Cora's trial was in progress. In the upper front room of Vigilante headquarters sat the tribunal upon whose decision Cora's fate would rest. They were grouped about a long table, twenty-nine men, the executive committee. At their head sat William Coleman, grim and stern, despite his clear complexion and his youthful, beardless mien. Near him, Isaac Bluxome, keen-eyed, shrewd, efficient, made notes of the proceedings.
Cora, affecting an air of nonchalance, and, as ever, immaculate in dress, sat between his counsel, Miers F. Truett and Thomas J.L. Smiley, while John P. Manrow acted as the prosecutor.
The gambler's eyes were fixed upon the trio when he was not searching the faces of those other silent men about the board. They were dressed in black. There was about them an air of impassivity almost removed from human emotion, and Cora could not but contrast them with the noisy, chewing, spitting, red-shirted jury at his previous trial, where Belle Cora's thousands had proved efficacious in securing disagreement. There would be no disagreement here. Instinctively, Cora knew that.
Marshal Doane entered. He held in his hand a folded paper. Coleman and the others looked at him expectantly. "It is my great misfortune to report that James King of William is dead," said Doane. There was a buzz of comment, almost instantly stilled by Coleman's gavel. "Damn!" said the gambler under his breath.
"Gentlemen, we will proceed with the trial," Coleman spoke. The examination of witnesses went on. But there was a difference. Cora noticed it. Sometimes, with an involuntary, shuddering gesture, he touched the skin above his flowing collar.
Casey, when informed of King's death, trembled. "Your trial begins tomorrow," Doane informed him. "They'll finish with Cora tonight."
Thursday morning carpenters were seen at work on the Vigilante building. A stout beam was projected from the roof over two of the upper windows facing Sacramento street; to these pulleys were attached.
Platforms were extended from the window sills. They were about three feet long and were seen to be hinged at the sills. The ends were held up by ropes fastened to the beams overhead.
Stouter ropes next appeared, one end passing through the pulleys overhead, then they were caught up in nooses. The other ends were in the committee rooms.
Men tested the platforms by standing on them; tried the nooses; found them strong. Then the carpenters retired. The windows were closed.
A crowd below looked up expectantly, but nothing happened until noon, when military companies formed lines along Sacramento, Front and Davis streets. Cannon were placed to command all possible approaches. The great alarm bell of the Vigilantes sounded.
By this time every roof near by was thronged with people. A cry went up as the windows of Vigilante headquarters were opened. At each stood a man, his arms pinioned. He advanced to the edge of the platform.
Bells were tolling. Black bunting was festooned from hundreds of doors and windows. All the flags of the city were at half-mast, even those of ships in the Bay.
From the Unitarian Church on Stockton street, between Clay and Sacramento, came the funeral cortege on its way to the burial ground at Lone Mountain. Everywhere along the route people stood with bared heads.
Little Joe King, a son of the murdered editor, 10 years of age, sat stiff and stunned by the strangeness of it all in a carriage beside Mrs. John Sime. Mr. and Mrs. Sime were great friends of his father and mother, and Mrs. Sime, whom he sometimes called "Auntie," had taken him into her carriage, since that of the widow was filled.
Little Joe did not know what to make of it all. He knew, somehow, vaguely, that his father had been put into a long box that had silver handles and was covered with flowers. He knew of that mystery called death, but he had not visualized it closely heretofore. The thing overwhelmed him. Just now he could only realize that his father was being honored as no one had ever before been honored in San Francisco. That was something he could take hold of.
As the carriage approached Sacramento street the crowd thickened. He heard a high-pitched voice that seemed almost to be screaming. He made out phrases faintly:
"... God!... My poor mother!... Let nobody call ... murderer ... God save me ... only 29 ..."
Swiftly the screaming stopped. A strange silence fell on the crowd. They turned their heads and looked down Sacramento street. Little Joe could stand the curiosity no longer. He craned his neck to see. Far down the street soldiers were standing before a building. Everybody watched them open-mouthed. In front of the building on a high platform two men stood as if they were making speeches. But they did not move their arms, and their heads looked very queer ... as if they had bags over them.
Then, unexpectedly, Mrs. Sime forced him back. She pulled the curtain on the left side of the carriage. Little Joe heard a half-suppressed roar go up from the throng. For an instant the carriage halted. He was grievously disappointed not to witness the thing which held the public eye. Then the carriage went on.
Later, another funeral wended its way through the streets. It was at night and ill attended. A handsome woman followed it with streaming eyes; a woman who lived by an evil trade, and the inmates of whose house were given over to sin. Early that morning she had married a murderer. Now she was a widow with a broken heart--she whom many stigmatized as heartless.
For many years she was to visit and to weep over the grave of a little dark man who had touched her affections; who might, under happier conditions, have awakened her soul. She was Mrs. Charles Cora, born Arabella Ryan, and widely known as "Belle," the mistress of a bawdy house.
A few members of Casey's fire engine company paid him final honors. Shrived, before his execution, he was laid in holy ground, a stone erected over his grave.
The city returned more or less to its normal activities. But the Vigilante Committee remained in active session. It had avenged the deaths of Richardson and King, but it had other work to do.
About this time, Yankee Sullivan, prize-fighter, ballot-box stuffer and political plug-ugly, killed himself in Vigilante quarters, evidently mad with fear.
Ned McGowan, made of different stuff, arch plotter, thought by many to be the instigator of King's murder, went into hiding.
In front of the building on a high platform, two men stood.... A half suppressed roar went up from the throng.
After the hanging a temporary reaction took place--a let-down from the hectic, fevered agitations of preceding days. Members of the Law and Order Party were secretly relieved by the removal of Casey and Cora.
"Now that they've shot their bolt, we'll have peace," said Hall McAllister to Broderick. But the latter shook his head. "They've only started, Mac," he answered, "don't deceive yourself. These Vigilantes are business men; they've a business-like organization. Citizens are still enlisting ... seven thousand now, I understand."
"Damn them!" said the lawyer, broodingly, "what d'ye think they'll be up to next?"
"Don't damn them too much." Broderick's smile held a grim sort of humor. "They're going to break up a political organization it's taken me years to perfect. That ought to please you a little."
McAllister laughed. The two men shook hands and parted. They were political enemies--McAllister of the Southern or "Chivalry" clan, which yearned to make a slave State out of California; Broderick an uncompromising Northerner and Abolitionist. Yet they respected one another, and a queer, almost secret friendship existed between them. Farther down the street Broderick met Benito. "I've just been talking with your boss," he said.
"No longer," Windham informed him. "McAllister didn't like my Vigilante leanings. So we parted amiably enough. I'll study law on my own hook from now on. I've had a bit of good luck."
"Ah," said the other. "Glad to hear it. An inheritance?"
"Something like it," Windham answered. "Do you remember when I went to the mines I met a man named Burthen? Alice's father, you know. We had a mining claim together," His brow clouded. "He was murdered at the Eldorado.... Well, that's neither here nor there.... But it left me the claim. I didn't think it was worth much. But I've sold it to an Eastern syndicate."
"Good!" cried Broderick. "Congratulations."
They shook hands. "Ten thousand," Benito informed him. "We've had an offer for the ranch, too. Company wants to make it into small allotments.... Think of that! A few years ago we were far in the country. Now it's suburban property. They're even talking of street cars."
At Vigilante Headquarters Benito found unusual activity. Drays were backing up to the doors, unloading bedding, cots, a number of cook-stoves. Men were carrying in provisions. Coleman came out with Bluxome. They surveyed the work a moment, chatting earnestly, then parted.
"We're equipping a commissary and barracks," thus a member informed Benito. "Doesn't look much like disbanding, does it? The Chivs. think we're through. No such luck. This is costing me $50 a day in my business," he sighed. "We've got a dozen blacklegs, shoulder-strikers and ballot-stuffers in there now, awaiting trial. We've turned all the petty offenders over to the police."
Benito laughed. "And have you noticed this: The Police Courts are convicting every single one of them promptly!"
"Yes, they're learning their lessons ... but we've trouble ahead. These Southerners and politicians have the Governor in their pocket. He's sent two men to Washington to ask the President for troops. Farragut has been asked to bombard the city. He's refused. But General Wool has promised them arms from Benicia if the Governor and Sherman prove that anarchy exists."
"They can't," Benito contended.
"Not by fair means, no.... But that won't stop them. Yesterday Chief Justice Terry of the Supreme Court issued a habeas corpus writ for Billy Mulligan, Harrison came down today and served it."
"What happened?" asked Benito, eagerly.
"Well, the hotheads wanted to resist--to throw him out. But Bluxome saw through the scheme--to get us on record as defying Federal authority. So he hid Billy Mulligan and let Harrison search. Of course he found no one. We were politely regretful."
"Which settles that," remarked Benito, chuckling.
"Not so fast, old boy!" the other Vigilante cautioned. "Harrison's no fool. He couldn't go back outwitted.... So he simply lied. Wrote on the warrant, 'service resisted by force.'"
On the following day Major General Sherman of the State Militia received the following document, dated "Executive Department, Sacramento, June 2d, 1856":
Information having been received by me that an armed body of men are now organized in the City and County of San Francisco, in this State, in violation of law; and that they have resisted the due execution of law by preventing a service of a writ of habeas corpus duly issued; and that they are threatening other acts of violence and rebellion against the constitution and the laws of the State; you are hereby commanded to call upon such number as you may deem necessary of the enrolled militia, or those subject to military duty, also upon all the voluntary independent companies of the military division under your command--to report, organize, etc., and act with you in the enforcement of the law.J. NEELY JOHNSON.
Two days after the Governor's proclamation half a dozen of the prisoners in "Fort Gunnybags" were exiled by the Vigilance Committee. Each, after a regular and impartial trial, was found guilty of offenses against the law. The sentence was banishment, with death as the penalty for return. Under a strong guard of Vigilance Committee police the malodorous sextet were marched through town, and placed aboard the steamer Hercules. A squad of Vigilantes remained until the vessel left her dock to see that they did not escape. Thus did the Committee answer Governor Johnson's proclamation. The fortification of the Vigilante Headquarters went on. Hundreds of gunnysacks filled with sand were piled in front of the building as a protection against artillery fire. This continued for days until a barricade ten feet high and six feet thick had been erected with embrasures for cannon and a loop-holed platform for riflemen. Cannon were placed on the roof of the building where the old Monumental firebell had been installed as a tocsin of war.
In the meantime Sherman was enrolling men. They came in rather fast, most of them law-breakers seeking protection, and a small minority of reputable citizens honestly opposed to Vigilante methods. But the armories were bare of rifles and ammunition. Sherman dispatched a hasty requisition to General Wool, reminding him of his promise. Days passed and no arms arrived. The new recruits were calling for them. Some of them drilled with wooden staves and were laughed at. They quit in disgust. Then Sherman went to Sacramento. Something was wrong. Johnson, nervous and distraught, showed him a letter from General Wool. It was briefly and politely to the effect that he had no authority to issue arms without a permit from the War Department.
Sherman, always for action, seized his hat. "Come," he said, as though the Governor were a subaltern. "We'll go to Benicia. We must have a talk with General Wool." And the Governor went.
But Wool, though courteous, proved obdurate. The militia remained unarmed.
On Saturday, June 7, Benito found Coleman sitting at his desk in the executive chamber of Fort Gunnysacks. His usually cheerful countenance wore an anxious look, a look of inner conflict. He glanced up, almost startled, as Benito entered.
"Fred Macondray and his party are outside," said Windham. "They would like to see you."
"What do they wish?" asked Coleman in a harassed tone.
"They're leaving for Benicia today to see the Governor," Benito answered. "Want your final word on mediation matters."
Coleman rose with a brisk movement. He paced the room half a dozen times, his hands behind him, his head slightly bent, before he spoke.
"Bring 'em in. Call Bluxome and as many of the Executive Committee as you can find."
Benito departed. Presently there filed into the room nine gentlemen, headed by Macondray. They belonged neither to the Vigilantes nor to the Law and Order Party. And they were now bent on averting a clash between the two.
"William," Macondray, acting as the spokesman, "what message shall we take the Governor?"
Bluxome, Smiley, Dempster and others of the Executive Committee entered. Coleman explained to them the purpose of Macondray and his friends. "What shall we say to them, boys?" he asked.
"Put it in your own words," Bluxome said. "We'll stand by what you say."
Coleman faced Macondray and his companions. "Tell J. Neely Johnson," he announced, "that if he will consent to withdraw his proclamation we will, on our part, make no further parade of our forces on the street, nor will we resist by force any orders of the court."
Bluxome and his companions nodded. Macondray looked a trifle puzzled. "Suppose he declines to withdraw the proclamation?" he asked, hesitatingly.
"Then," the voice of Coleman rang, "we promise nothing."
On the boat which took them to Benicia, Macondray and his friends met Major-General Sherman of the State Militia. They found him striding up and down the deck, chewing his cigar. Macondray and he compared notes. Sherman had been summoned for an interview with Johnson. The Governor planned a final onslaught of persuasion, hoping General Wool would change his mind; would furnish arms for the militia.
"If he doesn't, it's useless. Men can't fight without guns." Macondray thought he noted an undertone of relief in Sherman's words.
"Do you think he'll give them to you?" Macondray asked in an undertone. Sherman slowly shook his head. He walked away, as though he dreaded further questioning.
At Benicia, Sherman and the Macondray party rode up in the same 'bus to the Solano House. Sherman was admitted at once. The committee was asked to wait. Sherman entered a room blue with tobacco smoke. It contained four men, besides the Governor: Chief Justice David S. Terry, a tall man with a hard face, sat tilted back in a chair, his feet on the Governor's table. He had not taken off his hat. Without moving or apparently looking in that direction, he spat at regular intervals toward the fireplace. Near him sat Edward S. Baker, statesmanlike, impressive, despite his drink-befuddlement; Edward Jones, of Palmer, Cook & Co., smaller, shrewd, keen and avaricious-eyed, was pouring a drink from a decanter; Volney Howard, fat, pompous, aping a blasé, decadent manner, stood, as usual, near the mantel.
They all looked up as Sherman entered. Terry favored him with a half-concealed scowl; Howard with an open sneer; Jones with deprecating hostility. Baker smiled. The Governor, who seemed each day to grow more nervous and irritable, held out his hand.
"Well, well, Sherman," he greeted, "glad to see you." Then his brow knit in a kind of puzzled provocation. "What's that Vigilante Committee doing here with you?"
Terry grunted and spat. Sherman looked them over with a repulsion he could not completely conceal. They were men of violent prejudices. It was bad to see the Governor so completely in their grasp.
"They are not Vigilantes, your Excellency," he began with punctilious hauteur.
"The hell they're not!" said Terry.
Sherman ignored him completely. "My meeting with them was purely casual," he resumed. "They are prominent, impartial citizens of San Francisco, seeking to make peace. They have, I understand, seen Coleman; are prepared to offer certain compromises."
"Aha!" cried Howard, "the rabble is caving in. They're ready to quit."
Johnson looked at Sherman as if for confirmation. He shook his head. "Far from it."
"Cannot they state their business in writing?" asked Johnson.
"Send them packing, the damned pork merchants!" Terry said, as if issuing a command.
Again the Governor seemed to hesitate. Again his glance sought Sherman's. "That would be unwise," returned the soldier.
The Governor summoned a clerk. "Ask the committee to put their business in writing!" he ordered. When the man had gone he once more addressed Sherman: "Wool absolutely refuses to provide the militia with arms."
Terry's fist smote the table with a crash. A stream of vituperation issued from his lips. General Wool, the Vigilance Committee and Admiral Farragut were vilified in terms so crude that even the other men surveyed the Chief Justice with distaste.
Sherman turned to the door. "Governor, I've had enough of this," he spoke sharply. "I shall send you my resignation tonight." He went out, leaving Johnson to mutter distressedly. "Never mind," said Terry, "give his job to Volney. He'll drive the damned pork merchants into the sea."
"What about rifles and ammunition?" asked Howard with sudden practicality.
They looked at each other blankly. Then the wily Jones came forward with a shrewd suggestion. "Wool can't refuse you the regular quota of arms for annual replenishment," he said. "Get those by requisition. Ship them down to San Francisco. Reub Maloney is here. He'll carry them down in a sloop."
"But they're only a few hundred guns," said the Governor.
"They'll help," contended Jones. "They'll make a showing."
"Suppose Coleman hears about it; he'll seize them on the bay."
"Then he'll commit an act of 'piracy'," Baker said, explosively.
Terry took his feet from the table, rose. "By God!" he exclaimed, "there's an idea! Piracy! A capital offense!" He crammed his hands into his pockets and strode heavily up and down.
"Coleman's not likely to hear of our sending these arms," said the Governor.
Jones poured another drink and sipped it. "Isn't he, though?" He laughed softly. "You fellows just leave that to me." He caught up his hat and went out.
"A smart little man," remarked Howard Baker, complacently.
The peace-makers took an early boat for San Francisco. They were hopelessly alienated from the Law and Order Party. After some deliberation they decided to call a mass meeting in front of the Oriental Hotel. Thus they hoped to make the Vigilante sentiment practically unanimous and request through popular acclaim, a withdrawal of the Governor's proclamation.
Early on June 14, the day appointed, citizens began to gather at Bush and Battery streets; by noon they blocked both thoroughfares and overflowed into Market street. Each window, roof and balcony near by was filled. Women in their summer finery lent gay splashes of color, waved parasols or handkerchiefs excitedly at their acquaintances below.
Inez Windham called to David Broderick, who was passing, "There's room for one more on our balcony. Come up." As he stood behind her in the window, stooping a little, she looked eagerly into his careworn face. "One might think it was a circus." He smiled.
"You remind me of champagne, you San Franciscans. The inherent quality of you is sparkle.... Even if an earthquake came along and swallowed you, I think you'd go down with that same light, laughing nonchalance."
Mrs. Stanley made a moue at him. "You find us--different from your Eastern ladies, Mr. Broderick?" she asked expectantly.
He considered for a moment. "Sometimes I think it is the land more than the women. They come from everywhere--with all their varied prejudices, modes, conventions. But, after a time, they become Californians--like you."
"That's what Benito says," returned his sister. "He's daft about San Francisco. He calls it his Golden City. I think"--she leaned nearer, "but you must not say I told you--I think he has written poetry about it."
"Ah, yes," said Broderick, "he has that strain. And how is Alice?"
"Alice is well," he heard Inez say. Then a great shout from the street silenced their converse. Colonel Bailie Peyton was speaking.
"We are here to consider principles of the first magnitude and which may result in the shedding of innocent blood. One of the objects of this meeting is to prevent so dire a calamity.
"The Vigilance Committee must be sustained or put down. If they are put down it must be at the point of the bayonet. The question is whether we shall appeal to the Governor to put them down in this way, or whether we shall ask him to withdraw his opposition."
He looked up at the balconies across the street.
"The Vigilance Committeemen have the prayers of the churches on their side, and the smiles of the ladies--God bless them."
There were cheers and applause.
Again his voice rose to crescendo:
"Let us show the Governor that if he fights the Committee he will have to walk over more dead bodies than can be disposed of in the cemetery. Let us indorse all the Committeemen have done. Let us be ready to fight for them if necessary."
The crowd broke into wild huzzas. Volney Howard and Richard Ashe, the naval officer, paused on a near-by corner, attracted by the uproar. Howard scowled and muttered something about "damned pork merchants," but he looked uneasy.
The Vigilance Committee, undaunted by Governor Johnson's proclamation or the efforts of the Law and Order element, continued quietly the work of ridding San Francisco of its criminals and undesirables.
On June 10 the National Guard of San Francisco disbanded and Marshal Hampton North resigned. Rumor had it that the Vigilance Committee's work was finished. On July 4 they would disband with a great public demonstration, it was rumored. Coleman did not deny this.
On July 19 came news that rifles and ammunition were being shipped from Benicia; Wool was said at last to have capitulated. But it turned out to be a small annual replenishment order of 130 muskets with a few rounds of powder and ball. Later came the exciting rumors that John Durkee, Charles Rand and a crew of ten men had captured the sloop carrying these arms on the bay; had arrested Reuben Maloney, John Phillips and a man named McNab. The arms were brought to Committee Headquarters in San Francisco. On arrival there, perhaps through oversight, the prisoners were released.
The Vigilance Committee made two serious mistakes. They fell into the Law and Order trap by committing an act of technical piracy. From this Durkee saved them by taking upon himself the legal onus of the seizure. The second error, though a minor one, proved much more serious. They sent Sterling Hopkins, a vainglorious, witless, overzealous wight, to rearrest Maloney. Coleman was not responsible for this; nor were the Vigilantes in a larger sense, for a few hotheads in temporary command issued the order. Hopkins, glorying in the quest, for any errand of authority made him big with pride, set out alone to execute it. He found Maloney in the office of Dr. Richard P. Ashe, United States naval agent. Ashe was companioned by adherents of the Law and Order faction, among them Justice David S. Terry.
Pushing the doorkeeper rudely aside, Hopkins entered the room. "Come with me, Reub Maloney," he commanded, "you're under arrest."
Maloney shrank into a corner. Ashe stepped in the constable's path. "Get out of here!" he thundered. "As a Federal officer I order you to begone!"
"And I, as a judge and a Southern gentleman, will kick you out, suh." Judge Terry moved menacing forward. His eyes flashed. Several others joined him. They took Hopkins by the shoulders and pushed him none too gently out of the room. The door closed. He stood for a moment in the hall, muttering in his outraged dignity. Then he turned and ran toward Fort Vigilance.
"We've scared the dirty peddler," Ashe said, as they watched his flying footsteps from a window.
"He's gone for reinforcements," said another. "Let's get out of here. The Blues' armory is better." There was some argument. Finally, however, armed with pistols, they sought the street, forming a guard around Maloney. But they had not proceeded far down Jackson street when Hopkins came upon them with nine men. Both parties halted, Judge Terry standing in front of the prisoner; Hopkins, who was no coward for all his pompous tactlessness, advanced determinedly. He reached around the Judge and clutched at Maloney's arm. "I arrest you in the name of the Committee."
"To hell with your Committee!" shouted Terry. He struck Hopkins' arm away and poked a derringer in the policeman's face.
Hopkins countered; the pistol went flying. Terry staggered back, while Hopkins made another clutch at his intended prisoner.
Then occurred, with lightning speed, an unexpected thing. Terry, recovering his balance, sprang forward, drew the bowie knife he always carried and plunged it, with a vicious thrust, into Hopkins' neck.
Alice Windham and her little son, named Robert for his grandfather, were passing Coleman's store, en route to Benito's office; it was a pleasant, quiet afternoon, almost windless. The infant Robert toddled manfully along on his five-year legs, holding tightly to his mother's hand.
Men began to rush by, jostling them in their haste. The child drew closer to his mother. More men passed. Some of them were carrying guns. Coleman, emerging hurriedly, stopped at sight of Mrs. Windham.
"Better go inside," he advised, "there's trouble afoot." He picked up the now frightened child and escorted the mother to his office. "Sit down," he invited. "It's comfortable here ... and safe."
Before she could thank him he was off. At the door Miers Truett hailed him. "Hopkins stabbed," she heard him pant. He had been running. "May die ... Terry did it."
They went off together. Other men stood in the doorway. "By the Eternal!" one was saying. "A Judge of the Supreme Court! What will Coleman do? They can't arrest Terry."
There was a silence. Then the Monumental Fire Engine bell began to toll. "Come on," the second man spoke with a kind of thrill. "That's Coleman's answer."
Terry, Ashe and their companions ran pell mell up Jackson street until they reached the armory of the San Francisco Blues. It was rather an ornate building, guarded by iron doors. These stood open as the fugitives entered, but were immediately closed and guarded by a posse of pursuing Vigilantes, effectually preventing Law and Order reinforcements from the outside.
Meanwhile the wounded Hopkins, screaming that he was murdered, had been carried into the Pennsylvania Engine House close by. Dr. Beverly Cole, the Vigilante surgeon chief, was summoned and pronounced the wound a serious one. Thereupon the bell was tolled.
Half an hour later several thousand men under Marshal Doane marched to the armory. In front of it he drew up his forces and knocked on the inner portal.
"What d'ye want?" came the heavy bass of David Terry, a little less arrogant than usual.
"The committee has ordered the arrest of yourself and your party," answered Doane. "Will you come quietly?"
There was excited murmuring; then Terry's heavy tones once more: "Do you mean that you will attack the person of a Supreme Court Justice?" he asked half incredulous.
"We will arrest all those who commit or attempt murder."
More whispering.
"Very well," said Terry. "I will not subject my friends to violence.... But I warn you that the consequences will be serious."
Doane ignored this, waiting quietly until the door was opened. Then he detailed a guard for the prisoners. At 4 o'clock--an hour after Hopkins had been wounded--Terry, Ashe and half a dozen others were locked in cells at Fort Vigilance. Once more the town was quiet.
"It is all over," Benito told his wife, whom he found in Coleman's office. "We can go home now." Little Robert slept. His mother picked him up gently.
"What will they do with Judge Terry?" she asked in an excited whisper.
"If Hopkins dies they'll hang him sure as shooting," said Benito.
Sterling Hopkins did not die, despite the serious nature of his wound. Had he done so many a different chapter might have been recorded in the history of San Francisco. Hopkins lived to pass into inconsequence. Terry was released to wreak once more his violent hatred on a fellow being, to perish in a third and final outburst of that savagery which marred his whole career.
Captain Ashe and others taken in the Terry raid were soon released upon parole. The Supreme Court Judge remained a prisoner in Fort Vigilance for many weeks.
After days and nights of wrestling with the situation, the Committee judged the prisoner guilty of assault. As the usual punishment within their power to inflict was not applicable in this case, the prisoner was discharged. It was pointedly suggested that the best interests of the State demanded his resignation. To this, however, Terry paid no heed.
Broderick, who had been out of town, campaigning, met Ike Bluxome on Montgomery street.
"I thought you folks were going to disband," he spoke half-banteringly. And Bluxome answered with, his usual gravity. "We thought so, too ... but Terry jumped into the picture. Now he's boasting that the Committee didn't dare to hold him longer." Bluxome smiled faintly. "He was meek enough till Hopkins had recovered ... offered to resign and quit the State forever."
"I believe in Terry," Broderick remarked. "He's quarrelsome, but brave--and honest as a judge. I spent a lot of money in a newspaper fight to help him through this mess."
Bluxome eyed him keenly. "Yes, I know you did. I know you were sincere, too, Broderick. That's why we didn't bother you for bribing the editors. But you will get no thanks from Terry. He's against you on the slavery question. He'd kill you tomorrow if he got a chance. You or any other man that's in his way. Watch out for him."
"Nonsense," said Broderick, and walked away.
On August 18th the Vigilantes paraded for the last time. There were four artillery batteries with an armament of fifteen cannon. Then came the Executive Committee followed by two companies of dragoons, each preceded by a band; the medical staff of fifty members, the Committee of 1851, some half a hundred strong, and four regiments of infantry.
San Francisco was ablaze with decorations, vibrant with enthusiasm. Men, women, children, turned out to do the Vigilantes honor. A float symbolic of Fort Gunnybags was wildly cheered.
Benito Windham, Adrian Stanley and their families stood at the window of an office which had "B. Windham, Attorney and Counselor," inscribed upon its door. Benito had but recently passed his law examination and Alice was accordingly proud.
Broderick, who stood near her with an arm about young Robert, looked out at the pageant.
"They have been my enemies," he said, "but I take off my hat to your Committee. They have done a wondrous work, Benito lad."
Swept clear of its lesser rascals, San Francisco still, ostensibly, was ruled by Freelon, Scannell, Byrne and other officials of the former city government, who had defied the people's invitation to resign. They did little more than mark time, however. Jury-packing was at an end for the Committee had posted publicly the names of men unfit to judge their fellows, and the courts had wisely failed to place them on venires.
"Wait till November," was the watchword. And San Francisco waited. A committee of twenty-one was appointed at a mass meeting shortly before the city election. By this body were selected candidates for all municipal offices. Their ticket was the most diversified, perhaps, that ever was presented to a city's voters, for it included northern and southern men, Republicans, Democrats, Know-Nothings, Jews, Catholics and Protestants. Yet there was an extraordinary basic homogeneity about them. All were honest and respected business men, pledged to serve the city faithfully and selflessly. Former Marshal Doane of Vigilante fame was chosen as chief of police.
Broderick was the Windhams' guest at their new home on Powell street overlooking the bay when Benito's clerk brought them news of the election.
"Every reform candidate wins by a landslide," cried the youth enthusiastically. "I cast my first vote today, Mr. Windham," he said proudly, "and I'm glad to know that the ballot-box had no false bottom." He turned to Broderick. "Your men fared mighty well too, sir, considering--" He paused and reddened, but the politician clapped him, laughing, on the shoulder. "That's right, my boy. Be honest," he declared.
"It means you'll be our Senator next year," the lad said staunchly, holding out his hand. "They're all saying so down town. Allow me to congratulate you, sir."
The keen, half-smiling eyes of Broderick took stock of Herbert Waters. Tall, shy and awkward, with a countenance fresh, unmarked, but eager and alert with clean ideals.
"Thank you, son," he pressed the lad's hand vigorously. "Perhaps ... if I should get to Washington, there'll be a place for you. You'll like it, wouldn't you? To see a little of the world?"
"Would I?" cried the youth, delighted. "Try me." He departed, treading on air. Alice Windham shook a finger at her guest. "Dave, you mustn't trifle with our little protégé.... But you did it charmingly. Tell me, will you have to go about now, kissing babies and all that sort of thing?"
"No doubt," he answered gaily. "So I'll practice on your little Bob." He caught the child up in his arms. "Got a kiss for Uncle Dave?" he asked.
Robert's response was instant and vehement. Laughing, Broderick took from an inner pocket a long and slender parcel, which he unwrapped with tantalizing slowness. It revealed at last a gaily painted monkey-on-a-stick which clambered up and down with marvelous agility when Broderick pulled a string.
"This, my little man," he said half soberly, "is how we play the game of politics." He made the jointed figure race from top to bottom while his eyes were rather grim. "Here, you try it, Bobbie," he said. "I've played with it long enough."
Broderick came to them aglow with triumph. He was a big man now, a national figure. Only a short time ago he had been a discredited boss of municipal politics. Now he was going to Washington. He had made William Gwin, the magnificent, do homage. He had all of the federal patronage for California. For years it had gone to Southern men. San Francisco's governmental offices had long been known as "The Virginia Poorhouse." Now its plums would be apportioned to the politicians of the North.
Everywhere one heard the praise of Broderick's astuteness. He had a way of making loyal friends. A train of them had followed him through years of more or less continuous defeat and now they were rejoicing in the prospect of reward.
He was explaining this to Alice. Trying to at least. "One has to pay his debts," he told her. "These men have worked for me as hard as any factory slaves. And without any definite certainty of compensation. Do you remember young Waters who came here last December to congratulate me? Yes, of course, he was Benito's clerk. I'd forgotten that. Well, what did that young rascal do but grow a beard and hire out as a waiter in the Magnolia Hotel. He overheard some plots against me in a corner of the dining room. And thus we were prepared to checkmate all the movements of the enemy.... I call that smart. I'll see that he gets a good berth. A senate clerkship. Something of the sort."
"When do you leave?" asked Alice quickly.
"Tomorrow.... Gwin is going also. I'll stop over in New York." He smiled at her. "When I left there I told my friends I'd not return until I was a senator. Eight years ago that was.... And now I'm making good my promise." He laughed boyishly.
"You're very happy over it, aren't you, Dave?" she said with a shadow of wistfulness.
"Why, yes, to be sure," he answered. His eyes held hers. "I'll miss you, of course.... All of you." He spoke with a touch of restraint.
"And we'll miss YOU." She said more brightly, "I know you will do us much honor ... there in the nation's capital." Her hand went half way out toward him and drew back. "You'll fight always ... for the right alone ... Dave Broderick."
He took a step toward her. "By God! I will promise you that. I'm through with ward politics, with tricks and intriguing. I'm going to fight for Freedom ... against Slavery. They're trying to fasten Slavery onto Kansas. President Buchanan is a Pennsylvanian but he's dominated by the Southern men. Washington is dominated by them. There aren't more than half a dozen who are not afraid of them." He drew himself up. "But I'm one. Douglas of Illinois is another. And Seward of New York. I've heard from them. We stand together."
He laughed a shade bitterly. "It's difficult to fancy, isn't it? Dave Broderick, the son of a stone mason, a former fireman, bartender, ward-boss--fighting for an ideal? Against the Solid South?"
She came closer. "Dave, you must not say such things." She looked about her. They were alone in the room, for Benito had gone out with Robert. "Dave, we're proud of you.... And I--I shall always see you, standing in the Senate Chamber, battling, like a Knight of Old...."
Her face was upturned to his. His hands clenched themselves. With a swift movement he caught up his hat and stick. Fled from the house without a good-bye.
As he went down the hill with long strides, his mind was torn between a fierce pride in his proven strength and a heart-wrecked yearning.
He started the next morning for Washington.