Port O' Gold Part 18

He rose, determinedly, shaking off Spear's detaining arm. In the doorway stood Dr. Jones. Again came the tiny cry. "It's a boy," said the medico, and held out his hand.

But Adrian caught him by the shoulders. "My wife?" he asked. "How is she? Is there any--"

"Danger? No, it's over," said the doctor. "Sit down and calm yourself."

Adrian relaxed a trifle. Finally his set face softened; he laughed.

It was the evening of July 14, 1849. Stanley stood over the cradle of his son, looking worshipfully down at the tiny sleeping face. Inez Stanley, busied with the varied tasks of motherhood, came and stood for a moment beside him. She voiced that plat.i.tude of wives and mothers in their pride: "He looks just like you, Adrian."

Stanley put his hands upon her shoulders. "Got your mouth, your big eyes," he said, and kissed her.

They were wont to quarrel tenderly over this. But tonight Inez looked seriously up at her husband. Suddenly she hid her face upon his shoulder.

"If only--if only--" she whispered, "he wouldn't grow up. And we wouldn't grow old."

Stanley's fingers on her hair stroked gently. "Life is life, my dear,"

he said at last. "Let us not question the inexorable too deeply.

Yesterday is gone, you know. Tomorrow never comes.... And here we are together in the best town in the world. With love, good prospects ...

our little Francisco--"

"He will live to see a great city," said Inez, comforted. "He will help to make it." Her eyes were prophetic. The child stirred and hastily they withdrew, lowering the light so that his slumber might be undisturbed. A light tap sounded at the door and Adrian answered.

Spear and Brannan with Benito stood upon the threshold. The latter entered, kissed his sister and was shown the sleeping child. "How is Alice?" Inez asked.

"Well. And the best little wife in the world," Benito answered. His eyes glowed happily. "The tiny Francisco is growing like a weed. Only ten months old--"

"Nine months, two weeks and three days," said his mother, glibly. "Won't you all come in and see the baby?" she invited.

"No," Spear answered. "We must steal your husband for a' little while.

There's business at the City Hall...."

"Adrian's become a prominent citizen, you know," he added at her look of pouting protest.

She brought her husband's hat. "Don't be long," she urged, and smiled a good-bye from the threshold. When he heard the door shut, Adrian turned on Brannan. "What's up?"

"Plenty," said the other meaningly. "The Hounds have broken out. They looted Little Chili about dark tonight and one of them was shot. They threaten to burn the foreign quarter. They're arming. There's trouble afoot."

"And what do you want of me?" Stanley questioned.

"d.a.m.n it! Wake up, man!" cried Spear. "A citizens' committee. We're going to enforce the law--if it takes a rope."

CHAPTER XXIV

THE CHAOS OF '49

Inez and Alice were returning from church on Sunday, July 15 when they encountered a strange, unsabbatical procession; a company of grim and tight-lipped citizens marching, rifles over shoulder toward the Bay. At their head was William Spofford. Midway of the parade were a dozen rough-appearing fellows, manacled and guarded. Among these Inez recognized Sam Roberts, gaunt and bearded leader of the hoodlum band known as The Hounds or Regulars. From Little Chili, further to the north and west, rose clouds of smoke; now and then a leaping tongue of flame.

Presently Benito, musket at shoulder, came marching by and Inez plucked at his arm.

"Can't stop now," he told her hurriedly. "We're taking these rogues to the sloop Warren. They're to be tried for arson and a.s.sault in the foreign quarter."

"By the Eternal!" shouted a bystander enthusiastically. "We've got Law in San Francisco at last.... Hurrah for Bill Spofford and the Citizens'

Committee."

"There's Adrian," cried Inez as the rearguard of the pageant pa.s.sed.

"Isn't it fine? Alice, aren't you proud?"

But Alice was a practical little body. "They'll be hungry when they come home," she averred. "Let us hurry back and get their dinner ready."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Pa.s.sersby who laughed at the inscription witnessed simultaneously the rescue of an almost-submerged donkey by means of an improvised derrick.]

The affair of The Hounds was already past history when the gold-seekers, hunted from the heights by early snows, returned to San Francisco in great numbers. Sara Roberts and his evil band had been deported.

Better government obtained but there were many other civic problems still unsolved. San Francisco, now a hectic, riotous metropolis of 25,000 inhabitants, was like a muddy Venice, for heavy rains had made its unpaved streets ca.n.a.ls of oozy mud. At Clay and Kearny streets, in the heart of the business district, some wag had placed a placard reading:

THIS STREET IS IMPa.s.sABLE NOT EVEN JACKa.s.sABLE

In which there was both truth and poetry. Pa.s.sersby who laughed at the inscription witnessed simultaneously the rescue of an almost-submerged donkey by means of an improvised derrick.

Benito was showing his friend David Broderick, a recent arrival from New York, some of San Francisco's sights. "Everything is being used to bridge the crossings," said the former laughingly ... "stuff that came from those deserted ships out in the bay. Their masts are like a forest--hundreds of them."

"You mean their crew deserted during the gold rush?" Broderick inquired.

"Yes, even the skippers and officers in many cases.... See, here is a cargo of sieves with which some poor misguided trader overwhelmed the market. They make a fair crossing, planted in the mud. And there are stepping stones of tobacco boxes--never been opened, mind you--barrels of tainted pork and beef. On Montgomery street is a row of cook stoves which make a fine sidewalk, though, sometimes the mud covers them."

"And what are those two brigs doing stranded in the mud?" asked Broderick.

"Oh, those are the Euphemia and Apollo. They use the first one for a jail. That's Geary's scheme. He's full of business. And the second's a tavern.... Let's go up to the new post-office. Alice is always eager for a letter from her folks in Ma.s.sachusetts."

They made their way to the new wooden structure at Clay and Pike streets where several clerks were busily sorting the semi-weekly mail which had just arrived. Hundreds of people stood in long queues before each of the windows. "Get in line stranger," said a red-shirted man laughingly.

"Only seventy-five ahead of us. I counted 'em.... Some have been in line since last night I'm told. They're up near the front and holding places for others ... getting $20 cash for their time."

Broderick and Benito decided not to wait. They made another journey round the town, watching Chinese builders erecting long rows of habitations that had come in sections from Cathay. Everywhere was hasty, feverish construction--flimsy houses going up like mushrooms over night to meet the needs of San Francisco's swiftly augmenting populace.

"It's like a house of cards," said Broderick, who had been a fireman in New York. "Lord help us if it ever starts to burn. Even our drinking water comes from Sausalito across the Bay."

CHAPTER XXV

RETRIEVING A BIRTHRIGHT

Benito Windham stole from his dwelling, closing the door softly after him so Alice, his wife, might not wake. A faint rose dawn colored the Contra Costa ridge. From a few of the huts and larger buildings which sprinkled San Francisco's hills and hollows so haphazardly, curls of blue white wood smoke rose into the windless air. Here and there some belated roisterer staggered toward his habitation. But otherwise all was still, quicscent. San Francisco slept.