He began to sing, and when I could face it, I looked up at the Reverend Ebersohl. He hadn’t turned a hair, but sat regarding my father steadily, not disappointed or shocked or set back in any way. The excuses had already taken hold automatically.
“Your father’s been under a great strain,” he said aside to me. “Who among us, God’s poor servants, can measure the sensitivity of another? Come on, my boy, we’ll get him into bed.”
And when my father was stretched out in the tent, making a fuss because he said he had a date to go sailing with the Mayor, Reverend Ebersohl sank to his knees and offered up a genuine crusher of a prayer. But did he pray for my father to straighten up and behave? Not so you could notice it. His remarks were along the line of abusing himself, for being so busy with other work, and so blind, that he’d failed to take note of his friends.
And all the time, his voice rising up in competition, but not winning, my father was singing “Angus McGregor, Helpless in the Heather.”
It was embarrassing.
This began a long series of such ruckuses and was when we began to go seriously downhill in San Francisco. Days went by when he wouldn’t take a drink at all; then, set off by somebody’s medical troubles, usually a child’s, he would reel home drunk. Never angry or troublesome, you know, but released from his worries. And, of course, no good to himself or anybody else. Again, he mightn’t come home at all but would go to the United States or El Dorado and gamble away whatever he had on him. If the Reverend Ebersohl was handy, he helped me straighten him out, not ever with a reproach, nor a mark of impatience, but only an increased resolve to get at the real culprit, who he said was the Devil.
“Never fear, my boy,” he cried one day when the people at the United States brought my father home, “we’ll get him in the end. This poor suffering physician, our honored friend and parent, is only the hapless instrument. It’s the Devil has done it. We’ll get him; we’ll flay him right out of the state.”
Reverend Ebersohl got so exercised over the Devil on this occasion that he did something he rarely ever tried; he went right into the United States and, standing on a table, preached a sermon on Temperance. Now that gambler crowd liked my father, and they liked Reverend Ebersohl too, though they ragged him some, so they knocked off as polite as pie to let him preach. A few quiet games of seven-up and such continued in the corners; otherwise people listened.
At the beginning, Mr. Wilcox, the proprietor of the United States, “guaranteed” Reverend Ebersohl silence for half an hour, and he kept his word.
It was a powerful sermon, though I’ve got to admit that many and many a time I failed to entirely get Reverend Ebersohl’s drift, much as I admired him. My father said the same: “He’s a great man, with a lion’s heart. Smart, too, but the messages come out addled.” I disagreed with him there; it wasn’t so much addled as he got off the point. The point here tonight was temperance, but it wriggled out of his grip.
After knocking rum in a general way, along with the people who sold it, while holding out hope that it might be mainly the Devil, he said, “As I look over this group of sinners, I see upwards of two dozen men that I’ve saved with regularity ever since I came to San Francisco. Yes, and I’ll save them that many more before I’m done. I’m thinking of one citizen—naming no names—as my gaze sweeps around, a man of great potential, educated, accomplished, handsome in appearance, and it was not a week ago that he appeared on his knees before me to promise, ‘So help me God, I’ll never drink another drop!’ Two days later, I found him drunk on the streets. For shame!
“Another such came to me a short time ago, and after relating the sad tale of his sorrows, asked to sign the pledge. I gave him a pledge and he signed it, saying, ‘There it is; my name is there for once and all. Henceforth I’m the living spirit of sobriety.’ The next day, as I passed up California Street, I saw him with a demijohn in his hand. ‘Why, my friend, what are you doing with that stuff?’ said I. ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘I thought since I was knocking off for good this time, I’d just take one more nip in farewell.’
“My dear friends,” cried Reverend Ebersohl, “such is the bondage to your prevailing sins, whatever they may be. Chains of habit are stronger than chains of steel; you cannot break them without help from Jesus.
“At the moment when I was talking to that poor fellow mentioned before, a candidate for the chain gang was conducted along the street, with a heavy shackle around his leg. Said I to the crowd, ‘Look at that miserable creature. How gladly would he kick off that heavy chain and be free! He cannot break it. And yet he is no more a prisoner today, under that heavy chain, in the hands of his keeper, than you are under the chains of awful habit, in the hands of your keeper, the Devil, by whom you are led, captive by his will.’
“Then a man under the Devil’s influence had the effrontery to speak up from the rear and say, ‘Oh, well, if that be true, it’s no use to try to straighten up. You might as well leave us alone!’ ”
Reverend Ebersohl was going at his best clip, and the crowd appreciated it, calling out “Amen,” and “Give it to ’em, Reverend,” to emphasize points. They weren’t ragging, either. They saw the sense to what he said, so far, and were with him every inch of the way.
So he said, “The Holy Spirit is looking at each of you now”—a man in a black suit tried to crawl under a table here; I don’t know whether he was skylarking or not—“and listening to every pulsation of your moral heart. And were He to reveal what has passed there this day, how shocking a revelation He would make! It is not by the professions of the mouth, but by the conduct of men, that we learn the orthodoxy of their hearts. A miserable gambler said to me only a short time ago, ‘I came to California with exactly twenty-five cents, but I had good luck playing cards and set up a monte table, and thanks be to God, I have been very successful.’
“What priceless insolence! But wait a minute, hold your horses, that isn’t the worst. A wretched rumseller over here on Jackson Street filched the pockets of a poor fellow, wrecked his constitution, blighted all his hopes for time and eternity, unstrung his nervous system, and drove him into delirium tremens; and when his poor victim was dying, I’m blessed if he didn’t come to me and say, ‘Reverend, I’ll ask you to step round and pray for so-and-so’s soul. I’m worried about him.’ can you believe it?
“Why, these gamblers on the Plaza here, whenever they shoot a fellow, go right off for a preacher to pray over their dead. One who came for me to preach at the funeral of C.B., who was shot the night before just there in that large saloon, said, ‘We thought it would be a pity to bury the man without religious ceremonies. It will be a comfort to his friends, too, to know that he had a decent Christian burial.’
“Get thee behind me, Satan. Or come out and fight in the open.”
Everybody cried “A-a-a-amen,” and “If you’re aiming to fight the Reverend, fight fair,” relishing every word. But I’ll be a baboon if Reverend Ebersohl didn’t switch off here and commence to explain about the “techniques” of street preaching. He told some of his early struggles, how he had to compete with other entertainments, and said, “If by a cry of fire, or otherwise, your congregation is scattered, do not be discouraged, but watch your opportunity. Set your sails to take the breeze, and you will probably double or quadruple your congregation in five minutes.
“Once, in Belair Market, Baltimore City, I was half through my discourse when a large funeral procession passed by, accompanied by a band of music Now that band was unfair competition; I saw it so then, and I still do. The melody took the ears of my audience, and when they broke loose to join, I roared ‘Brethren, we can make better music than that’; and struck up the very best song at my command. I hesitate, in modesty before our Lord, to tell you the result. A friend with a good view of everything said at least a hundred of the procession shook loose and came to the preaching. What he said, more specifically, was, and I ask you to take it with a pinch of salt, ‘Reverend, we didn’t leave anything of that funeral except the
horses and the corpse.’ ”
Reverend Ebersohl stopped a second, beaming, because he did have a good audience tonight, and said, “Gentlemen, where was I?”
“You were speaking on the general subject of Temperance,” said one man drily.
“Oh, yes, Temperance. On another occasion, some rough fellows next to my stand got up a dogfight, in the way of providing competition of that sort, and off they went, hissing and whooping. I cried, ‘Run, boys, run! There’s a rare opportunity! A glorious entertainment, that! What an intellectual feast it must be to enlightened, high-minded American gentlemen to see a couple of dogs fight!’ By that time, I’d recaptured the last man of them, so the good-natured dogs, having nobody to prod them, trotted away in a comradely spirit. I said, ‘Boys, I don’t blame you for seeking enjoyment and trying to be happy. God, who made us and endowed us with wonderful powers of intellect and heart, designed us to be happy, hence this insatiable thirst for happiness that constitutes the mainspring of human actions. The difference between us is in regard to the source whence we derive happiness. You have tried many sources, money-making and money spending, rum drinking and gambling, with occasional boy and dogfights. Bills were posted all through your streets last week, promising a rich treat for immortal souls on Sunday in American Valley. The intellectual feast to commence with a fight between a bull and a grizzly bear. The second course to consist of a magnificent dinner, and as much whiskey as could be desired at two bits a nip. The third course to consist of music and dancing among the men (ladies being scarce), which might be protracted till every soul was satisfied.’ ”
I’m telling this speech of the Reverend Ebersohl in detail, as I remember it and from his notes which he showed me, because it gives a better picture of him than what I could do, also a view of San Francisco in those days, particularly from his closing comments on Temperance, which went as follows:
“I give it as my candid opinion that your throat and lungs will suffer less in the pure open air than they do in the carbonized, sickly atmosphere of crowded churches. I am accustomed to listen to the same clear voices in the streets three hundred and sixty-five days in each year: ‘Fish! fish! fresh salmon!’ ‘Eggs! eggs! fresh California eggs!’ ‘Candy! Here’s your celebrated cough candy! Everybody buys it; now’s your chance!’ ‘Here’s your fresh California pears, apples, oranges, and peaches! Only two bits a pound! Buy ’em up!’ ‘Latest news from the East! Arrival of the John L. Stephens! here’s your New-York Herald, New-York Tribune, and New-Orleans True Delta!’ Who ever heard of a fish, egg, candy, or fruit ‘crier’ or newsboy taking the bronchitis? An auctioneer will stand in the street and cry at the top of his voice for two hours every day, yet we never heard of an auctioneer taking the bronchitis.
“If you will not bind your neck with a tight cravat, if you will stand erect, head up, speak naturally, and not strain your voices, you will experience an improvement in the quality and power of voice; you will also find greater faculty in natural utterance by regular street preaching. Ten years ago, preaching two sermons in church and one in the streets caused me hoarseness of voice, along with weariness of body; but now, with three sermons in church and two in the streets each Sabbath, I have no hoarseness, and but little weariness. Before I commenced street preaching, I was subject to violent colds and soreness of throat and lungs; but I have known nothing of ‘sore throat’ or ‘sore lungs’ for years. I would not intimate that I am invulnerable, but I do believe that the danger is lessened, at least fifty per cent, by outdoor preaching.”
Having said this, Reverend Ebersohl looked around, with a little frown of annoyance between his brows, as if he was trying to remember something. Then the line cleared away and he said briskly, “That concludes my remarks for this evening on the subject of Temperance.”
There was a perfect thunder of applause, as both men and women looked at each other and said how good it was. And a half dozen or more sang out, “Drinks for the House!” Everybody agreed it was the best lecture they ever heard on Temperance, even including Reverend Ebersohl’s sermon aboard the Union, when he converted everybody in sight, along with the Chinese cook. But Mr. Wilcox, the proprietor, jumped up on the bar and cried, “Hold on—nobody’s going to buy a drink for the House here except the House. Step up, gentlemen, name your poison.”
And as Reverend Ebersohl climbed down to roll up his signs, one after another at the bar turned and toasted him, sober and courteous, thanking him for the Temperance lecture, and said things like, “Your health, sir,” and “Strength to your voice, Reverend,” and “A splendid effort—both moving and convincing.”
“Hear me, cried Reverend Ebersohl, jarred but not quite done yet. “This being a lecture on Temperance, I’ll ask which among you would care to sign the pledge? In the interest of shaming the Devil and saving your souls.” He held up a piece of paper and a quill.
I honestly thought there was going to be a riot. They practically fought to sign up, and you could hear things like, “Quit shoving, will you?”, “See, here, I was in line first,” and “That isn’t fair—you’ve signed twice already. Give somebody else a show.”
Everybody put their name down at least once and some as many as four or five times. Then they had a whole new round of toasts, and thanked him again for the opportunity to sign the pledge, being glad, as they said, that he hadn’t forgot it before the lecture was closed.
Mr. Wilcox said the next day that the meeting had stirred people up so, he’d sold twenty-two per cent more whiskey than on any other evening of the previous twelve months. There was talk of trying to put Reverend Ebersohl on the regular payroll, along with the fiddlers and chorus girls, but nothing came of it.
I walked out with Reverend Ebersohl when he left. He was just a trifle discouraged, the first time I’d seen him so. But it didn’t last over a minute. “There must be some way to make them stop drinking,” he said. “Bound to be, it stands to reason. But I’m obliged to say that up to now, I’ve been sniffing away at the wrong scent. If nothing else works, it may be necessary, along with the late, lamented Samson, to employ the jawbone of an ass.”
Chapter XLV
No change in our living through December and January. My father would drink for a few days, then sober up and work like the furies for a while. Either way, he never mentioned his condition, the lapses or the good parts. It was a secret between us, something shameful that wouldn’t be in good taste to bring out in the open.
I ran the stand, helped by Reverend Ebersohl. By now I figured out the things to buy—food, mainly—and let my father handle his medical calls and other problems. I served coffee and tea and chocolate, twelve and a half cents a cup, and sometimes sandwiches and cakes, bread and molasses. I’d established a good business selling whale oil, too, that I got from the Chinaman.
You might have called it living, but there was precious little fun in it. We had plenty to eat, what with the money from the stand and from doctoring, but nothing was left over. Because whatever my father got his hands on, from any source, he gambled away in a hurry. Sometimes he won a little; not often. To be fair, none of the people in the El Dorado or United States wanted him to drink or gamble. They knew our condition, but of course they couldn’t keep him out.
What I missed most was companionship. On days like Christmas, that meant something back home, I was so low I had to fight tears when I went to bed. I had Christmas dinner by myself, off pickled pork and cold biscuit, my father being drunk somewhere, and in the afternoon, about dead from loneliness, I went to Reverend Ebersohl’s church service. Afterwards he gave me some cake a woman had brought him and seemed so anxious and concerned and fatherly that it only made me bluer, somehow. He was a good man. I missed Po-Povi, and I missed Todd, too. Herbert Swann and the boys in Louisville seemed a long, long, time ago; I couldn’t get them straightened out in my mind any more. I wanted to see my mother of course, but what I missed most right now was our family of the wagon train. Even Jennie.
You could say there was e
xcitement here a-plenty, but not for a boy, unless he wanted to grow up fast and forget he’d been a boy. Still, that fight the Reverend Ebersohl mentioned in his speech, between the bull and the grizzly bear, was interesting for about two minutes, for the way the animals took to each other. Reading the handbills and hearing the talk, my father closed the stand, during one of his sober spells, and we got a ride to the American Valley, where they had this high, spiked corral built, to keep the bull in. A whopping big crowd was there, in a drunken, noisy humor, and the promoter made a pile of money selling tickets at a dollar a head, half price for children under twelve, and infants free.
Then the time came, they rolled the grizzly out in his cage, with a chain fastened to a ring in his nose, and turned him loose in the pen. The bull came charging up with a spine-jangling bellow, but when he saw who it was, only a grizzly bear, he acted like his peeve had been a case of mistaken identity. The bear stood on his hind legs and smelled the bull over, bow and stern, then seemed pleased to have made this attractive new friend. They ambled over the turf together, the bull grazing, the bear searching for grubs and ants, for all I know steering each other to the choice tidbits.
A number of men cried, “Sold!” and threatened to put the promoter in the corral with the animals, but they finally let him off. Even a drunk man could see it wasn’t his fault.
Dogfights were a favored amusement on the Plaza, and the scabbier men occasionally got up what they called a “boy fight,” sicking two boys of about equal size onto each other, making them fight so as not to be called cowards. Usually these were fixed up between boys of different races—American and Mexican for the most part—with the representation that they were fighting for the glory of their country. Often, these poor, ignorant, ragged, dirty boys were made to fight until they had knocked one or the other’s teeth out, along with torn-up ears, and twice I saw boys of around twelve blinded in one eye. My father said “nothing could be more contemptible” and claimed that the men who started these things likely wouldn’t fight if you kicked them in the stomach, unless it was a midget or a tubercular woman.
The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters (Arbor House Library of Contemporary Americana) Page 52