Chapter 5: San Francisco

 

In late March Mac’s ship reached San Francisco Bay after pitching and rolling its way down the coast. The crew maneuvered the barque between Point Reyes and the rocky Farallon Islands into the bay.

The harbor was stunning—calm, blue water edged with white beaches. Above the beaches granite cliffs rose, and beyond the cliffs stood rolling brown hills greening with the first growth of spring. Mac stood on deck with the captain as the ship sailed through the mouth of the Golden Gate. They passed the Presidio with the American flag flying high.

“Army took over from Mexico in forty-six,” the captain said, pointing at the flag. “We’ll drop anchor, then ferry the cargo to the wharf.” He gestured at the port ahead of them. “Need to stay here several days. We’ll be taking on more freight and repairing sails for the next leg to Panama. You might want to take a room on shore. Get your horse off the ship awhile.”

Mac couldn’t see much of the town from the ship’s deck, but it didn’t look any bigger than Oregon City. “How long can I take deciding whether to continue on board?”

“Until I sell your cabin to another bidder.”

“Where’s the best place to stay?”

The captain shrugged. “Ain’t nowhere fancy. A couple of saloons with rooms for travelers. You’ll find the customs a tad different than American settlements or even English posts like Fort Vancouver.”

“Why’s that?” Mac asked.

“City started under Mexican rule. Built up around the Papist mission. U.S. military captured it in forty-six, like I said. Old Uncle Sam will win the war soon, I’m sure. Them Mexicans can’t fight a kitten.”

While the crew anchored the barque and lowered the sails, Mac sat on deck and wrote in his journal:

 

March 27, 1848. More than three weeks at sea. We arrived in San Francisco today. I’ve made no more decisions about my future than when I left Oregon.

 

After Valiente was transferred to the wharf, Mac mounted the spirited horse. Valiente pranced and danced, and Mac decided to give him a run. He spurred the stallion into the hills. From the heights west of town, Mac looked down on the grubby settlement. Most of San Francisco’s buildings were as rudimentary as those in Portland—small huts of rough boards or adobe—though a few wooden houses dotted the streets.

Across the Golden Gate to the north, Mac saw a lovely cove with whaling vessels moored off shore. Cattle—at least the dark spots looked like cattle—grazed in the hills above the cove.

A calmer Valiente walked back into town. Mac found a livery and boarded the horse, then sought a room for himself. He walked down the street on legs still shaky from being on board the ship for so long, despite his long ride in the afternoon.

Music and laughter from one roughhewn building identified it as a saloon. He entered and found men clustered around a newspaper posted on the wall. Most of the men were armed, like the emigrants along the trail the year before. Weapons didn’t worry Mac—he had his own six-shooter strapped to his hip, and he could use it effectively. He’d proven that.

“Gold! At New Helvetia. Where Sutter has his fort. Found it while building a mill.” An unshaven fellow with greasy hair poked at the paper with his finger.

“Can’t be gold.” A second speaker paused to lift a mug to his lips. “Ain’t nothing in those hills but grass.”

“Says it’s gold. Right here in The California Star. Published Saturday.” The first man stabbed his finger at the page again. “Says there’s lots of it. The Californian had a story ’bout gold last week.”

“Don’t matter,” said a third man. “New Helvetia’s a long ways away. Don’t help us none.”

“Let me see.” Mac elbowed his way in until he could read the article. It was a small blurb, a paragraph mentioning gold flakes found at New Helvetia. “Where’s New Helvetia?” he asked.

“South fork of the American River. More’n hunnert and fifty miles from here. Need to go south to San Jose to get around the bay.”

The discovery was too far away to interest Mac. He sat at a table and ordered beefsteak and whiskey. After his food and drink arrived, a young woman in a red taffeta dress with tattered black lace pulled up a chair and sat beside him. “Buy me a drink?” she asked.

Mac glanced at her, then nodded at the bartender. The man brought a glass and bottle to the table, setting them down without comment.

The woman poured for herself and topped off Mac’s glass. “In town for long?” she asked.

“No.”

“I hope you’re here for the night at least.” She ran her hand up Mac’s arm, an obvious invitation in her lilting voice.

Studying her more closely, Mac considered her offer. She had dark hair, sad chocolate eyes, and rouged lips turned down just a little at the corners. Maybe Spanish, he speculated, as he sipped his whiskey. Attractive now, but her looks wouldn’t last. Still, a romp might shake his restlessness.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Consuela.” Yes, she was Spanish.

Jenny was prettier, Mac thought, with sapphire eyes and brown hair that gleamed gold in the sun. But this woman’s eyes showed the same weariness Jenny’s had when Mac first met her. He remembered Jenny’s tears the night he left.

“Sorry,” Mac said. “I’ll buy you the bottle if you want, but that’s it.” He couldn’t take up with this woman, not after his drunken groping of Jenny. Not after what had happened with Bridget. Women had only led to trouble for him. “How long you been in San Francisco?”

Consuela lifted a pretty shoulder. “A while. My husband died and left me alone.”

“Is that how you ended up here?” His gesture encompassed the saloon, her dress, her invitation.

She nodded with a rueful smile.

Mac took a coin from his pocket. “Take this.” He didn’t know why he felt compelled to help her. Maybe because she reminded him of Jenny. But helping Consuela wouldn’t do a damn thing for Jenny. He didn’t need to rescue another woman. He didn’t need more trouble. He needed to find his own place in the world.

Consuela took the coin. “Gracias.” She lifted the bottle from the table as she walked away.

Mac awoke the next morning to the sound of pounding on his door. “Mister, I gotta talk to you,” a man bellowed.

Bleary-eyed at the early hour after drinking through the evening, Mac stumbled to the door and opened it.

“I hear you got a horse. I want to buy it,” a bearded man demanded.

“He’s not for sale,” Mac said, pushing to shut the door.

The man wedged his foot inside the room. “I’ll pay top dollar.”

“Why do you need my horse?” Mac said.

The man’s voice dropped to a whisper as he looked around furtively. “Gold.”

“He’s not for sale,” Mac repeated and shoved the man away.

Mac would have to move Valiente back to the ship before someone stole the stallion. He dressed quickly and went downstairs. Men already filled the saloon, talking about gold at Sutter’s Mill. He recognized one of the ship’s crewmen in the crowd.

After splitting a biscuit and slapping bacon between its halves, Mac headed to the stables, chewing as he went. He saddled Valiente and rode to the wharf, where the ship captain paced in a dither.

“My men have deserted,” the captain said. “Blinded by the talk of gold. I can’t sail without a crew. Even one of my mates left.”

“Do you mean you can’t leave San Francisco?”

“It’ll take me time to round up more men,” the captain said.

Over the next two days, rumors about the gold discovery grew. Mac took Valiente out riding or stayed with the horse in the stables. He checked with the ship captain daily, but the captain couldn’t find any experienced men. He wouldn’t be sailing any time soon.

 

March 30, 1848. I might as well travel overland. There are no berths to be had to Panama. I shall see for myself whether the reports of gold are true, then follow the trails east. I have plenty of time to reach Boston before winter.