Samuel Brannan brought the first news from Washington. Gwin, who owed his place to Broderick, had after all betrayed him. The bargained-for double patronage was not forthcoming. Broderick was grievously disappointed in Buchanan. There had been a clash between them. No Democratic Senator, the President had said, could quarrel profitably with the Administration. Which meant that Broderick must sustain the Lecompton Resolution or lose face and favor in the nation's forum. Things were at a bitter pass.
"What's the Lecompton Resolution?" Alice asked.
"It's a long story," Brannan answered. "In brief, it means forcing slavery on Kansas, whose people don't want it. And on the Lecompton Resolution hinges more or less the balance of power, which will keep us, here, in the free States, or give us, bound and gagged, to the South."
"And you say Gwin has repudiated his pact?"
"Either that ... or Buchanan has refused to sanction it. The result is the same. David doesn't get his patronage."
"I'm glad! I'm glad!" cried Alice.
Brannan looked at her astonished. "But ... you don't know what it means. His men, awaiting their political rewards! His organization here ... it will be weakened. You don't understand, Mrs. Windham."
"I don't care," she said. "It leaves him--cleaner--stronger!" She turned swiftly and left the room. Brannan shrugged his shoulders. "There's no fathoming women," he thought.
But Broderick, in far Washington, understood when there came to him a letter. It bore neither signature nor salutation:
"When one is stripped of weapons--sometimes it is by the will of God! And He does not fail to give us better ones.
"Truth! Righteousness! Courage to attack all Evil. These are mightier than the weapons of the World.
"Oh, my friend, stand fast! You are never alone. The spirit of another is forever with you. Watching--waiting--knowing you shall win the victory which transcends all price."
He read this letter endlessly while people waited in his ante-room. Then he summoned Herbert Waters, now his secretary, and sent them all away. Among them was a leader of the New York money-powers who never forgave that slight; another was an emissary of the President. Broderick neither knew nor cared. He put the letter in his pocket; walked for hours in the snow, on the banks of the frozen Potomac.
That afternoon he reviewed the situation, was closeted an hour with Douglas of Illinois. The two of them sought Seward of New York, who had just arrived. To their conference came Chase and Wade of Ohio, Trumbull of Illinois, Fessenden of Maine, Wilson of Massachusetts, Cameron of Pennsylvania.
Soon thereafter Volney Howard in San Francisco received an unsigned telegram, supposedly from Gwin:
Unexpected gathering anti-slavery forces. Looks bad for Lecompton Resolution. President worried about California.
In the southeastern part of San Francisco a few tea and silk merchants had, years before, established the nucleus of an Oriental quarter. Gradually it had grown until there were provision shops where queer-looking dried vegetables, oysters strung necklace-wise on rings of bamboo, eggs preserved in a kind of brown mold, strange brown nuts and sweetmeats were displayed; there were drugs-shops with wondrous gold and ebony fret work, temples with squat gods above amazing shrines.
There were stark-odored fish-stalls in alleyways so narrow that the sun touched them rarely, barred upper-windows from which the faces of slant-eyed women peeped in eager wistfulness as if upon an unfamiliar world. Cellar doorways from which slipper-shod, pasty-faced Cantonese crept furtively at dawn; sentineled portals, which gave ingress to gambling houses protected by sheet-iron doors.
On a pleasant Sunday, early in February, Benito, Alice, Adrian and Inez walked in Chinatown with David Broderick. The latter was about to leave for Washington to attend his second session in Congress. Things had fared ill with him politically there and at home.
Just now David Broderick was trying to forget Congress and those battles which the next few weeks were sure to bring. He wanted to carry with him to Washington the memory of Alice Windham as she walked beside him in the mellow Winter sunshine. An odor of fruit blossoms came to them almost unreally sweet, and farther down the street they saw many little street-stands where flowering branches of prune and almond were displayed.
"It's their New Year festival," Adrian explained. "Come, we'll visit some of the shops; they'll give us tea and cakes, for that's their custom."
"How interesting!" remarked Inez. She shook hands cordially with a grave, handsomely gowned Chinese merchant, whose emporium they now entered. To her astonishment he greeted her in perfect English. "A graduate of Harvard College," Broderick whispered in her ear.
Wong Lee brought forward a tray on which was an assortment of strange sweetmeats in little porcelain dishes; he poured from a large tea-pot a tiny bowl of tea for each of his visitors. While they drank and nibbled at the candy he pressed his hands together, moved them up and down and bowed low as a visitor entered; the latter soon departed, apparently abashed by the Americans.
"He would not mingle with the 'foreign devils,'" Broderick smiled. "That was Chang Foo, who runs the Hall of Everlasting Fortune, wasn't it?"
"Yes, the gambling house," Wong Lee answered. "A bad man," his voice sank to a whisper. "Chief of the Hip Lee tong, for the protection of the trade in slave women. He came, no doubt, to threaten me because I am harboring a Christian convert. See," he opened a drawer and took therefrom a rectangle of red paper. "Last night this was found on my door. It reads something like this:
"Withdraw your shelter from the renegade Po Lun, who renounces the gods of his fathers. Send him forth to meet his fate--lest the blade of an avenger cleave your meddling skull."
"Po was a member of the Hip Yees when he was converted; they stole a Chinese maiden--his beloved and Po Sun hoped to rescue her. That is why he joined that band of rascals."
"And did he succeed?" asked Alice.
"No," Wong Lee sighed. "They spirited her away--out of the city. She is doubtless in some slave house at Vancouver or Seattle. Poor Po! He is heartbroken."
"And what of yourself; are you not in danger?" Broderick questioned.
Wong smiled wanly. "Until the New Year season ends I am safe at any rate."
Broderick returned to Washington; he wrote seldom, but the newspapers printed, now and then, extracts from his speeches. The Democrats were once more a dominating power and their organs naturally attacked the California Senator who defied both President and party; they asserted that Broderick was an ignorant boor, whose speeches were written for him by a journalist named Wilkes. But they did not explain how Broderick more than held his own in extemporaneous debate with the nation's seasoned orators. Many of these would have taken advantage of his inexperience, for he was the second youngest Senator in Congress. But he revealed a natural and disconcerting skill at verbal riposte which made him respected, if not feared by his opponents. One day, being harried by administration Senators, he struck back with a savagery which, for the moment, silenced them.
The San Francisco papers--for that matter, all the journals of the nation--printed Broderick's words conspicuously. And, as they held with North or South, with Abolition or with Slavery, they praised or censured him.
"I hope, in mercy to the boasted intelligence of this age, the historian, when writing the history of these times, will ascribe the attempt of the President to enforce the Lecompton resolution upon an unwilling people to the fading intellect, the petulant passion and the trembling dotage of an old man on the verge of the grave."
"Buchanan will be furious," said Benito. "They say he's an old beau who wears a toupee and knee-breeches. All Washington that dares to do so will be laughing at him, especially the ladies."
Benito returned from the office one foggy June evening with a copy of The Bulletin that contained a speech by Broderick. It was dusk and Alice had lighted the lamp to read the Washington dispatch as she always did with eager interest, when there came a light, almost stealthy knock at the door. Benito, rather startled, opened it. There stood a Chinese youth of about 18, wrapped in a huge disguising cloak. He bowed low several times, then held forth a letter addressed in brush-fashioned, India-ink letters to "B. Windham Esquire."
Curiously he opened it and read:
"The hand of the 'avenger' has smitten. I have not long to live. Will you, in your honorable kindness, protect my nephew, Po Lun? He will make a good and faithful servant, requiting kindness with zeal. May the Lord of Heaven bless you."
"WONG LEE."
Excitedly and with many gestures Po Lun described the killing of his uncle by a Hip Yee "hatchetman." But even in his dying hour Wong Lee had found means to protect a kinsman. Po Lun wept as he told of Wong Lee's goodness. Suddenly he knelt and touched his forehead three times to the floor at Alice's feet. "Missee, please, you let me stay?" he pleaded. "Po Lun plenty work. Washee, cookee, clean-em house." His glance strayed toward the cradle. "Takem care you' li'l boy."
Benito glanced at Alice questioningly. "Would you--trust him?" he whispered.
"Yes," she said impulsively. "He has a good face ... and we need a servant." She beckoned to Po Lun. "Come, I will show you the kitchen and a place to sleep."
Broderick came back from Washington and entered actively into the State campaign. He found its politics a hodge-podge of unsettled, bitter policies. The Republicans made overtures to him; they sought a coalition with the Anti-Lecompton Democrats as opposed to Chivalry or Solid South Democracy.
Benito and Alice saw little of Broderick. He was here, there, everywhere, making impassioned, often violent speeches. Most of them were printed in the daily papers.
"They'll be duelling soon," said Windham anxiously, as he read of Broderick's accusations of "The Lime Point Swindle," "The Mail-carrying Conspiracy," his reference to Gwin and Latham as "two great criminals," to the former, "dripping with corruption."
Then came Judge Terry with an unprovoked attack on members of the Anti-Lecompton party. "They are the personal chattels of one man," he said, "a single individual whom they are ashamed of. They belong heart, soul, body and breeches to David C. Broderick. Afraid to acknowledge their master they call themselves Douglas Democrats.... Perhaps they sail under the flag of Douglas, but it is the Black Douglas, whose name is Frederick, not Stephen."
Frederick Douglas was a negro. Therefore, Terry's accusation was the acme of insult and contumely, which a Southerner's imagination could devise. Broderick read it in a morning paper as he breakfasted with friends in the International Hotel and, wounded by the thrust from one he deemed a friend, spoke bitterly:
"I have always said that Terry was the only honest man on the bench of a miserably corrupt court. But I take it all back. He is just as bad as the others."
By some evil chance, D.W. Perley overheard that statement--which proceeded out of Broderick's momentary irritation. Perley was a man of small renown, a lawyer, politician and a whilom friend of Terry. Instantly he seized the opportunity to force a quarrel, and, in Terry's name, demanded "satisfaction." Broderick was half amused at first, but in the end retorted angrily. They parted in a violent altercation.
"Dave," said Alice, as he dined with them that evening, "your're not going to fight this man?"
"I shall ignore the fellow. I've written him that I fight with no one but my equal. He can make what he likes out of that. I've been in a duel or two. Nobody will question my courage."
Po Lun proved a model servitor, a careful nurse. Alice often left in his efficient hands her household tasks. Sometimes she and Benito took an outing of a Saturday afternoon, for there was now a pleasant drive down the Peninsula along the new San Bruno turnpike to San Mateo.
The Windhams were returning from such a drive in the pleasant afternoon sunshine when a tumult of newsboys hawking an extra edition arrested them.
"Big duel ... Broderick and Terry!" shrieked the "newsies." Benito stopped the horse and bought a paper, perusing the headlines feverishly. Alice leaned over his shoulder, her face white. Presently Benito faced her. "Terry's forced a fight on Dave," he said huskily. "They're to meet on Monday at the upper end of Lake Merced."
Chief of Police Burke lingered late in his office that Saturday afternoon. Twilight had passed into dusk, through which the street lamps were beginning to glimmer, leaping here and there into sudden luminance as the lamp-lighter made his rounds. Deep in the complexities of police reports Burke had scarcely noted the entrance of a police clerk who lighted the swinging lamp overhead. And he was only dimly aware of faint knocking at his door. It came a second, a third time before he roused himself. "Come in," he called, none too graciously.
The door opened with an inrush of wind which caused his lamp to flicker. Before him stood a slight and well-gowned woman, heavily veiled. She was trembling. He looked at her expectantly, but she did not speak.
"Please be seated, madam," said the chief of police.
But she continued to stand. Presently words came to her. "Can you stop a duel? Will you?" Her hands went out in a gesture of supplication, involuntary, unstudiedly dramatic.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "What duel?"
"Senator Broderick ... Justice Terry," a wealth of hate was in her utterance of the second name. "They fight at sunrise Monday morning."
"It's not our custom to--interfere in such cases," Burke said slowly. "What would you have me do? Arrest them?"
"Anything," she cried. "Oh--ANYTHING!"
He looked at her searchingly. "If you will raise your veil, madam, I will talk with you further. Otherwise I must bid you goodnight."
For a moment she stood motionless. Then her hand went upward, stripped the covering from her features. "Now," she asked him, in a half-shamed whisper, "will you help me?"
"Yes ... Mrs. Windham," said Burke.
At daybreak on a raw, cold Monday morning, Broderick, with his seconds, Joe McKibben and Dave Colton, arrived at the upper end of Lake Merced. Terry and his seconds were already waiting. The principals, clad in long overcoats, did not salute each other. Broderick looked toward the sea. Terry stood implacable and silent, turning now and then to spit into the sun dried grass. The seconds conferred with each other. All seemed ready to begin when an officer, springing from a foam-flecked horse, rushed up to Broderick and shouted, "You are under arrest."
Broderick turned half-bewildered. He was very tired, for he had not slept the night before. "Arrest?" he said blankly.
"You and Justice Terry," said the officer; "I've warrants for ye both. Come along and no nonsense. This duel is stopped."
Terry began an angry denunciation of the officer, but his seconds, Calhoun Benham and Colonel Thomas Hayes, persuaded him at length into a blustering submission. Principals and seconds, feeling like the actors in an ill-considered farce, rode off together. Later they were summoned to appear before Judge Coon.
"The whole thing was a farce," Benito told his wife. "The case was dismissed. Our prosecuting counsel asked the judge to put them under bonds to keep the peace. But he refused."
"Then the fight will go on?" asked Alice. Her face was white.
"Doubtless," said Benito gloomily. "They say that Terry's been practicing with a pair of French pistols during the past two months and hopes to use them at the meeting. Old 'Natchez,' the gunsmith, tells me one's a tricky weapon ... discharges now and then before the trigger's pressed."
"Why--that would be murder," Alice spoke aghast. "You must find David's seconds and warn them."
"I've tried all afternoon to locate them ... they're hidden ... afraid of arrest."
Despite the secrecy with which the second meeting was arranged, some three score spectators were already assembled at the duelling ground when Broderick and Terry arrived. It was not far from where they had met on the previous morning, but no officer appeared to interrupt their combat. Both men looked nervous and worn, especially Broderick, who had spent the night in a flea-infested hut on the ocean shore at the suggestion of his seconds who feared further interference. Terry had fared better, being quartered at the farm house of a friend who provided breakfast and a flask of rum.
The seconds tossed for position and those of Broderick won. The choice of pistols, too, was left to chance, which favored Terry. Joe McKibben thought he saw a smile light the faces of Benham and Hayes, a smile of secret understanding. The French pistols were produced and Hayes, with seeming care, selected one of them. McKibben took the other. He saw Benham whisper something to Terry as the latter grasped his weapon, saw the judge's eyes light with a sudden satisfaction.
"You will fire between the words 'one' and 'two'," Colton announced crisply. "Are you ready, gentlemen?"
Terry answered "Yes" immediately. Broderick, who was endeavoring to adjust the unfamiliar stock of the foreign pistol to his grasp, did not hear. McKibben repeated, "Are you ready, Dave?" in an undertone. Broderick looked up with nervous and apologetic haste, "Yes, yes, quite ready," he replied.
"One," called Colton. Broderick's pistol spoke. Discharged apparently before aim could be taken; his bullet struck the ground at Terry's feet. Broderick, now defenseless, waited quietly. "Two," the word came. Terry, who had taken careful aim, now fired. Broderick staggered, recovered himself. His face was distorted with pain. Slowly he sank to one knee; sidewise upon his elbow, then lay prone.
It was Sunday, September 18th. In the plaza a catafalque had been erected, draped in black. Upon it stood a casket covered with flowers. An immense crowd was about it, strangely silent. Across the platform a constant stream of people filed, each stopping a moment to gaze at a face that lay still and peaceful, seemingly composed in sleep. It was a keen and striking face; the forehead bespoke intellect and high resolve; the jaw and chin indomitable; aggressive bravery. Over all there was a stamp of sadness and of loneliness that caught one's heart. Friends, political compatriots and erstwhile enemies paid David Broderick a final tribute as they passed; few without a twitching of the lips. Tears ran down the faces of both men and women. The crowd murmured. Then the splendid moving voice of Colonel Baker poured forth an oration like Mark Anthony above the bier of Caesar:
"Citizens of California: A Senator lies dead.... It is not fit that such a man should pass into the tomb unheralded; that such a life should steal, unnoticed, to its close. It is not fit that such a death should call forth no rebuke...."
His majestic voice rolled on, telling of Broderick's work, his character, devotion to the people. He assailed the practice of duelling, the bitter hatreds of a slave-impassioned South. His voice shook with emotion as he ended:
"Thus, O brave heart! we bear thee to thy rest. As in life no other voice so rung its trumpet blast upon the ear of freemen, so in death its echoes will reverberate amid our valleys and mountains until truth and valor cease to appeal to the human heart."Good friend! True hero! Hail and farewell."
"Good friend! True hero! Hail and farewell."
Terry, who had taken careful aim, now fired. Broderick staggered, recovered himself. Slowly he sank to one knee.
America stood on war's threshold. Even in the West one felt its imminence. The Republican victory had been like a slap in the face to slave-holding democracy. Its strongholds were secretly arming, mobilizing, drilling. And though Lincoln wisely held his peace--warned all the States which hummed with wild secession talk that their aggression alone could disrupt the Union--the wily Stanton, through the machinery of the War Department, prepared with quiet grimness for the coming struggle.
Herbert Waters, after Broderick's death, returned to Windham's office. He was a full-fledged lawyer now, more of a partner than an employee. Waters was of Southern antecedents, a native of Kentucky, a friend, almost a protégé, of General Albert Sydney Johnson, commanding the military district of the Pacific.
One evening in January, 1861, he dined with the Windhams. Early in the evening Benito was called out to the bedside of an ailing client, who desired him to write a will. After he was gone, young Waters turned to Alice.
"You were a friend of Mr. Broderick's," he said impulsively. "He often spoke of you ... and once, not long before he died, he said to me: 'Herbert, when your soul's in trouble, go to Alice Windham ...'"
Mrs. Windham put aside her knitting rather hastily, rose and walked to the window. She made no answer.
Presently the boy continued: "That time has come--now--Mrs. Windham."
Alice crossed the room and laid a hand upon his shoulder. "Herbert! What's the matter?"
His voice sank almost to a whisper. "There's a plot to overthrow the government in California. I'm a part of it.... I don't know what to do."
"You don't mean ... you're a traitor?" she asked unbelievably.
"I suppose I am or must be--to some one," he said wearily. "I'm caught in a net, Mrs. Windham. Will you help me get out? Advise me ... as you did him. Oh, I know what you meant to Mr. Broderick. Your faith, your counsel!"
"Please," said Alice sharply. "We won't speak of that. What can I do for YOU?"
"I beg your pardon. I'm a thoughtless ass ... that's why I got into the pickle probably. They asked me to join...."
"They? Who?" she asked. "Is he--Benito--?"
"Oh, no, Benito's out of it completely. I'm a Southern boy, you know. That's why they let me in; a lot of them have money. A man we call 'The President' is our chief. And there's a committee of thirty, each of whom is pledged to organize a fighting force; a hundred men."
Waters hesitated. "I took an oath to keep this all a secret ... but I'll trust you, Mrs. Windham. You've got to know something about it.... These men are hired desperadoes or adventurers. They know there's fighting to be done; they've no scruples.... Meanwhile they're well paid, ostensibly engaged in various peaceful occupations all around the bay. When our President gives the order they'll be massed--three thousand of 'em; well armed, drilled--professional fighters. You can see what'll happen...."
"You mean they'll seize the forts ... deliver us to the enemy?" she spoke aghast.
"I'm afraid you're right, Mrs. Windham."
"Has your--ah--society approached General Johnson?"
"Not yet--they're a little afraid of him."
Alice Windham thought a moment. "When is your next meeting?"
"Tomorrow. We are called by word of mouth. I've just received my summons."
"Well, then," Alice told him, "make a motion--or whatever you call it--that the General be approached, sounded. They'll appoint a committee. They'll put you on it, of course. Thus you can apprise him of the plot without violating your oath. I don't believe he will aid you, for that means betraying his trust.... But if he should--come back to me. We will have to act quickly."
A fortnight passed. Alice had learned by adroit questioning that the federal army was a purely negligible defensive force.
An attack would result in the easy plundering of this storehouse as well as the militia armories of San Francisco. Thus equipped, an army could be organized out of California's Southern sympathizers, who would beat down all resistance, loot the treasury of its gold and perhaps align the State with Slavery's Cause.
Rebellion, civil warfare loomed with all its horrors. If the plot that Waters had described were carried through there would be bloodshed in the city. Her husband had gone to Sacramento on business. Suppose it came tonight!
Anxiously Alice hovered near the cot where ten-year Robert slept.
There came a knock at the door.
"Who's there?" she asked, hand upon the bolt. Then, with an exclamation of relief, she opened it. Admitted Herbert Waters.
He was smiling. "I took your advice.... It worked."
She pushed a chair toward the hearth. "Sit there," she ordered. "Tell me all about it."
Waters gazed into the fire half abstractedly. "Three of us were named," he said, "to have a conference with General Johnson." He turned to her, his eyes aglow, "I'll never forget that meeting. He asked us to be seated with his usual courtesy. Then he said, quite matter-of-factly ... in an off-hand sort of way, 'There's something I want to mention before we go further. I've heard some foolish talk about attempts to seize the strongholds of the government under my charge. So I've prepared for all emergencies.' His eyes flashed as he added, 'I will defend the property of the United States with every resource at my command, with the last drop of blood in my body. Tell that to your Southern friends.'"
"And your plot?"
"It's been abandoned."
"Thank God," Alice exclaimed fervently.
"And thank yourself a little," he commented, smiling.
"General Johnson is a brave and honorable gentleman," Alice said. "I wonder--who could have informed him?"
Waters looked at her quickly. But he did not voice the thought upon his tongue.
April 24 General E.V. Sumner arrived with orders to take charge of the department of the Pacific. General Johnson's resignation was already on its way to Washington.
On the following morning came the news that Southern forces had attacked Fort Sumpter.
San Francisco adjusted itself to war conditions with its usual impulsive facility. Terry, who had resigned from the Supreme bench following Broderick's death, and who had passed through the technicalities of a farcical trial, left for Texas. He joined the Southern forces and for years California knew him no more. Albert Sydney Johnson, after being displaced by General Sumner, offered his services to Jefferson Davis and was killed at Shiloh. Edward Baker, now a Senator from Oregon, left the halls of Congress for a Union command. At the head of the California volunteer regiment he charged the enemy at Ball's Bluff and fell, his body pierced by half a dozen bullets. Curiously different was the record of Broderick's old foeman, William Gwin. In October, 1861, he started East via the Isthmus of Panama, accompanied by Calhoun Benham, one of Terry's seconds in the fateful duel. On the same steamer was General Sumner, relieved of his command in San Francisco, en route to active service. Convinced that Gwin and Benham plotted treason, he ordered their arrest, but not before they threw overboard maps and other papers. They escaped conviction. But Gwin found Paris safer than America--until the war had reached its close.
When the first call came for volunteers by way of the pony express, Benito and Adrian talked of enlisting. Even thirteen-year Francisco, to his mother's horror, spoke of going as a drummer boy.
"One would think you men asked nothing better than to kill each other," Inez Windham stormed.
Yet she was secretly proud. She would have felt a mite ashamed had Adrian displayed less martial ardor. And to her little son she showed the portrait of Francisco Garvez, who had ridden with Ortega and d'Anza in the days of Spanish glory.
Lithographs of President Lincoln appeared in household and office. Flags flew from many staffs and windows. News was eagerly awaited from the battle-front.
Adrian had been rejected by a recruiting board because of a slight limp. He had never quite recovered from a knife wound in the groin inflicted by McTurpin. Benito had been brusquely informed that his family needed him more than the Union cause at present. Still unsatisfied he found a substitute, an Englishman named Dart, who fell at Gettysburg, and to whose heirs in distant Liverpool he gladly paid $5000.
But Herbert Waters went to war. Alice kissed the lad good-by and pinned a rosebud on his uniform as he departed on the steamer. Little Robert clung to him and wept when they were separated. Adrian, Benito and a host of others shook his hand.
A whistle blew; he had to scamper for the gang-plank. The vessel moved slowly, turning in her course toward the Golden Gate. Men were waving their hats and weeping women their handkerchiefs. Alice stood misty eyed and moveless, till the steamer passed from sight.
Though one heard loud-chorused sentiments of Unionism, there were many secret friends of slavery in San Francisco. One felt them like an undercurrent, covert and disquieting. To determine where men stood, a public meeting had been called for May 11. Where Post ran into Market street, affording wide expanse for out-door gathering, a speaker's stand was built. Here the issues of war, it was announced, would be discussed by men of note.
"Starr King, our pulpit Demosthenes, is to talk," Benito told his wife. "They tell me King's a power for the Union. He's so eloquent that even Southerners applaud him."
They were interrupted by Po Lun, their Chinese servitor, who entered, leading Robert by the hand. The boy had a soldier cap, fashioned from newspaper by the ingenious celestial; it was embellished with plumes from a feather duster. A toy drum was suspended from his neck; the hilt of a play-time saber showed at his belt. The Chinaman carried a flag and both were marching in rhythmic step, which taxed the long legs of Po Lun severely by way of repression.
"Where in the world are you two going?" Alice laughed.
"We go public meeting, Missee," said Po Lun. "We hea' all same Miste' Stah King pleach-em 'bout Ablaham Lincoln."
"Hurrah!" cried Benito with enthusiasm. "Let's go with them, Alice." He caught her about the waist and hurried her onward. Bareheaded, they ran out into the morning sunshine.
At Post and Market streets, thousands waited, though the day was young. Constantly the crowd increased. From all directions came pedestrians, horsemen, folks in carriages, buggies--all manner of vehicles, even farm wagons from the outlying districts. Most of them looked upon attendance as a test of loyalty. When it was learned that Governor Downey had sent his regrets a murmur of disapproval ran through the throng. He had been very popular in San Francisco, for he had vetoed the infamous Bulkhead bill, which planned to give private interests the control of the waterfront. He also pocketed a libel measure aimed at San Francisco's independent press. But in the national crisis--a time when political temporizing was not tolerated--he "did not believe that war should be waged upon any section of the Confederacy, nor that the Union should be preserved by a coercive policy."
"I saw the letter," Adrian told Benito. "They were going to read it at first, but they decided not to. After all, the little Governor's not afraid to utter his thoughts."
"I've more respect for him than for Latham," Windham answered. "He's to make a speech today. Only a few weeks ago he damned us up and down in Congress. Now he's for the Union. I despise a turn-coat."
They were interrupted by a voice that made announcements from the platform.
Starr King arose amid cheers. The preacher was a man of marvelous enthusiasm. His slight, frail figure gave small hint of his dynamic talents. He had come to California for rest and health. But in the maelstrom of pre-war politics, he found neither "dolce far niente" nor recuperation. He plunged without a thought of self into the fight for California.
As he began to talk the crowd pressed forward, packed itself into a smaller ring. Medlied sounds of converse died into a silence, which was almost breathless.
For an hour King went on discussing clearly, logically and deeply, all the issues of the Civil War; the attitude, responsibilities and influences of California, particularly San Francisco. He made no great emotional appeals; he dealt in no impassioned oratory nor invective.
At the close there was a little pause, so deep the concentration of their listening, before the concourse broke into applause. Then it was hysteria, pandemonium. Hats flew in the air; whistles, cheers and bravos mingled. The striking of palm against palm was like a great volley. Again and again the preacher rose, bowed, retired. Finally he thanked them, called the meeting closed, and bade them a good afternoon. Only then the crowd began to melt. Fifty thousand people knew their city--and their State no doubt--were safe for anti-slavery.
The concourse broke into applause. Then it was hysteria, pandemonium. Fifty thousand knew their city was safe for Anti-Slavery.
Months passed to a tune of fifes and drums. Everywhere men were drilling. At more or less regular intervals one saw them marching down Montgomery street, brave in their new uniforms, running a gauntlet of bunting, flags and cheers. Then they passed from one's ken. Each fortnight the San Francisco papers published a column of Deaths and Casualties.
In due time a letter came from Herbert Waters, now a sergeant of his troop. Benito promptly closed his office for the afternoon and ran home with it; he read the missive, while Alice, Robert and Po Lun listened, eager-eyed and silent:
"We have marched over historic ground, the trail of d'Anza, which Benito's forefathers broke in 1774. They say it is the hardest march that volunteer troops ever made and I can well believe it. There are no railroads; it was almost like exploring. Sometimes water holes are ninety miles apart. The desert is so hot that you in temperate San Francisco can't imagine it unless you think of Hell; and in the mountains we found snow up to our waists; were nearly frozen.
"Apaches, Yumas, Navajos abound; they are cruel, treacherous fighters. We had some lively skirmishes with them. I received a poisoned arrow in my arm. But I sucked the wound and very soon, to everyone's surprise, it healed. There comes to me oft-times a strange conceit that I cannot be killed or even badly hurt ... until I have met Terry."
There was a postscript written on a later date, proceeding from Fort Davis, Texas. Though the handwriting was less firm than the foregoing, there was a jubilance about the closing lines which even the Chinese felt. His eyes glowed with a battle spirit as Benito read:
"My prayer has been answered. At least in part. I have met and fought with Broderick's assassin. It was in the battle for Fort Davis, which we wrested from the enemy, that he loomed suddenly before me, a great hulk of a man in a captain's uniform swinging his sword like a demon. I saw one of our men go down before him and then the battle press brought us together. It seemed almost like destiny. His sword was red and dripping, his horse was covered with foam. He looked at me with eyes that were insane--mad with the lust of killing; tried to plunge the blade into my neck. But I caught his wrist and held it. I shouted at him, for the noise was hideous, 'David Terry, I am Broderick's friend.' He went white at that. I let his wrist go and drew my own saber. I struck at him and the sparks flew from his countering weapon. My heart was leaping with a kind of joy. 'No trick pistols this time,' I cried. And I spat in his face.
"But another's ball came to his rescue. I felt it, cold as ice and hot as fire in my lung. I made a wild slash at him as I fell; saw him wince, but ride away.... So, now I lie in a camp hospital. It has seemed a long time. But it is the fortune of war. Perhaps I shall see you soon."
"It isn't signed," Benito seemed a trifle puzzled. Then he found, in back of Waters' lines, a final sheet in a strange handwriting. Hurriedly he rose, walked to the open door. Below, upon the bay, storm was brewing; it seemed mirrored in his eyes.
"What is it, dear?" asked Alice following. He handed her the single sheet of paper.
"Dead!" her tone was stunned, incredulous.
Benito's arm around her, dumbly, they went out together. Rain was beginning to fall, but neither knew it.
Several years of war made little change in San Francisco. The city furnished more than its quota of troops. The California Hundred, trained fighters and good horsemen, went to Massachusetts in 1862 and were assigned to the Second Cavalry. Later the California Battalion joined them. Both saw terrific fighting.
But California furnished better than "man-power" to the struggle. Money, that all-important war-essential, streamed uninterruptedly from the coast-state mines to Washington. More than a hundred millions had already been sent--a sum which, in Confederate hands, might have turned the destiny of battle. California was loyal politically as well. Though badly treated by a remote, often unsympathetic government, she had scorned the plot to set up a "Pacific Republic" as the South had planned and hoped.
Her secret service men were busy and astute, preventing filibustering plots and mail robberies. There was a constant feeling of uneasiness. San Francisco still housed too many Southern folk.
Benito and Alice were dining with the Stanleys. Francisco and Robert were squatted on the hearth, poring over an illustrated book that had come from New York. It showed the uniforms of United States soldiers, the latest additions to the navy.
"See," said Francisco, "here are pictures of Admiral Farragut and General Sherman." He was fifteen now and well above his father's shoulders. Robert, three years younger, looked up to admire his cousin. A smaller, more intellectual type of boy was Robert, with his mother's quiet sweetness and his father's fire.
"Here's a picture of the fight between the Monitor and Merrimac," he cried interestedly, "When I grow up I shall join the navy and wear a cap with gold braid, like Farragut."
"And I shall be a lawyer ... maybe a Senator or President," said Francisco, with importance.
The men, talking politics over their cigars, did not hear this converse, but the women looked down at their sons, smiling fondly. "Yesterday Robert announced that he would be a poet," Alice confided. "He saw his father writing verses in a book."
"And tomorrow he will want to be an inventor or a steam-boat captain," Inez answered. "'Tis the way with boys.... Mine is getting so big--I'm afraid he'll be going to war."
Po Lun interrupted their further confidences. He rushed in breathless, unannounced. "Misstah Windham," he spoke to Benito. "One man wanchee see you quick in Chinatown.... He allee same plitty soon die. He say you sabe him. His name McTu'pin."