain up all night, playing seven-up and
drinking rum and gum in Jo. Holland’s saloon below.
I became tired at last of assisting in this hunt for myself. I gave
myself up. I said, “I am the man, I am the bogus burglar, I did it.”
Then the crowd put up their knives and pistols, blew out their candles,
drew their tongues and fired reproaches at me. I felt that I deserved
them; I replied to none of their taunts, conducted myself like a
Christian, and went to bed weighted down with their reproof and
invective. The sentinel went back to his post and possibly slept. So did
I.