Shortly after my return to Vallejo, a bright glare in the direction of San Francisco indicated too surely that the city was again in flames. The wind was very high, and we had every reason to believe that the conflagration was general. Having roused out the Old Soldier to his intense disgust, I reached Benicia in time to take a passage to San Francisco in the last returning Stockton boat. We met steamers going up river crowded, that stopped and confirmed our worst fears; mine in particular, for I had felt anxious respecting the property of a friend who had shown me unceasing kindness since my arrival in the country. I learnt that his stores had already fallen, and knew that he was ruined. It was with great difficulty we landed, for the fire had extended to the water’s edge, and in many places the wharves had been disconnected; everywhere deep holes had been burnt in them, and some were drowned that night from this cause.
The ruins of the fire were quite deserted, the inhabitants had sought the suburbs, sorrowfully no doubt, for a night’s rest; and the bright moon looked calmer than ever in contrast to the red angry embers which smouldered on every side.
I found myself alone after I had scrambled up a small hill that commanded a view of the fallen city, and I never remember feeling so solitary in my life. Small columns of red-tinted smoke rose lazily in every direction, the blackened shells of brick warehouses stood out here and there in bold relief against the moonlight, whilst every crevice and window in them was fantastically lighted by the glowing embers that still burnt within. Over the ruins of large drug stores ghostly lights of blue and green flickered in a supernatural manner. Where the fire had already been extinguished, dark pits seemed to yawn, and open wells, and deep cisterns, stood ready on all sides, their coverings being burnt, to trap the unwary adventurer who might be led to explore those regions. Not a sound broke the stillness of the night, and as the moon was overshadowed by a passing cloud, I turned and stumbled on what was either a very dead man or a very drunken one, and having seen all there was to see, I descended the hill and rejoined my companions.
Lodgings were scarce enough that night, as may be imagined, nor was there a sufficient number of houses standing to accommodate the burnt-out citizens. I was fortunate enough to meet an Hungarian geologist, who was probably the poorest man in San Francisco, for the science he professed could not at this time be put to much account in California. Were it not for the respect in which I hold a learned society at home before which “papers� are read, and by which laws are made for the better regulation of geology, I should say that the reason why the votaries of this science did not succeed in California, arose from the fact, that this eccentric country, had for ages past acted in defiance of the fundamental rules of the society in question: whether or no, whenever my friend set out in search of gold on scientific principles, he generally left that metal farther behind him at every step.
Wherever you go now you will meet a few Hungarians, and I have ever found them a superior class of men—quiet and unobtrusive in their habits, and of very liberal education. My geological friend had a small hut built among the sand-hills. As we walked towards it we were called on to deliver by three gentlemen of the road, but as, happening to be both armed, we made the usual demonstration in such cases, we went on our way without molestation. Not but what it would have been a kindness to have robbed the Hungarian, for though he had no money in his pocket, and his clothes were valueless, he was staggering through the deep sand under the weight of an enormous bag of quartz he had collected, every ounce of which I foresaw was destined to be pulverised in a hand mortar and tested, involving a great amount of labour but no profit. I tossed up with my friend who should have his bed, and having won it I was soon asleep, it being now nearly daylight; when I awoke he was gone, and I was at no loss to conjecture that he had sought elsewhere a softer couch than the heap of rocks and fossils that had fallen to his lot.
When I reached the burnt city all was again animation, and on every side preparations were being made for rebuilding it of brick and stone.
I have alluded to a friend; it was with sorrow that I viewed the wreck of the noble warehouses that had been his: but yesterday, as it were, he had pointed to these buildings with pride as evidencing his successful efforts, though never forgetful to whom success was owing, while to-day a heap of ashes marks the emptiness of human calculation. A week ago and his glorious hospitality assembled hundreds to commemorate the completion of a stately warehouse,—to-day the firm is hopelessly and irretrievably ruined.
He lies now in the cemetery outside San Francisco, and those who have not forgotten the warm grasp of a hand that was ever ready to succour—now that that hand is cold, will recognise this sketch, and will not blame me for recording this slight tribute to his memory.
After a diligent search I was directed by the appearance of sundry steel buttons to the ashes of what had been my wardrobe; everything had been destroyed, and among the papers I had lost were the notes and sketches of the country that I had collected to this date, which notes, after three years, I am rewriting from memory.
After contemplating mournfully the whitened remains of two little dogs that lay side by side, with the blackened ashes of my dress coat and patent leather boots, I turned from the spot, and shortly afterwards encountered Sir Henry Huntly, who in an equally melancholy frame of mind, had just completed a survey of his “ashes;� we agreed to pay a visit to the northern mines, and made preparations for a start.