Produced by Suzanne Shell and PG Distributed Proofreaders




THE FORTY-NINERS

A CHRONICLE OF THE CALIFORNIA TRAIL AND EL DORADO

BY STEWART EDWARD WHITE

1918



CONTENTS

 I.    SPANISH DAYS
 II.   THE AMERICAN OCCUPATION
 III.  LAW--MILITARY AND CIVIL
 IV.   GOLD
 V.    ACROSS THE PLAINS
 VI.   THE MORMONS
 VII.  THE WAY BY PANAMA
 VIII. THE DIGGINGS
 IX.   THE URBAN FORTY-NINER
 X.    ORDEAL BY FIRE
 XI.   THE VIGILANTES OF '51
 XII.  SAN FRANCISCO IN TRANSITION
 XIII. THE STORM GATHERS
 XIV.  THE STORM BREAKS
 XV.   THE VIGILANTES OF '56
 XVI.  THE TRIUMPH OF THE VIGILANTES
       BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
       INDEX






THE FORTY-NINERS





CHAPTER I

SPANISH DAYS


The dominant people of California have been successively aborigines,
_conquistadores_, monks, the dreamy, romantic, unenergetic peoples of
Spain, the roaring mélange of Forty-nine, and finally the modern
citizens, who are so distinctive that they bid fair to become a
subspecies of their own. This modern society has, in its evolution,
something unique. To be sure, other countries also have passed through
these same phases. But while the processes have consumed a leisurely
five hundred years or so elsewhere, here they have been subjected to
forced growth.

The tourist traveler is inclined to look upon the crumbling yet
beautiful remains of the old missions, those venerable relics in a
bustling modern land, as he looks upon the enduring remains of old
Rome. Yet there are today many unconsidered New England farmhouses older
than the oldest western mission, and there are men now living who
witnessed the passing of Spanish California.

Though the existence of California had been known for centuries, and the
dates of her first visitors are many hundreds of years old, nevertheless
Spain attempted no actual occupation until she was forced to it by
political necessity. Until that time she had little use for the country.
After early investigations had exploded her dream of more treasure
cities similar to those looted by Cortés and Pizarro, her interest
promptly died.

But in the latter part of the eighteenth century Spain began to awake to
the importance of action. Fortunately ready to her hand was a tried and
tempered weapon. Just as the modern statesmen turn to commercial
penetration, so Spain turned, as always, to religious occupation. She
made use of the missionary spirit and she sent forth her expeditions
ostensibly for the purpose of converting the heathen. The result was the
so-called Sacred Expedition under the leadership of Junipero Serra and
Portolá. In the face of incredible hardships and discouragements, these
devoted, if narrow and simple, men succeeded in establishing a string
of missions from San Diego to Sonoma. The energy, self-sacrifice, and
persistence of the members of this expedition furnish inspiring reading
today and show clearly of what the Spanish character at its best is
capable.

For the next thirty years after the founding of the first mission in
1769, the grasp of Spain on California was assured. Men who could do,
suffer, and endure occupied the land. They made their mistakes in
judgment and in methods, but the strong fiber of the pioneer was there.
The original _padres_ were almost without exception zealous, devoted to
poverty, uplifted by a fanatic desire to further their cause. The
original Spanish temporal leaders were in general able, energetic,
courageous, and not afraid of work or fearful of disaster.

At the end of that period, however, things began to suffer a change. The
time of pioneering came to an end, and the new age of material
prosperity began. Evils of various sorts crept in. The pioneer priests
were in some instances replaced by men who thought more of the flesh-pot
than of the altar, and whose treatment of the Indians left very much to
be desired. Squabbles arose between the civil and the religious powers.
Envy of the missions' immense holdings undoubtedly had its influence.
The final result of the struggle could not be avoided, and in the end
the complete secularization of the missions took place, and with this
inevitable change the real influence of these religious outposts came to
an end.

Thus before the advent in California of the American as an American, and
not as a traveler or a naturalized citizen, the mission had disappeared
from the land, and the land was inhabited by a race calling itself the
_gente de razón_, in presumed contradistinction to human beasts with no
reasoning powers. Of this period the lay reader finds such conflicting
accounts that he either is bewildered or else boldly indulges his
prejudices. According to one school of writers--mainly those of modern
fiction--California before the advent of the _gringo_ was a sort of
Arcadian paradise, populated by a people who were polite, generous,
pleasure-loving, high-minded, chivalrous, aristocratic, and above all
things romantic. Only with the coming of the loosely sordid, commercial,
and despicable American did this Arcadia fade to the strains of dying
and pathetic music. According to another school of writers--mainly
authors of personal reminiscences at a time when growing antagonism was
accentuating the difference in ideals--the "greaser" was a dirty, idle,
shiftless, treacherous, tawdry vagabond, dwelling in a disgracefully
primitive house, and backward in every aspect of civilization.

The truth, of course, lies somewhere between the two extremes, but its
exact location is difficult though not impossible to determine. The
influence of environment is sometimes strong, but human nature does not
differ much from age to age. Racial characteristics remain approximately
the same. The Californians were of several distinct classes. The upper
class, which consisted of a very few families, generally included those
who had held office, and whose pride led them to intermarry. Pure blood
was exceedingly rare. Of even the best the majority had Indian blood;
but the slightest mixture of Spanish was a sufficient claim to
gentility. Outside of these "first families," the bulk of the population
came from three sources: the original military adjuncts to the missions,
those brought in as settlers, and convicts imported to support one side
or another in the innumerable political squabbles. These diverse
elements shared one sentiment only--an aversion to work. The feeling
had grown up that in order to maintain the prestige of the soldier in
the eyes of the natives it was highly improper that he should ever do
any labor. The settlers, of whom there were few, had themselves been
induced to immigrate by rather extravagant promises of an easy life. The
convicts were only what was to be expected.

If limitations of space and subject permitted, it would be pleasant to
portray the romantic life of those pastoral days. Arcadian conditions
were then more nearly attained than perhaps at any other time in the
world's history. The picturesque, easy, idle, pleasant, fiery,
aristocratic life has been elsewhere so well depicted that it has taken
on the quality of rosy legend. Nobody did any more work than it pleased
him to do; everybody was well-fed and happy; the women were beautiful
and chaste; the men were bold, fiery, spirited, gracefully idle; life
was a succession of picturesque merrymakings, lovemakings, intrigues,
visits, lavish hospitalities, harmless politics, and revolutions. To be
sure, there were but few signs of progressive spirit. People traveled on
horseback because roads did not exist. They wore silks and diamonds,
lace and satin, but their houses were crude, and conveniences were
simple or entirely lacking. Their very vehicles, with wooden axles and
wheels made of the cross-section of a tree, were such as an East African
savage would be ashamed of. But who cared? And since no one wished
improvements, why worry about them?

Certainly, judged by the standards of a truly progressive race, the
Spanish occupation had many shortcomings. Agriculture was so little
known that at times the country nearly starved. Contemporary travelers
mention this fact with wonder. "There is," says Ryan, "very little land
under cultivation in the vicinity of Monterey. That which strikes the
foreigner most is the utter neglect in which the soil is left and the
indifference with which the most charming sites are regarded. In the
hands of the English and Americans, Monterey would be a beautiful town
adorned with gardens and orchards and surrounded with picturesque walks
and drives. The natives are, unfortunately, too ignorant to appreciate
and too indolent even to attempt such improvement." And Captain Charles
Wilkes asserts that "notwithstanding the immense number of domestic
animals in the country, the Californians were too lazy to make butter or
cheese, and even milk was rare. If there was a little good soap and
leather occasionally found, the people were too indolent to make them in
any quantity. The earth was simply scratched a few inches by a mean and
ill-contrived plow. When the ground had been turned up by repeated
scratching, it was hoed down and the clods broken by dragging over it
huge branches of trees. Threshing was performed by spreading the cut
grain on a spot of hard ground, treading it with cattle, and after
taking off the straw throwing the remainder up in the breeze, much was
lost and what was saved was foul."

General shiftlessness and inertia extended also to those branches
wherein the Californian was supposed to excel. Even in the matter of
cattle and sheep, the stock was very inferior to that brought into the
country by the Americans, and such a thing as crossing stock or
improving the breed of either cattle or horses was never thought of. The
cattle were long-horned, rough-skinned animals, and the beef was tough
and coarse. The sheep, while of Spanish stock, were very far from being
Spanish merino. Their wool was of the poorest quality, entirely unfit
for exportation, and their meat was not a favorite food.

There were practically no manufactures on the whole coast. The
inhabitants depended for all luxuries and necessities on foreign trade,
and in exchange gave hide and tallow from the semi-wild cattle that
roamed the hills. Even this trade was discouraged by heavy import duties
which amounted at times to one hundred per cent of the value. Such
conditions naturally led to extensive smuggling which was connived at by
most officials, high and low, and even by the monks of the missions
themselves.

Although the chief reason for Spanish occupancy was to hold the country,
the provisions for defense were not only inadequate but careless. Thomes
says, in _Land and Sea_, that the fort at Monterey was "armed with four
long brass nine-pounders, the handsomest guns that I ever saw all
covered with scroll work and figures. They were mounted on ruined and
decayed carriages. Two of them were pointed toward the planet Venus, and
the other two were depressed so that had they been loaded or fired the
balls would have startled the people on the other side of the
hemisphere." This condition was typical of those throughout the
so-called armed forts of California.

The picture thus presented is unjustly shaded, of course, for Spanish
California had its ideal, noble, and romantic side. In a final estimate
no one could say where the balance would be struck; but our purpose is
not to strike a final balance. We are here endeavoring to analyze the
reasons why the task of the American conquerors was so easy, and to
explain the facility with which the original population was thrust
aside.

It is a sometimes rather annoying anomaly of human nature that the races
and individuals about whom are woven the most indestructible mantles of
romance are generally those who, from the standpoint of economic
stability or solid moral quality, are the most variable. We staid and
sober citizens are inclined to throw an aura of picturesqueness about
such creatures as the Stuarts, the dissipated Virginian cavaliers, the
happy-go-lucky barren artists of the Latin Quarter, the fiery touchiness
of that so-called chivalry which was one of the least important features
of Southern life, and so on. We staid and sober citizens generally
object strenuously to living in actual contact with the unpunctuality,
unreliability, unreasonableness, shiftlessness, and general
irresponsibility that are the invariable concomitants of this
picturesqueness. At a safe distance we prove less critical. We even go
so far as to regard this unfamiliar life as a mental anodyne or
antidote to the rigid responsibility of our own everyday existence. We
use these historical accounts for moral relaxation, much as some
financiers or statisticians are said to read cheap detective stories for
complete mental relaxation.

But, the Californian's undoubtedly admirable qualities of generosity,
kindheartedness (whenever narrow prejudice or very lofty pride was not
touched), hospitality, and all the rest, proved, in the eyes of a
practical people confronted with a large and practical job, of little
value in view of his predominantly negative qualities. A man with all
the time in the world rarely gets on with a man who has no time at all.
The newcomer had his house to put in order; and it was a very big house.
The American wanted to get things done at once; the Californian could
see no especial reason for doing them at all. Even when his short-lived
enthusiasm happened to be aroused, it was for action tomorrow rather
than today.

For all his amiable qualities, the mainspring of the Californian's
conduct was at bottom the impression he could make upon others. The
magnificence of his apparel and his accoutrement indicated no feeling
for luxury but rather a fondness for display. His pride and
quick-tempered honor were rooted in a desire to stand well in the eyes
of his equals, not in a desire to stand well with himself. In
consequence he had not the builder's fundamental instinct. He made no
effort to supply himself with anything that did not satisfy this amiable
desire. The contradictions of his conduct, therefore, become
comprehensible. We begin to see why he wore silks and satins and why he
neglected what to us are necessities. We see why he could display such
admirable carriage in rough-riding and lassoing grizzlies, and yet
seemed to possess such feeble military efficiency. We comprehend his
generous hospitality coupled with his often narrow and suspicious
cruelty. In fact, all the contrasts of his character and action begin to
be clear. His displacement was natural when confronted by a people who,
whatever their serious faults, had wants and desires that came from
within, who possessed the instinct to create and to hold the things that
would gratify those desires, and who, in the final analysis, began to
care for other men's opinions only after they had satisfied their own
needs and desires.





CHAPTER II

THE AMERICAN OCCUPATION


From the earliest period Spain had discouraged foreign immigration into
California. Her object was neither to attract settlers nor to develop
the country, but to retain political control of it, and to make of it a
possible asylum for her own people. Fifty years after the founding of
the first mission at San Diego, California had only thirteen inhabitants
of foreign birth. Most of these had become naturalized citizens, and so
were in name Spanish. Of these but three were American!

Subsequent to 1822, however, the number of foreign residents rapidly
increased. These people were mainly of substantial character, possessing
a real interest in the country and an intention of permanent settlement.
Most of them became naturalized, married Spanish women, acquired
property, and became trusted citizens. In marked contrast to their
neighbors, they invariably displayed the greatest energy and
enterprise. They were generally liked by the natives, and such men as
Hartnell, Richardson, David Spence, Nicholas Den, and many others, lived
lives and left reputations to be envied.

Between 1830 and 1840, however, Americans of a different type began to
present themselves. Southwest of the Missouri River the ancient town of
Santa Fé attracted trappers and traders of all nations and from all
parts of the great West. There they met to exchange their wares and to
organize new expeditions into the remote territories. Some of them
naturally found their way across the western mountains into California.
One of the most notable was James Pattie, whose personal narrative is
well worth reading. These men were bold, hardy, rough, energetic, with
little patience for the refinements of life--in fact, diametrically
opposed in character to the easy-going inhabitants of California.
Contempt on the one side and distrust on the other were inevitable. The
trappers and traders, together with the deserters from whalers and other
ships, banded together in small communities of the rough type familiar
to any observer of our frontier communities. They looked down upon and
despised the "greasers," who in turn did everything in their power to
harass them by political and other means.

At first isolated parties, such as those of Jedediah Smith, the Patties,
and some others, had been imprisoned or banished eastward over the
Rockies. The pressure of increasing numbers, combined with the rather
idle carelessness into which all California-Spanish regulations seemed
at length to fall, later nullified this drastic policy. Notorious among
these men was one Isaac Graham, an American trapper, who had become
weary of wandering and had settled near Natividad. There he established
a small distillery, and in consequence drew about him all the rough and
idle characters of the country. Some were trappers, some sailors; a few
were Mexicans and renegade Indians. Over all of these Graham obtained an
absolute control. They were most of them of a belligerent nature and
expert shots, accustomed to taking care of themselves in the wilds. This
little band, though it consisted of only thirty-nine members, was
therefore considered formidable.

A rumor that these people were plotting an uprising for the purpose of
overturning the government aroused Governor Alvarado to action. It is
probable that the rumors in question were merely the reports of
boastful drunken vaporings and would better have been ignored. However,
at this time Alvarado, recently arisen to power through the usual
revolutionary tactics, felt himself not entirely secure in his new
position. He needed some distraction, and he therefore seized upon the
rumor of Graham's uprising as a means of solidifying his influence--an
expedient not unknown to modern rulers. He therefore ordered the prefect
Castro to arrest the party. This was done by surprise. Graham and his
companions were taken from their beds, placed upon a ship at Monterey,
and exiled to San Blas, to be eventually delivered to the Mexican
authorities. There they were held in prison for some months, but being
at last released through the efforts of an American lawyer, most of them
returned to California rather better off than before their arrest. It is
typical of the vacillating Californian policy of the day that, on their
return, Graham and his riflemen were at once made use of by one of the
revolutionary parties as a reinforcement to their military power!

By 1840 the foreign population had by these rather desultory methods
been increased to a few over four hundred souls. The majority could not
be described as welcome guests. They had rarely come into the country
with the deliberate intention of settling but rather as a traveler's
chance. In November, 1841, however, two parties of quite a different
character arrived. They were the first true immigrants into California,
and their advent is significant as marking the beginning of the end of
the old order. One of these parties entered by the Salt Lake Trail, and
was the forerunner of the many pioneers over that great central route.
The other came by Santa Fé, over the trail that had by now become so
well marked that they hardly suffered even inconvenience on their
journey. The first party arrived at Monte Diablo in the north, the other
at San Gabriel Mission in the south. Many brought their families with
them, and they came with the evident intention of settling in
California.

The arrival of these two parties presented to the Mexican Government a
problem that required immediate solution. Already in anticipation of
such an event it had been provided that nobody who had not obtained a
legal passport should be permitted to remain in the country; and that
even old settlers, unless naturalized, should be required to depart
unless they procured official permission to remain. Naturally none of
the new arrivals had received notice of this law, and they were in
consequence unprovided with the proper passports. Legally they should
have been forced at once to turn about and return by the way they came.
Actually it would have been inhuman, if not impossible, to have forced
them at that season of the year to attempt the mountains. General
Vallejo, always broad-minded in his policies, used discretion in the
matter and provided those in his district with temporary permits to
remain. He required only a bond signed by other Americans who had been
longer in the country.

Alvarado and Vallejo at once notified the Mexican Government of the
arrival of these strangers, and both expressed fear that other and
larger parties would follow. These fears were very soon realized.
Succeeding expeditions settled in the State with the evident intention
of remaining. No serious effort was made by the California authorities
to keep them out. From time to time, to be sure, formal objection was
raised and regulations were passed. However, as a matter of plain
practicability, it was manifestly impossible to prevent parties from
starting across the plains, or to inform the people living in the
Eastern States of the regulations adopted by California. It must be
remembered that communication at that time was extraordinarily slow and
broken. It would have been cruel and unwarranted to drive away those who
had already arrived. And even were such a course to be contemplated, a
garrison would have been necessary at every mountain pass on the East
and North, and at every crossing of the Colorado River, as well as at
every port along the coast. The government in California had not men
sufficient to handle its own few antique guns in its few coastwise
forts, let alone a surplus for the purpose just described. And to cap
all, provided the garrisons had been available and could have been
placed, it would have been physically impossible to have supplied them
with provisions for even a single month.

Truth to tell, the newcomers of this last class were not personally
objectionable to the Californians. The Spanish considered them no
different from those of their own blood. Had it not been for an
uneasiness lest the enterprise of the American settlers should in time
overcome Californian interests, had it not been for repeated orders from
Mexico itself, and had it not been for reports that ten thousand Mormons
had recently left Illinois for California, it is doubtful if much
attention would have been paid to the first immigrants.

Westward migration at this time was given an added impetus by the Oregon
question. The status of Oregon had long been in doubt. Both England and
the United States were inclined to claim priority of occupation. The
boundary between Canada and the United States had not yet been decided
upon between the two countries. Though they had agreed upon the
compromise of joint occupation of the disputed land, this arrangement
did not meet with public approval. The land-hungry took a particular
interest in the question and joined their voices with those of men
actuated by more patriotic motives. In public meetings which were held
throughout the country this joint occupation convention was explained
and discussed, and its abrogation was demanded. These meetings helped to
form the patriotic desire. Senator Tappan once said that thirty thousand
settlers with their thirty thousand rifles in the valley of the Columbia
would quickly settle all questions of title to the country. This saying
was adopted as the slogan for a campaign in the West. It had the same
inspiring effect as the later famous "54-40 or fight." People were
aroused as in the olden times they had been aroused to the crusades. It
became a form of mental contagion to talk of, and finally to accomplish,
the journey to the Northwest. Though no accurate records were kept, it
is estimated that in 1843 over 800 people crossed to Willamette Valley.
By 1845 this immigration had increased to fully 3000 within the year.

Because of these conditions the Oregon Trail had become a national
highway. Starting at Independence, which is a suburb of the present
Kansas City, it set out over the rolling prairie. At that time the wide
plains were bright with wild flowers and teeming with game. Elk,
antelope, wild turkeys, buffalo, deer, and a great variety of smaller
creatures supplied sport and food in plenty. Wood and water were in
every ravine; the abundant grass was sufficient to maintain the swarming
hordes of wild animals and to give rich pasture to horses and oxen. The
journey across these prairies, while long and hard, could rarely have
been tedious. Tremendous thunderstorms succeeded the sultry heat of the
West, an occasional cyclone added excitement; the cattle were apt to
stampede senselessly; and, while the Indian had not yet developed the
hostility that later made a journey across the plains so dangerous,
nevertheless the possibilities of theft were always near enough at hand
to keep the traveler alert and interested. Then there was the sandy
country of the Platte River with its buffalo--buffalo by the hundreds of
thousands, as far as the eye could reach--a marvelous sight: and beyond
that again the Rockies, by way of Fort Laramie and South Pass.

Beyond Fort Hall the Oregon Trail and the trail for California divided.
And at this point there began the terrible part of the journey--the
arid, alkaline, thirsty desert, short of game, horrible in its monotony,
deadly with its thirst. It is no wonder that, weakened by their
sufferings in this inferno, so many of the immigrants looked upon the
towering walls of the Sierras with a sinking of the heart.

While at first most of the influx of settlers was by way of Oregon,
later the stories of the new country that made their way eastward
induced travelers to go direct to California itself. The immigration,
both from Oregon in the North and by the route over the Sierras,
increased so rapidly that in 1845 there were probably about 700
Americans in the district. Those coming over the Sierras by the Carson
Sink and Salt Lake trails arrived first of all at the fort built by
Captain Sutter at the junction of the American and Sacramento rivers.

Captain Sutter was a man of Swiss parentage who had arrived in San
Francisco in 1839 without much capital and with only the assets of
considerable ability and great driving force. From the Governor he
obtained grant of a large tract of land "somewhere in the interior" for
the purposes of colonization. His colonists consisted of one German,
four other white men, and eight Kanakas. The then Governor, Alvarado,
thought this rather a small beginning, but advised him to take out
naturalization papers and to select a location. Sutter set out on his
somewhat vague quest with a four-oared boat and two small schooners,
loaded with provisions, implements, ammunition, and three small cannon.
Besides his original party he took an Indian boy and a dog, the latter
proving by no means the least useful member of the company. He found at
the junction of the American and Sacramento rivers the location that
appealed to him, and there he established himself. His knack with the
Indians soon enlisted their services. He seems to have been able to keep
his agreements with them and at the same time to maintain rigid
discipline and control.

Within an incredibly short time he had established a feudal barony at
his fort. He owned eleven square leagues of land, four thousand two
hundred cattle, two thousand horses, and about as many sheep. His trade
in beaver skins was most profitable. He maintained a force of trappers
who were always welcome at his fort, and whom he generously kept without
cost to themselves. He taught the Indians blanket-weaving, hat-making,
and other trades, and he even organized them into military companies.
The fort which he built was enclosed on four sides and of imposing
dimensions and convenience. It mounted twelve pieces of artillery,
supported a regular garrison of forty in uniform, and contained within
its walls a blacksmith shop, a distillery, a flour mill, a cannery, and
space for other necessary industries. Outside the walls of the fort
Captain Sutter raised wheat, oats, and barley in quantity, and even
established an excellent fruit and vegetable garden.

Indeed, in every way Captain Sutter's environment and the results of his
enterprises were in significant contrast to the inactivity and
backwardness of his neighbors. He showed what an energetic man could
accomplish with exactly the same human powers and material tools as had
always been available to the Californians. Sutter himself was a rather
short, thick-set man, exquisitely neat, of military bearing, carrying
himself with what is called the true old-fashioned courtesy. He was a
man of great generosity and of high spirit. His defect was an excess of
ambition which in the end o'erleaped itself. There is no doubt that his
first expectation was to found an independent state within the borders
of California. His loyalty to the Americans was, however, never
questioned, and the fact that his lands were gradually taken from him,
and that he died finally in comparative poverty, is a striking comment
on human injustice.

The important point for us at present is that Sutter's Fort happened to
be exactly on the line of the overland immigration. For the trail-weary
traveler it was the first stopping-place after crossing the high Sierras
to the promised land. Sutter's natural generosity of character induced
him always to treat these men with the greatest kindness. He made his
profits from such as wished to get rid of their oxen and wagons in
exchange for the commodities which he had to offer. But there is no
doubt that the worthy captain displayed the utmost liberality in
dealing with those whom poverty had overtaken. On several occasions he
sent out expeditions at his personal cost to rescue parties caught in
the mountains by early snows or other misfortunes along the road,
Especially did he go to great expense in the matter of the ill-fated
Donner party, who, it will be remembered, spent the winter near Truckee,
and were reduced to cannibalism to avoid starvation.[1]

[1: See _The Passing of the Frontier_, in "The Chronicles of America."]

Now Sutter had, of course, been naturalized in order to obtain
his grant of land. He had also been appointed an official of the
California-Mexican Government. Taking advantage of this fact, he was
accustomed to issue permits or passports to the immigrants, permitting
them to remain in the country. This gave the immigrants a certain
limited standing, but, as they were not Mexican citizens, they were
disqualified from holding land. Nevertheless Sutter used his good
offices in showing desirable locations to the would-be settlers.[2]

[2: It is to be remarked that, prior to the gold rush, American
settlements did not take place in the Spanish South but in the
unoccupied North. In 1845 Castro and Castillero made a tour through the
Sacramento Valley and the northern regions to inquire about the new
arrivals. Castro displayed no personal uneasiness at their presence and
made no attempt or threat to deport them.]

As far as the Californians were concerned, there was little rivalry or
interference between the immigrants and the natives. Their interests did
not as yet conflict. Nevertheless the central Mexican Government
continued its commands to prevent any and all immigration. It was rather
well justified by its experience in Texas, where settlement had ended by
final absorption. The local Californian authorities were thus thrust
between the devil and the deep blue sea. They were constrained by the
very positive and repeated orders from their home government to keep out
all immigration and to eject those already on the ground. On the other
hand, the means for doing so were entirely lacking, and the present
situation did not seem to them alarming.

Thus matters drifted along until the Mexican War. For a considerable
time before actual hostilities broke out, it was well known throughout
the country that they were imminent. Every naval and military commander
was perfectly aware that, sooner or later, war was inevitable. Many had
received their instructions in case of that eventuality, and most of
the others had individual plans to be put into execution at the earliest
possible moment. Indeed, as early as 1842 Commodore Jones, being
misinformed of a state of war, raced with what he supposed to be English
war-vessels from South America, entered the port of Monterey hastily,
captured the fort, and raised the American flag. The next day he
discovered that not only was there no state of war, but that he had not
even raced British ships! The flag was thereupon hauled down, the
Mexican emblem substituted, appropriate apologies and salutes were
rendered, and the incident was considered closed. The easy-going
Californians accepted the apology promptly and cherished no rancor for
the mistake.

In the meantime Thomas O. Larkin, a very substantial citizen of long
standing in the country, had been appointed consul, and in addition
received a sum of six dollars a day to act as secret agent. It was hoped
that his great influence would avail to inspire the Californians with a
desire for peaceful annexation to the United States. In case that policy
failed, he was to use all means to separate them from Mexico, and so
isolate them from their natural alliances. He was furthermore to
persuade them that England, France, and Russia had sinister designs on
their liberty. It was hoped that his good offices would slowly influence
public opinion, and that, on the declaration of open war with Mexico,
the United States flag could be hoisted in California not only without
opposition but with the consent and approval of the inhabitants. This
type of peaceful conquest had a very good chance of success. Larkin
possessed the confidence of the better class of Californians and he did
his duty faithfully.

Just at this moment a picturesque, gallant, ambitious, dashing, and
rather unscrupulous character appeared inopportunely on the horizon. His
name was John C. Frémont. He was the son of a French father and a
Virginia mother. He was thirty-two years old, and was married to the
daughter of Thomas H. Benton, United States Senator from Missouri and a
man of great influence in the country. Possessed of an adventurous
spirit, considerable initiative, and great persistence, Frémont had
already performed the feat of crossing the Sierra Nevadas by way of
Carson River and Johnson Pass, and had also explored the Columbia River
and various parts of the Northwest. Frémont now entered California by
way of Walker Lake and the Truckee, and reached Sutter's Fort in 1845.
He then turned southward to meet a division of his party under Joseph
Walker.

His expedition was friendly in character, with the object of surveying a
route westward to the Pacific, and then northward to Oregon. It
supposedly possessed no military importance whatever. But his turning
south to meet Walker instead of north, where ostensibly his duty called
him, immediately aroused the suspicions of the Californians. Though
ordered to leave the district, he refused compliance, and retired to a
place called Gavilán Peak, where he erected fortifications and raised
the United States flag. Probably Frémont's intentions were perfectly
friendly and peaceful. He made, however, a serious blunder in
withdrawing within fortifications. After various threats by the
Californians but no performance in the way of attack, he withdrew and
proceeded by slow marches to Sutter's Fort and thence towards the north.
Near Klamath Lake he was overtaken by Lieutenant Gillespie, who
delivered to him certain letters and papers. Frémont thereupon calmly
turned south with the pick of his men.

In the meantime the Spanish sub-prefect, Guerrero, had sent word to
Larkin that "a multitude of foreigners, having come into California and
bought property, a right of naturalized foreigners only, he was under
necessity of notifying the authorities in each town to inform such
purchasers that the transactions were invalid, and that they themselves
were subject to be expelled." This action at once caused widespread
consternation among the settlers. They remembered the deportation of
Graham and his party some years before, and were both alarmed and
thoroughly convinced that defensive measures were necessary. Frémont's
return at precisely this moment seemed to them very significant. He was
a United States army officer at the head of a government expedition.
When on his way to the North he had been overtaken by Gillespie, an
officer of the United States Navy. Gillespie had delivered to him
certain papers, whereupon he had immediately returned. There seemed no
other interpretation of these facts than that the Government at
Washington was prepared to uphold by force the American settlers in
California.

This reasoning, logical as it seems, proves mistaken in the perspective
of the years. Gillespie, it is true, delivered some letters to Frémont,
but it is extremely unlikely they contained instructions having to do
with interference in Californian affairs. Gillespie, at the same time
that he brought these dispatches to Frémont, brought also instructions
to Larkin creating the confidential agency above described, and these
instructions specifically forbade interference with Californian affairs.
It is unreasonable to suppose that contradictory dispatches were sent to
one or another of these two men. Many years later Frémont admitted that
the dispatch to Larkin was what had been communicated to him by
Gillespie. His words are: "This officer [Gillespie] informed me also
that he was directed by the Secretary of State to acquaint me with his
instructions to the consular agent, Mr. Larkin." Reading Frémont's
character, understanding his ambitions, interpreting his later lawless
actions that resulted in his court-martial, realizing the recklessness
of his spirit, and his instinct to take chances, one comes to the
conclusion that it is more than likely that his move was a gamble on
probabilities rather than a result of direct orders.

Be this as it may, the mere fact of Frémont's turning south decided the
alarmed settlers, and led to the so-called "Bear Flag Revolution." A
number of settlers decided that it would be expedient to capture
Sonoma, where under Vallejo were nine cannon and some two hundred
muskets. It was, in fact, a sort of military station. The capture proved
to be a very simple matter. Thirty-two or thirty-three men appeared at
dawn, before Vallejo's house, under Merritt and Semple. They entered the
house suddenly, called upon Jacob Leese, Vallejo's son-in-law, to
interpret, and demanded immediate surrender. Richman says "Leese was
surprised at the 'rough looks' of the Americans. Semple he describes as
'six feet six inches tall, and about fifteen inches in diameter, dressed
in greasy buckskin from neck to foot, and with a fox-skin cap.'" The
prisoners were at once sent by these raiders to Frémont, who was at that
time on the American River. He immediately disclaimed any part in the
affair. However, instead of remaining entirely aloof, he gave further
orders that Leese, who was still in attendance as interpreter, should be
arrested, and also that the prisoners should be confined in Sutter's
Fort. He thus definitely and officially entered the movement. Soon
thereafter Frémont started south through Sonoma, collecting men as he
went.

The following quotation from a contemporary writer is interesting and
illuminating. "A vast cloud of dust appeared at first, and thence in
long files emerged this wildest of wild parties. Frémont rode ahead, a
spare active looking man, with such an eye! He was dressed in a blouse
and leggings, and wore a felt hat. After him came five Delaware Indians
who were his bodyguard. They had charge of two baggage-horses. The rest,
many of them blacker than Indians, rode two and two, the rifle held by
one hand across the pummel of the saddle. The dress of these men was
principally a long loose coat of deerskin tied with thongs in front,
trousers of the same. The saddles were of various fashions, though these
and a large drove of horses and a brass field gun were things they had
picked up in California."

Meantime, the Americans who had collected in Sonoma, under the lead of
William B. Ide, raised the flag of revolution--"a standard of somewhat
uncertain origin as regards the cotton cloth whereof it was made,"
writes Royce. On this, they painted with berry juice "something that
they called a Bear." By this capture of Sonoma, and its subsequent
endorsement by Frémont, Larkin's instructions--that is, to secure
California by quiet diplomatic means--were absolutely nullified. A
second result was that Englishmen in California were much encouraged to
hope for English intervention and protection. The Vallejo circle had
always been strongly favorable to the United States. The effect of this
raid and capture by United States citizens, with a United States officer
endorsing the action, may well be guessed.

Inquiries and protests were lodged by the California authorities with
Sloat and Lieutenant Montgomery of the United States naval forces. Just
what effect these protests would have had, and just the temperature of
the hot water in which the dashing Frémont would have found himself, is
a matter of surmise. He had gambled strongly--on his own responsibility
or at least at the unofficial suggestion of Benton--on an early
declaration of war with Mexico. Failing such a declaration, he would be
in a precarious diplomatic position, and must by mere force of automatic
discipline have been heavily punished. However the dice fell for him.
War with Mexico was almost immediately an actual fact. Frémont's
injection into the revolution had been timed at the happiest possible
moment for him.

The Bear Flag Revolution took place on June 14, 1846. On July 7 the
American flag was hoisted over the post at Monterey by Commodore Sloat.
Though he had knowledge from June 5 of a state of war, this knowledge,
apparently, he had shared neither with his officers nor with the public,
and he exhibited a want of initiative and vigor which is in striking
contrast to Frémont's ambition and overzeal.

Shortly after this incident Commodore Sloat was allowed to return "by
reason of ill health," as has been heretofore published in most
histories. His undoubted recall gave room to Commodore Robert Stockton,
to whom Sloat not only turned over the command of the naval forces, but
whom he also directed to "assume command of the forces and operations on
shore."

Stockton at once invited Frémont to enlist under his command, and the
invitation was accepted. The entire forces moved south by sea and land
for the purpose of subduing southern California. This end was
temporarily accomplished with almost ridiculous ease. At this distance
of time, allowing all obvious explanations of lack of training, meager
equipment, and internal dissension, we find it a little difficult to
understand why the Californians did not make a better stand. Most of
the so-called battles were a sort of _opera bouffe_. Californians
entrenched with cannon were driven contemptuously forth, without
casualties, by a very few men. For example, a lieutenant and nine men
were sufficient to hold Santa Barbara in subjection. Indeed, the
conquest was too easy, for, lulled into false security, Stockton
departed, leaving as he supposed sufficient men to hold the country. The
Californians managed to get some coherence into their councils, attacked
the Americans, and drove them forth from their garrisons.

Stockton and Frémont immediately started south. In the meantime an
overland party under General Kearny had been dispatched from the East.
His instructions were rather broad. He was to take in such small
sections of the country as New Mexico and Arizona, leaving sufficient
garrisons on his way to California. As a result, though his command at
first numbered 1657 men, he arrived in the latter state with only about
100. From Warner's Ranch in the mountains he sent word to Stockton that
he had arrived. Gillespie, whom the Commodore at once dispatched with
thirty-nine men to meet and conduct him to San Diego, joined Kearny near
San Luis Rey Mission.

A force of Californians, however, under command of one Andrés Pico had
been hovering about the hills watching the Americans. It was decided to
attack this force. Twenty men were detailed under Captain Johnston for
the purpose. At dawn on the morning of the 6th of December the Americans
charged upon the Californian camp. The Californians promptly decamped
after having delivered a volley which resulted in killing Johnston. The
Americans at once pursued them hotly, became much scattered, and were
turned upon by the fleeing enemy. The Americans were poorly mounted
after their journey, their weapons were now empty, and they were unable
to give mutual aid. The Spanish were armed with lances, pistols, and the
deadly riata. Before the rearguard could come up, sixteen of the total
American force were killed and nineteen badly wounded. This battle of
San Pascual, as it was called, is interesting as being the only
engagement in which the Californians got the upper hand. Whether their
Parthian tactics were the result of a preconceived policy or were merely
an expedient of the moment, it is impossible to say. The battle is also
notable because the well-known scout, Kit Carson, took part in it.

The forces of Stockton and Kearny joined a few days later, and very soon
a conflict of authority arose between the leaders. It was a childish
affair throughout, and probably at bottom arose from Frémont's usual
over-ambitious designs. To Kearny had undoubtedly been given, by the
properly constituted authorities, the command of all the land
operations. Stockton, however, claimed to hold supreme land command by
instructions from Commodore Sloat already quoted. Through the internal
evidence of Stockton's letters and proclamations, it seems he was a
trifle inclined to be bombastic and high-flown, to usurp authority, and
perhaps to consider himself and his operations of more importance than
they actually were. However, he was an officer disciplined and trained
to obedience, and his absurd contention is not in character. It may be
significant that he had promised to appoint Frémont Governor of
California, a promise that naturally could not be fulfilled if Kearny's
authority were fully recognized.

Furthermore, at this moment Frémont was at the zenith of his career, and
his influence in such matters was considerable. As Hittell says, "At
this time and for some time afterwards, Frémont was represented as a
sort of young lion. The several trips he had made across the continent,
and the several able and interesting reports he had published over his
name attracted great public attention. He was hardly ever mentioned
except in a high-flown hyperbolical phrase. Benton was one of the most
influential men of his day, and it soon became well understood that the
surest way of reaching the father-in-law's favor was by furthering the
son-in-law's prospects; everybody that wished to court Benton praised
Frémont. Besides this political influence Benton exerted in Frémont's
behalf, there was an almost equally strong social influence." It might
be added that the nature of his public service had been such as to throw
him on his own responsibility, and that he had always gambled with
fortune, as in the Bear Flag Revolution already mentioned. His star had
ever been in the ascendant. He was a spoiled child of fortune at this
time, and bitterly and haughtily resented any check to his ambition. The
mixture of his blood gave him that fine sense of the dramatic which so
easily descends to posing. His actual accomplishment was without doubt
great; but his own appreciation of that accomplishment was also
undoubtedly great. He was one of those interesting characters whose
activities are so near the line between great deeds and charlatanism
that it is sometimes difficult to segregate the pose from the
performance.

The end of this row for precedence did not come until after the
so-called battles at the San Gabriel River and on the Mesa on January 8
and 9, 1847. The first of these conflicts is so typical that it is worth
a paragraph of description.

The Californians were posted on the opposite bank of the river. They had
about five hundred men, and two pieces of artillery well placed. The
bank was elevated some forty feet above the stream and possibly four or
six hundred back from the water. The American forces, all told,
consisted of about five hundred men, but most of them were dismounted.
The tactics were exceedingly simple. The Americans merely forded the
river, dragged their guns across, put them in position, and calmly
commenced a vigorous bombardment. After about an hour and a half of
circling about and futile half-attacks, the Californians withdrew. The
total American loss in this and the succeeding "battle," called that of
the Mesa, was three killed and twelve wounded.

After this latter battle, the Californians broke completely and hurtled
toward the North. Beyond Los Angeles, near San Fernando, they ran
head-on into Frémont and his California battalion marching overland from
the North. Frémont had just learned of Stockton's defeat of the
Californians and, as usual, he seized the happy chance the gods had
offered him. He made haste to assure the Californians through a
messenger that they would do well to negotiate with him rather than with
Stockton. To these suggestions the Californians yielded. Commissioners
appointed by both sides then met at Cahuenga on January 13, and
elaborated a treaty by which the Californians agreed to surrender their
arms and not to serve again during the war, whereupon the victors
allowed them to leave the country. Frémont at once proceeded to Los
Angeles, where he reported to Kearny and Stockton what had happened.

In accordance with his foolish determination, Stockton still refused to
acknowledge Kearny's direct authority. He appointed Frémont Governor of
California, which was one mistake; and Frémont accepted, which was
another. Undoubtedly the latter thought that his pretensions would be
supported by personal influence in Washington. From former experience he
had every reason to believe so. In this case, however, he reckoned
beyond the resources of even his powerful father-in-law. Kearny, who
seems to have been a direct old war-dog, resolved at once to test his
authority. He ordered Frémont to muster the California battalion into
the regular service, under his (Kearny's) command; or, if the men did
not wish to do this, to discharge them. This order did not in the least
please Frémont. He attempted to open negotiations, but Kearny was in no
manner disposed to talk. He said curtly that he had given his orders,
and merely wished to know whether or not they would be obeyed. To this,
and from one army officer to another, there could be but one answer, and
that was in the affirmative.

Colonel Mason opportunely arrived from Washington with instructions to
Frémont either to join his regiment or to resume the explorations on
which he had originally been sent to this country. Frémont was still
pretending to be Governor, but with nothing to govern. His game was
losing at Washington. He could not know this, however, and for some time
continued to persist in his absurd claims to governorship. Finally he
begged permission of Kearny to form an expedition against Mexico. But it
was rather late in the day for the spoiled child to ask for favors, and
the permission was refused. Upon his return to Washington under further
orders, Frémont was court-martialed, and was found guilty of mutiny,
disobedience, and misconduct. He was ordered dismissed from the service,
but was pardoned by President Polk in view of his past services. He
refused this pardon and resigned.

Frémont was a picturesque figure with a great deal of personal magnetism
and dash. The halo of romance has been fitted to his head. There is no
doubt that he was a good wilderness traveler, a keen lover of adventure,
and a likable personality. He was, however, over-ambitious; he
advertised himself altogether too well; and he presumed on the
undoubtedly great personal influence he possessed. He has been nicknamed
the Pathfinder, but a better title would be the Pathfollower. He found
no paths that had not already been traversed by men before him. Unless
the silly sentiment that persistently glorifies such despicable
characters as the English Stuarts continues to surround this interesting
character with fallacious romance, Frémont will undoubtedly take his
place in history below men now more obscure but more solid than he was.
His services and his ability were both great. If he, his friends, and
historians had been content to rest his fame on actualities, his
position would be high and honorable. The presumption of so much more
than the man actually did or was has the unfortunate effect of
minimizing his real accomplishment.





CHAPTER III

LAW--MILITARY AND CIVIL


The military conquest of California was now an accomplished fact. As
long as hostilities should continue in Mexico, California must remain
under a military government, and such control was at once inaugurated.
The questions to be dealt with, as may well be imagined, were delicate
in the extreme. In general the military Governors handled such questions
with tact and efficiency. This ability was especially true in the case
of Colonel Mason, who succeeded General Kearny. The understanding
displayed by this man in holding back the over-eager Americans on one
side, and in mollifying the sensitive Californians on the other, is
worthy of all admiration.

The Mexican laws were, in lack of any others, supposed to be enforced.
Under this system all trials, except of course those having to do with
military affairs, took place before officials called _alcades_, who
acknowledged no higher authority than the Governor himself, and enforced
the laws as autocrats. The new military Governors took over the old
system bodily and appointed new _alcaldes_ where it seemed necessary.
The new _alcaldes_ neither knew nor cared anything about the old Mexican
law and its provisions. This disregard cannot be wondered at, for even a
cursory examination of the legal forms convinces one that they were
meant more for the enormous leisure of the old times than for the
necessities of the new. In the place of Mexican law each _alcalde_
attempted to substitute his own sense of justice and what recollection
of common-law principles he might be able to summon. These common-law
principles were not technical in the modern sense of the word, nor were
there any printed or written statutes containing them. In this case they
were simply what could be recalled by non-technical men of the way in
which business had been conducted and disputes had been arranged back in
their old homes. But their main reliance was on their individual sense
of justice. As Hittell points out, even well-read lawyers who happened
to be made _alcaldes_ soon came to pay little attention to
technicalities and to seek the merit of cases without regard to rules or
forms. All the administration of the law was in the hands of these
_alcaldes_. Mason, who once made the experiment of appointing a special
court at Sutter's Fort to try a man known as Growling Smith for the
murder of Indians, afterwards declared that he would not do it again
except in the most extraordinary emergency, as the precedent was bad.

As may well be imagined, this uniquely individualistic view of the law
made interesting legal history. Many of the incumbents were of the rough
diamond type. Stories innumerable are related of them. They had little
regard for the external dignity of the court, but they strongly insisted
on its discipline. Many of them sat with their feet on the desk, chewing
tobacco, and whittling a stick. During a trial one of the counsel
referred to his opponent as an "oscillating Tarquin." The judge roared
out "A what?"

"An oscillating Tarquin, your honor."

The judge's chair came down with a thump.

"If this honorable court knows herself, and she thinks she do, that
remark is an insult to this honorable court, and you are fined two
ounces."

Expostulation was cut short.

"Silence, sir! This honorable court won't tolerate cussings and she
never goes back on her decisions!"

And she didn't!

Nevertheless a sort of rough justice was generally accomplished. These
men felt a responsibility. In addition they possessed a grim commonsense
earned by actual experience.

There is an instance of a priest from Santa Clara, sued before the
_alcalde_ of San José for a breach of contract. His plea was that as a
churchman he was not amenable to civil law. The American decided that,
while he could not tell what peculiar privileges a clergyman enjoyed as
a priest, it was quite evident that when he departed from his religious
calling and entered into a secular bargain with a citizen he placed
himself on the same footing as the citizen, and should be required like
anybody else to comply with his agreement. This principle, which was
good sense, has since become good law.

The _alcalde_ refused to be bound by trivial concerns. A Mexican was
accused of stealing a pair of leggings. He was convicted and fined
three ounces for stealing, while the prosecuting witness was also fined
one ounce for bothering the court with such a complaint. On another
occasion the defendant, on being fined, was found to be totally
insolvent. The _alcalde_ thereupon ordered the plaintiff to pay the fine
and costs for the reason that the court could not be expected to sit
without remuneration. Though this naive system worked out well enough in
the new and primitive community, nevertheless thinking men realized that
it could be for a short time only.

As long as the war with Mexico continued, naturally California was under
military Governors, but on the declaration of peace military government
automatically ceased. Unfortunately, owing to strong controversies as to
slavery or non-slavery, Congress passed no law organizing California as
a territory; and the status of the newly-acquired possession was far
from clear. The people held that, in the absence of congressional
action, they had the right to provide for their own government. On the
other hand, General Riley contended that the laws of California obtained
until supplanted by act of Congress. He was under instructions as
Governor to enforce this view, which was, indeed, sustained by judicial
precedents. But for precedents the inhabitants cared little. They
resolved to call a constitutional convention. After considerable
negotiation and thought, Governor Riley resolved to accede to the wishes
of the people. An election of delegates was called and the
constitutional convention met at Monterey, September 1, 1849.

Parenthetically it is to be noticed that this event took place a
considerable time after the first discovery of gold. It can in no sense
be considered as a sequel to that fact. The numbers from the gold rush
came in later. The constitutional convention was composed mainly of men
who had previous interests in the country. They were representative of
the time and place. The oldest delegate was fifty-three years and the
youngest twenty-five years old. Fourteen were lawyers, fourteen were
farmers, nine were merchants, five were soldiers, two were printers, one
was a doctor, and one described himself as "a gentleman of elegant
leisure."

The deliberations of this body are very interesting reading. Such a
subject is usually dry in the extreme; but here we have men assembled
from all over the world trying to piece together a form of government
from the experiences of the different communities from which they
originally came. Many Spanish Californians were represented on the
floor. The different points brought up and discussed, in addition to
those finally incorporated in the constitution, are both a valuable
measure of the degree of intelligence at that time, and an indication of
what men considered important in the problems of the day. The
constitution itself was one of the best of the thirty-one state
constitutions that then existed. Though almost every provision in it was
copied from some other instrument, the choice was good. A provision
prohibiting slavery was carried by a unanimous vote. When the convention
adjourned, the new commonwealth was equipped with all the necessary
machinery for regular government.[3]

[3: The constitution was ratified by popular vote, November 13, 1849;
and the machinery of state government was at once set in motion, though
the State was not admitted into the Union until September 9, 1850.]

It is customary to say that the discovery of gold made the State of
California. As a matter of fact, it introduced into the history of
California a new solvent, but it was in no sense a determining factor in
either the acquisition or the assuring of the American hold. It must not
be forgotten that a rising tide of American immigration had already set
in. By 1845 the white population had increased to about eight thousand.
At the close of hostilities it was estimated that the white population
had increased to somewhere between twelve and fifteen thousand. Moreover
this immigration, though established and constantly growing, was by no
means topheavy. There was plenty of room in the north for the Americans,
and they were settling there peaceably. Those who went south generally
bought their land in due form. They and the Californians were getting on
much better than is usual with conquering and conquered peoples.

But the discovery of gold upset all this orderly development. It wiped
out the usual evolution. It not only swept aside at once the antiquated
Mexican laws, but it submerged for the time being the first stirrings of
the commonwealth toward due convention and legislation after the
American pattern. It produced an interim wherein the only law was that
evolved from men's consciences and the Anglo-Saxon instinct for order.
It brought to shores remote from their native lands a cosmopolitan crew
whose only thought was a fixed determination to undertake no new
responsibilities. Each man was living for himself. He intended to get
his own and to protect his own, and he cared very little for the
difficulties of his neighbors. In other words, the discovery of gold
offered California as the blank of a mint to receive the impress of a
brand new civilization. And furthermore it gave to these men and,
through them, to the world an impressive lesson that social
responsibility can be evaded for a time, to be sure, but only for a
time; and that at the last it must be taken up and the arrears must be
paid.





CHAPTER IV

GOLD


The discovery of gold--made, as everyone knows, by James Marshall, a
foreman of Sutter's, engaged in building a sawmill for the Captain--came
at a psychological time.[4]The Mexican War was just over and the
adventurous spirits, unwilling to settle down, were looking for new
excitement. Furthermore, the hard times of the Forties had blanketed the
East with mortgages. Many sober communities were ready, deliberately and
without excitement, to send their young men westward in the hope of
finding a way out of their financial difficulties. The Oregon question,
as has been already indicated, had aroused patriotism to such an extent
that westward migration had become a sort of mental contagion.

[4: January 24, 1848, is the date usually given.]

It took some time for the first discoveries to leak out, and to be
believed after they had gained currency. Even in California itself
interest was rather tepid at first. Gold had been found in small
quantities many years before, and only the actual sight of the metal in
considerable weight could rouse men's imaginations to the blazing point.

Among the most enthusiastic protagonists was one Sam Brannan, who often
appeared afterwards in the pages of Californian history. Brannan was a
Mormon who had set out from New York with two hundred and fifty Mormons
to try out the land of California as a possible refuge for the
persecuted sect. That the westward migration of Mormons stopped at Salt
Lake may well be due to the fact that on entering San Francisco Bay,
Brannan found himself just too late. The American flag was already
floating over the Presidio. Eye-witnesses say that Brannan dashed his
hat to the deck, exclaiming, "There is that damned rag again." However,
he proved an adaptable creature, for he and his Mormons landed
nevertheless, and took up the industries of the country.

Brannan collected the usual tithes from these men, with the ostensible
purpose of sending them on to the Church at Salt Lake. This, however,
he consistently failed to do. One of the Mormons, on asking Sutter how
long they should be expected to pay these tithes, received the answer,
"As long as you are fools enough to do so." But they did not remain
fools very much longer, and Brannan found himself deprived of this
source of revenue. On being dunned by Brigham Young for the tithes
already collected, Brannan blandly resigned from the Church, still
retaining the assets. With this auspicious beginning, aided by a burly,
engaging personality, a coarse, direct manner that appealed to men, and
an instinct for the limelight, he went far. Though there were a great
many admirable traits in his character, people were forced to like him
in spite of rather than because of them. His enthusiasm for any public
agitation was always on tap.

In the present instance he rode down from Sutter's Fort, where he then
had a store, bringing with him gold-dust and nuggets from the new
placers. "Gold! Gold! Gold from the American River!" shouted Brannan, as
he strode down the street, swinging his hat in one hand and holding
aloft the bottle of gold-dust in the other. This he displayed to the
crowd that immediately gathered. With such a start, this new interest
brought about a stampede that nearly depopulated the city.

The fever spread. People scrambled to the mines from all parts of the
State. Practically every able-bodied man in the community, except the
Spanish Californians, who as usual did not join this new enterprise with
any unanimity, took at least a try at the diggings. Not only did they
desert almost every sort of industry, but soldiers left the ranks and
sailors the ships, so that often a ship was left in sole charge of its
captain. All of American and foreign California moved to the foothills.

Then ensued the brief period so affectionately described in all
literalness as the Arcadian Age. Men drank and gambled and enjoyed
themselves in the rough manner of mining camps; but they were hardly
ever drunken and in no instance dishonest. In all literalness the miners
kept their gold-dust in tin cans and similar receptacles, on shelves,
unguarded in tents or open cabins. Even quarrels and disorder were
practically unknown. The communities were individualistic in the
extreme, and yet, with the Anglo-Saxon love of order, they adopted rules
and regulations and simple forms of government that proved entirely
adequate to their needs. When the "good old days" are mentioned with
the lingering regret associated with that phrase, the reference is to
this brief period that came between the actual discovery and
appreciation of gold and the influx from abroad that came in the
following years.

This condition was principally due to the class of men concerned. The
earliest miners were a very different lot from the majority of those who
arrived in the next few years. They were mostly the original population,
who had come out either as pioneers or in the government service. They
included the discharged soldiers of Stevenson's regiment of New York
Volunteers, who had been detailed for the war but who had arrived a
little late, the so-called Mormon Battalion, Sam Brannan's immigrants,
and those who had come as settlers since 1842. They were a rough lot
with both the virtues and the defects of the pioneer. Nevertheless among
their most marked characteristics were their honesty and their kindness.
Hittell gives an incident that illustrates the latter trait very well.
"It was a little camp, the name of which is not given and perhaps is not
important. The day was a hot one when a youth of sixteen came limping
along, footsore, weary, hungry, and penniless. There were at least
thirty robust miners at work in the ravine and it may well be believed
they were cheerful, probably now and then joining in a chorus or
laughing at a joke. The lad as he saw and heard them sat down upon the
bank, his face telling the sad story of his misfortunes. Though he said
nothing he was not unobserved. At length one of the miners, a stalwart
fellow, pointing up to the poor fellow on the bank, exclaimed to his
companions, 'Boys, I'll work an hour for that chap if you will.' All
answered in the affirmative and picks and shovels were plied with even
more activity than before. At the end of an hour a hundred dollars'
worth of gold-dust was poured into his handkerchief. As this was done
the miners who had crowded around the grateful boy made out a list of
tools and said to him: 'You go now and buy these tools and come back.
We'll have a good claim staked out for you; then you've got to paddle
for yourself.'"

Another reason for this distinguished honesty was the extent and
incredible richness of the diggings, combined with the firm belief that
this richness would last forever and possibly increase. The first gold
was often found actually at the roots of bushes, or could be picked out
from the veins in the rocks by the aid of an ordinary hunting-knife.
Such pockets were, to be sure, by no means numerous; but the miners did
not know that. To them it seemed extremely possible that gold in such
quantities was to be found almost anywhere for the mere seeking.
Authenticated instances are known of men getting ten, fifteen, twenty,
and thirty thousand dollars within a week or ten days, without
particularly hard work. Gold was so abundant it was much easier to dig
it than to steal it, considering the risks attendant on the latter
course. A story is told of a miner, while paying for something, dropping
a small lump of gold worth perhaps two or three dollars. A bystander
picked it up and offered it to him. The miner, without taking it, looked
at the man with amazement, exclaiming: "Well, stranger, you are a
curiosity. I guess you haven't been in the diggings long. You had better
keep that lump for a sample."

These were the days of the red-shirted miner, of romance, of Arcadian
simplicity, of clean, honest working under blue skies and beneath the
warm California sun, of immense fortunes made quickly, of faithful
"pardners," and all the rest. This life was so complete in all its
elements that, as we look back upon it, we unconsciously give it a
longer period than it actually occupied. It seems to be an epoch, as
indeed it was; but it was an epoch of less than a single year, and it
ended when the immigration from the world at large began.

The first news of the gold discovery filtered to the east in a
roundabout fashion through vessels from the Sandwich Islands. A
Baltimore paper published a short item. Everybody laughed at the rumor,
for people were already beginning to discount California stories. But
they remembered it. Romance, as ever, increases with the square of the
distance; and this was a remote land. But soon there came an official
letter written by Governor Mason to the War Department wherein he said
that in his opinion, "There is more gold in the country drained by the
Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers than would pay the cost of the late
war with Mexico a hundred times over." The public immediately was alert.
And then, strangely enough, to give direction to the restless spirit
seething beneath the surface of society, came a silly popular song. As
has happened many times before and since, a great movement was set to
the lilt of a commonplace melody. Minstrels started it; the public
caught it up. Soon in every quarter of the world were heard the strains
of _Oh, Susannah!_ or rather the modification of it made to fit this
case:

   "I'll scrape the mountains clean, old girl,
   I'll drain the rivers dry.
   I'm off for California, Susannah, don't you cry.
   Oh, Susannah, don't you cry for me,
   I'm off to California with my wash bowl on my
     knee!"

The public mind already prepared for excitement by the stirring events
of the past few years, but now falling into the doldrums of both
monotonous and hard times, responded eagerly. Every man with a drop of
red blood in his veins wanted to go to California. But the journey was a
long one, and it cost a great deal of money, and there were such things
as ties of family or business impossible to shake off. However, those
who saw no immediate prospect of going often joined the curious clubs
formed for the purpose of getting at least one or more of their members
to the El Dorado. These clubs met once in so often, talked over details,
worked upon each other's excitement even occasionally and officially
sent some one of their members to the point of running amuck. Then he
usually broke off all responsibilities and rushed headlong to the gold
coast.

The most absurd ideas obtained currency. Stories did not lose in travel.
A work entitled _Three Weeks in the Gold Mines_, written by a mendacious
individual who signed himself H.I. Simpson, had a wide vogue. It is
doubtful if the author had ever been ten miles from New York; but he
wrote a marvelous and at the time convincing tale. According to his
account, Simpson had only three weeks for a tour of the gold-fields, and
considered ten days of the period was all he could spare the unimportant
job of picking up gold. In the ten days, however, with no other
implements than a pocket-knife, he accumulated fifty thousand dollars.
The rest of the time he really preferred to travel about viewing the
country! He condescended, however, to pick up incidental nuggets that
happened to lie under his very footstep. Said one man to his friend: "I
believe I'll go. I know most of this talk is wildly exaggerated, but I
am sensible enough to discount all that sort of thing and to disbelieve
absurd stories. I shan't go with the slightest notion of finding the
thing true, but will be satisfied if I do reasonably well. In fact, if I
don't pick up more than a hatful of gold a day I shall be perfectly
satisfied."

Men's minds were full of strange positive knowledge, not only as to the
extent of the goldmines, but also as to theory and practice of the
actual mining. Contemporary writers tell us of the hundreds and hundreds
of different strange machines invented for washing out the gold and
actually carried around the Horn or over the Isthmus of Panama to San
Francisco. They were of all types, from little pocket-sized affairs up
to huge arrangements with windmill arms and wings. Their destination was
inevitably the beach below the San Francisco settlement, where, half
buried in the sand, torn by the trade winds, and looted for whatever of
value might inhere in the metal parts, they rusted and disintegrated, a
pathetic and grisly reminder of the futile greed of men.

Nor was this excitement confined to the eastern United States. In France
itself lotteries were held, called, I believe, the Lotteries of the
Golden Ingot. The holders of the winning tickets were given a trip to
the gold-fields. A considerable number of French came over in that
manner, so that life in California was then, as now, considerably
leavened by Gallicism. Their ignorance of English together with their
national clannishness caused them to stick together in communities.
They soon became known as Keskydees. Very few people knew why. It was
merely the frontiersmen's understanding of the invariable French phrase
_"Qu'est-ce qu'il dit?"_ In Great Britain, Norway, to a certain extent
in Germany, South America, and even distant Australia, the adventurous
and impecunious were pricking up their ears and laying their plans.

There were offered three distinct channels for this immigration. The
first of these was by sailing around Cape Horn. This was a slow but
fairly comfortable and reasonably safe route. It was never subject to
the extreme overcrowding of the Isthmus route, and it may be dismissed
in this paragraph. The second was by the overland route, of which there
were several trails. The third was by the Isthmus of Panama. Each of
these two is worth a chapter, and we shall take up the overland
migration first.





CHAPTER V

ACROSS THE PLAINS


The overland migration attracted the more hardy and experienced
pioneers, and also those whose assets lay in cattle and farm equipment
rather than in money. The majority came from the more western parts of
the then United States, and therefore comprised men who had already some
experience in pioneering. As far as the Mississippi or even Kansas these
parties generally traveled separately or in small groups from a single
locality. Before starting over the great plains, however, it became
necessary to combine into larger bands for mutual aid and protection.
Such recognized meeting-points were therefore generally in a state of
congestion. Thousands of people with their equipment and animals were
crowded together in some river-bottom awaiting the propitious moment for
setting forth.

The journey ordinarily required about five months, provided nothing
untoward happened in the way of delay. A start in the spring therefore
allowed the traveler to surmount the Sierra Nevada mountains before the
first heavy snowfalls. One of the inevitable anxieties was whether or
not this crossing could be safely accomplished. At first the migration
was thoroughly orderly and successful. As the stories from California
became more glowing, and as the fever for gold mounted higher, the pace
accelerated.

A book by a man named Harlan, written in the County Farm to which his
old age had brought him, gives a most interesting picture of the times.
His party consisted of fourteen persons, one of whom, Harlan's
grandmother, was then ninety years old and blind! There were also two
very small children. At Indian Creek in Kansas they caught up with the
main body of immigrants and soon made up their train. He says: "We
proceeded very happily until we reached the South Platte. Every night we
young folks had a dance on the green prairie." Game abounded, the party
was in good spirits and underwent no especial hardships, and the Indian
troubles furnished only sufficient excitement to keep the men
interested and alert. After leaving Salt Lake, however, the passage
across the desert suddenly loomed up as a terrifying thing. "We started
on our passage over this desert in the early morning, trailed all next
day and all night, and on the morning of the third day our guide told us
that water was still twenty-five miles away. William Harlan here lost
his seven yoke of oxen. The man who was in charge of them went to sleep,
and the cattle turned back and recrossed the desert or perhaps died
there.... Next day I started early and drove till dusk, as I wished to
tire the cattle so that they would lie down and give me a chance to
sleep. They would rest for two or three hours and then try to go back
home to their former range." The party won through, however, and
descended into the smiling valleys of California, ninety-year-old lady
and all.

These parties which were hastily got together for the mere purpose of
progress soon found that they must have some sort of government to make
the trip successful. A leader was generally elected to whom implicit
obedience was supposed to be accorded. Among independent and hot-headed
men quarrels were not infrequent. A rough sort of justice was, however,
invoked by vote of the majority. Though a "split of blankets" was not
unknown, usually the party went through under one leadership. Fortunate
were those who possessed experienced men as leaders, or who in hiring
the services of one of the numerous plains guides obtained one of
genuine experience. Inexperience and graft were as fatal then as now. It
can well be imagined what disaster could descend upon a camping party in
a wilderness such as the Old West, amidst the enemies which that
wilderness supported. It is bad enough today when inexperienced people
go to camp by a lake near a farm-house. Moreover, at that time everybody
was in a hurry, and many suspected that the other man was trying to
obtain an advantage.

Hittell tells of one ingenious citizen who, in trying to keep ahead of
his fellow immigrants as he hurried along, had the bright idea of
setting on fire and destroying the dry grass in order to retard the
progress of the parties behind. Grass was scarce enough in the best
circumstances, and the burning struck those following with starvation.
He did not get very far, however, before he was caught by a posse who
mounted their best horses for pursuit. They shot him from his saddle
and turned back. This attempt at monopoly was thus nipped in the bud.

Probably there would have been more of this sort of thing had it not
been for the constant menace of the Indians. The Indian attack on the
immigrant train has become so familiar through Wild West shows and
so-called literature that it is useless to redescribe it here. Generally
the object was merely the theft of horses, but occasionally a genuine
attack, followed in case of success by massacre, took place. An
experience of this sort did a great deal of good in holding together not
only the parties attacked, but also those who afterwards heard of the
attempt.

There was, however, another side to the shield, a very encouraging and
cheerful side. For example, some good-hearted philanthropist established
a kind of reading-room and post-office in the desert near the headwaters
of the Humboldt River. He placed it in a natural circular wall of rock
by the road, shaded by a lone tree. The original founder left a lot of
newspapers on a stone seat inside the wall with a written notice to
"Read and leave them for others."

Many trains, well equipped, well formed, well led, went through without
trouble--indeed, with real pleasure. Nevertheless the overwhelming
testimony is on the other side. Probably this was due in large part to
the irritability that always seizes the mind of the tenderfoot when he
is confronted by wilderness conditions. A man who is a perfectly normal
and agreeable citizen in his own environment becomes a suspicious
half-lunatic when placed in circumstances uncomfortable and
unaccustomed. It often happened that people were obliged to throw things
away in order to lighten their loads. When this necessity occurred, they
generally seemed to take an extraordinary delight in destroying their
property rather than in leaving it for anybody else who might come
along. Hittell tells us that sugar was often ruined by having turpentine
poured over it, and flour was mixed with salt and dirt; wagons were
burned; clothes were torn into shreds and tatters. All of this
destruction was senseless and useless, and was probably only a blind and
instinctive reaction against hardships.

Those hardships were considerable. It is estimated that during the
height of the overland migration in the spring of 1849 no less than
fifty thousand people started out. The wagon trains followed almost on
one another's heels, so hot was the pace. Not only did the travelers
wish to get to the Sierras before the snows blocked the passes, not only
were they eager to enter the gold mines, but they were pursued by the
specter of cholera in the concentration camps along the Mississippi
Valley. This scourge devastated these gatherings. It followed the men
across the plains like some deadly wild beast, and was shaken off only
when the high clear climate of desert altitude was eventually reached.

But the terrible part of the journey began with the entrance into the
great deserts, like that of the Humboldt Sink. There the conditions were
almost beyond belief. Thousands were left behind, fighting starvation,
disease, and the loss of cattle. Women who had lost their husbands from
the deadly cholera went staggering on without food or water, leading
their children. The trail was literally lined with dead animals. Often
in the middle of the desert could be seen the camps of death, the wagons
drawn in a circle, the dead animals tainting the air, every living human
being crippled from scurvy and other diseases. There was no fodder for
the cattle, and very little water. The loads had to be lightened almost
every mile by the discarding of valuable goods. Many of the immigrants
who survived the struggle reached the goal in an impoverished condition.
The road was bordered with an almost unbroken barrier of abandoned
wagons, old mining implements, clothes, provisions, and the like. As the
cattle died, the problem of merely continuing the march became worse.
Often the rate of progress was not more than a mile every two or three
hours. Each mile had to be relayed back and forth several times. And
when this desert had sapped their strength, they came at last to the
Sink itself, with its long white fields of alkali with drifts of ashes
across them, so soft that the cattle sank half-way to their bellies. The
dust was fine and light and rose chokingly; the sun was strong and
fierce. All but the strongest groups of pioneers seemed to break here.
The retreats became routs. Each one put out for himself with what
strength he had left. The wagons were emptied of everything but the
barest necessities. At every stop some animal fell in the traces and had
to be cut out of the yoke. If a wagon came to a full stop, it was
abandoned. The animals were detached and driven forward. And when at
last they reached the Humboldt River itself, they found it almost
impossible to ford. The best feed lay on the other side. In the
distance the high and forbidding ramparts of the Sierra Nevadas reared
themselves.

One of these Forty-niners, Delano, a man of some distinction in the
later history of the mining communities, says that five men drowned
themselves in the Humboldt River in one day out of sheer discouragement.
He says that he had to save the lives of his oxen by giving Indians
fifteen dollars to swim the river and float some grass across to him.
And with weakened cattle, discouraged hearts, no provisions, the
travelers had to tackle the high rough road that led across the
mountains.

Of course, the picture just drawn is of the darkest aspect. Some trains
there were under competent pioneers who knew their job; who were
experienced in wilderness travel; who understood better than to chase
madly away after every cut-off reported by irresponsible trappers; who
comprehended the handling and management of cattle; who, in short, knew
wilderness travel. These came through with only the ordinary hardships.
But take it all in all, the overland trail was a trial by fire. One gets
a notion of its deadliness from the fact that over five thousand people
died of cholera alone. The trail was marked throughout its length by
the shallow graves of those who had succumbed. He who arrived in
California was a different person from the one who had started from the
East. Experience had even in so short a time fused his elements into
something new. This alteration must not be forgotten when we turn once
more to the internal affairs of the new commonwealth.





CHAPTER VI

THE MORMONS


In the westward overland migration the Salt Lake Valley Mormons played
an important part. These strange people had but recently taken up their
abode in the desert. That was a fortunate circumstance, as their
necessities forced them to render an aid to the migration that in better
days would probably have been refused.

The founder of the Mormon Church, Joseph Smith, Jr., came from a
commonplace family.

Apparently its members were ignorant and superstitious. They talked much
of hidden treasure and of supernatural means for its discovery. They
believed in omens, signs, and other superstitions. As a boy Joseph had
been shrewd enough and superstitious enough to play this trait up for
all it was worth. He had a magic peep-stone and a witch-hazel
divining-rod that he manipulated so skillfully as to cause other boys
and even older men to dig for him as he wished. He seemed to delight in
tricking his companions in various ways, by telling fortunes, reeling
off tall yarns, and posing as one possessed of occult knowledge.

According to Joseph's autobiography, the discovery of the Mormon Bible
happened in this wise: on the night of September 21, 1823, a vision fell
upon him; the angel Moroni appeared and directed him to a cave on the
hillside; in this cave he found some gold plates, on which were
inscribed strange characters, written in what Smith described as
"reformed Egyptian"; they were undecipherable except by the aid of a
pair of magic peep-stones named Urim and Thummim, delivered him for the
purpose by the angel at Palmyra; looking through the hole in these
peep-stones, he was able to interpret the gold plates. This was the
skeleton of the story embellished by later ornamentation in the way of
golden breastplates, two stones bright and shining, golden plates united
at the back by rings, the sword of Laban, square stone boxes, cemented
clasps, invisible blows, suggestions of Satan, and similar mummery born
from the quickened imagination of a zealot.

Smith succeeded in interesting one Harris to act as his amanuensis in
his interpretation of these books of Mormon. The future prophet sat
behind a screen with the supposed gold plates in his hat. He dictated
through the stones Urim and Thummim. With a keen imagination and natural
aptitude for the strikingly dramatic, he was able to present formally
his ritual, tabernacle, holy of holies, priesthood and tithings,
constitution and councils, blood atonement, anointment, twelve apostles,
miracles, his spiritual manifestations and revelations, all in
reminiscence of the religious tenets of many lands.

Such religious movements rise and fall at periodic intervals. Sometimes
they are never heard of outside the small communities of their birth; at
other times they arise to temporary nation-wide importance, but they are
unlucky either in leadership or environment and so perish. The Mormon
Church, however, was fortunate in all respects. Smith was in no manner a
successful leader, but he made a good prophet. He was strong physically,
was a great wrestler, and had an abundance of good nature; he was
personally popular with the type of citizen with whom he was thrown. He
could impress the ignorant mind with the reality of his revelations and
the potency of his claims. He could impress the more intelligent, but
half unscrupulous, half fanatical minds of the leaders with the power of
his idea and the opportunities offered for leadership.

Two men of the latter type were Parley P. Pratt and Sidney Rigdon. The
former was of the narrow, strong, fanatic type; the latter had the cool
constructive brain that gave point, direction, and consistency to the
Mormon system of theology. Had it not been for such leaders and others
like them, it is quite probable that the Smith movement would have been
lost like hundreds of others. That Smith himself lasted so long as the
head of the Church, with the powers and perquisites of that position,
can be explained by the fact that, either by accident or shrewd design,
his position before the unintelligent masses had been made impregnable.
If it was not true that Joseph Smith had received the golden plates from
an angel and had translated them--again with the assistance of an
angel--and had received from heaven the revelations vouchsafed from time
to time for the explicit guidance of the Church in moral, temporal, and
spiritual matters, then there was no Book of Mormon, no new revelation,
no Mormon Church. The dethronement of Smith meant that there could be
no successor to Smith, for there would be nothing to which to succeed.
The whole church structure must crumble with him.

The time was psychologically right. Occasionally a contagion of
religious need seems to sweep the country. People demand manifestations
and signs, and will flock to any who can promise them. To this class the
Book of Mormon, with its definite sort of mysticism, appealed strongly.
The promises of a new Zion were concrete; the power was centralized, so
that people who had heretofore been floundering in doubt felt they could
lean on authority, and shake off the personal responsibility that had
weighed them down. The Mormon communities grew fast, and soon began to
send out proselyting missionaries. England was especially a fruitful
field for these missionaries. The great manufacturing towns were then at
their worst, containing people desperately ignorant, superstitious, and
so deeply poverty-stricken that the mere idea of owning land of their
own seemed to them the height of affluence. Three years after the
arrival of the missionaries the general conference reported 4019
converts in England alone. These were good material in the hands of
strong, fanatical, or unscrupulous leaders. They were religious
enthusiasts, of course, who believed they were coming to a real city of
Zion. Most of them were in debt to the Church for the price of their
passage, and their expenses. They were dutiful in their acceptance of
miracles, signs, and revelations. The more intelligent among them
realized that, having come so far and invested in the enterprise their
all, it was essential that they accept wholly the discipline and
authority of the Church.

Before their final migration to Utah, the Mormons made three ill-fated
attempts to found the city of Zion, first in Ohio, then in western
Missouri, and finally, upon their expulsion from Missouri, at Nauvoo in
Illinois. In every case they both inspired and encountered opposition
and sometimes persecution. As the Mormons increased in power, they
became more self-sufficient and arrogant. They at first presumed to
dictate politically, and then actually began to consider themselves a
separate political entity. One of their earliest pieces of legislation,
under the act incorporating the city of Nauvoo, was an ordinance to
protect the inhabitants of the Mormon communities from all outside legal
processes. No writ for the arrest of any Mormon inhabitants of any
Mormon city could be executed until it had received the mayor's
approval. By way of a mild and adequate penalty, anyone violating this
ordinance was to be imprisoned for life with no power of pardon in the
governor without the mayor's consent.

Of course this was a welcome opportunity for the lawless and desperate
characters of the surrounding country. They became Mormon to a man.
Under the shield of Mormon protection they could steal and raid to their
heart's content. Land speculators also came into the Church, and bought
land in the expectation that New Zion property would largely rise.
Banking grew somewhat frantic. Complaints became so bitter that even the
higher church authorities were forced to take cognizance of the
practices. In 1840 Smith himself said: "We are no longer at war, and you
must stop stealing. When the right time comes, we will go in force and
take the whole State of Missouri. It belongs to us as our inheritance,
but I want no more petty stealing. A man that will steal petty articles
from his enemies will, when occasion offers, steal from his brethren
too. Now I command you that have stolen must steal no more."

At Nauvoo, on the eastern bank of the Mississippi, they built a really
pretentious and beautiful city, and all but completed a temple that was,
from every account, creditable. However, their arrogant relations with
their neighbors and the extreme isolation in which they held themselves
soon earned them the dislike and distrust of those about them. The
practice of polygamy had begun, although even to the rank and file of
the Mormons themselves the revelation commanding it was as yet unknown.
Still, rumors had leaked forth. The community, already severely shocked
in its economic sense, was only too ready to be shocked in its moral
sense, as is the usual course of human nature. The rather wild vagaries
of the converts, too, aroused distrust and disgust in the sober minds of
the western pioneers. At religious meetings converts would often arise
to talk in gibberish--utterly nonsensical gibberish. This was called a
"speaking with tongues," and could be translated by the speaker or a
bystander in any way he saw fit, without responsibility for the saying.
This was an easy way of calling a man names without standing behind it,
so to speak. The congregation saw visions, read messages on stones
picked up in the field--messages which disappeared as soon as
interpreted. They had fits in meetings, they chased balls of fire
through the fields, they saw wonderful lights in the air, in short they
went through all the hysterical vagaries formerly seen also in the
Methodist revivals under John Wesley.

Turbulence outside was accompanied by turbulence within. Schisms
occurred. Branches were broken off from the Church. The great temporal
power and wealth to which, owing to the obedience and docility of the
rank and file, the leaders had fallen practically sole heirs, had gone
to their heads. The Mormon Church gave every indication of breaking up
into disorganized smaller units, when fortunately for it the prophet
Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum were killed by a mob. This martyrdom
consolidated the church body once more; and before disintegrating
influences could again exert themselves, the reins of power were seized
by the strong hand of a remarkable man, Brigham Young, who thrust aside
the logical successor, Joseph Smith's son.

Young was an uneducated man, but with a deep insight into human nature.
A shrewd practical ability and a rugged intelligence, combined with
absolute cold-blooded unscrupulousness in attaining his ends, were
qualities amply sufficient to put Young in the front rank of the class
of people who composed the Mormon Church. He early established a
hierarchy of sufficient powers so that always he was able to keep the
strong men of the Church loyal to the idea he represented. He paid them
well, both in actual property and in power that was dearer to them than
property. Furthermore, whether or not he originated polygamy, he not
only saw at once its uses in increasing the population of the new state
and in taking care of the extra women such fanatical religions always
attract, but also, more astutely, he realized that the doctrine of
polygamy would set his people apart from all other people, and probably
call down upon them the direct opposition of the Federal Government. A
feeling of persecution, opposition, and possible punishment were all
potent to segregate the Mormon Church from the rest of humanity and to
assure its coherence. Further, he understood thoroughly the results that
can be obtained by coöperation of even mediocre people under able
leadership. He placed his people apart by thoroughly impressing upon
their minds the idea of their superiority to the rest of the world. They
were the chosen people, hitherto scattered, but now at last gathered
together. His followers had just the degree of intelligence necessary to
accept leadership gracefully and to rejoice in a supposed superiority
because of a sense of previous inferiority.

This ductile material Brigham welded to his own forms. He was able to
assume consistently an appearance of uncouth ignorance in order to
retain his hold over his uncultivated flock. He delivered vituperative,
even obscene sermons, which may still be read in his collected works.
But he was able also on occasions, as when addressing agents of the
Federal Government or other outsiders whom he wished to impress, to
write direct and dignified English. He was resourceful in obtaining
control over the other strong men of his Church; but by his very success
he was blinded to due proportions. There can be little doubt that at one
time he thought he could defy the United States by force of arms. He
even maintained an organization called the Danites, sometimes called the
Destroying Angels, who carried out his decrees.[5]

[5: The Mormon Church has always denied the existence of any such
organization; but the weight of evidence is against the Church. In one
of his discourses, Young seems inadvertently to have admitted the
existence of the Danites. The organization dates from the sojourn of the
Mormons in Missouri. See Linn, _The Story of the Mormons_, pp. 189-192.]

Brigham could welcome graciously and leave a good impression upon
important visitors. He was not a good business man, however, and almost
every enterprise he directly undertook proved to be a complete or
partial failure. He did the most extraordinarily stupid things, as, for
instance, when he planned the so-called Cottonwood Canal, the mouth of
which was ten feet higher than its source! Nevertheless he had sense to
utilize the business ability of other men, and was a good accumulator of
properties. His estate at his death was valued at between two and three
million dollars. This was a pretty good saving for a pioneer who had
come into the wilderness without a cent of his own, who had always spent
lavishly, and who had supported a family of over twenty wives and fifty
children--all this without a salary as an officer. Tithes were brought
to him personally, and he rendered no accounting. He gave the strong men
of his hierarchy power and opportunity, played them against each other
to keep his own lead, and made holy any of their misdeeds which were not
directed against himself.

The early months of 1846 witnessed a third Mormon exodus. Driven out of
Illinois, these Latter-day Saints crossed the Mississippi in organized
bands, with Council Bluffs as their first objective. Through the winter
and spring some fifteen thousand Mormons with three thousand wagons
found their way from camp to camp, through snow, ice, and mud, over the
weary stretch of four hundred miles to the banks of the Missouri. The
epic of this westward migration is almost biblical. Hardship brought out
the heroic in many characters. Like true American pioneers, they adapted
themselves to circumstances with fortitude and skill. Linn says: "When a
halt occurred, a shoemaker might be seen looking for a stone to serve as
a lap-stone in his repair work, or a gunsmith mending a rifle, or a
weaver at a wheel or loom. The women learned that the jolting wagons
would churn their milk, and when a halt occurred it took them but a
short time to heat an oven hollowed out of the hillside, in which to
bake the bread already raised." Colonel Kane says that he saw a piece of
cloth, the wool for which was sheared, dyed, spun, and woven, during the
march.

After a winter of sickness and deprivation in camps along "Misery
Bottom," as they called the river flats, during which malaria carried
off hundreds, Brigham Young set out with a pioneer band of a hundred and
fifty to find a new Zion. Toward the end of July, this expedition by
design or chance entered Salt Lake Valley. At sight of the lake
glistening in the sun, "Each of us," wrote one of the party, "without
saying a word to the other, instinctively, as if by inspiration, raised
our hats from our heads, and then, swinging our hats, shouted, 'Hosannah
to God and the Lamb!'"

Meantime the first emigration from winter quarters was under way, and in
the following spring Young conducted a train of eight hundred wagons
across the plains to the great valley where a city of adobe and log
houses was already building. The new city was laid off into numbered
lots. The Presidency had charge of the distribution of these lots. You
may be sure they did not reserve the worst for their use, nor did they
place about themselves undesirable neighbors. Immediately after the
assignments had been made, various people began at once to speculate in
buying and selling according to the location. The spiritual power
immediately anathematized this. No one was permitted to trade over
property. Any sales were made on a basis of the first cost plus the
value of the improvement. A community admirable in almost every way was
improvised as though by magic. Among themselves the Mormons were sober,
industrious, God-fearing, peaceful. Their difficulties with the nation
were yet to come.

Throughout the year, 1848, the weather was propitious for ploughing and
sowing. Before the crops could be gathered, however, provisions ran so
low that the large community was in actual danger of starvation. Men
were reduced to eating skins of slaughtered animals, the raw hides from
the roofs of houses, and even a wild root dug by the miserable Ute
Indians. To cap the climax, when finally the crops ripened, they were
attacked by an army of crickets that threatened to destroy them utterly.
Prayers of desperation were miraculously answered by a flight of white
sea-gulls that destroyed the invader and saved the crop. Since then this
miracle has been many times repeated.

It was in August, 1849, that the first gold rush began. Some of
Brannan's company from California had already arrived with samples of
gold-dust. Brigham Young was too shrewd not to discourage all mining
desires on the part of his people, and he managed to hold them. The
Mormons never did indulge in gold-mining. But the samples served to
inflame the ardor of the immigrants from the east. Their one desire at
once became to lighten their loads so that they could get to the
diggings in the shortest possible time. Then the Mormons began to reap
their harvest. Animals worth only twenty-five or thirty dollars would
bring two hundred dollars in exchange for goods brought in by the
travelers. For a light wagon the immigrants did not hesitate to offer
three or four heavy ones, and sometimes a yoke of oxen to boot. Such
very desirable things to a new community as sheeting, or spades and
shovels, since the miners were overstocked, could be had for almost
nothing. Indeed, everything, except coffee and sugar, was about half the
wholesale rate in the East. The profit to the Mormons from this
migration was even greater in 1850. The gold-seeker sometimes paid as
high as a dollar a pound for flour; and, conversely, as many of the
wayfarers started out with heavy loads of mining machinery and
miscellaneous goods, as is the habit of the tenderfoot camper even unto
this day, they had to sell at the buyers' prices. Some of the
enterprising miners had even brought large amounts of goods for sale at
a hoped-for profit in California. At Salt Lake City, however, the
information was industriously circulated that shiploads of similar,
merchandise were on their way round the Horn, and consequently the
would-be traders often sacrificed their own stock.[6]

[6: Linn, _The Story of the Mormons_, 406.]

This friendly condition could not, of course, long obtain. Brigham
Young's policy of segregation was absolutely opposed to permanent
friendly relations. The immigrants on the other hand were violently
prejudiced against the Mormon faith. The valley of the Salt Lake seemed
to be just the psychological point for the breaking up into fragments of
the larger companies that had crossed the plains. The division of
property on these separations sometimes involved a considerable amount
of difficulty. The disputants often applied to the Mormon courts for
decision. Somebody was sure to become dissatisfied and to accuse the
courts of undue influence. Rebellion against the decision brought upon
them the full force of civil power. For contempt of court they were most
severely fined. The fields of the Mormons were imperfectly fenced; the
cattle of the immigrants were very numerous. Trespass cases brought
heavy remuneration, the value being so much greater for damages than in
the States that it often looked to the stranger like an injustice. A
protest would be taken before a bishop who charged costs for his
decision. An unreasonable prejudice against the Mormons often arose
from these causes. On the other hand there is no doubt that the
immigrants often had right on their side. Not only were the Mormons
human beings, with the usual qualities of love of gain and desire
to take advantage of their situation; but, further, they belonged
to a sect that fostered the belief that they were superior to the
rest of mankind, and that it was actually meritorious to "spoil the
Philistines."

Many gold-diggers who started out with a complete outfit finished their
journey almost on foot. Some five hundred of these people got together
later in California and compared notes. Finally they drew up a series of
affidavits to be sent back home. A petition was presented to Congress
charging that many immigrants had been murdered by the Mormons; that,
when members of the Mormon community became dissatisfied and tried to
leave, they were subdued and killed; that a two per cent tax on the
property was levied on those immigrants compelled to stay through the
winter; that justice was impossible to obtain in the Mormon courts; that
immigrants' mail was opened and destroyed; and that all Mormons were at
best treasonable in sentiment. Later the breach between the Mormons and
the Americans became more marked, until it culminated in the atrocious
Mountain Meadows massacre, which was probably only one of several
similar but lesser occurrences. These things, however, are outside of
our scope, as they occurred later in history. For the moment, it is only
necessary to note that it was extremely fortunate for the gold
immigrants, not only that the half-way station had been established by
the Mormons, but also that the necessities of the latter forced them to
adopt a friendly policy. By the time open enmity had come, the first of
the rush had passed and other routes had been well established.





CHAPTER VII

THE WAY BY PANAMA


Of the three roads to California that by Panama was the most obvious,
the shortest, and therefore the most crowded. It was likewise the most
expensive. To the casual eye this route was also the easiest. You got on
a ship in New York, you disembarked for a very short land journey, you
re-embarked on another ship, and landed at San Francisco. This route
therefore attracted the more unstable elements of society. The journey
by the plains took a certain grim determination and courage; that by
Cape Horn, a slow and persistent patience.

The route by the Isthmus, on the other hand, allured the impatient, the
reckless, and those who were unaccustomed to and undesirous of
hardships. Most of the gamblers and speculators, for example, as well as
the cheaper politicians, went by Panama.

In October, 1848, the first steamship of the Pacific Steamship Company
began her voyage from New York to Panama and San Francisco, and reached
her destination toward the end of February. On the Atlantic every old
tub that could be made to float so far was pressed into service.
Naturally there were many more vessels on the Atlantic side than on the
Pacific side, and the greatest congestion took place at Panama. Every
man was promised by the shipping agent a through passage, but the
shipping agent was careful to remain in New York.

The overcrowded ships were picturesque though uncomfortable. They were
crowded to the guards with as miscellaneous a lot of passengers as were
ever got together. It must be remembered that they were mostly young men
in the full vigor of youth and thoroughly imbued with the adventurous
spirit. It must be remembered again, if the reader can think back so far
in his own experience, that youth of that age loves to deck itself out
both physically and mentally in the trappings of romance. Almost every
man wore a red shirt, a slouch hat, a repeating pistol, and a
bowie-knife; and most of them began at once to grow beards. They came
from all parts of the country. The lank Maine Yankee elbowed the tall,
sallow, black-haired Southerner. Social distinctions soon fell away and
were forgotten. No one could tell by speech, manners, or dress whether a
man's former status was lawyer, physician, or roustabout. The days were
spent in excited discussions of matters pertaining to the new country
and the theory and practice of gold-mining. Only two things were said to
be capable of breaking in on this interminable palaver. One was dolphins
and the other the meal-gong. When dolphins appeared, each passenger
promptly rushed to the side of the ship and discharged his revolver in a
fusillade that was usually harmless. Meal time always caught the
majority unawares. They tumbled and jostled down the companionway only
to find that the wise and forethoughtful had preëmpted every chair.
There was very little quarreling. A holiday spirit seemed to pervade the
crowd. Everybody was more or less elevated in mood and everybody was
imbued with the same spirit of comradeship in adventure.

But with the sight of shore, the low beach, and the round high bluffs
with the castle atop that meant Chagres, this comradeship rather fell
apart. Soon a landing was to be made and transportation across the
Isthmus had to be obtained. Men at once became rivals for prompt
service. Here, for the first time, the owners of the weird
mining-machines already described found themselves at a disadvantage,
while those who carried merely the pick, shovel, and small personal
equipment were enabled to make a flying start. On the beach there was
invariably an immense wrangle over the hiring of boats to go up the
river. These were a sort of dug-out with small decks in the bow and in
the stern, and with low roofs of palmetto leaves amidships. The fare to
Cruces was about fifteen dollars a man. Nobody was in a hurry but the
Americans.

Chagres was a collection of cane huts on level ground, with a swamp at
the back. Men and women clad in a single cotton garment lay about
smoking cigars. Naked and pot-bellied children played in the mud. On the
threshold of the doors, in the huts, fish, bullock heads, hides, and
carrion were strewn, all in a state of decomposition, while in the rear
was the jungle and a lake of stagnant water with a delicate bordering of
greasy blue mud. There was but one hotel, called the Crescent City,
which boasted of no floor and no food. The newcomers who were unsupplied
with provisions had to eat what they could pick up. Unlearned as yet in
tropical ways, they wasted a tremendous lot of nervous energy in trying
to get the natives started. The natives, calm in the consciousness that
there was plenty of demand, refused to be hurried. Many of the
travelers, thinking that they had closed a bargain, returned from
sightseeing only to find their boat had disappeared. The only safe way
was to sit in the canoe until it actually started.

With luck they got off late in the afternoon, and made ten or twelve
miles to Gatun. The journey up the lazy tropical river was exciting and
interesting. The boatmen sang, the tropic forests came down to the banks
with their lilies, shrubs, mangoes, cocos, sycamores, palms; their
crimson, purple, and yellow blossoms; their bananas with torn leaves;
their butterflies and paroquets; their streamers and vines and scarlet
flowers. It was like a vision of fairyland.

Gatun was a collection of bamboo huts, inhabited mainly by fleas. One
traveler tells of attempting to write in his journal, and finding the
page covered with fleas before he had inscribed a dozen words. The gold
seekers slept in hammocks, suspended at such a height that the native
dogs found them most convenient back-scratchers. The fleas were not
inactive. On all sides the natives drank, sang, and played monte. It
generally rained at night, and the flimsy huts did little to keep out
the wet. Such things went far to take away the first enthusiasm and to
leave the travelers in rather a sad and weary-eyed state.

By the third day the river narrowed and became swifter. With luck the
voyagers reached Gorgona on a high bluff. This was usually the end of
the river journey. Most people bargained for Cruces six miles beyond,
but on arrival decided that the Gorgona trail would be less crowded, and
with unanimity went ashore there. Here the bargaining had to be started
all over again, this time for mules. Here also the demand far exceeded
the supply, with the usual result of arrogance, indifference, and high
prices. The difficult ride led at first through a dark deep wood in clay
soil that held water in every depression, seamed with steep eroded
ravines and diversified by low passes over projecting spurs of a chain
of mountains. There the monkeys and parrots furnished the tropical
atmosphere, assisted somewhat by innumerable dead mules along the trail.
Vultures sat in every tree waiting for more things to happen. The trail
was of the consistency of very thick mud. In this mud the first mule
had naturally left his tracks; the next mules trod carefully in the
first mule's footprints, and all subsequent mules did likewise. The
consequence was a succession of narrow deep holes in the clay into which
an animal sank half-way to the shoulder. No power was sufficient to make
these mules step anywhere else. Each hole was full of muddy water. When
the mule inserted his hoof, water spurted out violently as though from a
squirt-gun. Walking was simply impossible.

All this was merely adventure for the young, strong, and healthy; but
the terrible part of the Panama Trail was the number of victims claimed
by cholera and fever. The climate and the unwonted labor brought to the
point of exhaustion men unaccustomed to such exertions. They lay flat by
the trail as though dead. Many actually did die either from the jungle
fever or the yellow-jack. The universal testimony of the times is that
this horseback journey seemed interminable; and many speak of being
immensely cheered when their Indian stopped, washed his feet in a
wayside mudhole, and put on his pantaloons. That indicated the
proximity, at last, of the city of Panama.

It was a quaint old place. The two-story wooden houses with corridor
and verandah across the face of the second story, painted in bright
colors, leaned crazily out across the streets. Narrow and mysterious
alleys led between them. Ancient cathedrals and churches stood gray with
age before the grass-grown plazas. In the outskirts were massive masonry
ruins of great buildings, convents, and colleges, some of which had
never been finished. The immense blocks lay about the ground in
confusion, covered by thousands of little plants, or soared against the
sky in broken arches and corridors. But in the body of the town, the old
picturesque houses had taken on a new and temporary smartness which
consisted mostly of canvas signs. The main street was composed of
hotels, eating-houses, and assorted hells. At times over a thousand men
were there awaiting transportation. Some of them had been waiting a long
time, and had used up all their money. They were broke and desperate. A
number of American gambling-houses were doing business, and of course
the saloons were much in evidence. Foreigners kept two of the three
hotels; Americans ran the gambling joints; French and Germans kept the
restaurants. The natives were content to be interested but not entirely
idle spectators. There was a terrible amount of sickness aggravated by
American quack remedies. Men rejoiced or despaired according to their
dispositions. Every once in a while a train of gold bullion would start
back across the Isthmus with mule-loads of huge gold bars, so heavy that
they were safe, for no one could carry them off to the jungle. On the
other hand there were some returning Californians, drunken and wretched.
They delighted in telling with grim joy of the disappointments of the
diggings. But probably the only people thoroughly unhappy were the
steamship officials. These men had to bear the brunt of disappointment,
broken promises, and savage recrimination, if means for going north were
not very soon forthcoming. Every once in a while some ship, probably an
old tub, would come wallowing to anchor at the nearest point, some
eleven miles from the city. Then the raid for transportation took place
all over again. There was a limited number of small boats for carrying
purposes, and these were pounced on at once by ten times the number they
could accommodate. Ships went north scandalously overcrowded and
underprovisioned. Mutinies were not infrequent. It took a good captain
to satisfy everybody, and there were many bad ones. Some men got so
desperate that, with a touching ignorance of geography, they actually
started out in small boats to row to the north. Others attempted the
overland route. It may well be believed that the reaction from all this
disappointment and delay lifted the hearts of these argonauts when they
eventually sailed between the Golden Gates.

This confusion, of course, was worse at the beginning. Later the journey
was to some extent systematized. The Panama route subsequently became
the usual and fashionable way to travel. The ship companies learned how
to handle and treat their patrons. In fact, it was said that every
jewelry shop in San Francisco carried a large stock of fancy silver
speaking-trumpets because of the almost invariable habit of presenting
one of these to the captain of the ship by his grateful passengers. One
captain swore that he possessed eighteen of them!





CHAPTER VIII

THE DIGGINGS


The two streams of immigrants, by sea and overland, thus differed, on
the average, in kind. They also landed in the country at different
points. The overlanders were generally absorbed before they reached San
Francisco. They arrived first at Fort Sutter, whence they distributed
themselves; or perhaps they even stopped at one or another of the
diggings on their way in.

Of those coming by sea all landed at San Francisco. A certain proportion
of the younger and more enthusiastic set out for the mines, but only
after a few days had given them experience of the new city and had
impressed them with at least a subconscious idea of opportunity. Another
certain proportion, however, remained in San Francisco without
attempting the mines. These were either men who were discouraged by
pessimistic tales, men who had sickened of the fever, or more often men
who were attracted by the big opportunities for wealth which the city
then afforded. Thus at once we have two different types to consider, the
miner and the San Franciscan.

The mines were worked mostly by young men. They journeyed up to the
present Sacramento either by river-boats or afoot. Thence they took
their outfits into the diggings. It must have seemed a good deal like a
picnic. The goal was near; rosy hope had expanded to fill the horizon;
breathless anticipation pervaded them--a good deal like a hunting-party
starting off in the freshness of the dawn.

The diggings were generally found at the bottoms of the deep river-beds
and ravines. Since trails, in order to avoid freshets and too many
crossings of the water-courses, took the higher shoulder of the hill,
the newcomer ordinarily looked down upon his first glimpse of the mines.
The sight must have been busy and animated. The miners dressed in
bright-colored garments, and dug themselves in only to the waist or at
most to the shoulders before striking bed rock, so that they were
visible as spots of gaudy color. The camps were placed on the hillsides
or little open flats, and occasionally were set in the bed of a river.
They were composed of tents, and of rough log or bark structures.

The newcomers did not spend much time in establishing themselves
comfortably or luxuriously. They were altogether too eager to get at the
actual digging. There was an immense excitement of the gamble in it all.
A man might dig for days without adequate results and then of a sudden
run into a rich pocket. Or he might pan out an immense sum within the
first ten minutes of striking his pick to earth. No one could tell. The
fact that the average of all the days and all the men amounted to very
little more than living wages was quite lost to sight. At first the
methods were very crude. One man held a coarse screen of willow branches
which he shook continuously above an ordinary cooking pot, while his
partner slowly shovelled earth over this impromptu sieve. When the pots
were filled with siftings, they were carried to the river, where they
were carefully submerged, and the contents were stirred about with
sticks. The light earth was thus flowed over the rims of the pots. The
residue was then dried, and the lighter sand was blown away. The result
was gold, though of course with a strong mixture of foreign substance.
The pan miners soon followed; and the cradle or rocker with its
riffle-board was not long delayed. The digging was free. At first it was
supposed that a new holding should not be started within fifteen feet of
one already in operation. Later, claims of a definite size were
established. A camp, however, made its own laws in regard to this and
other matters.

Most of the would-be miners at first rather expected to find gold lying
on the surface of the earth, and were very much disappointed to learn
that they actually had to dig for it. Moreover, digging in the boulders
and gravel, under the terrific heat of the California sun in midsummer,
was none too easy; and no matter how rich the diggings averaged--short
of an actual bonanza--the miner was disappointed in his expectations.
One man is reported saying: "They tell me I can easily make there eleven
hundred dollars a day. You know I am not easily moved by such reports. I
shall be satisfied if I make three hundred dollars per day." Travelers
of the time comment on the contrast between the returning stream of
discouraged and disgruntled men and the cheerfulness of the lot actually
digging. Nobody had any scientific system to go on. Often a divining-rod
was employed to determine where to dig. Many stories were current of
accidental finds; as when one man, tiring of waiting for his dog to get
through digging out a ground squirrel, pulled the animal out by the
tail, and with it a large nugget. Another story is told of a sailor who
asked some miners resting at noon where he could dig and as a joke was
directed to a most improbable side hill. He obeyed the advice, and
uncovered a rich pocket. With such things actually happening, naturally
it followed that every report of a real or rumored strike set the miners
crazy. Even those who had good claims always suspected that they might
do better elsewhere. It is significant that the miners of that day, like
hunters, always had the notion that they had come out to California just
one trip too late for the best pickings.

The physical life was very hard, and it is no wonder that the stragglers
back from the mines increased in numbers as time went on. It was a true
case of survival of the fittest. Those who remained and became
professional miners were the hardiest, most optimistic, and most
persistent of the population. The mere physical labor was very severe.
Any one not raised as a day laborer who has tried to do a hard day's
work in a new garden can understand what pick and shovel digging in the
bottoms of gravel and boulder streams can mean. Add to this the fact
that every man overworked himself under the pressure of excitement; that
he was up to his waist in the cold water from the Sierra snows, with his
head exposed at the same time to the tremendous heat of the California
sun; throw in for good measure that he generally cooked for himself, and
that his food was coarse and badly prepared; and that in his own mind he
had no time to attend to the ordinary comforts and decencies of life. It
can well be imagined that a man physically unfit must soon succumb. But
those who survived seemed to thrive on these hardships.

California camps by their very quaint and whimsical names bear testimony
to the overflowing good humor and high spirits of the early miners. No
one took anything too seriously, not even his own success or failure.
The very hardness of the life cultivated an ability to snatch joy from
the smallest incident. Some of the joking was a little rough, as when
some merry jester poured alcohol over a bully's head, touched a match to
it, and chased him out of camp yelling, "Man on fire--put him out!" It
is evident that the time was not one for men of very refined or
sensitive nature, unless they possessed at bottom the strong iron of
character. The ill-balanced were swept away by the current of
excitement, and fell readily into dissipation. The pleasures were rude;
the life was hearty; vices unknown to their possessors came to the
surface. The most significant tendency, and one that had much to do with
later social and political life in California, was the leveling effect
of just this hard physical labor. The man with a strong back and the
most persistent spirit was the superior of the man with education but
with weaker muscles. Each man, finding every other man compelled to
labor, was on a social equality with the best. The usual superiority of
head-workers over hand-workers disappeared. The low-grade man thus felt
himself the equal, if not the superior, of any one else on earth,
especially as he was generally able to put his hand on what were to him
comparative riches. The pride of employment disappeared completely. It
was just as honorable to be a cook or a waiter in a restaurant as to
dispense the law,--where there was any. The period was brief, but while
it lasted, it produced a true social democracy. Nor was there any
pretense about it. The rudest miner was on a plane of perfect equality
with lawyers, merchants, or professional men. Some men dressed in the
very height of style, decking themselves out with all the minute care of
a dandy; others were not ashamed of, nor did they object to being seen
in, ragged garments. No man could be told by his dress.

The great day of days in a mining-camp was Sunday. Some
over-enthusiastic fortune-seekers worked the diggings also on that day;
but by general consent--uninfluenced, it may be remarked, by religious
considerations--the miners repaired to their little town for amusement
and relaxation. These little towns were almost all alike. There were
usually two or three combined hotels, saloons, and gambling-houses,
built of logs, of slabs, of canvas, or of a combination of the three.
There was one store that dispensed whiskey as well as dryer goods, and
one or two large places of amusement. On Sunday everything went full
blast. The streets were crowded with men; the saloons were well
patronized; the gambling games ran all day and late into the night.
Wrestling-matches, jumping-matches, other athletic tests, horse-races,
lotteries, fortune-telling, singing, anything to get a pinch or two of
the dust out of the good-natured miners--all these were going strong.
The American, English, and other continentals mingled freely, with the
exception of the French, who kept to themselves. Successful Germans or
Hollanders of the more stupid class ran so true to type and were so
numerous that they earned the generic name of "Dutch Charley." They have
been described as moon-faced, bland, bullet-headed men, with walrus
moustaches, and fatuous, placid smiles. Value meant nothing to them.
They only knew the difference between having money and having no money.
They carried two or three gold watches at the end of long home-made
chains of gold nuggets fastened together with links of copper wire. The
chains were sometimes looped about their necks, their shoulders, and
waists, and even hung down in long festoons. When two or three such
Dutch Charleys inhabited one camp, they became deadly rivals in this
childlike display, parading slowly up and down the street, casting
malevolent glances at each other as they passed. Shoals of
phrenologists, fortune-tellers, and the like, generally drunken old
reprobates on their last legs, plied their trades. One artist, giving
out under the physical labor of mining, built up a remarkably profitable
trade in sketching portraits. Incidentally he had to pay two dollars
and a half for every piece of paper! John Kelly, a wandering minstrel
with a violin, became celebrated among the camps, and was greeted with
enthusiasm wherever he appeared. He probably made more with his fiddle
than he could have made with his shovel. The influence of the "forty-two
caliber whiskey" was dire, and towards the end of Sunday the sports
became pretty rough.

This day was also considered the time for the trial of any cases that
had arisen during the week. The miners elected one of their number to
act as presiding judge in a "miners' meeting." Justice was dealt out by
this man, either on his own authority with the approval of the crowd, or
by popular vote. Disputes about property were adjudicated as well as
offenses against the criminal code. Thus a body of precedent was slowly
built up. A new case before the _alcalde_ of Hangtown was often decided
on the basis of the procedure at Grub Gulch. The decisions were
characterized by direct common sense. It would be most interesting to
give adequate examples here, but space forbids. Suffice it to say that a
Mexican horse-thief was convicted and severely flogged; and then a
collection was taken up for him on the ground that he was on the whole
unfortunate! A thief apprehended on a steamboat was punished by a heavy
fine for the benefit of a sick man on board.

Sunday evening usually ended by a dance. As women were entirely lacking
at first, a proportion of the men was told off to represent the fair
sex. At one camp the invariable rule was to consider as ladies those who
possessed patches on the seats of their trousers. This was the
distinguishing mark. Take it all around, the day was one of noisy,
good-humored fun. There was very little sodden drunkenness, and the
miners went back to their work on Monday morning with freshened spirits.
Probably just this sort of irresponsible ebullition was necessary to
balance the hardness of the life.

In each mining-town was at least one Yankee storekeeper. He made the
real profits of the mines. His buying ability was considerable; his
buying power was often limited by what he could get hold of at the coast
and what he could transport to the camps. Often his consignments were
quite arbitrary and not at all what he ordered. The story is told of one
man who received what, to judge by the smell, he thought was three
barrels of spoiled beef. Throwing them out in the back way, he was
interested a few days later to find he had acquired a rapidly increasing
flock of German scavengers. They seemed to be investigating the barrels
and carrying away the spoiled meat. When the barrels were about empty,
the storekeeper learned that the supposed meat was in reality
sauerkraut!

The outstanding fact about these camps was that they possessed no
solidarity. Each man expected to exploit the diggings and then to depart
for more congenial climes. He wished to undertake just as little
responsibility as he possibly could. With so-called private affairs
other than his own he would have nothing to do. The term private affairs
was very elastic, stretching often to cover even cool-blooded murder.
When matters arose affecting the whole public welfare in which he
himself might possibly become interested, he was roused to the point of
administering justice. The punishments meted out were fines, flogging,
banishment, and, as a last resort, lynching. Theft was considered a
worse offense than killing. As the mines began to fill up with the more
desperate characters who arrived in 1850 and 1851, the necessity for
government increased. At this time, but after the leveling effect of
universal labor had had its full effect, the men of personality, of
force and influence, began to come to the front. A fresh aristocracy of
ability, of influence, of character was created.





CHAPTER IX

THE URBAN FORTY-NINER


In popular estimation the interest and romance of the Forty-niners
center in gold and mines. To the close student, however, the true
significance of their lives is to be found even more in the city of San
Francisco.

At first practically everybody came to California under the excitement
of the gold rush and with the intention of having at least one try at
the mines. But though gold was to be found in unprecedented abundance,
the getting of it was at best extremely hard work. Men fell sick both in
body and spirit. They became discouraged. Extravagance of hope often
resulted, by reaction, in an equal exaggeration of despair. The prices
of everything were very high. The cost of medical attendance was almost
prohibitory. Men sometimes made large daily sums in the placers; but
necessary expenses reduced their net income to small wages. Ryan gives
this account of an interview with a returning miner: "He readily entered
into conversation and informed us that he had passed the summer at the
mines where the excessive heat during the day, and the dampness of the
ground where the gold washing is performed, together with privation and
fatigue, had brought on fever and ague which nearly proved fatal to him.
He had frequently given an ounce of gold for the visit of a medical man,
and on several occasions had paid two and even three ounces for a single
dose of medicine. He showed us a pair of shoes, nearly worn out, for
which he had paid twenty-four dollars." Later Ryan says: "Only such men
as can endure the hardship and privation incidental to life in the mines
are likely to make fortunes by digging for the ore. I am unequal to the
task ... I think I could within an hour assemble in this very place from
twenty to thirty individuals of my own acquaintance who had all told the
same story. They were thoroughly dissatisfied and disgusted with their
experiment in the gold country. The truth of the matter is that only
traders, speculators, and gamblers make large fortunes." Only rarely did
men of cool enough heads and far enough sight eschew from the very
beginning all notion of getting rich quickly in the placers, and
deliberately settle down to make their fortunes in other ways.

This conclusion of Ryan's throws, of course, rather too dark a tone over
the picture. The "hardy miner" was a reality, and the life in the
placers was, to such as he, profitable and pleasant. However, this point
of view had its influence in turning back from the mines a very large
proportion of those who first went in. Many of them drifted into
mercantile pursuits. Harlan tells us: "During my sojourn in Stockton I
mixed freely with the returning and disgusted miners from whom I learned
that they were selling their mining implements at ruinously low prices.
An idea struck me one day which I immediately acted upon for fear that
another might strike in the same place and cause an explosion. The
heaven-born idea that had penetrated my cranium was this: start in the
mercantile line, purchase the kits and implements of the returning
miners at low figures and sell to the greenhorns en route to the mines
at California prices." In this manner innumerable occupations supplying
the obvious needs were taken up by many returned miners. A certain
proportion drifted to crime or shady devices, but the large majority
returned to San Francisco, whence they either went home completely
discouraged, or with renewed energy and better-applied ability took hold
of the destinies of the new city. Thus another sort of Forty-niner
became in his way as significant and strong, as effective and as
romantic as his brother, the red-shirted Forty-niner of the diggings.

But in addition to the miners who had made their stakes, who had given
up the idea of mining, or who were merely waiting for the winter's rains
to be over to go back again to the diggings, an ever increasing
immigration was coming to San Francisco with the sole idea of settling
in that place. All classes of men were represented. Many of the big
mercantile establishments of the East were sending out their agents.
Independent merchants sought the rewards of speculation. Gamblers also
perceived opportunities for big killings. Professional politicians and
cheap lawyers, largely from the Southern States, unfortunately also saw
their chance to obtain standing in a new community, having lost all
standing in their own. The result of the mixing of these various
chemical elements of society was an extraordinary boiling and bubbling.


When Commander Montgomery hoisted the American flag in 1846, the town of
Yerba Buena, as San Francisco was called, had a population of about two
hundred. Before the discovery of gold it developed under the influence
of American enterprise normally and rationally into a prosperous little
town with two hotels, a few private dwellings, and two wharves in the
process of construction. Merchants had established themselves with
connections in the Eastern States, in Great Britain, and South America.
Just before the discovery of gold the population had increased to eight
hundred and twelve.

The news of the placers practically emptied the town. It would be
curious to know exactly how many human souls and chickens remained after
Brannan's _California Star_ published the authentic news. The commonest
necessary activities were utterly neglected, shops were closed and
barricaded, merchandise was left rotting on the wharves and the beaches,
and the prices of necessities rose to tremendous altitudes. The place
looked as a deserted mining-camp does now. The few men left who would
work wanted ten or even twenty dollars a day for the commonest labor.

However, the early pioneers were hard-headed citizens. Many of the
shopkeepers and merchants, after a short experience of the mines,
hurried back to make the inevitable fortune that must come to the
middleman in these extraordinary times. Within the first eight weeks of
the gold excitement two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in gold dust
reached San Francisco, and within: the following eight weeks six hundred
thousand dollars more came in. All of this was to purchase supplies at
any price for the miners.

This was in the latter days of 1848. In the first part of 1849 the
immigrants began to arrive. They had to have places to sleep, things to
eat, transportation to the diggings, outfits of various sorts. In the
first six months of 1849 ten thousand people piled down upon the little
city built to accommodate eight hundred. And the last six months of the
year were still more extraordinary, as some thirty thousand more dumped
themselves on the chaos of the first immigration. The result can be
imagined. The city was mainly of canvas either in the form of tents or
of crude canvas and wooden houses. The few substantial buildings stood
like rocks in a tossing sea. No attempt, of course, had been made as
yet toward public improvements. The streets were ankle-deep in dust or
neck-deep in mud. A great smoke of dust hung perpetually over the city,
raised by the trade winds of the afternoon. Hundreds of ships lay at
anchor in the harbor. They had been deserted by their crews, and, before
they could be re-manned, the faster clipper ships, built to control the
fluctuating western trade, had displaced them, so that the majority were
fated never again to put to sea.

Newcomers landed at first on a flat beach of deep black sand, where they
generally left their personal effects for lack of means of
transportation. They climbed to a ragged thoroughfare of open sheds and
ramshackle buildings, most of them in the course of construction.
Beneath crude shelters of all sorts and in great quantities were goods
brought in hastily by eager speculators on the high prices. The four
hundred deserted ships lying at anchor in the harbor had dumped down on
the new community the most ridiculous assortment of necessities and
luxuries, such as calico, silk, rich furniture, mirrors, knock-down
houses, cases and cases of tobacco, clothing, statuary,
mining-implements, provisions, and the like.

The hotels and lodging houses immediately became very numerous. Though
they were in reality only overcrowded bunk-houses, the most enormous
prices were charged for beds in them. People lay ten or twenty in a
single room--in row after row of cots, in bunks, or on the floor.
Between the discomfort of hard beds, fleas, and overcrowding, the entire
populace spent most of its time on the street or in the saloons and
gambling-houses. As some one has pointed out, this custom added greatly
to the apparent population of the place. Gambling was the gaudiest, the
best-paying, and the most patronized industry. It occupied the largest
structures, and it probably imported and installed the first luxuries.
Of these resorts the El Dorado became the most famous. It occupied at
first a large tent but soon found itself forced to move to better
quarters. The rents paid for buildings were enormous. Three thousand
dollars a month in advance was charged for a single small store made of
rough boards. A two-story frame building on Kearny Street near the Plaza
paid its owners a hundred and twenty thousand dollars a year rent. The
tent containing the El Dorado gambling saloon was rented for forty
thousand dollars a year. The prices sky-rocketed still higher. Miners
paid as high as two hundred dollars for an ordinary gold rocker, fifteen
or twenty dollars for a pick, the same for a shovel, and so forth. A
copper coin was considered a curiosity, a half-dollar was the minimum
tip for any small service, twenty-five cents was the smallest coin in
circulation, and the least price for which anything could be sold. Bread
came to fifty cents a loaf. Good boots were a hundred dollars.

Affairs moved very swiftly. A month was the unit of time. Nobody made
bargains for more than a month in advance. Interest was charged on money
by the month. Indeed, conditions changed so fast that no man pretended
to estimate them beyond thirty days ahead, and to do even that was
considered rather a gamble. Real estate joined the parade of advance.
Little holes in sand-hills sold for fabulous prices. The sick,
destitute, and discouraged were submerged beneath the mounting tide of
vigorous optimism that bore on its crest the strong and able members of
the community. Every one either was rich or expected soon to be so.
Opportunity awaited every man at every corner. Men who knew how to take
advantage of fortune's gifts were assured of immediate high returns.
Those with capital were, of course, enabled to take advantage of the
opportunities more quickly; but the ingenious mind saw its chances even
with nothing to start on.

One man, who landed broke but who possessed two or three dozen old
newspapers used as packing, sold them at a dollar and two dollars apiece
and so made his start. Another immigrant with a few packages of ordinary
tin tacks exchanged them with a man engaged in putting up a canvas house
for their exact weight in gold dust. Harlan tells of walking along the
shore of Happy Valley and finding it lined with discarded pickle jars
and bottles. Remembering the high price of pickles in San Francisco, he
gathered up several hundred of them, bought a barrel of cider vinegar
from a newly-arrived vessel, collected a lot of cucumbers, and started a
bottling works. Before night, he said, he had cleared over three hundred
dollars. With this he made a corner in tobacco pipes by which he
realized one hundred and fifty dollars in twenty-four hours.

Mail was distributed soon after the arrival of the mail-steamer. The
indigent would often sit up a day or so before the expected arrival of
the mail-steamer holding places in line at the post-office. They
expected no letters but could sell the advantageous positions for high
prices when the mail actually arrived. He was a poor-spirited man indeed
who by these and many other equally picturesque means could not raise
his gold slug in a reasonable time; and, possessed of fifty dollars, he
was an independent citizen. He could increase his capital by interest
compounded every day, provided he used his wits; or for a brief span of
glory he could live with the best of them. A story is told of a new-come
traveler offering a small boy fifty cents to carry his valise to the
hotel. The urchin looked with contempt at the coin, fished out two
fifty-cent pieces, handed them to the owner of the valise, saying
"Here's a dollar; carry it yourself."

One John A. McGlynn arrived without assets. He appreciated the
opportunity for ordinary teaming, and hitching California mules to the
only and exceedingly decrepit wagon to be found he started in business.
Possessing a monopoly, he charged what he pleased, so that within a
short time he had driving for him a New York lawyer, whom he paid a
hundred and seventy-five dollars a month. His outfit was magnificent.
When somebody joked with him about his legal talent, he replied, "The
whole business of a lawyer is to know how to manage mules and asses so
as to make them pay." When within a month plenty of wagons were
imported, McGlynn had so well established himself and possessed so much
character that he became _ex officio_ the head of the industry. He was
evidently a man of great and solid sense and was looked up to as one of
the leading citizens.

Every human necessity was crying out for its ordinary conveniences.
There were no streets, there were no hotels, there were no
lodging-houses, there were no warehouses, there were no stores, there
was no water, there was no fuel. Any one who could improvise anything,
even a bare substitute, to satisfy any of these needs, was sure of
immense returns. In addition, the populace was so busy--so
overwhelmingly busy--with its own affairs that it literally could not
spare a moment to govern itself. The professional and daring politicians
never had a clearer field. They went to extraordinary lengths in all
sorts of grafting, in the sale of public real estate, in every
"shenanigan" known to skillful low-grade politicians. Only occasionally
did they go too far, as when, in addition to voting themselves salaries
of six thousand dollars apiece as aldermen, they coolly voted
themselves also gold medals to the value of one hundred and fifty
dollars apiece "for public and extra services." Then the determined
citizens took an hour off for the council chambers. The medals were cast
into the melting-pot.

All writers agree, in their memoirs, that the great impression left on
the mind by San Francisco was its extreme busyness. The streets were
always crammed full of people running and darting in all directions. It
was, indeed, a heterogeneous mixture. Not only did the Caucasian show
himself in every extreme of costume, from the most exquisite top-hatted
dandy to the red-shirted miner, but there were also to be found all the
picturesque and unknown races of the earth, the Chinese, the Chileño,
the Moor, the Turk, the Mexican, the Spanish, the Islander, not to speak
of ordinary foreigners from Russia, England, France, Belgium, Germany,
Italy, and the out-of-the-way corners of Europe. All these people had
tremendous affairs to finish in the least possible time. And every once
in a while some individual on horseback would sail down the street at
full speed, scattering the crowd left and right. If any one remarked
that the marauding individual should be shot, the excuse was always
offered, "Oh, well, don't mind him. He's only drunk," as if that
excused everything. Many of the activities of the day also were
picturesque. As there were no warehouses in which to store goods, and as
the few structures of the sort charged enormous rentals, it was cheaper
to auction off immediately all consignments. These auctions were then,
and remained for some years, one of the features of the place. The more
pretentious dealers kept brass bands to attract the crowd. The returning
miners were numerous enough to patronize both these men and the cheap
clothing stores, and having bought themselves new outfits, generally
cast the old ones into the middle of the street. Water was exceedingly
scarce and in general demand, so that laundry work was high. It was the
fashion of these gentry to wear their hair and beards long. They sported
red shirts, flashy Chinese scarves around their waists, black belts with
silver buckles, six-shooters and bowie-knives, and wide floppy hats.

The business of the day over, the evening was open for relaxation. As
the hotels and lodging-houses were nothing but kennels, and very crowded
kennels, it followed that the entire population gravitated to the
saloons and gambling places. Some of these were established on a very
extensive scale. They had not yet attained the magnificence of the
Fifties, but it is extraordinary to realize that within so few months
and at such a great distance from civilization, the early and
enterprising managed to take on the trappings of luxury. Even thus
early, plate-glass mirrors, expensive furniture, the gaudy, tremendous
oil paintings peculiar to such dives, prism chandeliers, and the like,
had made their appearance. Later, as will be seen, these gambling dens
presented an aspect of barbaric magnificence, unique and peculiar to the
time and place. In 1849, however gorgeous the trappings might have
appeared to men long deprived of such things, they were of small
importance compared with the games themselves. At times the bets were
enormous. Soulé tells us that as high as twenty thousand dollars were
risked on the turn of one card. The ordinary stake, however, was not so
large, from fifty cents to five dollars being about the usual amount.
Even at this the gamblers were well able to pay the high rents. Quick
action was the word. The tables were always crowded and bystanders many
deep waited to lay their stakes. Within a year or so the gambling
resorts assumed rather the nature of club-rooms, frequented by every
class, many of whom had no intention of gambling. Men met to talk, read
the newspapers, write letters, or perhaps take a turn at the tables. But
in 1849 the fever of speculation held every man in its grip.

Again it must be noted how wide an epoch can be spanned by a month or
two. The year 1849 was but three hundred and sixty-five days long, and
yet in that space the community of San Francisco passed through several
distinct phases. It grew visibly like the stalk of a century plant.

Of public improvements there were almost none. The few that were
undertaken sprang from absolute necessity. The town got through the
summer season fairly well, but, as the winter that year proved to be an
unusually rainy time, it soon became evident that something must be
done. The streets became bottomless pits of mud. It is stated, as plain
and sober fact, that in some of the main thoroughfares teams of mules
and horses sank actually out of sight and were suffocated. Foot travel
was almost impossible unless across some sort of causeway. Lumber was so
expensive that it was impossible to use it for the purpose. Fabulous
quantities of goods sent in by speculators loaded the market and would
sell so low that it was actually cheaper to use bales of them than to
use planks. Thus one muddy stretch was paved with bags of Chilean flour,
another with tierces of tobacco, while over still another the wayfarers
proceeded on the tops of cook stoves. These sank gradually in the soft
soil until the tops were almost level with the mud. Of course one of the
first acts of the merry jester was to shy the stove lids off into space.
The footing especially after dark can be imagined. Crossing a street on
these things was a perilous traverse watched with great interest by
spectators on either side. Often the hardy adventurer, after teetering
for some time, would with a descriptive oath sink to his waist in the
slimy mud. If the wayfarer was drunk enough, he then proceeded to pelt
his tormentors with missiles of the sticky slime. The good humor of the
community saved it from absolute despair. Looked at with cold appraising
eye, the conditions were decidedly uncomfortable. In addition there was
a grimmer side to the picture. Cholera and intermittent fever came,
brought in by ships as well as by overland immigrants, and the
death-rate rose by leaps and bounds.

The greater the hardships and obstacles, the higher the spirit of the
community rose to meet them. In that winter was born the spirit that has
animated San Francisco ever since, and that so nobly and cheerfully met
the final great trial of the earthquake and fire of 1906.

About this time an undesirable lot of immigrants began to arrive,
especially from the penal colonies of New South Wales. The criminals of
the latter class soon became known to the populace as "Sydney Ducks."
They formed a nucleus for an adventurous, idle, pleasure-loving,
dissipated set of young sports, who organized themselves into a loose
band very much on the order of the East Side gangs in New York or the
"hoodlums" in later San Francisco, with the exception, however, that
these young men affected the most meticulous nicety in dress. They
perfected in the spring of 1849 an organization called the Regulators,
announcing that, as there was no regular police force, they would take
it upon themselves to protect the weak against the strong and the
newcomer against the bunco man. Every Sunday they paraded the streets
with bands and banners. Having no business in the world to occupy them,
and holding a position unique in the community, the Regulators soon
developed into practically a band of cut-throats and robbers, with the
object of relieving those too weak to bear alone the weight of wealth.
The Regulators, or Hounds, as they soon came to be called, had the great
wisdom to avoid the belligerent and resourceful pioneer. They issued
from their headquarters, a large tent near the Plaza, every night. Armed
with clubs and pistols, they descended upon the settlements of harmless
foreigners living near the outskirts, relieved them of what gold dust
they possessed, beat them up by way of warning, and returned to
headquarters with the consciousness of a duty well done. The victims
found it of little use to appeal to the _alcalde_, for with the best
disposition in the world the latter could do nothing without an adequate
police force. The ordinary citizen, much too interested in his own
affairs, merely took precautions to preserve his own skin, avoided dark
and unfrequented alleyways, barricaded his doors and windows, and took
the rest out in contemptuous cursing.

Encouraged by this indifference, the Hounds naturally grew bolder and
bolder. They considered they had terrorized the rest of the community,
and they began to put on airs and swagger in the usual manner of bullies
everywhere. On Sunday afternoon of July 15, they made a raid on some
California ranchos across the bay, ostensibly as a picnic expedition,
returning triumphant and very drunk. For the rest of the afternoon with
streaming banners they paraded the streets, discharging firearms and
generally shooting up the town. At dark they descended upon the Chilean
quarters, tore down the tents, robbed the Chileans, beat many of the men
to insensibility, ousted the women, killed a number who had not already
fled, and returned to town only the following morning.

This proved to be the last straw. The busy citizens dropped their own
affairs for a day and got together in a mass meeting at the Plaza. All
work was suspended and all business houses were closed. Probably all the
inhabitants in the city with the exception of the Hounds had gathered
together. Our old friend, Sam Brannan, possessing the gift of a fiery
spirit and an arousing tongue, addressed the meeting. A sum of money was
raised for the despoiled foreigners. An organization was effected, and
armed _posses_ were sent out to arrest the ringleaders. They had little
difficulty. Many left town for foreign parts or for the mines, where
they met an end easily predicted. Others were condemned to various
punishments. The Hounds were thoroughly broken up in an astonishingly
brief time. The real significance of their great career is that they
called to the attention of the better class of citizens the necessity
for at least a sketchy form of government and a framework of law. Such
matters as city revenue were brought up for practically the first time.
Gambling-houses were made to pay a license. Real estate, auction sales,
and other licenses were also taxed. One of the ships in the harbor was
drawn up on shore and was converted into a jail. A district-attorney was
elected, with an associate. The whole municipal structure was still
about as rudimentary as the streets into which had been thrown armfuls
of brush in a rather hopeless attempt to furnish an artificial bottom.
It was a beginning, however, and men had at last turned their eyes even
momentarily from their private affairs to consider the welfare of this
unique society which was in the making.





CHAPTER X

ORDEAL BY FIRE


San Francisco in the early years must be considered, aside from the
interest of its picturesqueness and aside from its astonishing growth,
as a crucible of character. Men had thrown off all moral responsibility.
Gambling, for example, was a respectable amusement. People in every
class of life frequented the gambling saloons openly and without thought
of apology. Men were leading a hard and vigorous life; the reactions
were quick; and diversions were eagerly seized. Decent women were
absolutely lacking, and the women of the streets had as usual followed
the army of invasion. It was not considered at all out of the ordinary
to frequent their company in public, and men walked with them by day to
the scandal of nobody. There was neither law nor restraint. Most men
were drunk with sudden wealth. The battle was, as ever, to the strong.

There was every inducement to indulge the personal side of life. As a
consequence, many formed habits they could not break, spent all of their
money on women and drink and gambling, ruined themselves in pocket-book
and in health, returned home broken, remained sodden and hopeless
tramps, or joined the criminal class. Thousands died of cholera or
pneumonia; hundreds committed suicide; but those who came through formed
the basis of a race remarkable today for its strength, resourcefulness,
and optimism. Characters solid at bottom soon come to the inevitable
reaction. They were the forefathers of a race of people which is
certainly different from the inhabitants of any other portion of the
country.

The first public test came with the earliest of the big fires that,
within the short space of eighteen months, six times burned San
Francisco to the ground. This fire occurred on December 4, 1849. It was
customary in the saloons to give negroes a free drink and tell them not
to come again. One did come again to Dennison's; he was flogged, and
knocked over a lamp. Thus there started a conflagration that consumed
over a million dollars' worth of property. The valuable part of the
property, it must be confessed, was in the form of goods, as the light
canvas and wooden shacks were of little worth. Possibly the fire
consumed enough germs and germ-breeding dirt to pay partially for
itself. Before the ashes had cooled, the enterprising real estate owners
were back reërecting the destroyed structures.

This first fire was soon followed by others, each intrinsically severe.
The people were splendid in enterprise and spirit of recovery; but they
soon realized that not only must the buildings be made of more
substantial material, but also that fire-fighting apparatus must be
bought. In June, 1850, four hundred houses were destroyed; in May, 1851,
a thousand were burned at a loss of two million and a half; in June,
1851, the town was razed to the water's edge. In many places the wharves
were even disconnected from the shore. Everywhere deep holes were burned
in them, and some people fell through at night and were drowned. In this
fire a certain firm, Dewitt and Harrison, saved their warehouse by
knocking in barrels of vinegar and covering their building with blankets
soaked in that liquid. Water was unobtainable. It was reported that they
thus used eighty thousand gallons of vinegar, but saved their warehouse.


The loss now had amounted to something like twelve million dollars for
the large fires. It became more evident that something must be done.
From the exigencies of the situation were developed the volunteer
companies, which later became powerful political, as well as
fire-fighting, organizations. There were many of these. In the old
Volunteer Department there were fourteen engines, three hook-and-ladder
companies, and a number of hose companies. Each possessed its own house,
which was in the nature of a club-house, well supplied with reading and
drinking matter. The members of each company were strongly partisan.
They were ordinarily drawn from men of similar tastes and position in
life. Gradually they came to stand also for similar political interests,
and thus grew to be, like New York's Tammany Hall, instruments of the
politically ambitious.

On an alarm of fire the members at any time of the day and night ceased
their occupation or leaped from their beds to run to the engine-house.
Thence the hand-engines were dragged through the streets at a terrific
rate of speed by hundreds of yelling men at the end of the ropes. The
first engine at a fire obtained the place of honor; therefore every
alarm was the signal for a breakneck race. Arrived at the scene of fire,
the water-box of one engine was connected by hose with the reservoir of
the next, and so water was relayed from engine to engine until it was
thrown on the flames. The motive power of the pump was supplied by the
crew of each engine. The men on either side manipulated the pump by
jerking the hand-rails up and down. Putting out the fire soon became a
secondary matter. The main object of each company was to "wash" its
rival; that is, to pump water into the water box of the engine ahead
faster than the latter could pump it out, thus overflowing and eternally
disgracing its crew. The foremen walked back and forth between the
rails, as if on quarter-decks, exhorting their men. Relays in uniform
stood ready on either side to take the place of those who were
exhausted. As the race became closer, the foremen would get more
excited, begging their crews to increase the speed of the stroke,
beating their speaking trumpets into shapeless and battered relics.

In the meantime the hook-and-ladder companies were plying their glorious
and destructive trade. A couple of firemen would mount a ladder to the
eaves of the house to be attacked, taking with them a heavy hook at the
end of a long pole or rope. With their axes they cut a small hole in the
eaves, hooked on this apparatus, and descended. At once as many firemen
and volunteers as could get hold of the pole and the rope began to pull.
The timbers would crack, break; the whole side of the house would come
out with a grand satisfying smash. In this way the fire within was laid
open to the attack of the hose-men. This sort of work naturally did
little toward saving the building immediately affected, but it was
intended to confine or check the fire within the area already burning.
The occasion was a grand jubilation for every boy in the town--which
means every male of any age. The roar of the flames, the hissing of the
steam, the crash of the timber, the shrieks of the foremen, the yells of
applause or of sarcastic comment from the crowd, and the thud of the
numerous pumps made a glorious row. Everybody, except the owners of the
buildings, was hugely delighted, and when the fire was all over it was
customary for the unfortunate owner further to increase the amount of
his loss by dealing out liquid refreshments to everybody concerned. On
parade days each company turned out with its machine brought to a high
state of polish by varnish, and with the members resplendent in uniform,
carrying pole-axes and banners. If the rivalries at the fire could only
be ended in a general free fight, everybody was the better satisfied.

Thus by the end of the first period of its growth three necessities had
compelled the careless new city to take thought of itself and of public
convenience. The mud had forced the cleaning and afterwards the planking
of the principal roads; the Hounds had compelled the adoption of at
least a semblance of government; and the repeated fires had made
necessary the semiofficial organization of the fire department.

By the end of 1850 we find that a considerable amount of actual progress
has been made. This came not in the least from any sense of civic pride
but from the pressure of stern necessity. The new city now had eleven
wharves, for example, up to seventeen hundred feet in length. It had
done no little grading of its sand-hills. The quagmire of its streets
had been filled and in some places planked. Sewers had been installed.
Flimsy buildings were being replaced by substantial structures, for
which the stones in some instances were imported from China.

Yet it must be repeated that at this time little or no progress sprang
from civic pride. Each man was for himself. But, unlike the native
Californian, he possessed wants and desires which had to be satisfied,
and to that end he was forced, at least in essentials, to accept
responsibility and to combine with his neighbors.

The machinery of this early civic life was very crude. Even the fire
department, which was by far the most efficient, was, as has been
indicated, more occupied with politics, rivalry, and fun, than with its
proper function. The plank roads were good as long as they remained
unworn, but they soon showed many holes, large and small, jagged,
splintered, ugly holes going down into the depths of the mud. Many of
these had been mended by private philanthropists; many more had been
labeled with facetious signboards. There were rough sketches of
accidents taken from life, and various legends such as "Head of
Navigation," "No bottom," "Horse and dray lost here," "Take sounding,"
"Storage room, inquire below," "Good fishing for teal," and the like. As
for the government, the less said about that the better. Responsibility
was still in embryo; but politics and the law, as an irritant, were
highly esteemed. The elections of the times were a farce and a holiday;
nobody knew whom he was voting for nor what he was shouting for, but he
voted as often and shouted as loud as he could. Every American citizen
was entitled to a vote, and every one, no matter from what part of the
world he came, claimed to be an American citizen and defied any one to
prove the contrary. Proof consisted of club, sling-shot, bowie, and
pistol. A grand free fight was a refreshment to the soul. After "a
pleasant time by all was had," the populace settled down and forgot all
about the officers whom it had elected. The latter went their own sweet
way, unless admonished by spasmodic mass-meetings that some particularly
unscrupulous raid on the treasury was noted and resented. Most of the
revenue was made by the sale of city lots. Scrip was issued in payment
of debt. This bore interest sometimes at the rate of six or eight per
cent a month.

In the meantime, the rest of the crowd went about its own affairs. Then,
as now, the American citizen is willing to pay a very high price in
dishonesty to be left free for his own pressing affairs. That does not
mean that he is himself either dishonest or indifferent. When the price
suddenly becomes too high, either because of the increase in dishonesty
or the decrease in value of his own time, he suddenly refuses to pay.
This happened not infrequently in the early days of California.





CHAPTER XI

THE VIGILANTES OF '51


In 1851 the price for one commodity became too high. That commodity was
lawlessness.

In two years the population of the city had vastly increased, until it
now numbered over thirty thousand inhabitants. At an equal or greater
pace the criminal and lawless elements had also increased. The
confessedly criminal immigrants were paroled convicts from Sydney and
other criminal colonies. These practiced men were augmented by the weak
and desperate from other countries. Mexico, especially, was strongly
represented. At first few in numbers and poverty-stricken in resources,
these men acted merely as footpads, highwaymen, and cheap crooks. As
time went on, however, they gradually became more wealthy and powerful,
until they had established a sort of caste. They had not the social
importance of many of the "higher-ups" of 1856, but they were crude,
powerful, and in many cases wealthy. They were ably seconded by a class
of lawyers which then, and for some years later, infested the courts of
California. These men had made little success at law, or perhaps had
been driven forth from their native haunts because of evil practices.
They played the game of law exactly as the cheap criminal lawyer does
today, but with the added advantage that their activities were
controlled neither by a proper public sentiment nor by the usual
discipline of better colleagues. Unhappily we are not yet far enough
removed from just this perversion to need further explanation of the
method. Indictments were fought for the reason that the murderer's name
was spelled wrong in one letter; because, while the accusation stated
that the murderer killed his victim with a pistol, it did not say that
it was by the discharge of said pistol; and so on. But patience could
not endure forever. The decent element of the community was forced at
last to beat the rascals. Its apparent indifference had been only
preoccupation.

The immediate cause was the cynical and open criminal activity of an
Englishman named James Stuart. This man was a degenerate criminal of
the worst type, who came into a temporary glory through what he
considered the happy circumstances of the time. Arrested for one of his
crimes, he seemed to anticipate the usual very good prospects of
escaping all penalties. There had been dozens of exactly similar
incidents, but this one proved to be the spark to ignite a long
gathering pile of kindling. One hundred and eighty-four of the
wealthiest and most prominent men of the city formed themselves into a
secret Committee of Vigilance. As is usual when anything of importance
is to be done, the busiest men of the community were summoned and put to
work. Strangely enough, the first trial under this Committee of
Vigilance resulted also in a divided jury. The mob of eight thousand or
more people who had gathered to see justice done by others than the
appointed court finally though grumblingly acquiesced. The prisoners
were turned over to the regular authorities, and were eventually
convicted and sentenced.

So far from being warned by this popular demonstration, the criminal
offenders grew bolder than ever. The second great fire, in May, 1851,
was commonly believed to be the work of incendiaries. Patience ceased
to be a virtue. The time for resolute repression of crime had arrived.
In June the Vigilance Committee was formally organized. Our old and
picturesque friend Sam Brannan was deeply concerned. In matters of
initiative for the public good, especially where a limelight was
concealed in the wing, Brannan was an able and efficient citizen.
Headquarters were chosen and a formal organization was perfected. The
Monumental Fire Engine Company bell was to be tolled as a summons for
the Committee to meet.

Even before the first meeting had adjourned, this signal was given. A
certain John Jenkins had robbed a safe and was caught after a long and
spectacular pursuit. Jenkins was an Australian convict and was known to
numerous people as an old offender in many ways. He was therefore
typical of the exact thing the Vigilance Committee had been formed to
prevent. By eleven o'clock the trial, which was conducted with due
decorum and formality, was over. Jenkins was adjudged guilty. There was
no disorder either before or after Jenkins's trial. Throughout the trial
and subsequent proceedings Jenkins's manner was unafraid and arrogant.
He fully expected not only that the nerve of the Committee would give
out, but that at any moment he would be rescued. It must be remembered
that the sixty or seventy men in charge were known as peaceful unwarlike
merchants, and that against them were arrayed all the belligerent
swashbucklers of the town. While the trial was going on, the Committee
was informed by its officers outside that already the roughest
characters throughout the city had been told of the organization, and
were gathering for rescue. The prisoner insulted his captors, still
unconvinced that they meant business; then he demanded a clergyman, who
prayed for three-quarters of an hour straight, until Mr. Ryckman,
hearing of the gathering for rescue, no longer contained himself. Said
he: "Mr. Minister, you have now prayed three-quarters of an hour. I want
you to bring this prayer business to a halt. I am going to hang this man
in fifteen minutes."

The Committee itself was by no means sure at all times. Bancroft tells
us that "one time during the proceedings there appeared some faltering
on the part of the judges, or rather a hesitancy to take the lead in
assuming responsibility and braving what might be subsequent odium. It
was one thing for a half-drunken rabble to take the life of a fellow
man, but quite another thing for staid church-going men of business to
do it. Then it was that William A. Howard, after watching the
proceedings for a few moments, rose, and laying his revolver on the
table looked over the assembly. Then with a slow enunciation he said,
'Gentlemen, as I understand it, we are going to hang somebody.' There
was no more halting."

While these things were going on, Sam Brannan was sent out to
communicate to the immense crowd the Committee's decision. He was
instructed by Ryckman, "Sam, you go out and harangue the crowd while we
make ready to move." Brannan was an ideal man for just such a purpose.
He was of an engaging personality, of coarse fiber, possessed of a keen
sense of humor, a complete knowledge of crowd psychology, and a command
of ribald invective that carried far. He spoke for some time, and at the
conclusion boldly asked the crowd whether or not the Committee's action
met with its approval. The response was naturally very much mixed, but
like a true politician Sam took the result he wanted. They found the
lovers of order had already procured for them two ropes, and had
gathered into some sort of coherence. The procession marched to the
Plaza where Jenkins was duly hanged. The lawless element gathered at the
street corners, and at least one abortive attempt at rescue was started.
But promptness of action combined with the uncertainty of the situation
carried the Committee successfully through. The coroner's jury next day
brought in a verdict that the deceased "came to his death on the part of
an association styling themselves a Committee on Vigilance, of whom the
following members are implicated." And then followed nine names. The
Committee immediately countered by publishing its roster of one hundred
and eighty names in full.

The organization that was immediately perfected was complete and
interesting. This was an association that was banded together and
close-knit, and not merely a loose body of citizens. It had
headquarters, company organizations, police, equipment, laws of its own,
and a regular routine for handling the cases brought before it. Its
police force was large and active. Had the Vigilance movement in
California begun and ended with the Committee of 1851, it would be not
only necessary but most interesting to follow its activities in detail.
But, as it was only the forerunner and trail-blazer for the greater
activities of 1856, we must save our space and attention for the latter.
Suffice it to say that, with only nominal interference from the law, the
first Committee hanged four people and banished a great many more for
the good of their country. Fifty executions in the ordinary way would
have had little effect on the excited populace of the time; but in the
peculiar circumstances these four deaths accomplished a moral
regeneration. This revival of public conscience could not last long, to
be sure, but the worst criminals were, at least for the time being,
cowed.

Spasmodic efforts toward coherence were made by the criminals, but these
attempts all proved abortive. Inflammatory circulars and newspaper
articles, small gatherings, hidden threats, were all freely indulged in.
At one time a rescue of two prisoners was accomplished, but the
Monumental bell called together a determined band of men who had no
great difficulty in reclaiming their own. The Governor of the State,
secretly in sympathy with the purposes of the Committee, was satisfied
to issue a formal proclamation.

It must be repeated that, were it not for the later larger movement of
1856, this Vigilance Committee would merit more extended notice. It
gave a lead, however, and a framework on which the Vigilance Committee
of 1856 was built. It proved that the better citizens, if aroused, could
take matters into their own hands. But the opposing forces of 1851 were
very different from those of five years later. And the transition from
the criminal of 1851 to the criminal of 1856 is the history of San
Francisco between those two dates.





CHAPTER XII

SAN FRANCISCO IN TRANSITION


By the mid-fifties San Francisco had attained the dimensions of a city.
Among other changes of public interest within the brief space of two or
three years were a hospital, a library, a cemetery, several churches,
public markets, bathing establishments, public schools, two
race-courses, twelve wharves, five hundred and thirty-seven saloons, and
about eight thousand women of several classes. The population was now
about fifty thousand. The city was now of a fairly substantial
character, at least in the down-town districts. There were many
structures of brick and stone. In many directions the sand-hills had
been conveniently graded down by means of a power shovel called the
Steam Paddy in contradistinction to the hand Paddy, or Irishman with a
shovel. The streets were driven straight ahead regardless of contours.
It is related that often the inhabitants of houses perched on the sides
of the sand-hills would have to scramble to safety as their dwellings
rolled down the bank, undermined by some grading operation below. A
water system had been established, the nucleus of the present Spring
Valley Company. The streets had nearly all been planked, and private
enterprise had carried the plank toll-road even to the Mission district.
The fire department had been brought to a high state of perfection. The
shallow waters of the bay were being filled up by the rubbish from the
town and by the débris from the operations of the Steam Paddies. New
streets were formed on piles extended out into the bay. Houses were
erected, also on piles and on either side of these marine thoroughfares.
Gradually the rubbish filled the skeleton framework. Occasionally old
ships, caught by this seaward invasion, were built around, and so became
integral parts of the city itself.

The same insistent demand that led to increasing the speed of the
vessels, together with the fact that it cost any ship from one hundred
to two hundred dollars a day to lie at any of the wharves, developed an
extreme efficiency in loading and unloading cargoes. Hittell says that
probably in no port of the world could a ship be emptied as quickly as
at San Francisco. For the first and last time in the history of the
world the profession of stevedore became a distinguished one. In
addition to the overseas trade, there were now many ships, driven by
sail or steam, plying the local routes. Some of the river steamboats had
actually been brought around the Horn. Their free-board had been raised
by planking-in the lower deck, and thus these frail vessels had sailed
their long and stormy voyage--truly a notable feat.

It did not pay to hold goods very long. Eastern shippers seemed, by a
curious unanimity, to send out many consignments of the same scarcity.
The result was that the high prices of today would be utterly destroyed
by an oversupply of tomorrow. It was thus to the great advantage of
every merchant to meet his ship promptly, and to gain knowledge as soon
as possible of the cargo of the incoming vessels. For this purpose
signal stations were established, rowboat patrols were organized, and
many other ingenious schemes was applied to the secret service of the
mercantile business. Both in order to save storage and to avoid the
possibility of loss from new shipments coming in, the goods were
auctioned off as soon as they were landed.

These auctions were most elaborate institutions involving brass bands,
comfortable chairs, eloquent "spielers," and all the rest. They were a
feature of the street life, which in turn had an interest all its own.
The planking threw back a hollow reverberating sound from the various
vehicles. There seemed to be no rules of the road. Omnibuses careered
along, every window rattling loudly; drays creaked and strained;
non-descript delivery wagons tried to outrattle the omnibuses; horsemen
picked their way amid the mêlée. The din was described as something
extraordinary--hoofs drumming, wheels rumbling, oaths and shouts, and
from the sidewalk the blare and bray of brass bands before the various
auction shops. Newsboys and bootblacks darted in all directions. Cigar
boys, a peculiar product of the time, added to the hubbub. Bootblacking
stands of the most elaborate description were kept by French and
Italians. The town was full of characters who delighted in their own
eccentricities, and who were always on public view. One individual
possessed a remarkably intelligent pony who every morning, without
guidance from his master, patronized one of the shoe-blacking stands to
get his front hoofs polished. He presented each one in turn to the
foot-rest, and stood like a statue until the job was done.

Some of the numberless saloons already showed signs of real
magnificence. Mahogany bars with brass rails, huge mirrors in gilt
frames, pyramids of delicate crystal, rich hangings, oil paintings of
doubtful merit but indisputable interest, heavy chandeliers of glass
prisms, the most elaborate of free lunches, skillful barkeepers who
mixed drinks at arm's length, were common to all the better places.
These things would not be so remarkable in large cities at the present
time, but in the early Fifties, only three years after the tent stage,
and thousands of miles from the nearest civilization, the enterprise
that was displayed seemed remarkable. The question of expense did not
stop these early worthies. Of one saloonkeeper it is related that,
desiring a punch bowl and finding that the only vessel of the sort was a
soup-tureen belonging to a large and expensive dinner set, he bought the
whole set for the sake of the soup-tureen. Some of the more pretentious
places boasted of special attractions: thus one supported its ceiling on
crystal pillars; another had dashing young women to serve the drinks,
though the mixing was done by men as usual; a third possessed a large
musical-box capable of playing several very noisy tunes; a fourth had
imported a marvelous piece of mechanism run by clockwork which exhibited
the sea in motion, a ship tossing on the waves, on shore a windmill in
action, a train of cars passing over a bridge, a deer chased by hounds,
and the like.

But these bar-rooms were a totally different institution from the
gambling resorts. Although gambling was not now considered the entirely
worthy occupation of a few years previous, and although some of the
better citizens, while frequenting the gambling halls, still preferred
to do their own playing in semi-private, the picturesqueness and glory
of these places had not yet been dimmed by any general popular
disapproval. The gambling halls were not only places to risk one's
fortune, but they were also a sort of evening club. They usually
supported a raised stage with footlights, a negro minstrel troop, or a
singer or so. On one side elaborate bars of rosewood or mahogany ran the
entire length, backed by big mirrors of French plate. The whole of the
very large main floor was heavily carpeted. Down the center generally
ran two rows of gambling tables offering various games such as faro,
keeno, roulette, poker, and the dice games. Beyond these tables, on the
opposite side of the room from the bar, were the lounging quarters, with
small tables, large easy-chairs, settees, and fireplaces. Decoration was
of the most ornate. The ceilings and walls were generally white with a
great deal of gilt. All classes of people frequented these places and
were welcomed there. Some were dressed in the height of fashion, and
some wore the roughest sort of miners' clothes--floppy old slouch hats,
flannel shirts, boots to which the dried mud was clinging or from which
it fell to the rich carpet. All were considered on an equal plane. The
professional gamblers came to represent a type of their own,--weary,
indifferent, pale, cool men, who had not only to keep track of the game
and the bets, but also to assure control over the crowd about them.
Often in these places immense sums were lost or won; often in these
places occurred crimes of shooting and stabbing; but also into these
places came many men who rarely drank or gambled at all. They assembled
to enjoy each other's company, the brightness, the music, and the
sociable warmth.

On Sunday the populace generally did one of two things: either it
sallied out in small groups into the surrounding country on picnics or
celebrations at some of the numerous road-houses; or it swarmed out the
plank toll-road to the Mission. To the newcomer the latter must have
been much the more interesting. There he saw a congress of all the
nations of the earth: French, Germans, Italians, Russians, Dutchmen,
British, Turks, Arabs, Negroes, Chinese, Kanakas, Indians, the gorgeous
members of the Spanish races, and all sorts of queer people to whom no
habitat could be assigned. Most extraordinary perhaps were the men from
the gold mines of the Sierras. The miners had by now distinctly
segregated themselves from the rest of the population. They led a
hardier, more laborious life and were proud of the fact. They attempted
generally to differentiate themselves in appearance from all the rest of
the human race, and it must be confessed that they succeeded. The miners
were mostly young and wore their hair long, their beards rough; they
walked with a wide swagger; their clothes were exaggeratedly coarse, but
they ornamented themselves with bright silk handkerchiefs, feathers,
flowers, with squirrel or buck tails in their hats, with long heavy
chains of nuggets, with glittering and prominently displayed pistols,
revolvers, stilettos, knives, and dirks. Some even plaited their beards
in three tails, or tied their long hair under their chins; but no matter
how bizarre they made themselves, nobody on the streets of _blasé_ San
Francisco paid the slightest attention to them. The Mission, which they,
together with the crowd, frequented, was a primitive Coney Island. Bear
pits, cockfights, theatrical attractions, side-shows, innumerable hotels
and small restaurants, saloons, races, hammer-striking, throwing balls
at negroes' heads, and a hundred other attractions kept the crowds busy
and generally good-natured. If a fight arose, "it was," as the Irishman
says, "considered a private fight," and nobody else could get in it.
Such things were considered matters for the individuals themselves to
settle.

The great feature of the time was its extravagance. It did not matter
whether a man was a public servant, a private and respected citizen, or
from one of the semi-public professions that cater to men's greed and
dissipation, he acted as though the ground beneath his feet were solid
gold. The most extravagant public works were undertaken without thought
and without plan. The respectable women vied in the magnificence and
ostentation of their costumes with the women of the lower world.
Theatrical attractions at high prices were patronized abundantly. Balls
of great magnificence were given almost every night. Private carriages
of really excellent appointment were numerous along the disreputable
planked roads or the sandy streets strewn with cans and garbage.

The feverish life of the times reflected itself domestically. No live
red-blooded man could be expected to spend his evenings reading a book
quietly at home while all the magnificent, splendid, seething life of
down-town was roaring in his ears. All his friends would be out; all the
news of the day passed around; all the excitements of the evening
offered themselves. It was too much to expect of human nature. The
consequence was that a great many young wives were left alone, with the
ultimate result of numerous separations and divorces. The moral nucleus
of really respectable society--and there was a noticeable one even at
that time--was overshadowed and swamped for the moment. Such a social
life as this sounds decidedly immoral but it was really unmoral, with
the bright, eager, attractive unmorality of the vigorous child. In fact,
in that society, as some one has expressed it, everything was condoned
except meanness.

It was the era of the grandiose. Even conversation reflected this
characteristic. The myriad bootblacks had grand outfits and stands. The
captain of a ship offered ten dollars to a negro to act as his cook. The
negro replied, "If you will walk up to my restaurant, I'll set you to
work at twenty-five dollars immediately." From men in such humble
stations up to the very highest and most respected citizens the spirit
of gambling, of taking chances, was also in the air.

As has been pointed out, a large proportion of the city's wealth was
raised not from taxation but from the sale of its property. Under the
heedless extravagance of the first government the municipal debt rose to
over one million dollars. Since interest charged on this was thirty-six
per cent annually, it can be seen that the financial situation was
rather hopeless. As the city was even then often very short of funds, it
paid for its work and its improvements in certificates of indebtedness,
usually called "scrip." Naturally this scrip was held below par--a
condition that caused all contractors and supply merchants to charge two
or three hundred per cent over the normal prices for their work and
commodities in order to keep even. And this practice, completing the
vicious circle, increased the debt. An attempt was made to fund the city
debt by handing in the scrip in exchange for a ten per cent obligation.
This method gave promise of success; but a number of holders of scrip
refused to surrender it, and brought suit to enforce payment. One of
these, a physician named Peter Smith, was owed a considerable sum for
the care of indigent sick. He obtained a judgment against the city,
levied on some of its property, and proceeded to sell. The city
commissioners warned the public that titles under the Smith claim were
not legal, and proceeded to sell the property on their own account. The
speculators bought claims under Peter Smith amounting to over two
millions of dollars at merely nominal rates. For example, one parcel of
city lots sold at less than ten cents per lot. The prices were so absurd
that these sales were treated as a joke. The joke came in on the other
side, however, when the officials proceeded to ratify these sales. The
public then woke up to the fact that it had been fleeced. Enormous
prices were paid for unsuitable property, ostensibly for the uses of the
city. After the money had passed, these properties were often declared
unsuitable and resold at reduced prices to people already determined
upon by the ring.

Nevertheless commercially things went well for a time. The needs of
hundreds of thousands of newcomers, in a country where the manufactures
were practically nothing, were enormous. It is related that at first
laundry was sent as far as the Hawaiian Islands. Every single commodity
of civilized life, such as we understand it, had to be imported. As
there was then no remote semblance of combination, either in restraint
of or in encouragement of trade, it followed that the market must
fluctuate wildly. The local agents of eastern firms were often
embarrassed and overwhelmed by the ill-timed consignments of goods. One
Boston firm was alleged to have sent out a whole shipload of women's
bonnets--to a community where a woman was one of the rarest sights to be
found! Not many shipments were as silly as this, but the fact remains
that a rumor of a shortage in any commodity would often be followed by
rush orders on clipper ships laden to the guards with that same article.
As a consequence the bottom fell out of the market completely, and the
unfortunate consignee found himself forced to auction off the goods much
below cost.

During the year 1854, the tide of prosperity began to ebb. A dry season
caused a cessation of mining in many parts of the mountains. Of course
it can be well understood that the immense prosperity of the city, the
prosperity that allowed it to recover from severe financial disease, had
its spring in the placer mines. A constant stream of fresh gold was
needed to shore up the tottering commercial structure. With the miners
out of the diggings, matters changed. The red-shirted digger of gold had
little idea of the value of money. Many of them knew only the difference
between having money and having none. They had to have credit, which
they promptly wasted. Extending credit to the miners made it necessary
that credit should also be extended to the sellers, and so on back.
Meanwhile the eastern shippers continued to pour goods into the flooded
market. An auction brought such cheap prices that they proved a
temptation even to an overstocked public. The gold to pay for purchases
went east, draining the country of bullion. One or two of the supposedly
respectable and polished citizens such as Talbot Green and "honest Harry
Meiggs" fell by the wayside. The confidence of the new community began
to be shaken. In 1854 came the crisis. Three hundred out of about a
thousand business houses shut down. Seventy-seven filed petitions in
insolvency with liabilities for many millions of dollars. In 1855 one
hundred and ninety-seven additional firms and several banking houses
went under.

There were two immediate results of this state of affairs. In the first
place, every citizen became more intensely interested and occupied with
his own personal business than ever before; he had less time to devote
to the real causes of trouble, that is the public instability; and he
grew rather more selfish and suspicious of his neighbor than ever
before. The second result was to attract the dregs of society. The
pickings incident to demoralized conditions looked rich to these men.
Professional politicians, shyster lawyers, political gangsters, flocked
to the spoil. In 1851 the lawlessness of mere physical violence had come
to a head. By 1855 and 1856 there was added to a recrudescence of this
disorder a lawlessness of graft, of corruption, both political and
financial, and the overbearing arrogance of a self-made aristocracy.
These conditions combined to bring about a second crisis in the
precarious life of this new society.





CHAPTER XIII

THE STORM GATHERS


The foundation of trouble in California at this time was formal
legalism. Legality was made a fetish. The law was a game played by
lawyers and not an attempt to get justice done. The whole of public
prosecution was in the hands of one man, generally poorly paid, with
equally underpaid assistants, while the defense was conducted by the
ablest and most enthusiastic men procurable. It followed that
convictions were very few. To lose a criminal case was considered even
mildly disgraceful. It was a point of professional pride for the lawyer
to get his client free, without reference to the circumstances of the
time or the guilt of the accused. To fail was a mark of extreme
stupidity, for the game was considered an easy and fascinating one. The
whole battery of technical delays was at the command of the defendant.
If a man had neither the time nor the energy for the finesse that made
the interest of the game, he could always procure interminable delays
during which witnesses could be scattered or else wearied to the point
of non-appearance. Changes of venue to courts either prejudiced or known
to be favorable to the technical interpretation of the law were very
easily procured. Even of shadier expedients, such as packing juries,
there was no end.

With these shadier expedients, however, your high-minded lawyer, moving
in the best society, well dressed, proud, looked up to, and today
possessing descendants who gaze back upon their pioneer ancestors with
pride, had little directly to do. He called in as counsel other lawyers,
not so high-minded, so honorable, so highly placed. These little
lawyers, shoulder-strikers, bribe-givers and takers, were held in
good-humored contempt by the legal lights who employed them. The actual
dishonesty was diluted through so many agents that it seemed an almost
pure stream of lofty integrity. Ordinary jury-packing was an easy art.
Of course the sheriff's office must connive at naming the talesmen;
therefore it was necessary to elect the sheriff; consequently all the
lawyers were in politics. Of course neither the lawyer nor the sheriff
himself ever knew of any individual transaction! A sum of money was
handed by the leading counsel to his next in command and charged off as
"expense." This fund emerged considerably diminished in the sheriff's
office as "perquisites."

Such were the conditions in the realm of criminal law, the realm where
the processes became so standardized that between 1849 and 1856 over one
thousand murders had been committed and only one legal conviction had
been secured! Dueling was a recognized institution, and a skillful shot
could always "get" his enemy in this formal manner; but if time or skill
lacked, it was still perfectly safe to shoot him down in a street
brawl--provided one had money enough to employ talent for defense.

But, once in politics, the law could not stop at the sheriff's office.
It rubbed shoulders with big contracts and big financial operations of
all sorts. The city was being built within a few years out of nothing by
a busy, careless, and shifting population. Money was still easy, people
could and did pay high taxes without a thought, for they would rather
pay well to be let alone than be bothered with public affairs. Like
hyenas to a kill, the public contractors gathered. Immense public works
were undertaken at enormous prices. To get their deals through legally
it was, of course, necessary that officials, councilmen, engineers, and
others should be sympathetic. So, naturally, the big operators as well
as the big lawyers had to go into politics. Legal efficiency coupled
with the inefficiency of the bench, legal corruption, and the arrogance
of personal favor, dissolved naturally into political corruption.

The elections of those days would have been a joke had they been not so
tragically significant. They came to be a sheer farce. The polls were
guarded by bullies who did not hesitate at command to manhandle any
decent citizen indicated by the local leaders. Such men were openly
hired for the purposes of intimidation. Votes could be bought in the
open market. "Floaters" were shamelessly imported into districts that
might prove doubtful; and, if things looked close, the election
inspectors and the judges could be relied on to make things come out all
right in the final count. One of the exhibits later shown in the
Vigilante days of 1856 was an ingenious ballot box by which the goats
could be segregated from the sheep as the ballots were cast. You may be
sure that the sheep were the only ones counted. Election day was one of
continuous whiskey drinking and brawling so that decent citizens were
forced to remain within doors. The returns from the different wards were
announced as fast as the votes were counted. It was therefore the custom
to hold open certain wards until the votes of all the others were known.
Then whatever tickets were lacking to secure the proper election were
counted from the packed ballot box in the sure ward. In this manner five
hundred votes were once returned from Crystal Springs precinct where
there dwelt not over thirty voters. If some busybody made enough of a
row to get the merry tyrants into court, there were always plenty of
lawyers who could play the ultra-technical so well that the accused were
not only released but were returned as legally elected as well.

With the proper officials in charge of the executive end of the
government and with a trained crew of lawyers making their own rules as
they went along, almost any crime of violence, corruption, theft, or the
higher grades of finance could be committed with absolute impunity. The
state of the public mind became for a while apathetic. After numberless
attempts to obtain justice, the public fell back with a shrug of the
shoulders. The men of better feeling found themselves helpless. As each
man's safety and ability to resent insult depended on his trigger
finger, the newspapers of that time made interesting but scurrilous and
scandalous reading. An appetite for personalities developed, and these
derogatory remarks ordinarily led to personal encounters. The streets
became battle-grounds of bowie-knives and revolvers, as rivals hunted
each other out. This picture may seem lurid and exaggerated, but the
cold statistics of the time supply all the details.

The politicians of the day were essentially fighting men. The large
majority were low-grade Southerners who had left their section, urged by
unmistakable hints from their fellow-citizens. The political life of
early California was colored very largely by the pseudo-chivalry which
these people used as a cloak. They used the Southern code for their
purposes very thoroughly, and bullied their way through society in a
swashbuckling manner that could not but arouse admiration. There were
many excellent Southerners in California in those days, but from the
very start their influence was overshadowed by the more unworthy.
Unfortunately, later many of the better class of Southerners, yielding
to prejudice and sectional feeling, joined the so-called "Law and Order"
party.

It must be remembered, however, that whereas the active merchants and
industrious citizens were too busy to attend to local politics, the
professional low-class Southern politician had come out to California
for no other purpose. To be successful, he had to be a fighting man. His
revolver and his bowie-knife were part of his essential equipment. He
used the word "honor" as a weapon of defense, and battered down
opposition in the most high-mannered fashion by the simple expedient of
claiming that he had been insulted. The fire-eater was numerous in those
days. He dressed well, had good manners and appearance, possessed
abundant leisure, and looked down scornfully on those citizens who were
busy building the city, "low Yankee shopkeepers" being his favorite
epithet.

Examined at close range, in contemporary documents, this individual has
about him little of romance and nothing whatever admirable. It would be
a great pity, were mistaken sentimentality allowed to clothe him in the
same bright-hued garments as the cavaliers of England in the time of the
Stuarts. It would be an equal pity, were the casual reader to condemn
all who eventually aligned themselves against the Vigilance movement as
of the same stripe as the criminals who menaced society. There were many
worthy people whose education thoroughly inclined them towards formal
law, and who, therefore, when the actual break came, found themselves
supporting law instead of justice.

As long as the country continued to enjoy the full flood of prosperity,
these things did not greatly matter. The time was individualistic, and
every man was supposed to take care of himself. But in the year 1855
financial stringency overtook the new community. For lack of water many
of the miners had stopped work and had to ask for credit in buying their
daily necessities. The country stores had to have credit from the city
because the miners could not pay, and the wholesalers of the city again
had to ask extension from the East until their bills were met by the
retailers. The gold of the country went East to pay its bills. Further
to complicate the matter, all banking was at this time done by private
firms. These could take deposits and make loans and could issue
exchange, but they could not issue bank-notes. Therefore the currency
was absolutely inelastic.

Even these conditions failed to shake the public optimism, until out of
a clear sky came announcement that Adams and Company had failed. Adams
and Company occupied in men's minds much the same position as the Bank
of England. If Adams and Company were vulnerable, then nobody was
secure. The assets of the bankrupt firm were turned over to one Alfred
Cohen as receiver, with whom Jones, a member of the firm of Palmer,
Cook, and Company, and a third individual were associated as assignees.
On petition of other creditors the judge of the district court removed
Cohen and appointed one Naglee in his place. This new man, Naglee, on
asking for the assets was told that they had been deposited with Palmer,
Cook, and Company. The latter firm refused to give them up, denying
Naglee's jurisdiction in the matter. Naglee then commenced suit against
the assignees and obtained a judgment against them for $269,000. On
their refusal to pay over this sum, Jones and Cohen were taken into
custody. But Palmer, Cook, and Company influenced the courts, as did
about every large mercantile or political firm. They soon secured the
release of the prisoners, and in the general scramble for the assets of
Adams and Company they secured the lion's share.

It was the same old story. An immense amount of money had disappeared.
Nobody had been punished, and it was all strictly legal. Failures
resulted right and left. Even Wells, Fargo, and Company closed their
doors but reopened them within a few days. There was much excitement
which would probably have died as other excitement had died before, had
not the times produced a voice of compelling power. This voice spoke
through an individual known as James King of William.

King was a man of keen mind and dauntless courage, who had tried his
luck briefly at the mines, realized that the physical work was too much
for him, and had therefore returned to mercantile and banking pursuits
in San Francisco. His peculiar name was said to be due to the fact that
at the age of sixteen, finding another James King in his immediate
circle, he had added his father's name as a distinguishing mark. He was
rarely mentioned except with the full designation--James King of
William. On his return he opened a private banking-house, brought out
his family, and entered the life of the town. For a time his banking
career prospered and he acquired a moderate fortune, but in 1854 unwise
investments forced him to close his office. In a high-minded fashion,
very unusual in those times and even now somewhat rare, he surrendered
to his creditors everything on earth he possessed. He then accepted a
salaried position with Adams and Company, which he held until that house
also failed. Since to the outside world his connection with the firm
looked dubious, he exonerated himself through a series of pamphlets and
short newspaper articles. The vigor and force of their style arrested
attention, so that when his dauntless crusading spirit, revolting
against the carnival of crime both subtle and obvious, desired to edit a
newspaper, he had no difficulty in raising the small sum of money
necessary. He had always expressed his opinions clearly and fearlessly,
and the public watched with the greatest interest the appearance of the
new sheet.

The first number of the _Daily Evening Bulletin_ appeared on October 8,
1855. Like all papers of that day and like many of the English papers
now, its first page was completely covered with small advertisements. A
thin driblet of local items occupied a column on the third and fourth
pages, and a single column of editorials ran down the second. As a
newspaper it seemed beneath contempt, but the editorials made men sit up
and take notice. King started with an attack on Palmer, Cook, and
Company's methods. He said nothing whatever about the robberies. He
dealt exclusively with the excessive rentals for postal boxes charged
the public by Palmer, Cook, and Company. That seemed a comparatively
small and harmless matter, but King made it interesting by mentioning
exact names, recording specific instances, avoiding any generalities,
and stating plainly that this was merely a beginning in the exposure of
methods. Jones of Palmer, Cook, and Company--that same Jones who had
been arrested with Cohen--immediately visited King in his office with
the object of either intimidating or bribing him as the circumstances
seemed to advise. He bragged of horsewhips and duels, but returned
rather noncommittal. The next evening the _Bulletin_ reported Jones's
visit simply as an item of news, faithfully, sarcastically, and in a
pompous vein. There followed no comment whatever. The next number, now
eagerly purchased by every one, was more interesting because of its
hints of future disclosures rather than because of its actual
information. One of the alleged scoundrels was mentioned by name, and
then the subject was dropped. The attention of the City Marshal was
curtly called to disorderly houses and the statutes concerning them, and
it was added "for his information" that at a certain address, which was
given, a structure was then actually being built for improper purposes.
Then, without transition, followed a list of official bonds and sureties
for which Palmer, Cook, and Company were giving vouchers, amounting to
over two millions. There were no comments on this list, but the
inference was obvious that the firm had the whip-hand over many public
officials.

The position of the new paper was soon formally established. It
possessed a large subscription list; it was eagerly bought on its
appearance in the street; and its advertising was increasing. King again
turned his attention to Palmer, Cook, and Company. Each day he explored
succinctly, clearly, without rhetoric, some single branch of their
business. By the time he had finished with them, he had not only exposed
all their iniquities, but he had, which was more important, educated the
public to the financial methods of the time. It followed naturally in
this type of exposure that King should criticize some of the legal
subterfuges, which in turn brought him to analysis of the firm's legal
advisers, who had previously enjoyed a good reputation. From such
subjects he drifted to dueling, venal newspapers, and soon down to the
ordinary criminals such as Billy Mulligan, Wooley Kearny, Casey, Cora,
Yankee Sullivan, Ned McGowan, Charles Duane, and many others. Never did
he hesitate to specify names and instances. He never dealt in
innuendoes. This was bringing him very close to personal danger, for
worthies of the class last mentioned were the sort who carried their
pistols and bowie-knives prominently displayed and handy for use. As yet
no actual violence had been attempted against him. Other methods of
reprisal that came to his notice King published without comment as items
of news.

Mere threats had little effect in intimidating the editor. More serious
means were tried. A dozen men publicly announced that they intended to
kill him--and the records of the dozen were pretty good testimonials to
their sincerity. In the gambling resorts and on the streets bets were
made and pools formed on the probable duration of King's life. As was
his custom, he commented even upon this. Said the _Bulletin's_ editorial
columns: "Bets are now being offered, we have been told, that the editor
of the _Bulletin_ will not be in existence twenty days longer. And the
case of Dr. Hogan of the Vicksburg paper who was murdered by gamblers of
that place is cited as a warning. Pah!... War then is the cry, is it?
War between the prostitutes and gamblers on one side and the virtuous
and respectable on the other! Be it so, then! Gamblers of San Francisco,
you have made your election and we are ready on our side for the issue!"
A man named Selover sent a challenge to King. King took this occasion to
announce that he would consider no challenges and would fight no duels.
Selover then announced his intention of killing King on sight. Says the
_Bulletin_: "Mr. Selover, it is said, carries a knife. We carry a
pistol. We hope neither will be required, but if this rencontre cannot
be avoided, why will Mr. Selover persist in imperiling the lives of
others? We pass every afternoon about half-past four to five o'clock
along Market Street from Fourth to Fifth Streets. The road is wide and
not so much frequented as those streets farther in town. If we are to be
shot or cut to pieces, for heaven's sake let it be done there. Others
will not be injured, and in case we fall our house is but a few hundred
yards beyond and the cemetery not much farther." Boldness such as this
did not act exactly as a soporific.

About this time was perpetrated a crime of violence no worse than many
hundreds which had preceded it, but occurring at a psychological time.
A gambler named Charles Cora shot and killed William Richardson, a
United States marshal. The shooting was cold-blooded and without danger
to the murderer, for at the time Richardson was unarmed. Cora was at
once hustled to jail, not so much for confinement as for safety against
a possible momentary public anger. Men had been shot on the street
before--many men, some of them as well known and as well liked as
Richardson--but not since public sentiment had been aroused and educated
as the _Bulletin_ had aroused and educated it. Crowds commenced at once
to gather. Some talk of lynching went about. Men made violent
street-corner speeches. The mobs finally surged to the jail, but were
firmly met by a strong armed guard and fell back. There was much
destructive and angry talk.

But to swing a mob into action there must be determined men at its head,
and this mob had no leader. Sam Brannan started to say something, but
was promptly arrested for inciting riot. Though the situation was
ticklish, the police seem to have handled it well, making only a passive
opposition and leaving the crowd to fritter its energies in purposeless
cursing, surging to and fro, and harmless threatenings. Nevertheless
this crowd persisted longer than most of them.

The next day the _Bulletin_ vigorously counseled dependence upon the
law, expressed confidence in the judges who were to try the case--Hager
and Norton--and voiced a personal belief that the day had passed when it
would ever be necessary to resort to arbitrary measures. It may hence be
seen how far from a contemplation of extra legal measures was King in
his public attitude. Nevertheless he added a paragraph of warning: "Hang
Billy Mulligan--that's the word. If Mr. Sheriff Scannell does not remove
Billy Mulligan from his present post as keeper of the County Jail and
Mulligan lets Cora escape, hang Billy Mulligan, and if necessary to get
rid of the sheriff, hang him--hang the sheriff!"

Public excitement died. Conviction seemed absolutely certain. Richardson
had been a public official and a popular one. Cora's action had been
cold-blooded and apparently without provocation. Nevertheless he had
remained undisturbed. He had retained one of the most brilliant lawyers
of the time, James McDougall. McDougall added to his staff the most able
of the younger lawyers of the city. Immense sums of money were
available. The source is not exactly known, but a certain Belle Cora, a
prostitute afterwards married by Cora, was advancing large amounts. A
man named James Casey, bound by some mysterious obligation, was active
in taking up general collections. Cora lived in great luxury at the
jail. He had long been a close personal friend of the sheriff and his
deputy, Mulligan. When the case came to trial, Cora escaped conviction
through the disagreement of the jury.

This fiasco, following King's editorials, had a profound effect on the
public mind. King took the outrage against justice as a fresh
starting-point for new attacks. He assailed bitterly and fearlessly the
countless abuses of the time, until at last he was recognized as a
dangerous opponent by the heretofore cynically amused higher criminals.
Many rumors of plots against King's life are to be found in the detailed
history of the day. Whether his final assassination was the result of
one of these plots, or simply the outcome of a burst of passion, matters
little. Ultimately it had its source in the ungoverned spirit of the
times.

Four months after the farce of the Cora trial, on May 14, King published
an attack on the appointment of a certain man to a position in the
federal custom house. The candidate had happened to be involved with
James P. Casey in a disgraceful election. Casey was at that time one of
the supervisors. Incidental to his attack on the candidate, King wrote
as follows: "It does not matter how bad a man Casey had been, or how
much benefit it might be to the public to have him out of the way, we
cannot accord to any one citizen the right to kill him or even beat him,
without justifiable provocation. The fact that Casey has been an inmate
of Sing Sing prison in New York is no offense against the laws of this
State; nor is the fact of his having stuffed himself through the ballot
box, as elected to the Board of Supervisors from a district where it is
said he was not even a candidate, any justification for Mr. Bagley to
shoot Casey, however richly the latter may deserve to have his neck
stretched for such fraud on the people."

Casey read this editorial in full knowledge that thousands of his
fellow-citizens would also read it. He was at that time, in addition to
his numerous political cares, editor of a small newspaper called _The
Sunday Times_. This had been floated for the express purpose of
supporting the extremists of the legalists' party, which, as we have
explained, now included the gambling and lawless element. How valuable
he was considered is shown by the fact that at a previous election Casey
had been returned as elected supervisor, although he had not been a
candidate, his name had not been on the ticket, and subsequent private
investigations could unearth no man who would acknowledge having voted
for him. Indeed, he was not even a resident of that district. However, a
slick politician named Yankee Sullivan, who ran the election, said
officially that the most votes had been counted for him; and so his
election was announced. Casey was a handy tool in many ways, rarely
appearing in person but adept in selecting suitable agents. He was
personally popular. In appearance he is described as a short, slight man
with a keen face, a good forehead, a thin but florid countenance, dark
curly hair, and blue eyes; a type of unscrupulous Irish adventurer, with
perhaps the dash of romantic idealism sometimes found in the worst
scoundrels. Like most of his confrères, he was particularly touchy on
the subject of his "honor."

On reading the _Bulletin_ editorials, he proceeded at once to King's
office, announcing his intention of shooting the editor on sight.
Probably he would have done so except for the accidental circumstance
that King happened to be busy at a table with his back turned squarely
to the door. Even Casey could not shoot a man in the back without a
word of warning. He was stuttering and excited. The interview was
overheard by two men in an adjoining office.

"What do you mean by that article?" cried Casey.

"What article?" asked King.

"That which says I was formerly an inmate of Sing Sing."

"Is it not true?" asked King quietly.

"That is not the question. I don't wish my past acts raked up. On that
point I am sensitive."

A slight pause ensued.

"Are you done?" asked King quietly. Then leaping from the chair he burst
suddenly into excitement.

"There's the door, go! And never show your face here again."

Casey had lost his advantage. At the door he gathered himself together
again.

"I'll say in my paper what I please," he asserted with a show of
bravado.

King was again in control of himself.

"You have a perfect right to do so," he rejoined. "I shall never notice
your paper."

Casey struck himself on the breast.

"And if necessary I shall defend myself," he cried.

King bounded again from his seat, livid with anger.

"Go," he commanded sharply, and Casey went.

Outside in the street Casey found a crowd waiting. The news of his visit
to the _Bulletin_ office had spread. His personal friends crowded around
asking eager questions. Casey answered with vague generalities: he
wasn't a man to be trifled with, and some people had to find out!
Blackmailing was not a healthy occupation when it aimed at a gentleman!
He left the general impression that King had apologized. Bragging in
this manner, Casey led the way to the Bank Exchange, the fashionable bar
not far distant. Here he remained drinking and boasting for some time.

In the group that surrounded him was a certain Judge Edward McGowan, a
jolly, hard-drinking, noisy individual. He had been formerly a fugitive
from justice. However, through the attractions of a gay life, a
combination of bullying and intrigue, he had made himself a place in the
new city and had at last risen to the bench. He was apparently easy to
fathom, but the stream really ran deep. Some historians claim that he
had furnished King the document which proved Casey an ex-convict. It is
certain that now he had great influence with Casey, and that he drew him
aside from the bar and talked with him some time in a low voice. Some
people insist that he furnished the navy revolver with which a few
moments later Casey shot King. This may be so, but every man went armed
in those days, especially men of Casey's stamp.

It is certain, however, that after his interview with McGowan, Casey
took his place across the street from the Bank Exchange. There, wrapped
in his cloak, he awaited King's usual promenade home.

That for some time his intention was well known is proved by the group
that little by little gathered on the opposite side of the street. It is
a matter of record that a small boy passing by was commandeered and sent
with a message for Peter Wrightman, a deputy sheriff. Pete, out of
breath, soon joined the group. There he idled, also watching,--an
official charged with the maintenance of the law of the land!

At just five o'clock King turned the corner, his head bent. He started
to cross the street diagonally and had almost reached the opposite
sidewalk when he was confronted by Casey who stepped forward from his
place of concealment behind a wagon.

"Come on," he said, throwing back his cloak, and immediately fired.
King, who could not have known what Casey was saying, was shot through
the left breast, staggered, and fell. Casey then took several steps
toward his victim, looked at him closely as though to be sure he had
done a good job, let down the hammer of his pistol, picked up his cloak,
and started for the police-station. All he wanted now was a trial under
the law.

The distance to the station-house was less than a block. Instantly at
the sound of the shot his friends rose about him and guarded him to the
shelter of the lock-up. But at last the public was aroused. Casey had
unwittingly cut down a symbol of the better element, as well as a
fearless and noble man. Someone rang the old Monumental Engine House
bell--the bell that had been used to call together the Vigilantes of
1851. The news spread about the city like wildfire. An immense mob
appeared to spring from nowhere.

The police officials were no fools; they recognized the quality of the
approaching hurricane. The city jail was too weak a structure. It was
desirable to move the prisoner at once to the county jail for
safe-keeping. A carriage was brought to the entrance of an alley next
the city jail; the prisoner, closely surrounded by armed men, was rushed
to it; and the vehicle charged out through the crowd. The mob, as yet
unorganized, recoiled instinctively before the plunging horses and the
presented pistols. Before anybody could gather his wits, the equipage
had disappeared.

The mob surged after the disappearing vehicle, and so ended up finally
in the wide open space before the county jail. The latter was a solidly
built one-story building situated on top of a low cliff. North, the
marshal, had drawn up his armed men. The mob, very excited, vociferated,
surging back and forth, though they did not rush, because as yet they
had no leaders. Attempts were made to harangue the gathering, but
everywhere the speeches were cut short. At a crucial moment the militia
appeared. The crowd thought at first that the volunteer troops were
coming to uphold their own side, but were soon undeceived. The troops
deployed in front of the jail and stood at guard. Just then the mayor
attempted to address the crowd.

"You are here creating an excitement," he said, "which may lead to
occurrences this night which will require years to wipe out. You are now
laboring under great excitement and I advise you to quietly disperse. I
assure you the prisoner is safe. Let the law have its course and justice
will be done."

He was listened to with respect, up to this point, but here arose such a
chorus of jeers that he retired hastily.

"How about Richardson?" they demanded of him. "Where is the law in
Cora's case? To hell with such justice!"

More and more soldiers came into the square, which was soon filled with
bayonets. The favorable moment had passed and this particular crisis
was, like all the other similar crises, quickly over. But the city was
aroused. Mass meetings were held in the Plaza and in other convenient
localities. Many meetings took place in rooms in different parts of the
city. Men armed by the thousands. Vehement orators held forth from
every balcony. Some of these people were, as a chronicler of the times
quaintly expressed it, "considerably tight." There was great diversity
of opinion. All night the city seethed with ill-directed activity. But
men felt helpless and hopeless for want of efficient organization.

The so-called Southern chivalry called this affair a "fight." Indeed the
_Herald_ in its issue of the next morning, mistaking utterly the times,
held boldly along the way of its sympathies. It also spoke of the
assassination as an "affray," and stated emphatically its opinion that,
"now that justice is regularly administered," there was no excuse for
even the threat of public violence. This utter blindness to the meaning
of the new movement and the far-reaching effect of King's previous
campaign proved fatal to the paper. It declined immediately. In the
meantime, attended by his wife and a whole score of volunteer
physicians, King, lying in a room in the Montgomery block, was making a
fight for his life.

Then people began to notice a small advertisement on the first page of
the morning papers, headed _The Vigilance Committee_.

"The members of the Vigilance Committee in good standing will please
meet at number 105-1/2 Sacramento Street, this day, Thursday, fifteenth
instant, at nine o'clock A.M. By order of the COMMITTEE OF THIRTEEN."

People stood still in the streets, when this notice met the eye. If this
was actually the old Committee of 1851, it meant business. There was but
one way to find out and that was to go and see. Number 105-1/2
Sacramento Street was a three-story barn-like structure that had been
built by a short-lived political party called the "Know-Nothings." The
crowd poured into the hall to its full capacity, jammed the entrance
ways, and gathered for blocks in the street. There all waited patiently
to see what would happen.

Meantime, in the small room back of the stage, about a score of men
gathered. Chief among all stood William T. Coleman. He had taken a
prominent part in the old Committee of '51. With him were Clancey
Dempster, small and mild of manner, blue-eyed, the last man in the room
one would have picked for great stamina and courage, yet playing one of
the leading rôles in this crisis; the merchant Truett, towering above
all the rest; Farwell, direct, uncompromising, inspired with tremendous
single-minded earnestness; James Dows, of the rough and ready, humorous,
blasphemous, horse-sense type; Hossefross, of the Committee of '51; Dr.
Beverly Cole, high-spirited, distinguished-looking, and courtly; Isaac
Bluxome, whose signature of "33 Secretary" was to become terrible, and
who also had served well in 1851. These and many more of their type were
considering the question dispassionately and earnestly.

"It is a serious business," said Coleman, summing up. "It is no child's
play. It may prove very serious. We may get through quickly and safely,
or we may so involve ourselves as never to get through."

"The issue is not one of choice but of expediency," replied
Dempster. "Shall we have vigilance with order or a mob with anarchy?"

In this spirit Coleman addressed the crowd waiting in the large hall.

"In view of the miscarriage of justice in the courts," he announced
briefly, "it has been thought expedient to revive the Vigilance
Committee. An Executive Council should be chosen, representative of the
whole body. I have been asked to take charge. I will do so, but must
stipulate that I am to be free to choose the first council myself. Is
that agreed?"

He received a roar of assent.

"Very well, gentlemen, I shall request you to vacate the hall. In a
short time the books will be open for enrollment."

With almost disciplined docility the crowd arose and filed out, joining
the other crowd waiting patiently in the street.

After a remarkably short period the doors were again thrown open. Inside
the passage stood twelve men later to be known as the Executive
Committee. These held back the rush, admitting but one man at a time.
The crowd immediately caught the idea and helped. There was absolutely
no excitement. Every man seemed grimly in earnest. Cries of "Order,
order, line up!" came all down the street. A rough queue was formed.
There were no jokes or laughing; there was even no talk. Each waited his
turn. At the entrance every applicant was closely scrutinized and
interrogated. Several men were turned back peremptorily in the first few
minutes, with the warning not to dare make another attempt. Passed by
this Committee, the candidate climbed the stairs. In the second story
behind a table sat Coleman, Dempster, and one other. These administered
to him an oath of secrecy and then passed him into another room where
sat Bluxome behind a ledger. Here his name was written and he was
assigned a number by which henceforth in the activities of the Committee
he was to be known. Members were instructed always to use numbers and
never names in referring to other members.

Those who had been enrolled waited for some time, but finding that with
evening the applicants were still coming in a long procession, they
gradually dispersed. No man, however, departed far from the vicinity.
Short absences and hastily snatched meals were followed by hurried
returns, lest something be missed. From time to time rumors were put in
circulation as to the activities of the Executive Committee, which had
been in continuous session since its appointment. An Examining Committee
had been appointed to scrutinize the applicants. The number of the
Executive Committee had been raised to twenty-six; a Chief of Police had
been chosen, and he in turn appointed messengers and policemen, who set
out in search of individuals wanted as door-keepers, guards, and so
forth. Only registered members were allowed on the floor of the hall.
Even the newspaper reporters were gently but firmly ejected. There was
no excitement or impatience.

At length, at eight o'clock, Coleman came out of one of the side-rooms
and, mounting a table, called for order. He explained that a military
organization had been decided upon, advised that numbers 1 to 100
inclusive should assemble in one corner of the room, the second hundred
at the first window, and so on. An interesting order was his last. "Let
the French assemble in the middle of the hall," he said in their
language--an order significant of the great numbers of French who had
first answered the call of gold in '49, and who now with equal
enthusiasm answered the call for essential justice. Each company was
advised to elect its own officers, subject to ratification by the
Executive Committee. It was further stated that arrangements had been
made to hire muskets to the number of several thousands from one George
Law. These were only flintlocks, but efficient enough in their way, and
supplied with bayonets. They were discarded government weapons, brought
out some time ago by Law to arm some mysterious filibustering expedition
that had fallen through. In this manner, without confusion, an
organization of two thousand men was formed--sixteen military companies.

By Saturday morning, May 17, the Committee rooms were overwhelmed by
crowds of citizens who desired to be enrolled. Larger quarters had
already been secured in a building on the south side of Sacramento
Street. Thither the Committee now removed _en masse_, without
interrupting their labors. These new headquarters soon became famous in
the history of this eventful year.

In the meantime the representatives of the law had not been less alert.
The regular police force was largely increased. The sheriff issued
thousands of summonses calling upon citizens for service as deputies.
These summonses were made out in due form of law. To refuse them meant
to put oneself outside the law. The ordinary citizen was somewhat
puzzled by the situation. A great many responded to the appeal from
force of habit. Once they accepted the oath these new deputies were
confronted by the choice between perjury, and its consequences, or doing
service. On the other hand, the issue of the summonses forced many
otherwise neutral men into the ranks of the Vigilantes. If they refused
to act when directly summoned by law, that very fact placed them on the
wrong side of the law. Therefore they felt that joining a party pledged
to what practically amounted to civil war was only a short step further.
Against these the various military companies were mustered, reminded of
their oath, called upon to fulfill their sworn duty, and sent to various
strategic points about the jail and elsewhere. The Governor was
informally notified of a state of insurrection and was requested to send
in the state militia. By evening all the forces of organized society
were under arms, and the result was a formidable, apparently impregnable
force.

Nor was the widespread indignation against the shooting of James King of
William entirely unalloyed by bitterness. King had been a hard hitter,
an honest man, a true crusader; but in the heat of battle he had not
always had time to make distinctions. Thus he had quite justly attacked
the _Times_ and other venal newspapers, but in so doing had, by too
general statements, drawn the fire of every other journal in town. He
had attacked with entire reason a certain Catholic priest, a man the
Church itself would probably soon have disciplined, but in so doing had
managed to enrage all Roman Catholics. In like manner his scorn of the
so-called "chivalry" was certainly well justified, but his manner of
expression offended even the best Southerners. Most of us see no farther
than the immediate logic of the situation. Those perfectly worthy
citizens were inclined to view the Vigilantes, not as a protest against
intolerable conditions, but rather as personal champions of King.

In thus relying on the strength of their position the upholders of law
realized that there might be fighting, and even severe fighting, but it
must be remembered that the Law and Order party loved fighting. It was
part of their education and of their pleasure and code. No wonder that
they viewed with equanimity and perhaps with joy the beginning of the
Vigilance movement of 1856.

The leaders of the Law and Order party chose as their military commander
William Tecumseh Sherman, whose professional ability and integrity in
later life are unquestioned, but whose military genius was equaled only
by his extreme inability to remember facts. When writing his _Memoirs_,
the General evidently forgot that original documents existed or that
statements concerning historical events can often be checked up. A mere
mob is irresponsible and anonymous. But it was not a mob with whom
Sherman was faced, for, as a final satisfaction to the legal-minded, the
men of the Vigilance Committee had put down their names on record as
responsible for this movement, and it is upon contemporary record that
the story of these eventful days must rely for its details.





CHAPTER XIV

THE STORM BREAKS


The Governor of the State at this time was J. Neely Johnson, a
politician whose merits and demerits were both so slight that he would
long since have been forgotten were it not for the fact that he occupied
office during this excitement. His whole life heretofore had been one of
trimming. He had made his way by this method, and he gained the
Governor's chair by yielding to the opinion of others. He took his color
and his temporary belief from those with whom he happened to be. His
judgment often stuck at trifles, and his opinions were quickly heated
but as quickly cooled. The added fact that his private morals were not
above criticism gave men an added hold over him.

On receipt of the request for the state militia by the law party, but
not by the proper authorities, Governor Johnson hurried down from
Sacramento to San Francisco. Immediately on arriving in the city he sent
word to Coleman requesting an interview. Coleman at once visited him at
his hotel. Johnson apparently made every effort to appear amiable and
conciliatory. In answer to all questions Coleman replied:

"We want peace, and if possible without a struggle."

"It is all very well," said Johnson, "to talk about peace with an army
of insurrection newly raised. But what is it you actually wish to
accomplish?"

"The law is crippled," replied Coleman. "We want merely to accomplish
what the crippled law should do but cannot. This done, we will gladly
retire. Now you have been asked by the mayor and certain others to bring
out the militia and crush this movement. I assure you it cannot be done,
and, if you attempt it, it will cause you and us great trouble. Do as
Governor McDougal did in '51. See in this movement what he saw in
that--a local movement for a local reform in which the State is not
concerned. We are not a mob. We demand no overthrow of institutions. We
ask not a single court to adjourn. We ask not a single officer to
vacate his position. We demand only the enforcement of the law which we
have made."

This expression of intention, with a little elaboration and argument,
fired Johnson to enthusiasm. He gave his full support, unofficially of
course, to the movement.

"But," he concluded, "hasten the undertaking as much as you can. The
opposition is stronger than you suppose. The pressure on me is going to
be terrible. What about the prisoners in the jail?"

Coleman evaded this last question by saying that the matter was in the
hands of the Committee, and he then left the Governor.

Coleman at once returned to headquarters where the Executive Committee
was in session, getting rid of its routine business. After a dozen
matters were settled, it was moved "that the Committee as a body shall
visit the county jail at such time as the Executive Committee might
direct, and take thence James P. Casey and Charles Cora, give them a
fair trial, and administer such punishment as justice shall demand."

This, of course, was the real business for which all this organization
had been planned. A moment's pause succeeded the proposal, but an
instantaneous and unanimous assent followed the demand for a vote. At
this precise instant a messenger opened the door and informed them that
Governor Johnson was in the building requesting speech with Coleman.

Coleman found Johnson, accompanied by Sherman and a few others, lounging
in the anteroom. The Governor sprawled in a chair, his hat pulled over
his eyes, a cigar in the corner of his mouth. His companions arose and
bowed gravely as Coleman entered the room, but the Governor remained
seated and nodded curtly with an air of bravado. Without waiting for
even the ordinary courtesies he burst out.

"We have come to ask what you intend to do," he demanded.

Coleman, thoroughly surprised, with the full belief that the subject had
all been settled in the previous interview, replied curtly.

"I agree with you as to the grievances," rejoined the Governor, "but the
courts are the proper remedy. The judges are good men, and there is no
necessity for the people to turn themselves into a mob."

"Sir!" cried Coleman. "This is no mob!--You know this is no mob!"

The Governor went on to explain that it might become necessary to bring
out all the force at his command. Coleman, though considerably taken
aback, recovered himself and listened without comment. He realized that
Sherman and the other men were present as witnesses.

"I will report your remark to my associates," he contented himself with
saying. The question of witnesses, however, bothered Coleman. He darted
in to the committee room and shortly returned with witnesses of his own.

"Let us now understand each other clearly," he resumed. "As I understand
your proposal, it is that, if we make no move, you guarantee no escape,
an immediate trial, and instant execution?"

Johnson agreed to this.

"We doubt your ability to do this," went on Coleman, "but we are ready
to meet you half-way. This is what we will promise: we will take no
steps without first giving you notice. But in return we insist that ten
men of our own selection shall be added to the sheriff's force within
the jail."

Johnson, who was greatly relieved and delighted, at once agreed to this
proposal, and soon withdrew. But the blunder he had made was evident
enough. With Coleman, who was completely outside the law, he, as an
executive of the law, had no business treating or making agreements at
all. Furthermore, as executive of the State, he had no legal right to
interfere with city affairs unless he were formally summoned by the
authorities. Up to now he had merely been notified by private citizens.
And to cap the whole sheaf of blunders, he had now in this private
interview treated with rebels, and to their advantage. For, as Coleman
probably knew, the last agreement was all for the benefit of the
Committee. They gained the right to place a personal guard over the
prisoners. They gave in return practically only a promise to withdraw
that guard before attacking the jail--a procedure which was eminently
practical if they cared anything for the safety of the guard.

Johnson was thoroughly pleased with himself until he reached the hotel
where the leaders of the opposition were awaiting him. Their keen legal
minds saw at once the position in which he had placed himself. After a
hasty discussion, it was decided to claim that the Committee had waived
all right of action, and that they had promised definitely to leave the
case to the courts. When this statement had been industriously
circulated and Coleman had heard of it, he is said to have exclaimed:

"The time has come. After that, it is either ourselves or a mob."

He proceeded at once to the Vigilance headquarters and summoned Olney,
the appointed guardian of the jail. Him he commanded to get together
sixty of the best men possible. A call was sent out for the companies to
assemble. They soon began to gather, coming some in rank as they had
gathered in their headquarters outside, others singly and in groups.
Doorkeepers prevented all exit: once a man was in, he was not permitted
to go out. Each leader received explicit directions as to what was to be
done. He was instructed as to precisely when he and his command were to
start; from what given point; along exactly what route to proceed; and
at just what time to arrive at a given point--not a moment sooner or
later. The plan for concerted action was very carefully and skillfully
worked out. Olney's sixty men were instructed to lay aside their muskets
and, armed only with pistols, to make their way by different routes to
the jail.

Sunday morning dawned fair and calm. But as the day wore on, an air of
unrest pervaded the city. Rumors of impending action were already
abroad. The jail itself hummed like a hive. Men came and went, busily
running errands, and darting about through the open door. Armed men were
taking their places on the flat roof. Meantime the populace gathered
slowly. At first there were only a score or so idling around the square;
but little by little they increased in numbers. Black forms began to
appear on the rooftops all about; white faces showed at the windows;
soon the center of the square had filled; the converging streets became
black with closely packed people. The windows and doors and balconies,
the copings and railings, the slopes of the hills round about were all
occupied. In less than an hour twenty thousand people had gathered. They
took their positions quietly and waited patiently. It was evident that
they had assembled in the rôle of spectators only, and that action had
been left to more competent and better organized men. There was no
shouting, no demonstration, and so little talking that it amounted only
to a low murmur. Already the doors of the jail had been closed. The
armed forces on the roof had been increased.

After a time the congested crowd down one of the side-streets was
agitated by the approach of a body of armed men. At the same instant a
similar group began to appear at the end of another and converging
street. The columns came steadily forward, as the people gave way. The
men wore no uniforms, and the glittering steel of their bayonets
furnished the only military touch. The two columns reached the
convergence of the street at the same time and as they entered the
square before the jail a third and a fourth column debouched from other
directions, while still others deployed into view on the hills behind.
They all took their places in rank around the square.

Among the well-known characters of the times was a certain Colonel Gift.
Mr. Hubert H. Bancroft, the chronicler of these events, describes him as
"a tall, lank, empty-boweled, tobacco-spurting Southerner, with eyes
like burning black balls, who could talk a company of listeners into an
insane asylum quicker than any man in California, and whose blasphemy
could not be equaled, either in quantity or quality, by the most profane
of any age or nation." He remarked to a friend nearby, as he watched the
spectacle below: "When you see these damned psalm-singing Yankees turn
out of their churches, shoulder their guns, and march away of a Sunday,
you may know that hell is going to crack shortly."

For some time the armed men stood rigid, four deep all around the
square. Behind them the masses of the people watched. Then at a command
the ranks fell apart and from the side-streets marched the sixty men
chosen by Olney, dragging a field gun at the end of a rope. This they
wheeled into position in the square and pointed it at the door of the
jail. Quite deliberately, the cannon was loaded with powder and balls. A
man lit a slow match, blew it to a glow, and took his position at the
breech. Nothing then happened for a full ten minutes. The six men stood
rigid by the gun in the middle of the square. The sunlight gleamed from
the ranks of bayonets. The vast multitude held its breath. The wall of
the jail remained blank and inscrutable.

Then a man on horseback was seen to make his way through the crowd. This
was Charles Doane, Grand Marshal of the Vigilantes. He rode directly to
the jail door, on which he rapped with the handle of his riding-whip.
After a moment the wicket in the door opened. Without dismounting, the
rider handed a note within, and then, backing his horse the length of
the square, came to rest.

Again the ranks parted and closed, this time to admit of three
carriages. As they came to a stop, the muskets all around the square
leaped to "present arms!" From the carriages descended Coleman, Truett,
and several others. In dead silence they walked to the jail door,
Olney's men close at their heels. For some moments they spoke through
the wicket; then the door swung open and the Committee entered.

Up to this moment Casey had been fully content with the situation. He
was, of course, treated to the best the jail or the city could afford.
It was a bother to have been forced to shoot James King of William; but
the nuisance of incarceration for a time was a small price to pay. His
friends had rallied well to his defense. He had no doubt whatever, that,
according to the usual custom, he would soon work his way through the
courts and stand again a free man. His first intimation of trouble was
the hearing of the resonant tramp of feet outside. His second was when
Sheriff Scannell stood before him with the Vigilantes' note in his hand.
Casey took one glance at Scannell's face.

"You aren't going to betray me?" he cried. "You aren't going to give me
up?"

"James," replied Scannell solemnly, "there are three thousand armed men
coming for you and I have not thirty supporters around the jail."

"Not thirty!" cried Casey astonished. For a moment he appeared crushed;
then he leaped to his feet flourishing a long knife. "I'll not be taken
from this place alive!" he cried. "Where are all you brave fellows who
were going to see me through this?"

At this moment Coleman knocked at the door of the jail. The sheriff
hurried away to answer the summons.

Casey took the opportunity to write a note for the Vigilantes which he
gave to the marshal. It read:

"_To the Vigilante Committee_. GENTLEMEN:--I am willing to go before you
if you will let me speak but ten minutes. I do not wish to have the
blood of any man upon my head."

On entering the jail door Coleman and his companions bowed formally to
the sheriff.

"We have come for the prisoner Casey," said Coleman. "We ask that he be
peaceably delivered us handcuffed at the door immediately."

"Under existing circumstances," replied Scannell, "I shall make no
resistance. The prison and its contents are yours."

But Truett would have none of this. "We want only the man Casey at
present," he said. "For the safety of all the rest we hold you strictly
accountable."

They proceeded at once to Casey's cell. The murderer heard them coming
and sprang back from the door holding his long knife poised. Coleman
walked directly to the door, where he stopped, looking Casey in the eye.
At the end of a full minute he exclaimed sharply:

"Lay down that knife!"

As though the unexpected tones had broken a spell, Casey flung the knife
from him and buried his face in his hands. Then, and not until then,
Coleman informed him curtly that his request would be granted.

They took Casey out through the door of the jail. The crowd gathered its
breath for a frantic cheer. The relief from tension must have been
great, but Coleman, bareheaded, raised his hand and, in instant
obedience to the gesture, the cheer was stifled. The leaders then
entered the carriage, which immediately turned and drove away.

Thus Casey was safely in custody. Charles Cora, who, it will be
remembered, had killed Marshal Richardson and who had gained from the
jury a disagreement, was taken on a second trip.

The street outside headquarters soon filled with an orderly crowd
awaiting events. There was noticeable the same absence of excitement,
impatience, or tumult so characteristic of the popular gatherings of
that time, except perhaps when the meetings were conducted by the
partisans of Law and Order. After a long interval one of the Committee
members appeared at an upper window.

"It is not the intention of the Committee to be hasty," he
announced. "Nothing will be done today."

This statement was received in silence. At last someone asked:

"Where are Casey and Cora?"

"The Committee hold possession of the jail. All are safe," said the
Committee man.

With this simple statement the crowd was completely satisfied, and
dispersed quietly and at once.

Of the three thousand enrolled men, three hundred were retained under
arms at headquarters, a hundred surrounded the jail, and all the rest
were dismissed. Next day, Monday, headquarters still remained
inscrutable; but large patrols walked about the city, collecting arms.
The gunshops were picketed and their owners were warned under no
circumstances to sell weapons. Towards evening the weather grew colder
and rain came on. Even this did not discourage the crowd, which stood
about in its sodden clothes waiting. At midnight it reluctantly
dispersed, but by daylight the following morning the streets around
headquarters were blocked. Still it rained, and still apparently nothing
happened. All over the city business was at a standstill. Men had
dropped their affairs, even the most pressing, either to take part in
this movement or to lend the moral support of their presence and their
interest. The partisans of Law and Order, so called, were also abroad.
No man dared express himself in mixed company openly. The courts were
empty. Some actually closed down, with one excuse or another; but most
of them pretended to go through the forms of business. Many judges took
the occasion to leave town--on vacation, they announced. These
incidents occasioned lively comment. As our chronicler before quoted
tells us: "A good many who had things on their minds left for the
country." Still it rained steadily, and still the crowds waited.

The prisoners, Casey and Cora, had expected, when taken from the jail,
to be lynched at once. But, since the execution had been thus long
postponed, they began to take heart. They understood that they were to
have a clear trial "according to law"--a phrase which was in those days
immensely cheering to malefactors. They were not entirely cut off from
outside communication. Casey was allowed to see several men on pressing
business, and permitted to talk to them freely, although before a
witness from the Committee. Cora received visits from Belle Cora, who in
the past had spent thousands on his legal defense. Now she came to see
him faithfully and reported every effort that was being made.

On Tuesday, the 20th, Cora was brought before the Committee. He asked
for counsel, and Truett was appointed to act for him. A list of
witnesses demanded by Cora was at once summoned, and a sub-committee was
sent to bring them before the board of trial. All the ordinary forms of
law were closely followed, and all the essential facts were separately
brought out. It was the same old Cora trial over again with one
modification; namely, that all technicalities and technical delays were
eliminated. Not an attempt was made to confine the investigation to the
technical trial. By dusk the case for the prosecution was finished, and
that for the defense was supposed to begin.

During all this long interim the Executive Committee had sat in
continuous session. They had agreed that no recess of more than thirty
minutes should be taken until a decision had been reached. But of all
the long list of witnesses submitted by Cora for the defense not one
could be found. They were in hiding and afraid. The former perjurers
would not appear.

It was now falling dusk. The corners of the great room were in darkness.
Beneath the elevated desk, behind which sat Coleman, Bluxome, the
secretary, lighted a single oil lamp, the better to see his notes. In
the interest of the proceedings a general illumination had not been
ordered. Within the shadow, the door opened and Charles Doane, the Grand
Marshal of the Vigilantes, advanced three steps into the room.

"Mr. President," he said clearly, "I am instructed to announce
that James King of William is dead."

The conviction of both men took place that night, and the execution was
ordered, but in secret.

Thursday noon had been set for the funeral of James King of William.
This ceremony was to take place in the Unitarian church. A great
multitude had gathered to attend. The church was filled to overflowing
early in the day. But thousands of people thronged the streets round
about, and stood patiently and seriously to do the man honor. Historians
of the time detail the names of many marching bodies from every guild
and society in the new city. Hundreds of horsemen, carriages, and foot
marchers got themselves quietly into the line. They also were excluded
from the funeral ceremonies by lack of room, but wished to do honor to
the cortège. This procession is said to have been over two miles in
length. Each man wore a band of crêpe around his left arm. All the city
seemed to be gathered there. And yet the time for the actual funeral
ceremony was still some hours distant.

Nevertheless the few who, hurrying to the scene, had occasion to pass
near the Vigilante headquarters, found the silent square guarded on all
sides by a triple line of armed men. The side-streets also were filled
with them. They stood in the exact alignment their constant drill had
made possible, with bayonets fixed, staring straight ahead. Three
thousand were under arms. Like the vast crowd a few squares away, they,
too, stood silent and patiently waiting.

At a quarter before one the upper windows of the headquarters building
were thrown open and small planked platforms were thrust from two of
them. Heavy beams were shoved out from the flat roof directly over the
platforms. From the ends of the beams dangled nooses of rope. After this
another wait ensued. Across the silence of the intervening buildings
could be heard faintly from the open windows of the church the sound of
an organ, and then the measured cadences of an oration. The funeral
services had begun. As though this were a signal, the blinds that had
closed the window openings were thrown back and Cora was conducted to
the end of one of the little platforms. His face was covered with a
white handkerchief and he was bound. A moment later Casey appeared. He
had asked not to be blindfolded. Cora stood bolt upright, motionless as
a stone, but Casey's courage broke. If he had any hope that the boastful
promises of his friends would be fulfilled by a rescue, that hope died
as he looked down on the set, grim faces, on the sinister ring of steel.
His nerve then deserted him completely and he began to babble.

"Gentlemen," he cried at them, "I am not a murderer! I do not feel
afraid to meet my God on a charge of murder! I have done nothing but
what I thought was right! Whenever I was injured I have resented it! It
has been part of my education during twenty-nine years! Gentlemen, I
forgive you this persecution! O God! My poor Mother! O God!"

It is to be noted that he said not one word of contrition nor of regret
for the man whose funeral services were then going on, nor for the
heartbroken wife who knelt at that coffin. His words found no echo
against that grim wall of steel. Again ensued a wait, apparently
inexplicable. Across the intervening housetops the sound of the oration
ceased. At the door of the church a slight commotion was visible. The
coffin was being carried out. It was placed in the hearse. Every head
was bared. There followed a slight pause; then from overhead the
church-bell boomed out once. Another bell in the next block answered; a
third, more distant, chimed in. From all parts of the city tolled the
requiem.

At the first stroke of the bell the funeral cortège moved forward toward
Lone Mountain cemetery. At the first stroke the Vigilantes as one man
presented arms. The platforms dropped, and Casey and Cora fell into
eternity.





CHAPTER XV

THE VIGILANTES OF '56


This execution naturally occasioned a great storm of indignation among
the erstwhile powerful adherents of the law. The ruling, aristocratic
class, the so-called chivalry, the best element of the city, had been
slapped deliberately in the face, and this by a lot of Yankee
shopkeepers. The Committee were stigmatized as stranglers. They ought to
be punished as murderers! They should be shot down as revolutionists! It
was realized, however, that the former customary street-shooting had
temporarily become unsafe. Otherwise there is no doubt that brawls would
have been more frequent than they were.

An undercurrent of confidence was apparent, however. The Law and Order
men had been surprised and overpowered. They had yielded only to
overwhelming odds. With the execution of Cora and Casey accomplished,
the Committee might be expected to disband. And when the Committee
disbanded, the law would have its innings. Its forces would then be
better organized and consolidated, its power assured. It could then
safely apprehend and bring to justice the ringleaders of this
undertaking. Many of the hotheads were in favor of using armed force to
take Coleman and his fellow-conspirators into custody. But calmer
spirits advised moderation for the present, until the time was more
ripe.

But to the surprise and indignation of these people, the Vigilantes
showed no intention of disbanding. Their activities extended and their
organization strengthened. The various military companies drilled daily
until they went through the manual with all the precision of regular
troops. The Committee's book remained opened, and by the end of the week
over seven thousand men had signed the roll. Loads of furniture and
various supplies stopped at the doors of headquarters and were carried
in by members of the organization. No non-member ever saw the inside of
the building while it was occupied by the Committee of Vigilance. So
cooking utensils, cot-beds, provisions, blankets, bulletin-boards, arms,
chairs and tables, field-guns, ammunition, and many other supplies
seemed to indicate a permanent occupation. Doorkeepers were always in
attendance, and sentinels patrolled in the streets and on the roof.

Every day the Executive Committee was in session for all of the daylight
hours. A blacklist was in preparation. Orders were issued for the
Vigilante police to arrest certain men and to warn certain others to
leave town immediately. A choice haul was made of the lesser lights of
the ward-heelers and chief politicians. A very good sample was the
notorious Yankee Sullivan, an ex-prize-fighter, ward-heeler, ballot-box
stuffer, and shoulder-striker. He, it will be remembered, was the man
who returned Casey as supervisor in a district where, as far as is
known, Casey was not a candidate and no one could be found who had voted
for him. This individual went to pieces completely shortly after his
arrest. He not only confessed the details of many of his own crimes but,
what was more important, disclosed valuable information as to others.
His testimony was important, not necessarily as final proof against
those whom he accused, but as indication of the need of thorough
investigation. Then without warning he committed suicide in his cell. On
investigation it turned out that he had been accustomed to from sixty
to eighty drinks of whiskey each day, and the sudden and complete
deprivation had unhinged his mind. Warned by this unforeseen
circumstance, the Committee henceforth issued regular rations of whiskey
to all its prisoners, a fact which is a striking commentary on the
character of the latter. It is to be noted, furthermore, that liquor of
all sorts was debarred from the deliberations of the Vigilantes
themselves.

Trials went briskly forward in due order, with counsel for defense and
ample opportunity to call witnesses. There were no more capital
punishments. It was made known that the Committee had set for itself a
rule that capital punishment would be inflicted by it only for crimes so
punishable by the regular law. But each outgoing ship took a crowd of
the banished. The majority of the first sweepings were low
thugs--"Sydney Ducks," hangers-on, and the worst class of criminals; but
a certain number were taken from what had been known as the city's best.
In the law courts these men would have been declared as white as the
driven snow; in fact, that had actually happened to some of them. But
they were plainly undesirable citizens. The Committee so decided and
bade them depart. Among the names of men who were prominent and
influential in the early history of the city, but who now were told to
leave, were Charles Duane, Woolley Kearny, William McLean, J.D.
Musgrave, Peter Wightman, James White, and Edward McGowan. Hundreds of
others left the city of their own accord. Terror spread among the
inhabitants of the underworld. Some of the minor offenders brought in by
the Vigilante police were turned over by the Executive Committee to the
regular law courts. It is significant that, whereas convictions had been
almost unknown up to this time, every one of these offenders was
promptly sentenced by those courts.

But though the underworld was more or less terrified, the upper grades
were only the further aroused. Many sincerely believed that this
movement was successful only because it was organized, that the people
of the city were scattered and powerless, that they needed only to be
organized to combat the forces of disorder. In pursuance of the belief
that the public at large needed merely to be called together loyally to
defend its institutions, a meeting was set for June 2, in Portsmouth
Square. Elaborate secret preparations, including the distribution of
armed men, were made to prevent interference. Such preparations were
useless. Immediately after the appearance of the notice the Committee of
Vigilance issued orders that the meeting was to be in no manner
discouraged or molested.

It was well attended. Enormous crowds gathered, not only in and around
the Square itself, but in balconies and windows and on housetops. It was
a very disrespectful crowd, evidently out for a good time. On the
platform within the Square stood or sat the owners of many of the city's
proud names. Among them were well-known speakers, men who had never
failed to hold and influence a crowd. But only a short distance away
little could be heard. It early became evident that, though there would
be no interference, the sentiment of the crowd was adverse. And what
must have been particularly maddening was that the sentiment was
good-humored. Colonel Edward Baker came forward to speak. The Colonel
was a man of great eloquence, so that in spite of his considerable lack
of scruples he had won his way to a picturesque popularity and fame. But
the crowd would have little of him this day, and an almost continuous
uproar drowned out his efforts. The usual catch phrases, such as
"liberty," "Constitution," "habeas corpus," "trial by jury," and
"freedom," occasionally became audible, but the people were not
interested. "See Cora's defender!" cried someone, voicing the general
suspicion that Baker had been one of the little gambler's hidden
counsel. "Cora!" "Ed. Baker!" "$10,000!" "Out of that, you old
reprobate!" He spoke ten minutes against the storm and then yielded,
red-faced and angry. Others tried but in vain. A Southerner, Benham,
inveighing passionately against the conditions of the city, in throwing
back his coat happened inadvertently to reveal the butt of a Colt
revolver. The bystanders immediately caught the point. "There's a pretty
Law and Order man!" they shouted. "Say, Benham, don't you know it's
against the law to go armed?"

"I carry this weapon," he cried, shaking his fist, "not as an instrument
to overthrow the law, but to uphold it."

Someone from a balcony nearby interrupted: "In other words, sir, you
break the law in order to uphold the law. What more are the Vigilantes
doing?"

The crowd went wild over this response. The confusion became worse.
Upholders of Law and Order thrust forward Judge Campbell in the hope
that his age and authority on the bench would command respect. He was
unable, however, to utter even two consecutive sentences.

"I once thought," he interrupted himself piteously, "that I was the free
citizen of a free country. But recent occurrences have convinced me that
I am a slave, more a slave than any on a Southern plantation, for they
know their masters, but I know not mine!"

But his auditors refused to be affected by pathos.

"Oh, yes you do," they informed him. "You know your masters as well as
anybody. Two of them were hanged the other day!"

Though this attempt at home to gain coherence failed, the partisans at
Sacramento had better luck. They collected, it was said, five hundred
men hailing from all quarters of the globe, but chiefly from the
Southeast and Texas. All of them were fire-eaters, reckless, and sure to
make trouble. Two pieces of artillery were reported coming down the
Sacramento to aid all prisoners, but especially Billy Mulligan. The
numbers were not in themselves formidable as opposed to the enrollment
of the Vigilance Committee, but it must be remembered that the city was
full of scattered warriors and of cowed members of the underworld
waiting only leaders and a rallying point. Even were the Vigilantes to
win in the long run, the material for a very pretty civil war was ready
to hand. Two hundred men were hastily put to filling gunnybags with sand
and to fortifying not only headquarters but the streets round about.
Cannon were mounted, breastworks were piled, and embrasures were cut. By
morning Fort Gunnybags, as headquarters was henceforth called, had come
into existence.

The fire-eaters arrived that night, but they were not five hundred
strong, as excited rumor had it. They disembarked, greeting the horde of
friends who had come to meet them, marched in a body to Fort Gunnybags,
looked it over, stuck their hands into their pockets, and walked
peacefully away to the nearest bar-rooms. This was the wisest move on
their part, for by now the disposition of the Vigilante men was so
complete that nothing short of regularly organized troops could
successfully have dislodged them.

Behind headquarters was a long shed and stable In which were to be found
at all hours saddle horses and artillery horses, saddled and bridled,
ready for instant use. Twenty-six pieces of artillery, most of them sent
in by captains of vessels in the harbor, were here parked. Other cannon
were mounted for the defense of the fort itself. Muskets, rifles, and
sabers had been accumulated. A portable barricade had been constructed
in the event of possible street fighting--a sort of wheeled framework
that could be transformed into litters or scaling-ladders at will. Mess
offices and kitchens were there that could feed a small army. Flags and
painted signs carrying the open eye that had been adopted as emblematic
of vigilance decorated the main room. A huge alarm bell had been mounted
upon the roof. Mattresses, beds, cots, and other furniture necessary to
accommodate whole companies on the premises themselves, had been
provided. A completely equipped armorers' shop and a hospital with all
supplies occupied the third story. The forces were divided into four
companies of artillery, one squadron and two troops of cavalry, four
regiments and thirty-two companies of infantry, besides the small but
very efficient police organization. A tap on the bell gathered these men
in an incredibly short space of time. Bancroft says that, as a rule,
within fifteen minutes of the first stroke seven-tenths of the entire
forces would be on hand ready for combat.

The Law and Order people recognized the strength of this organization
and realized that they must go at the matter in a more thorough manner.
They turned their attention to the politics of the structure, and here
they had every reason to hope for success. No matter how well organized
the Vigilantes might be or how thoroughly they might carry the
sympathies of the general public, there was no doubt that they were
acting in defiance of constituted law, and therefore were nothing less
than rebels. It was not only within the power, but it was also a duty,
of the Governor to declare the city in a condition of insurrection. When
he had done this, the state troops must put down the insurrection; and,
if they failed, then the Federal Government itself should be called on.
Looked at in this way, the small handful of disturbers, no matter how
well armed and disciplined, amounted to very little.

Naturally the Governor had first to be won over. Accordingly all the
important men of San Francisco took the steamer _Senator_ for Sacramento
where they met Judge Terry, of the Supreme Court of California, Volney
Howard, and others of the same ilk. No governor of Johnson's nature
could long withstand such pressure. He promised to issue the required
proclamation of insurrection as soon as it could be "legally proved"
that the Vigilance Committee had acted outside the law. The small fact
that it had already hanged two and deported a great many others, to say
nothing of taking physical possession of the city, meant little to these
legal minds.

In order that all things should be technically correct, then, Judge
Terry issued a writ of habeas corpus for William Mulligan and gave it
into the hands of Deputy Sheriff Harrison for service on the Committee.
It was expected that the Committee would deny the writ, which would
constitute legal defiance of the State. The Governor would then be
justified in issuing the proclamation. If the state troops proved
unwilling or inadequate, as might very well be, the plan was then to
call on the United States. The local representatives of the central
government were at that time General Wool commanding the military
department of California, and Captain David Farragut in command of the
navy-yard. Within their command was a force sufficient to subdue three
times the strength of the Vigilance Committee. William Tecumseh Sherman,
then in private life, had been appointed major-general of a division of
the state militia. As all this was strictly legal, the plan could not
possibly fail.

Harrison took the writ of habeas corpus and proceeded to San Francisco.
He presented himself at headquarters and offered his writ. Instead of
denying it, the Committee welcomed him cordially and invited him to make
a thorough search of the premises. Of course Harrison found nothing--the
Committee had seen to that--and departed. The scheme had failed. The
Committee had in no way denied his authority or his writ. But Harrison
saw clearly what had been expected of him. To Judge Terry he
unblushingly returned the writ endorsed "prevented from service by armed
men." For the sake of his cause, Harrison had lied. However, the whole
affair was now regarded as legal.

Johnson promptly issued his proclamation. The leaders, in high feather,
as promptly turned to the federal authorities for the assistance they
needed. As yet they did not ask for troops but only for weapons with
which to arm their own men. To their blank dismay General Wool refused
to furnish arms. He took the position that he had no right to do so
without orders from Washington. There is no doubt, however, that this
technical position cloaked the doughty warrior's real sympathies.
Colonel Baker and Volney Howard were instructed to wait on him. After a
somewhat lengthy conversation, they made the mistake of threatening him
with a report to Washington for refusing to uphold the law.

"I think, gentlemen," flashed back the veteran indignantly, "I know my
duty and in its performance dread no responsibility!" He promptly bowed
them out.

In the meantime the Executive Committee had been patiently working down
through its blacklist. It finally announced that after June 24 it would
consider no fresh cases, and a few days later it proclaimed an
adjournment parade on July 4. It considered its work completed and the
city safe.

It may be readily imagined that this peaceful outcome did not in the
least suit the more aristocratic members of the Law and Order party.
They were a haughty, individualistic, bold, forceful, sometimes charming
band of fire-eaters. In their opinion they had been deeply insulted.
They wanted reprisal and punishment.

When therefore the Committee set a definite day for disbanding, the
local authorities and upholders of law were distinctly disappointed.
They saw slipping away the last chance for a clash of arms that would
put these rebels in their places. There was some thought of arresting
the ringleaders, but the courts were by now so well terrorized that it
was by no means certain that justice as defined by the Law and Order
party could be accomplished. And even if conviction could be secured,
the representatives of the law found little satisfaction in ordinary
punishment. What they wanted was a fight.

General Sherman had resigned his command of the military forces in
disgust. In his stead was chosen General Volney Howard, a man typical of
his class, blinded by his prejudices and his passions, filled with a
sense of the importance of his caste, and without grasp of the broader
aspects of the situation. In the Committee's present attitude he saw not
the signs of a job well done, but indications of weakening, and he
considered this a propitious moment to show his power. In this attitude
he received enthusiastic backing from Judge Terry and his narrow
coterie. Terry was then judge of the Supreme Court; and a man more
unfitted for the position it would be difficult to find. A tall,
attractive, fire-eating Texan with a charming wife, he stood high in the
social life of the city. His temper was undisciplined and completely
governed his judgment. Intensely partisan and, as usual with his class,
touchy on the point of honor, he did precisely the wrong thing on every
occasion where cool decision was demanded.

It was so now. The Law and Order party persuaded Governor Johnson to
order a parade of state troops in the streets of San Francisco. The
argument used was that such a parade of legally organized forces would
overawe the citizens. The secret hope, however, which was well founded,
was that such a display would promote the desired conflict. This hope
they shared with Howard, after the Governor's orders had been obtained.
Howard's vanity jumped with his inclination. He consented to the plot. A
more ill-timed, idiotic maneuver, with the existing state of the public
mind, it would be impossible to imagine. Either we must consider Terry
and Howard weak-minded to the point of an inability to reason from cause
to effect, or we must ascribe to them more sinister motives.

By now the Law and Order forces had become numerically more formidable.
The lower element flocked to the colors through sheer fright. A certain
proportion of the organized remained in the ranks, though a majority had
resigned. There was, as is usual in a new community, a very large
contingent of wild, reckless young men without a care in the world, with
no possible interest in the rights and wrongs of the case, or, indeed,
in themselves. They were eager only for adventure and offered themselves
just as soon as the prospects for a real fight seemed good. Then, too,
they could always count on the five hundred Texans who had been
imported.

There were plenty of weapons with which to arm these partisans. Contrary
to all expectations, the Vigilance Committee had scrupulously refrained
from interfering with the state armories. All the muskets belonging to
the militia were in the armories and were available in different parts
of the city. In addition, the State, as a commonwealth, had a right to a
certain number of federal weapons stored in arsenals at Benicia. These
could be requisitioned in due form.

But at this point, it has been said, the legal minds of the party
conceived a bright plan. The muskets at Benicia on being requisitioned
would have to cross the bay in a vessel of some sort. Until the muskets
were actually delivered they were federal property. Now if the Vigilance
Committee were to confiscate the arms while on the transporting vessel,
and while still federal property, the act would be piracy; the
interceptors, pirates. The Law and Order people could legally call on
the federal forces, which would be compelled to respond. If the
Committee of Vigilance did not fall into this trap, then the Law and
Order people would have the muskets anyway.[7]

[7: Mr. H.H. Bancroft, in his _Popular Tribunals_, holds that no proof
of this plot exists.]

To carry out this plot they called in a saturnine, lank, drunken
individual whose name was Rube Maloney. Maloney picked out two men of
his own type as assistants. He stipulated only that plenty of
"refreshments" should be supplied. According to instructions Maloney was
to operate boldly and flagrantly in full daylight. But the refreshment
idea had been rather liberally interpreted. By six o'clock Rube had just
sense enough left to anchor off Pueblo Point. There all gave serious
attention to the rest of the refreshments, and finally rolled over to
sleep off the effects.

In the meantime news of the intended shipment had reached the
headquarters of the Vigilantes. The Executive Committee went into
immediate session. It was evident that the proposed disbanding would
have to be postponed. A discussion followed as to methods of procedure
to meet this new crisis. The Committee fell into the trap prepared for
it. Probably no one realized the legal status of the muskets, but
supposed them to belong already to the State. Marshal Doane was
instructed to capture them. He called to him the chief of the harbor
police. "Have you a small vessel ready for immediate service?" he asked
this man.

"Yes, a sloop, at the foot of this street."

"Be ready to sail in half an hour."

Doane then called to his assistance a quick-witted man named John
Durkee. This man had been a member of the regular city police until the
shooting of James King of William. At that time he had resigned his
position and joined the Vigilance police. He was loyal by nature, steady
in execution, and essentially quick-witted, qualities that stood
everybody in very good stead as will be shortly seen. He picked out
twelve reliable men to assist him, and set sail in the sloop.

For some hours he beat against the wind and the tide; but finally these
became so strong that he was forced to anchor in San Pablo Bay until
conditions had modified. Late in the afternoon he was again able to get
under way. Several of the tramps sailing about the bay were overhauled
and examined, but none proved to be the prize. About dark the breeze
died, leaving the little sloop barely under steerageway. A less
persistent man than Durkee would have anchored for the night, but Durkee
had received his instructions and intended to find the other sloop, and
it was he himself who first caught the loom of a shadow under Pueblo
Point.

He bore down and perceived it to be the sloop whose discovery he
desired. The twelve men boarded with a rush, but found themselves in
possession of an empty deck. The fumes of alcohol and the sound of
snoring guided the boarding-party to the object of their search and the
scene of their easy victory. Durkee transferred the muskets and
prisoners to his own craft; and returned to the California Street wharf
shortly after daylight. A messenger was dispatched to headquarters. He
returned with instructions to deliver the muskets but to turn loose the
prisoners. Durkee was somewhat astonished at the latter order but
complied.

"All right," he is reported to have said. "Now, you measly hounds,
you've got just about twenty-eight seconds to make yourselves as scarce
as your virtues."

Maloney and his crew wasted few of the twenty-eight seconds in starting,
but once out of sight they regained much of their bravado. A few drinks
restored them to normal, and enabled them to put a good face on the
report they now made to their employers. Maloney and his friends then
visited in turn all the saloons. The drunker they grew, the louder they
talked, reviling the Committee collectively and singly, bragging that
they would shoot at sight Coleman, Truett, Durkee, and several others
whom they named. They flourished weapons publicly, and otherwise became
obstreperous. The Committee decided that their influence was bad and
instructed Sterling Hopkins, with four others, to arrest the lot and
bring them in.

The news of this determination reached the offending parties. They
immediately fled to their masters like cur dogs. Their masters, who
included Terry, Bowie, and a few others, happened to be discussing the
situation in the office of Richard Ashe, a Texan. The crew burst into
this gathering very much scared, with a statement that a "thousand
stranglers" were at their heels. Hopkins, having left his small posse at
the foot of the stairs, knocked and entered the room. He was faced by
the muzzles of half a dozen pistols and told to get out of there.
Hopkins promptly obeyed.

If Terry had possessed the slightest degree of leadership he would have
seen that this was the worst of all moments to precipitate a crisis. The
forces of his own party were neither armed nor ready. But here, as in
all other important crises of his career, he was governed by the haughty
and headstrong passion of the moment.

Hopkins left his men on guard at the foot of the stairs, borrowed a
horse from a passer-by, and galloped to headquarters. There he was
instructed to return and stay on watch, and was told that reinforcements
would soon follow. He arrived before the building in which Ashe's office
was located in time to see Maloney, Terry, Ashe, McNabb, Bowie, and
Rowe, all armed with shot-guns, just turning a far corner. He dismounted
and called on his men, who followed. The little posse dogged the
judge's party for some distance. For a little time no attention was paid
to them, but as they pressed closer, Terry, Ashe, and Maloney turned and
presented their shot-guns. This was probably intended only as a threat,
but Hopkins, who was always overbold, lunged at Maloney. Terry thrust
his gun at a Vigilante who seized it by the barrel. At the same instant
Ashe pressed the muzzle of his weapon against the breast of a man named
Bovee, but hesitated to pull the trigger. It was not at that time as
safe to shoot men in the open street as it had been formerly. Barry
covered Rowe with a pistol. Rowe dropped his gun and ran towards the
armory. The accidental discharge of a pistol seemed to unnerve Terry. He
whipped out a long knife and plunged it into Hopkins's neck. Hopkins
relaxed his hold on Terry's shot-gun and staggered back.

"I am stabbed! Take them, Vigilantes!" he said.

He dropped to the sidewalk. Terry and his friends ran towards the
armory. Of the Vigilante posse only Bovee and Barry remained, but these
two pursued the fleeing Law and Order men to the very doors of the
armory itself. When the portals were slammed in their faces they took
up their stand outside; and alone these two men held imprisoned several
hundred men! During the next few minutes several men attempted entrance
to the armory, among them our old friend Volney Howard. All were turned
back and were given the impression that the armory was already in
charge of the Vigilantes. After a little, however, doubtless to the
great relief of the "outside garrison" of the armory, the great
Vigilante bell began to boom out its signals: _one, two, three_--rest;
_one, two, three_--rest; and so on.

Instantly the streets were alive with men. Merchants left their
customers, clerks their books, mechanics their tools. Draymen stripped
their horses of harness, abandoned their wagons, and rode away to join
their cavalry. Within an incredibly brief space of time everybody was
off for the armory, the military companies marching like veterans, the
artillery rumbling over the pavement. The cavalry, jogging along at a
slow trot, covered the rear. A huge and roaring mob accompanied them,
followed them, raced up the side-streets to arrive at the armory at the
same time as the first files of the military force. They found the
square before the building entirely deserted except for the dauntless
Barry and Bovee, who still marched up and down singlehanded, holding the
garrison within. They were able to report that no one had either entered
or left the armory.

Inside the building the spirit had become one of stubborn sullenness.
Terry was very sorry--as, indeed, he well might be--a Judge of the
Supreme Court, who had no business being in San Francisco at all. Sworn
to uphold the law, and ostensibly on the side of the Law and Order
party, he had stepped out from his jurisdiction to commit as lawless and
as idiotic a deed of passion and prejudice as could well have been
imagined. Whatever chances the Law and Order party might have had
heretofore were thereby dissipated. Their troops were scattered in small
units; their rank and file had disappeared no one knew where; their
enemies were fully organized and had been mustered by the alarm bell to
their usual alertness and capability; and Terry's was the hand that had
struck the bell!

He was reported as much chagrined.

"This is very unfortunate, very unfortunate," he said; "but you shall
not imperil your lives for me. It is I they want. I will surrender to
them."

Instead of the prompt expostulations which he probably expected, a dead
silence greeted these words.

"There is nothing else to do," agreed Ashe at last.

An exchange of notes in military fashion followed. Ashe, as commander of
the armory and leader of the besieged party, offered to surrender to the
Executive Committee of the Vigilantes if protected from violence. The
Executive Committee demanded the surrender of Terry, Maloney, and
Philips, as well as of all arms and ammunition, promising that Terry and
Maloney should be protected against persons outside the organization. On
receiving this assurance, Ashe threw open the doors of the armory and
the Vigilantes marched in.

"All present were disarmed," writes Bancroft. "Terry and Maloney were
taken charge of and the armory was quickly swept of its contents. Three
hundred muskets and other munitions of war were carried out and placed
on drays. Two carriages then drove up, in one of which was placed
Maloney and in the other Terry. Both were attended by a strong escort,
Olney forming round them with his Citizens' Guard, increased to a
battalion. Then in triumph the Committee men, with their prisoners and
plunder enclosed in a solid body of infantry and these again surrounded
by cavalry, marched back to their rooms."

Nor was this all. Coleman, like a wise general, realizing that
compromise was no longer possible, sent out his men to take possession
of all the encampments of the Law and Order forces. The four big
armories were cleaned out while smaller squads of men combed the city
house by house for concealed arms. By midnight the job was done. The
Vigilantes were in control of the situation.





CHAPTER XVI

THE TRIUMPH OF THE VIGILANTES


Judge Terry was still a thorny problem to handle. After all, he was a
Judge of the Supreme Court. At first his attitude was one of apparent
humility, but as time went on he regained his arrogant attitude and from
his cell issued defiances to his captors. He was aided and abetted by
his high-spirited wife, and in many ways caused the members of the
Committee a great deal of trouble. If Hopkins were to die, they could do
no less than hang Terry in common consistency and justice. But they
realized fully that in executing a Justice of the Supreme Court they
would be wading into pretty deep water. The state and federal
authorities were inclined to leave them alone and let them work out the
manifestly desirable reform, but it might be that such an act would
force official interference. As one member of the Committee expressed
it, "They had gone gunning for ferrets and had coralled a grizzly."
Nevertheless Terry was indicted before the Committee on the following
counts, a statement of which gives probably as good a bird's eye view of
Terry as numerous pages of personal description:


Resisting with violence the officers of the Vigilance Committee while in
the discharge of their duties.

Committing an assault with a deadly weapon with intent to kill Sterling
A. Hopkins on June 21, 1856.

Various breaches of the peace and attacks upon citizens while in the
discharge of their duties, specified as follows:

1. Resistance in 1853 to a writ of habeas corpus on account of which one
Roach escaped from the custody of the law, and the infant heirs of the
Sanchez family were defrauded of their rights.

2. An attack in 1853 on a citizen of Stockton named Evans.

3. An attack in 1853 on a citizen in San Francisco named Purdy.

4. An attack at a charter election on a citizen of Stockton named King.

5. An attack in the court house of Stockton on a citizen named
Broadhouse.


Before Terry's case came to trial it was known that Hopkins was not
fatally wounded. Terry's confidence immediately rose. Heretofore he had
been somewhat, but not much, humbled. Now his haughty spirit blazed
forth as strongly as ever. He was tried in due course, and was found
guilty on the first charge and on one of the minor charges. On the
accusation of assault with intent to kill, the Committee deliberated a
few days, and ended by declaring him guilty of simple assault. He was
discharged and told to leave the State. But, for some reason or other,
the order was not enforced.

Undoubtedly he owed his discharge in this form to the evident fact that
the Committee did not know what to do with him. Terry at once took the
boat for Sacramento, where for some time he remained in comparative
retirement. Later he emerged in his old rôle, and ended his life by
being killed at the hands of an armed guard of Justice Stephen Field
whom Terry assaulted without giving Field a chance to defend himself.

While these events were going forward, the Committee had convicted and
hanged two other men, Hetherington and Brace. In both instances the
charge was murder of the most dastardly kind. The trials were conducted
with due regard to the forms of law and justice, and the men were
executed in an orderly fashion. These executions would not be remarkable
in any way, were it not for the fact that they rounded out the complete
tale of executions by the Vigilance Committee. Four men only were hanged
in all the time the Committee held its sway. Nevertheless the manner of
the executions and the spirit that actuated all the officers of the
organization sufficed to bring about a complete reformation in the
administration of justice.

About this time also the danger began to manifest itself that some of
the less conscientious and, indeed, less important members of the
Committee might attempt through political means to make capital of their
connections. A rule was passed that no member of the Committee of
Vigilance should be allowed to hold political office. Shortly after this
decision, William Rabe was suspended for "having attempted to introduce
politics into this body and for attempting to overawe the Executive
Committee."

After the execution of the two men mentioned, the interesting trial of
Durkee for piracy, the settlement by purchase of certain private claims
against city land, and the deportation of a number of undesirable
citizens, the active work of the Committee was practically over. It
held complete power and had also gained the confidence of probably
nine-tenths of the population. Even some of the erstwhile members of the
Law and Order party, who had adhered to the forms of legality through
principle, had now either ceased opposition, or had come over openly to
the side of the Committee. Another date of adjournment was decided upon.
The gunnybag barricades were taken down on the fourteenth of August. On
the sixteenth, the rooms of the building were ordered thrown open to all
members of the Committee, their friends, their families, for a grand
reception on the following week. It was determined then not to
disorganize but to adjourn _sine die_. The organization was still to be
held, and the members were to keep themselves ready whenever the need
should arise. But preparatory to adjournment it was decided to hold a
grand military review on the eighteenth of August. This was to leave a
final impression upon the public mind of the numbers and powder of the
Committee.

The parade fulfilled its function admirably. The Grand Marshal and his
staff led, followed by the President and the Military Commanding General
with his staff. Then marched four companies of artillery with fifteen
mounted cannon. In their rear was a float representing Fort Gunnybags
with imitation cannon. Next came the Executive Committee mounted, riding
three abreast; then cavalry companies and the medical staff, which
consisted of some fifty physicians of the town. Representatives of the
Vigilance Committee of 1851 followed in wagons with a banner; then four
regiments of infantry, more cavalry, citizen guards, pistol men,
Vigilante police. Over six thousand men were that day in line, all
disciplined, all devoted, all actuated by the highest motives, and
conscious of a job well done.

The public reception at Fort Gunnybags was also well attended. Every one
was curious to see the interior arrangement. The principal entrance was
from Sacramento Street and there was also a private passage from another
street. The doorkeeper's box was prominently to the front where each one
entering had to give the pass-word. He then proceeded up the stairs to
the floor above. The first floor was the armory and drill-room. Around
the sides were displayed the artillery harness, the flags,
bulletin-boards, and all the smaller arms. On one side was a lunch stand
where coffee and other refreshments were dispensed to those on guard.
On the opposite side were offices for every conceivable activity. An
immense emblematic eye painted on the southeast corner of the room
glared down on each as he entered. The front of the second floor was
also a guard-room, armory, and drilling floor. Here also was painted the
eye of Vigilance, and here was exhibited the famous ballot-box whose
sides could separate the good ballots from the bad ballots. Here also
were the meeting-rooms for the Executive Committee and a number of cells
for the prisoners. The police-office displayed many handcuffs, tools of
captured criminals, relics, clothing with bullet holes, ropes used for
hanging, bowie-knives, burglar's tools, brass knuckles, and all the
other curiosities peculiar to criminal activities. The third story of
the building had become the armorer's shop, and the hospital. Eight or
ten workmen were employed in the former and six to twenty cots were
maintained in the latter. Above all, on the roof, supported by a strong
scaffolding, hung the Monumental bell whose tolling summoned the
Vigilantes when need arose.

Altogether the visitors must have been greatly impressed, not only with
the strength of the organization, but also with the care used in
preparing it for every emergency, the perfection of its discipline, and
the completeness of its equipment. When the Committee of Vigilance of
1856 adjourned subject to further call, there must have been in most
men's minds the feeling that such a call could not again arise for years
to come.

Yet it was not so much the punishment meted out to evil-doers that
measures the success of the Vigilante movement. Only four villains were
hanged; not more than thirty were banished. But the effect was the same
as though four hundred had been executed. It is significant that not
less than eight hundred went into voluntary exile.

"What has become of your Vigilance Committee?" asked a stranger naïvely,
some years later.

"Toll the bell, sir, and you'll see," was the reply[8].

[8: Bancroft, _Popular Tribunals_, 11, 695.]







BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE


California has been fortunate in her historians. Every student of the
history of the Pacific coast is indebted to the monumental work of
Hubert H. Bancroft. Three titles concern the period of the Forty-niners:
_The History of California_, 7 vols. (1884-1890); _California Inter
Pocula, 1848-56_ (1888); _Popular Tribunals_, 2 vols. (1887). Second
only to these volumes in general scope and superior in some respects is
T.H. Hittell's _History of California_, 4 vols. (1885-1897). Two other
general histories of smaller compass and covering limited periods are
I.B. Richman's _California under Spain and Mexico, 1535-1847_ (1911),
and Josiah Royce's _California, 1846-1856_ (1886). The former is a
scholarly but rather arid book; the latter is an essay in interpretation
rather than a narrative of events. One of the chief sources of
information about San Francisco in the days of the gold fever is _The
Annals of San Francisco_ (1855) by Soulé and others.

Contemporary accounts of California just before the American occupation
are of varying value. One of the most widely read books is R.H. Dana's
_Two Years before the Mast_ (1840). The author spent parts of 1835 and
1836 in California. _The Personal Narrative of James O. Pattie_ (1831)
is an account of six years' travel amid almost incredible hardships from
St. Louis to the Pacific and back through Mexico. W.H. Thomes's _On Land
and Sea, or California in the Years 1843, '44, and '45_ (1892) gives
vivid pictures of old Mexican days. Two other books may be mentioned
which furnish information of some value: Alfred Robinson, _Life in
California_ (1846) and Walter Colton, _Three Years in California_
(1850).

Personal journals and narratives of the Forty-niners are numerous, but
they must be used with caution. Their accuracy is frequently open to
question. Among the more valuable may be mentioned Delano's _Life on the
Plains and among the Diggings_ (1854); W.G. Johnston's _Experience of a
Forty-niner_ (1849); T.T. Johnson's _Sights in the Gold Region and
Scenes by the Way_ (1849); J.T. Brooks's _Four Months among the
Gold-Finders_ (1849); E.G. Buffum's _Six Months in the Gold Mines_
(1850)--the author was a member of the "Stevenson Regiment"; James
Delevan's _Notes on California and the Placers: How to get there and
what to do afterwards_ (1850); and W.R. Ryan's _Personal Adventures in
Upper and Lower California, in 1848-9_ (1850).

Others who were not gold-seekers have left their impression of
California in transition, such as Bayard Taylor in his _Eldorado_, 2
vols. (1850), and J.W. Harlan in his _California '46 to '88_ (1888). The
latter was a member of Frémont's battalion. The horrors of the overland
journey are told by Delano in the book already mentioned and by W.L.
Manly, _Death Valley in '49_ (1894).

The evolution of law and government in primitive mining communities is
described in C.H. Shinn's _Mining Camps. A Study in American Frontier
Government_ (1885). The duties of the border police are set forth with
thrilling details by Horace Bell, _Reminiscences of a Ranger or Early
Times in Southern California_ (1881). An authoritative work on the
Mormons is W.A. Linn's _Story of the Mormons_ (1902).

For further bibliographical references the reader is referred to the
articles on _California, San Francisco, The Mormons_, and _Frémont_, in
_The Encyclopaedia Britannica_, 11th Edition.




   INDEX

   Alvarado, Governor of California, 15-16, 18, 23
   "Arcadian Age," 58-62
   Ashe, Richard, 251, 252

   Baker, Edward, Colonel, 236, 244
   "Bear Flag Revolution," 32-36
   Benton, T.H., father-in-law to Frémont, 29;
     exerts influence in Frémont's behalf, 40
   Bluxome, Isaac, 202, 204
   Bovee, 253
   Bowie, 251, 252
   Brannan, Sam, 56-57, 155, 189

   Cahuenga, Treaty of (1847), 42
   California, inhabitants, 1
     occupation by Spain, 2 et seq
     classes, 5-6
     life of early settlers, 6 et seq
     advent of foreign residents, 13 et seq
     population in 1840, 16-17
     arrival of two parties of settlers (1841), 17
     Frémont's expedition, 29
     military conquest by U.S., 30 et seq.
     Mexican laws in, 46-50;
     constitutional convention (1849), 50-52
     influence of discovery of gold, 52-54
     overland migration to, 67 et seq
     journey by way of Panama to, 96 et seq
     life in the gold fields, 107 et seq
     city life in 1849, 119 et seq
     law, 174-176; politics, 176-180
     financial stringency (1855), 181-183
   _California Star_, the, 123
   Carson, Kit, 38
   Casey, J.P., 191, 192 et seq, 220 et seq
   Chagres in 1849, 99-100
   Cole, Beverly, 202
   Coleman, W.T., 201, 202, 204, 205, 211 et seq, 251
   Cora, Charles, trial of, 189-191
     re-trial by Vigilantes, 225-226


   _Daily Evening Bulletin_, 184-188, 190
   Delano, 75
   Dempster, Clancey, 201, 202, 204
   Den, Nicholas, 14
   Doane, Charles, 219
   Donner party, 26
   Dows, James, 202
   Duane, Charles, 235
   Durkee, John, 249-251

   Farragut, David, 242
   Farwell, 201
   Frémont, J.C., expedition, 29 et seq
     personal characteristics, 40-41, 44-45
     negotiates treaty with Californians, 42
     appointed Governor of California, 42
     asks permission to form expedition against Mexico, 43-44
     court-martialed and dismissed from service, 44
   Gatun in 1849, 100-01
   Gavilán Peak, U.S. flag raised at, 30
   Gift, Colonel, 218
   Gillespie, Lieutenant, 30, 31-32
   Gold, influence of discovery upon life in California, 52-54;
     discovered by Marshall (1848), 55;
     news brought to East, 62;
     influence in Europe, 65-66;
     the diggings, 106 et seq.
   Graham, Isaac, 15-16
   Green, Talbot, 172

   Harlan, William, account of overland journey, 68-69;
     quoted, 121;
     experience in San Francisco, 128;
   Hartnell, 14
   _Herald_, 200
   Hittell, T.H., recounts incidents of overland journey, 70, 72
   Hopkins, Sterling, 251, 252
   Hossefross, 202
   "Hounds," The, 137-39
   Howard, Volney, 241, 244, 245, 246

   Ide, W.B., 34
   Indian menace to immigrant trains, 71

   Jenkins, John, trial of, 153-156
   Johnson, J.N., Governor of California, 210 et seq.
   Johnston, Captain, 38

   Kearny. General Stephen Watts, 37 et seq.
   Kearny, Woolley, 235
   Kelly, John, 115
   King, James, of William, 183, 184 et seq., 207-08, 227

   Larkin, T.O., 28-29
   "Law and Order" party, 179, 208;
     clash with Vigilantes, 236 et seq.
   Leese, Jacob, 33

   McGlynn, J.A., 129-30
   McGowan, Edward, 195-96, 235
   McLean, William, 235
   McNabb, 252
   Maloney, Rube, 248, 251, 252
   Marshall, James, discovers gold, 55
   Mason, Colonel R.B., 46
   Meiggs, Harry, 172
   Merritt, 33
   Mesa, Battle of the, 41
   Mexican government in California,
     attitude toward settlers, 17-19, 27
   Mexican War, influence upon affairs in California, 35
   Missions established by "Sacred Expedition," 3
   Montgomery, Lieutenant, 35
   Mormons, 19-20, 56-57, 77 et seq.
   Mountain Meadows massacre, 95
   Musgrave, J.D., 235

   Oregon question, effect upon Western migration, 20-21, 55
   Oregon Trail, 21-22

   Panama as a route to California, 96 et seq.
   Panama, city of, in 1849, 102-103
   Pattie, James, 14
   Pico, Andrés, 37
   Portolá, 2
   Pratt, P.P., 80

   "Regulators," the, 136-37
   Richardson, William, 189
   Rigdon, Sidney, 80
   Rowe, 252
   Ryan, W.R., quoted, 7, 120-21

   "Sacred Expedition," 2
   San Diego, first mission founded (1769), 13
   San Francisco,
     before discovery of gold, 123;
     effect of discovery of gold, 123-24;
     in 1849, 124 et seq.;
     fire of Dec. 4, 1849, 141;
     later fires, 142;
     Volunteer Fire Department, 143-46;
     civic progress, 146-49;
     population in 1851, 150-51;
     in the mid-fifties, 159 et seq.
   San Gabriel River, Battle of (1847), 41
   San Pascual, Battle of, 38
   Santa Fé, 14
   Semple, 33
   Serra, Father Junipero, 2
   Sherman, W.T., 208-09, 242-243, 245
   Sloat, Commodore J.D., 35, 36
   Smith, Growling, 48
   Smith, Jedediah, 15
   Smith, Joseph, Jr.,
     founder of the Mormon Church, 77-79;
     as a leader, 79-80;
     death, 85
   Smith, Peter, claims against city of San Francisco, 170
   Sonoma captured, 32-35
   Spain,
     religious occupation of California, 2 et seq.;
     discourages immigration into, 13
   Spence, David, 14
   Stockton, Robert, Commodore, 36 et seq.;
     quarrels with Kearny, 38-39
   Stuart, James, 151-52
   _Sunday Times_, the, 192
   Sutler, Captain J.A., 23-26
   Sutter's Fort, 24, 25, 29, 30, 33, 106
   "Sydney Ducks," 136, 234

   Terry, Judge, 241, 242, 243, 245-46, 251, 252
   Thomes, W.H., quoted, 9
   _Three Weeks in the Gold Mines_, Simpson, 64
   Truett, 201, 220, 251

   Vallejo, General, 18
   Vigilantes,
     of 1851, 150 et seq.;
     of 1856, 231 et seq.

   Walker, Joseph, 29, 30
   White, James, 235
   Wightman, Peter, 235
   Wool, General, 242

   Yerba Buena, _see_ San Francisco
   Young, Brigham, 85-88, 89, 90, 91





End of Project Gutenberg's The Forty-Niners, by Stewart Edward White