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 assault 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 passed. "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."
[Illustration: Passersby 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 canals 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 IMPASSABLE NOT EVEN JACKASSABLE
In which there was both truth and poetry. Passersby 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 Massachusetts."
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."
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