CHAPTER X.
Round the World on a Man-of-War (continued).
THE PACIFIC STATION.
Across the Pacific—Approach to the Golden Gate—The Bay of San Francisco—The City—First Dinner Ashore—Cheap Luxury—San Francisco by Night—The Land of Gold, Grain, and Grapes—Incidents of the Early Days—Expensive Papers—A Lucky Sailor—Chances for English Girls—The Baby at the Play—A capital Port for Seamen—Hospitality of Californians—Victoria, Vancouver Island—The Naval Station at Esquimalt—A Delightful Place—Advice to Intending Emigrants—British Columbian Indians—Their fine Canoes—Experiences of the Writer—The Island on Fire—The Chinook Jargon—Indian “Pigeon-English”—North to Alaska—The Purchase of Russian America by the United States—Results—Life at Sitka—Grand Volcanoes of the Aleutian Islands—The Great Yukon River—American Trading Posts round Bering Sea.
A common course for a vessel crossing the Pacific would be from Australia or New Zealand to San Francisco, California. The mail-steamers follow this route, touching at the Fiji and Hawaiian groups of islands; and the sailor in the Royal Navy is as likely to find this route the orders of his commander as any other. If the writer, in describing the country he knows better than any other, be found somewhat enthusiastic and gushing, he will at least give reasons for his warmth. On this subject, above all others, he writes [pg 157]con amore. He spent over twelve years on the Pacific coasts of America, and out of that time about seven in the Golden State, California.
It has been said, “See Naples, and die!” The reader is recommended to see the glorious Bay of San Francisco before he makes up his mind that there is nought else worthy of note, because he has sailed on the blue waters of the most beautiful of the Mediterranean bays. How well does the writer remember his first sight of the Golden Gate, as the entrance to San Francisco Bay is poetically named! The good steamer on which he had spent some seventy-five days—which had passed over nearly the entire Atlantic, weathered the Horn, and then, with the favouring “trade-winds,” had sailed and steamed up the Pacific with one grand sweep to California, out of sight of land the whole time—was sadly in want of coals when she arrived off that coast, which a dense fog entirely hid from view. The engines were kept going slowly by means of any stray wood on board; valuable spars were sacrificed, and it was even proposed to strip the woodwork out of the steerage, which contained about two hundred men, women, and children. Guns and rockets were fired, but at first with no result, and the prospect was not cheering. But at last the welcome little pilot-boat loomed through the fog, and was soon alongside, and a healthy, jovial-looking pilot came aboard. “You can all have a good dinner to-night ashore,” said that excellent seaman to the passengers, “and the sea shan’t rob you of it.” The fog lifted as the vessel slowly steamed onwards.
On approaching the entrance to the bay, on the right cliffs and rocks are seen, with a splendid beach, where carriages and buggies are constantly passing and repassing. On the top of a rocky bluff, the Seal Rock or “Cliff” House, a popular hotel; below it, in the sea, a couple or so of rocky islets covered with sea-lions, which are protected by a law of the State. To the left, outside some miles, the Farralone Islands, with a capital lighthouse perched on the top of one of them. Entering the Golden Gate, and looking to the right again, the Fort Point Barracks and the outskirts of the city; to the left the many-coloured headlands and cliffs, on whose summits the wild oats are pale and golden in the bright sunlight. Before one, several islands—Alcatraz, bristling with guns, and covered with fortifications; Goat Island, presumably so called because on it there are no goats. Beyond, fifty miles of green water, and a forest of shipping; and a city, the history of which has no parallel on earth. Hills behind, with streets as steep as those of Malta; high land, with spires, and towers, and fine edifices innumerable; and great wharves, and slips, and docks in front of all; with steamships and steam ferry-boats constantly arriving and departing. And now the vessel anchors in the stream, and if not caring to haggle over the half-dollar—a large sum in English ears—which the boatman demands from each passenger who wishes to go ashore, the traveller finds himself in a strange land, and amid a people of whom he will learn to form the very highest estimate.
That first dinner, after the eternal bean-coffee, boiled tea, tinned meats, dried vegetables, and “salt horse” of one’s ship, in a neat restaurant, where it seems everything on earth can be obtained, will surprise most visitors. An irreproachable potage: broiled salmon (the fish is a drug, almost, on the Pacific coasts); turtle steaks, oyster plant, artichokes, and green corn; a California quail “on toast;” grand muscatel grapes, green figs, and a cooling slice of melon; Roquefort cheese, or a very good imitation of it; black coffee, and [pg 158]cigars; native wine on the table; California cognac on demand; service excellent—napkins, hot plates, flowers on the table; price moderate for the luxuries obtained, and no waiter’s fees. The visitor will mentally forgive the boatman of the morning. Has he arrived in the Promised Land, in the Paradise of bon vivants? It seems so. In the evening, he may take a stroll up Montgomery Street, and a good seat at a creditably performed opera may be obtained. Nobody knows better than the sailor and the traveller the splendid luxury of such moments, after a two or three months’ monotonous voyage. And, in good sooth, he generally abandons himself to it. He has earned it, and who shall say him nay? The same evening may be, he will go to a 300-roomed hotel—they have now one of 750 rooms—where, for three dollars (12s. 6d.), he can sup, sleep, breakfast, and dine sumptuously. He will be answered twenty questions for nothing by a civil clerk in the office of the hotel, read the papers for nothing in the reading-room, have a bath—for nothing—and find that it is not the thing to give fees to the waiters. It is a new revelation to many who have stopped before in dozens of first-class English and Continental houses.
“Seen,” says Mr. W. F. Rae,[104] “as I saw it for the first time, the appearance of San Francisco is enchanting. Built on a hill-slope, up which many streets run to the top, and illumined as many of these streets were with innumerable gas-lamps, the effect was that of a huge dome ablaze with lamps arranged in lines and circles. Those who have stood in Princes Street at night, and gazed upon the Old Town and Castle of Edinburgh, can form a very correct notion of the fairy-like spectacle. Expecting to find San Francisco a city of wonders, I was not disappointed when it seemed to my eyes a city of magic—such a city as Aladdin might have ordered the genii to create in order to astonish and dazzle the spectator. I was warned by those whom personal experience of the city had taught to distinguish glitter from substance, not to expect that the reality of the morrow would fulfil the promise of the evening. Some of the parts which now appeared the most fascinating were said to be the least attractive when viewed by day. Still, the panorama was deprived of none of its glories by these whispers of well-meant warning.” The present writer has crossed the Bay in the ferry and other boats a hundred times, and on a fine night—and they have about nine months of fine nights in California—he never missed the opportunity of going forward towards the bows of the boat when it approached San Francisco. As Mr. Rae writes, “The full-orbed stars twinkling overhead are almost rivalled by the myriads of gas-lights illuminating the land.” Less than thirty years ago this city of 300,000 souls was but a mission-village, and the few inhabitants of California were mostly demoralised Mexicans, lazy half-breeds, and wretched Indians, who could almost live without work, and, as a rule, did so. Wild cattle roamed at will, and meat was to be had for the asking. The only ships which arrived were like the brig Pilgrim, described by Dana in “Two Years before the Mast,” bound to California for hides and tallow. Now, the tonnage of the shipping of all nations which enters the port of San Francisco is enormous. The discovery made by Marshall, in 1847, first brought about the revolution. “Such is the power of gold.” Now, California depends far [pg 159]more on her corn, and wool, and hides, her wine, her grapes, oranges, and other fruits, and on innumerable industries. Reader, you have eaten bread made from California wheat—it fetches a high price in Liverpool on account of its fine quality; you may have been clothed in California wool, and your boots made of her leather; more than likely you have drunk California wine, of which large quantities are shipped to Hamburgh, where they are watered and doctored for the rest of Europe, and exported under French and German names; your head may have been shampooed with California borax; and your watch-chain was probably, and some of your coin assuredly, made from the gold of the Golden State.