CHAPTER LVI
SOME WAR REACTIONS
San Francisco adjusted itself to war conditions with its usual impulsive facility. Terry, who had resigned from the Supreme bench following Broderick's death, and who had passed through the technicalities of a farcical trial, left for Texas. He joined the Southern forces and for years California knew him no more. Albert Sydney Johnson, after being displaced by General Sumner, offered his services to Jefferson Davis and was killed at Shiloh. Edward Baker, now a Senator from Oregon, left the halls of Congress for a Union command. At the head of the California volunteer regiment he charged the enemy at Ball's Bluff and fell, his body pierced by half a dozen bullets. Curiously different was the record of Broderick's old foeman, William Gwin. In October, 1861, he started East via the Isthmus of Panama, accompanied by Calhoun Benham, one of Terry's seconds in the fateful duel. On the same steamer was General Sumner, relieved of his command in San Francisco, en route to active service. Convinced that Gwin and Benham plotted treason, he ordered their arrest, but not before they threw overboard maps and other papers. They escaped conviction. But Gwin found Paris safer than America--until the war had reached its close.
When the first call came for volunteers by way of the pony express, Benito and Adrian talked of enlisting. Even thirteen-year Francisco, to his mother's horror, spoke of going as a drummer boy.
"One would think you men asked nothing better than to kill each other," Inez Windham stormed.
Yet she was secretly proud. She would have felt a mite ashamed had Adrian displayed less martial ardor. And to her little son she showed the portrait of Francisco Garvez, who had ridden with Ortega and d'Anza in the days of Spanish glory.
Lithographs of President Lincoln appeared in household and office. Flags flew from many staffs and windows. News was eagerly awaited from the battle-front.
Adrian had been rejected by a recruiting board because of a slight limp. 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 substitute, 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 passed 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, horsemen, 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 damned 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 attitude, responsibilities and influences of California, particularly San Francisco. He made no great emotional appeals; he dealt in no impassioned 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.
[Illustration: The concourse broke into applause. Then it was hysteria, pandemonium. Fifty thousand knew their city was safe for Anti-Slavery.]
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