Chapter Ninth.

STAND IN FOR SAN FRANCISCO—INDICATIONS OF LAND—THE COAST—ENTER THE “GOLDEN GATE”—INNER BAY—SAN FRANCISCO—LUMPS OF GOLD—NOTES OF ENTERPRISE—SURROUNDING SCENE—GAMBLING.

We soon fell in with the north-east trade winds, which carried us along rapidly, causing us to make so much lee-way however, that on arriving at 38° north latitude, (the latitude of San Francisco), we were at 140° west longitude. We then tacked ship and stood in for the coast of California. We had baffling winds and calms for several days, but falling in with the northwest trades, we were carried rapidly along, the wind increasing until it blew a gale. This lasted for two days. The ship laid over so that her main studding-sail boom touched the water, and on the 1st July the gale carried away our gib. On the 3d, we discovered weeds and logs floating in the water, indicating our proximity to land. We take an observation, and ascertain that we are sixty miles from San Francisco. This we ought to make by 8 o’clock the next morning. The passengers are all engaged in packing up. The retorts, crucibles, gold tests, pick-axes, shovels, and tin-pans, are put into a separate bag, and laid on the top; each determined to be the first off for the mines. Each one having conceived a different mode of keeping his gold, one would exhibit an ingenious box with a secret lock, another, a false bottom to his trunk, a fourth a huge belt, while a fifth was at work on the fifteenth buckskin bag, each of 20 lbs. capacity. All were looking to the glorious future with a faith that would have removed mountains, particularly if they were suspected of having gold concealed underneath. On the morning of the 4th, the sun rose in a cloud of mist. We were all expectation and excitement. Some were at mast-head, others in the shrouds, and all on the “qui vive” for land. The fog was so dense we could not take an observation, but still stood in toward land. At 12 o’clock we felt a slight breeze, and the mist rose like a curtain, displaying to our astonished vision the coast of California. A simultaneous shout burst forth, and our very ship seemed to bound with enthusiasm. We find by taking an observation that we are twenty miles north of the entrance to the bay. We had a fair wind, and passed along very near the coast, which is bold and rocky, rising and terminating in the coast range of mountains, and in the back ground the famed “Sierra Nevada,” (mountains of snow).

At 3 o’clock, P.M., we arrived off a bold rocky promontory, which is the north point to the entrance of the outer bay of San Francisco, called “De los Reys,” or King’s Point. We soon changed our course, standing in for the entrance to the inner bay, some twenty miles distant. The air was filled with geese, brant, loons, ducks, &c. We here saw the hair-seal, somewhat resembling a tiger. They would come to the surface, display themselves, and disappear. We saw, also, a very large whale coming directly toward the ship, alternately diving and reappearing, and the third time he came to the surface, he was quite near us. He threw up a column of water, and diving headlong toward the bottom, threw his huge tail into the air. Not wishing to come to anchor before morning, we shortened sail, and all “turned in.”

In the morning we were a short distance from the “Golden Gate,” the entrance to the inner bay, making for it with a fair breeze. A large ship was abreast of us, making for the same point. A schooner spoke us, and wished to pilot us in, but our captain not relishing California price ($200), declined. The strait through which we were about to pass, is an opening through the coast-range of mountains, about a mile in width, and has the appearance of having been cut through by the action of the inland waters. The capes at either side are bold, and that on the right is fortified. We could not have made a more auspicious entrance. It was a delightful morning, with a fresh breeze, and the tide rushing in at eight knots. When we had made the entrance, we could see through into the inner bay, directly in the centre of which is an island of considerable elevation, which serves as a beacon to inward-bound vessels. The passage in was entirely without interruption, and the scene most enchanting. It seemed to us that the gates had been thrown open, and we ushered in to view some fairy scene. At our left was the little bay of “Saucelito” (Little Willow), where several vessels were lying cosily under the bank, taking in water. Here is a small island, inhabited only by sea-fowl—there a strait which is the mouth of the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers, beyond which the shore of the bay is bold with mountains in the background. We still head toward the island in the centre. At our right, the shore is bold, and still further on, a point of considerable elevation juts out into the bay. The tide is still bearing us along with headlong speed, and we are obliged to take in all sail with the exception of the flying-jib. As we neared the point we changed our course, making as near it as practicable, and, as we round it, San Francisco is spread out before us, where rides a fleet of two hundred sail. We feel that we have attained the acme of our ambition, that we have really entered the “Golden Gates.” We pass along, and passing several vessels, come to the United States man-of-war, “Gen. Warren.” Our patriotism, at this particular time, was not of a nature to be smothered into silence. We took off our hats, opened our mouths, and it was soon evident that our lungs had lost none of their vigor by exposure to the sea air. We passed most of the shipping, and finding a convenient place our captain cried out “haul down the flying jib,” “let go the anchor,” and our ship rounded to, as if willing to rest after a run of sixty-five days.

We were immediately boarded by boatmen, and I was soon in a row-boat on my way to the shore. On landing, my first move was for the post-office. I had gone but a few paces in this city of strangers, before some one called my name. I turned around; he did not recognize my six months’ beard, and apologized. I recognized him as a New York friend, and assured him there was no offence, that I was the identical individual he was looking for. I accompanied him to his store, where he exhibited several specimens of gold, weighing twenty-seven ounces, twenty-five ounces, and down to a single ounce. These were no unwelcome sight to me, and served to stimulate the fever. My greatest anxiety, however, was to hear from home, and with the least possible delay, I hurried to the post office. I had heard from home but once in six months, and my anxiety and pleasure can well be imagined, when, in answer to my inquiry, I was handed a half-dozen letters. I went to a restaurant, read my letters, ate a $3.50 beefsteak, and felt as rich as men are generally supposed to feel after a six months’ residence. I could neither get room nor lodgings in town. Many of the business men, and all the transient people, lived in tents. My tent was still on board the ship, and my friend above spoken of, offered me the hospitalities of his own for the night.

In the morning I took my writing-desk, and climbed to an eminence in the vicinity of the city, to write to my friends at home. Seating myself under a cluster of small trees which protected me from the sun, I commenced, and, with the exception of an interval for dinner, spent the day in writing. The scene around me was animated. Everything appeared to be propelled by the most indomitable perseverance. The frame of a house would be taken from the ship in the morning, and at night it was fully tenanted. The clatter of the innumerable hammers, each answered by a thousand echoes, seemed the music by which the city was being marshalled into existence. Ships were constantly arriving; coming to anchor a mile out, they would immediately disgorge their cargoes, which, taken by lighters, were conveyed to the shore, and thrown into heaps, their owners running about to contract for their immediate transportation into the interior. Others were seen rowing off to vessels, which, after receiving their complement of passengers, would weigh anchor and stand for the strait, which is the joint mouth of the Sacramento and San Joaquin Rivers.

Towards evening the scene became less animated, and the noise more subdued. I could but look with admiration upon the heightened beauty of the scene, as Nature was about to repose. A smile of approbation seemed to play upon her countenance as she was taking the last view of this, the perfection of her works.

The sun is almost down, tinging only some of the highest peaks of the surrounding mountains. The city, extending from the bay up the left base and side of the mountain, is about to cease her notes of enterprise, and light her lamps. At the base, directly under my feet, is an encampment of one hundred tents, occupied by Americans and Chilians. Two hundred ships are lying at anchor, displaying their various ensigns, comprising almost all the commercial nations of the world; and looming up conspicuously in the offing, is the man-of-war, “Gen. Warren,” her majestic appearance proclaiming the superiority of American naval architecture. But the most striking feature in the scene is this beautiful bay; surrounded by mountains which protect it from the winds, it sleeps in perfect calm, the flood and ebb tide carrying vessels in and out, at from seven to eight knots an hour. At this moment, although the wind is blowing in the mountains, the bay is as placid as a mirror. In the centre of the bay is a beautiful island, as if nature had set in pearl one of her choicest emeralds. But “night has let her curtain down, and pinned it with a star.” In the evening I strolled about with my friends, and was surprised to see that all of the best houses on the main streets were gambling houses. The rooms were brilliantly lighted, and each contained several monte tables, loaded with gold and silver coin, together with many rich specimens from the mines. To allure their victims, they were usually furnished with music, a bar, and an interesting señorita to deal the cards. Gamblers understand that the only sure way of making a man courageous is to get him drunk, consequently, at about every second dealing of the cards, all the betters are “treated.” A man bets on a card and loses. His last drink is beginning to effervesce, and, of course, he is too shrewd to let the gambler have his money. He doubles the bet, putting the money on the same card, thinking that a card must, at least, win every other time. I have noticed that gamblers are very considerate, always managing to throw out just the card the victim wishes to bet upon. Again he loses, and again is “treated.” His courage is up: the third time his card must certainly win. The “deal” takes place, and, strange to say, his card is turned up, and seems to say, in its very face that it is to win. In order to win back his former losses, he stakes, this time, half his purse. The other betters and bystanders now begin to manifest an interest in the affair. The gambler now begins to draw the cards, and, lo! the victim’s card don’t win. He is excited; he sees that others are looking at him, and displays the greatest amount of courage by taking another drink, and calling for another deal. Again his card is turned up. It cannot possibly lose four times in succession. He throws on his entire purse. It is lost. He goes out penniless. Another shrewd man was standing by, betting small sums on the opposite card, and consequently had won four times in succession. He had discovered the remarkable fact, that the card opposite the above described unlucky one, would invariably win. He determined to make a fortune by his discovery. The deal takes place, the unlucky card comes out, and he puts a large sum on the other one. The cards are drawn, and, strange as it may seem, the unlucky card wins. This appeared doubly strange to the shrewd man. He took another drink, and felt positive it could not happen so again. Another deal, and the indefatigable unlucky card is again in the field. Again the shrewd man bets, and again the unlucky card wins. The shrewd man displays as much courage as his predecessor, and is soon prepared to leave in the same financial condition.

The bystanders grow a little suspicious. The cards are again dealt, small bets are made and won by the bystanders. The gambler “treats,” bystanders again bet, win, are “treated,” and grow courageous. A better state of feeling exists; the gambler grows more complacent, and treats oftener. All are anxious to bet, the gambler is considered one of the best of fellows—one of that kind of men who would a little prefer losing money to winning it. Again bets are made and won, and all appear anxious to share the gambler’s money, as it is, doubtless, about to be distributed among the fortunate bystanders. All drink and bet liberally; but this time they lose. This is, however, the first loss, and they bet again, but it so happens that they lose this time also. They drink and bet again, and again lose. They now find that they have only half as much money as they commenced with. They now resolve to recover what they have lost, and quit. But, alas! when the victim arrives at this point in the drama, he is lost. He loses every bet, until, seized by a feeling of reckless desperation, he risks all, and is immolated upon the altar of avarice.

Hundreds who have never risked, and who think it impossible they ever could risk, a dollar in a game of chance, are daily drawn into the vortex. They come to town with well-filled purses, the proceeds, perhaps, of six months’ hard labor, to buy the necessary provisions and clothing, get their letters, &c. They meet old friends, drink, go to the gambling house, drink again, and finally bet a small amount, and perhaps win. They bet again, and again win. A feeling of avarice is now excited, and they risk a large sum. But after repeated bets, with varied success, they discover that they are losers. They now make the fatal resolve that they will win back what they have lost and quit; the next moment they are ruined.