Port O' Gold Part 43

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 subst.i.tute, 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 pa.s.sed 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, hors.e.m.e.n, 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 d.a.m.ned 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 att.i.tude, responsibilities and influences of California, particularly San Francisco. He made no great emotional appeals; he dealt in no impa.s.sioned 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The concourse broke into applause. Then it was hysteria, pandemonium. Fifty thousand knew their city was safe for Anti-Slavery.]

CHAPTER LVII

WATERS PAYS THE PRICE

Months pa.s.sed to a tune of fifes and drums. Everywhere men were drilling. At more or less regular intervals one saw them marching down Montgomery street, brave in their new uniforms, running a gauntlet of bunting, flags and cheers. Then they pa.s.sed from one's ken. Each fortnight the San Francisco papers published a column of Deaths and Casualties.

In due time a letter came from Herbert Waters, now a sergeant of his troop. Benito promptly closed his office for the afternoon and ran home with it; he read the missive, while Alice, Robert and Po Lun listened, eager-eyed and silent:

"We have marched over historic ground, the trail of d'Anza, which Benito's forefathers broke in 1774. They say it is the hardest march that volunteer troops ever made and I can well believe it. There are no railroads; it was almost like exploring. Sometimes water holes are ninety miles apart. The desert is so hot that you in temperate San Francisco can't imagine it unless you think of h.e.l.l; and in the mountains we found snow up to our waists; were nearly frozen.

"Apaches, Yumas, Navajos abound; they are cruel, treacherous fighters.

We had some lively skirmishes with them. I received a poisoned arrow in my arm. But I sucked the wound and very soon, to everyone's surprise, it healed. There comes to me oft-times a strange conceit that I cannot be killed or even badly hurt ... until I have met Terry."

There was a postscript written on a later date, proceeding from Fort Davis, Texas. Though the handwriting was less firm than the foregoing, there was a jubilance about the closing lines which even the Chinese felt. His eyes glowed with a battle spirit as Benito read:

"My prayer has been answered. At least in part. I have met and fought with Broderick's a.s.sa.s.sin. It was in the battle for Fort Davis, which we wrested from the enemy, that he loomed suddenly before me, a great hulk of a man in a captain's uniform swinging his sword like a demon. I saw one of our men go down before him and then the battle press brought us together. It seemed almost like destiny. His sword was red and dripping, his horse was covered with foam. He looked at me with eyes that were insane--mad with the l.u.s.t of killing; tried to plunge the blade into my neck. But I caught his wrist and held it. I shouted at him, for the noise was hideous, 'David Terry, I am Broderick's friend.' He went white at that. I let his wrist go and drew my own saber. I struck at him and the sparks flew from his countering weapon. My heart was leaping with a kind of joy. 'No trick pistols this time,' I cried. And I spat in his face.

"But another's ball came to his rescue. I felt it, cold as ice and hot as fire in my lung. I made a wild slash at him as I fell; saw him wince, but ride away.... So, now I lie in a camp hospital. It has seemed a long time. But it is the fortune of war. Perhaps I shall see you soon."

"It isn't signed," Benito seemed a trifle puzzled. Then he found, in back of Waters' lines, a final sheet in a strange handwriting. Hurriedly he rose, walked to the open door. Below, upon the bay, storm was brewing; it seemed mirrored in his eyes.

"What is it, dear?" asked Alice following. He handed her the single sheet of paper.

"Dead!" her tone was stunned, incredulous.

Benito's arm around her, dumbly, they went out together. Rain was beginning to fall, but neither knew it.

Several years of war made little change in San Francisco. The city furnished more than its quota of troops. The California Hundred, trained fighters and good hors.e.m.e.n, went to Ma.s.sachusetts in 1862 and were a.s.signed to the Second Cavalry. Later the California Battalion joined them. Both saw terrific fighting.

But California furnished better than "man-power" to the struggle. Money, that all-important war-essential, streamed uninterruptedly from the coast-state mines to Washington. More than a hundred millions had already been sent--a sum which, in Confederate hands, might have turned the destiny of battle. California was loyal politically as well. Though badly treated by a remote, often unsympathetic government, she had scorned the plot to set up a "Pacific Republic" as the South had planned and hoped.

Her secret service men were busy and astute, preventing filibustering plots and mail robberies. There was a constant feeling of uneasiness.

San Francisco still housed too many Southern folk.

Benito and Alice were dining with the Stanleys. Francisco and Robert were squatted on the hearth, poring over an ill.u.s.trated book that had come from New York. It showed the uniforms of United States soldiers, the latest additions to the navy.

"See," said Francisco, "here are pictures of Admiral Farragut and General Sherman." He was fifteen now and well above his father's shoulders. Robert, three years younger, looked up to admire his cousin.

A smaller, more intellectual type of boy was Robert, with his mother's quiet sweetness and his father's fire.

"Here's a picture of the fight between the Monitor and Merrimac," he cried interestedly, "When I grow up I shall join the navy and wear a cap with gold braid, like Farragut."

"And I shall be a lawyer ... maybe a Senator or President," said Francisco, with importance.

The men, talking politics over their cigars, did not hear this converse, but the women looked down at their sons, smiling fondly. "Yesterday Robert announced that he would be a poet," Alice confided. "He saw his father writing verses in a book."

"And tomorrow he will want to be an inventor or a steam-boat captain,"

Inez answered. "'Tis the way with boys.... Mine is getting so big--I'm afraid he'll be going to war."

Po Lun interrupted their further confidences. He rushed in breathless, unannounced. "Misstah Windham," he spoke to Benito. "One man wanchee see you quick in Chinatown.... He allee same plitty soon die. He say you sabe him. His name McTu'pin."