The Lure of San Francisco Part 4

"A few hours later, Concha, on the qui vive with excitement, saw her brother approaching with a little company of men, among whom was a tall well-built Russian officer, whose keen eyes seemed to take in every detail of the little settlement.

"Don Luis conducted his guests to the old adobe building, draped in pink Castilian roses, and into the cool sala, which, although provided with slippery horse-hair chairs and plain whitewashed walls ornamented with pictures of the Virgin and saints, was a pleasing contrast to the ship's cabin. Here he presented his guests to his mother, a woman whose face still reflected much of the beauty of her youth in spite of her cares which had come in the rearing of her thirteen children. Beside her stood Concepcion. Her long drooping lashes swept her cheeks, but when she raised her eyes in greeting Rezanov saw that they were dark and joyous.

He was a widower of many years, a man of forty-two, who had given little thought to women during his wandering life, but now he found himself keenly alive to the charms of this radiant girl. Simple and artless in her manners, yet possessing the early maturity of her race, she set her guests at ease and entertained them with stories of life on the great ranchos, while her mother was busy with household duties.

"It was ten days before Don Jose Arguello returned from Monterey and in the meantime no business could be transacted. During these days Rezanov saw much of Concepcion, for there was dancing every afternoon at the home of the Comandante and frequent picnics into the neighboring woods.

It was not long before the Russian learned that Concepcion was not only La Favorita of the Presidio, but also of all California, for although born at San Francisco, she had spent much time in her childhood at Santa Barbara, where her father had been Comandante. With a chain of missions and ranchos extending from San Diego to San Francisco, there was much interchange of hospitality, and Concha was a favorite guest at all fiestas. So the dark eyed Spanish girl had danced her way into the heart of many a youth as she was now doing into that of this powerful Russian.

"Often he would stand in the shadow of the deep window cas.e.m.e.nt and watch her lithe young figure bend in the graceful borego, occasionally catching a glance from beneath the sweeping lashes that would send his blood surging through his veins and make him almost forget the purpose of his voyage. Sometimes he would draw her aside to talk of his hope that the Spaniards would furnish him bread-stuffs for his starving colony and he marveled at her keen insight into the affairs of state, while his heart beat the quicker for her warm sympathy. Often their talk would wander to other things and as she occasionally flashed a smile in his direction, showing a row of pearly teeth, his blood tingled and he thought that the flush on her cheek was not unlike the pink Castilian rose that was nightly tucked in the soft coils of her shadowy hair. At times he imagined her clad in rich satin, with a rope of pearls about her delicate throat, and as he drew the picture he saw her as a star among the ladies of the Russian court.

"When Don Jose Arguello returned, Rezanov asked him for the hand of his daughter in marriage, but the Comandante indignantly refused. Although liking the distinguished Russian for himself, he would not listen to such--a proposal. Give his daughter to a foreigner and a heretic!

Never! It was not to be thought of for an instant. Concha must be sent away. She must not see this Russian again! He would have her taken to the home of his brother, who lived near the Mission, until the foreign ship was out of the bay. While the father talked, the mother hurried to the padres to beg the good priests to forbid such a union.

"But Concha was no longer the docile girl of a month ago. She was a woman and her heart was in the keeping of this st.u.r.dy Russian. She would have him or none, and nothing the padres or her parents could say would change her. Don Jose had never crossed his daughter before, and now as she flung her arms about his neck and begged for her happiness he weakened. After all, this Russian was a splendid fellow, and perhaps it might be an advantage to Spain, rather than a detriment to have an ally at Petrograd. In the end the pleading of Concha and the arguments of Rezanov won. Comandante Arguello yielded and the betrothal was solemnized, but there were many obstacles before the marriage could be consummated. The permission of the Czar of Russia and the King of Spain must be obtained, and this would take time, as well as involve a long and dangerous trip. But nothing could daunt the spirits of the lovers.

Concepcion's brother, Luis, had already waited six years for permission to marry Rafaela Sal and if Rezanov traveled with haste he could return in two. He must go first to Petrograd to ask the consent of the Czar and then to the Court of Madrid to promote more friendly relations between the two countries, finally returning to claim his bride, by way of Mexico. But before he could start on his journey, his starving Alaskan colony must be provided for, and after considerable discussion, arrangements were made for an interchange of commodities, and the hold of the Russian ship, 'Juno' was packed with foodstuffs for the Sitkans, while the ladies at the Presidio were resplendent in soft Russian fabrics and the padres were rejoicing in new cooking utensils for their large Indian family.

"At length the 'Juno' weighed anchor and the white sails filled with the afternoon breeze. As the Russians came opposite Cantil Blanco, the fort which had scowled so menacingly upon them on their entrance forty-four days before, now smiled with friendly faces. There was much waving of hats and many shouts of farewell from the little group on the sh.o.r.e, but Rezanov saw only the figure of a tall graceful girl with the soft folds of a mantilla billowing about her head and shoulders and heard only the murmur of love from the rosy lips. 'Two years,' he whispered back to her, as the ship pa.s.sed out through the Gulf of the Farallones and became but a speck on the sunset sky.

"The two years pa.s.sed and still there was no sign of the returning vessel. Luis Arguello had been married to the lovely Rafaela and a little son had come to bless their household, and yet Concepcion looked out over the ocean watching for the white sail of a foreign ship. The sweet grey eyes of Luis' young wife were closed in death and Concha's heart and hands went out in sympathetic love and deeds to the stricken family, all the while trying to still in her own breast the fear that a like fate had overtaken her loved one. The verdant hills were again streaked with golden poppies and once more turned to tawny brown and still no ship nor word came from over the sea.

"It was eight or ten years before even a rumor of the fate of her lover reached Concepcion, and not until she met the Englishman, Sir George Simpson, twenty-five years after Rezanov sailed out of San Francis...o...b..y, did she learn the details of his death. It was almost winter when, leaving Alaska, he crossed the ocean and began his perilous trip through Siberia. Frequently drenched to the skin and undergoing terrible privations, he traveled for thousands of miles on horseback, now lying at some wayside inn burning with fever and again pushing on until he dropped prostrate at the next village. A fall from his horse added to his already serious condition, which resulted in his death in the little village of Krasnoiark, and he lies now buried beneath the snows of Siberia.

"Although many sought her hand in marriage, Concepcion remained faithful to her Russian lover. There being no convent for women in the country at that time, she donned the grey habit of the 'Third Order of St. Francis in the world,' devoting her life to the care of the sick and the teaching of the poor. Later when a Dominican convent was established," I added, rising, "she became not only its first nun, but also its Mother Superior."

"A romance that may well take a place with such world-famed love stories as those of Abelard and Helose; and Alexandre and Thais. I should like to make a pilgrimage to her grave," he added as we left the old adobe house.

"You can," I replied. "It's tucked away in a corner of the Benicia Cemetery, marked by a marble slab carved with her name and a simple cross."

We entered a grove of eucalyptus trees, which now and again divided, giving marvelous views of the bay and the Marin sh.o.r.e.

But my companion's mind still dwelt on the story he had heard. "So Concepcion suffered in the uncertainty of hope and despair for ten years," he said, "but ten months of it brought me to the limit of endurance. Do you think if Rezanov had returned and Concepcion had married him and gone to Petrograd she would have been happy?"

"Of course she would."

"Still Petrograd is a cold, dreary place compared to California."

"But what difference would that make? A woman would give up everything and count it no sacrifice for the man she loved."

"And you said only yesterday--"

"Oh, but that was different," I a.s.sured him, my cheeks burning under his gaze. "Rezanov loved California. He thought it so wonderful that he wanted it for a Russian province, and he would have brought Concepcion back to visit--"

"Boston is nearer than Petrograd and not so cold. Don't you think you could teach me to love California, too?"

"Perhaps," I acknowledged. Then anxious to turn the conversation, I asked: "Would you like to see the location of the old Spanish fort?" He nodded and we took the road leading to the present Fort Point. "I can't show you the exact location," I confessed, "because the United States cut down the bold promontory, Cantil Blanco, in order to place the present fortification close to the water's edge, but if you will use your imagination and picture a white cliff towering a hundred feet above the water at the point where Fort Winfield Scott now stands, you will see the entrance to the bay as it was in Spanish days. Here was located the old fort, called Castilla San Joaquin, which guarded the harbor for many years. Made of adobe in the shape of a horseshoe, so perishable that the walls crumbled every time a shot was fired, still it answered its purpose, as it was never needed for anything but friendly salutes, and even these were at times, perforce, omitted. The Russian, Kotzebue, states that when he entered the harbor he was impressed by the old fort and the soldiers drawn up in military array, but wondered that no return was made to his salute. A little later, however, the omission of the courtesy was explained when a Spanish officer boarded the vessel and asked to borrow sufficient powder for this purpose. Moreover, Robinson tells us that frequently during the afternoon's siesta a foreign ship would pa.s.s the fort, drop anchor in Yerba Buena Cove, and spend several days in the bay before the Presidio officers would know of its presence.

But this was after the time of Luis Arguello."

One by one the palaces of light in the Exposition grounds below us burst into radiance. The Horticultural dome turned to a wonderful iridescent bubble and the Tower of Jewels caught and reflected the light that played upon it. Wide bands of color streaked the sombre sky, transforming the clouds to shades of violet, yellow and rose. "The rainbow colors of promise," he said gently as he drew closer. "I shall take them as a message of hope that I shall win the love of the woman who is dearer to me than all else in life!"

The Plaza

A Chinese Restaurant. Yerba Buena and the Reminiscences of a Forty-Niner

The Plaza and its Echoes

"Be careful," I warned, "you'll get your feet wet."

We stood on the corner of Montgomery and Commercial Streets, having carried out our resolution of the day previous to continue our search for old landmarks. The Bostonian moved uncomfortably under the warmth of the noonday sun, and glanced down at the dry, glaring pavement; then he stooped to turn up his trousers.

"All right," he announced, "is it an arroyo or has the hose used in putting out 'the fire' suddenly burst?"

"Neither. The arroyo was a block further south. It ran down what is now Sacramento Street, and you ought to know enough about the fire to realize that we couldn't use our fire hose, because the earthquake broke the water mains."

"Then there was an earthquake!" He shot an amused glance at me. "You're the first Californian I've heard acknowledge it."

"Oh yes, there was an earthquake--but it didn't do much damage," I hastened to add. "Just 'knocked down a few chimneys and rickety buildings that the city was going to pull down anyway. It was the fire that destroyed the city."

"So Mother Nature was just favoring 'Fris...o...b.. lending a helping hand to the city officials," he laughed. "Well, you see I'm prepared for the deluge." He indicated his upturned trousers. "But if it isn't an arroyo--"

"It's the bay," I explained. "It used to touch the sh.o.r.e about where we are standing, forming a little inlet called Yerba Buena Cove."

"But," objected the man, mentally measuring the distance down the straight paved street to where the slender shaft-like tower of the Ferry Building broke the sky line, "it must be seven blocks from here to the present waterfront, two thousand feet at least."

"Yes, fully that," I agreed. "A large part of the business section of San Francisco stands on made-land. The water along the sh.o.r.e, here at Montgomery street, was very shallow, and at the time of the gold rush, when seven or eight hundred vessels were waiting in the bay to discharge their freight and pa.s.sengers, a corporation of energetic Americans built a long wharf from here to the deep water, where the ships were anch.o.r.ed.

Look down Commercial Street to the Ferry Building and, instead of the houses on either side, imagine it open to the water. Then you will see Central Wharf as it was in 'forty-nine.'"

"Central Wharf!" The name had caught his interest.

"Yes, it was called that from the one you have in Bost."

"Bost?" he repeated, mystified. "Bost?"

"Yes, Bost!" I answered. "You called our, city 'Frisco, not five minutes ago, so why shouldn't I--"

"I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I will never offend in that way again."

"But the building of the wharves and the filling in of the waterfront belong to a later time and we are back in Spanish days. When Vancouver landed he tells us that he cast anchor within a small inlet surrounded by green hills, on which herds and cattle were grazing. Historians say that his ship lay about where the Ferry Building now stands and that the crew put off for the sh.o.r.e in small boats. This place was a waste of sand-dunes and chaparral but the Englishmen were refreshed by the cool waters of the arroyo and spent a pleasant morning shooting quail and grouse."

"Quail, grouse and chaparral," he repeated, as his eyes traveled up and down the solidly built blocks and rested on the pedestrians hurrying in and out of the buildings. "Let's take a look at the bed of the arroyo."

We paused at the corner and for a moment watched the car laboriously climb the Sacramento Street hill and disappear over the crest; then we turned for another look at the ma.s.s of buildings now resting on the solid ground which had taken the place of the shining waters of Yerba Buena Cove.

"It was about here," I announced, "that the arroyo opened out into the Laguna Dulce, a little fresh water pool where Richardson's Indians delighted to take a cold plunge on leaving their steaming temescal."

"Richardson? Hardly a Spanish name!"