by Gwen Bristow
It was not easy to get to the market, or anywhere else. The citizens were trying to clean up, but streets in the burned area were still almost impassable. When she went out Kendra wore her high boots and gathered up her skirts with both hands, while the barman carried the market basket in one hand and kept the other on his gun. They walked over pots and pans and kettles, broken dishes and charred pieces of furniture, liquor bottles melted into shapeless chunks, piles of foodstuffs that had roasted in the blaze and now lay rotting underfoot. It was not a pleasant journey.
But the market speedily became a meeting place where people came to look for their friends or get news of them. Kendra met Ralph and Serena there one day, Serena carrying the market basket while Ralph carried the baby, for they could not push a baby carriage through the jumble in the street. They were both in cheerful humor. They lived on Powell Street, where the fire had not reached them. They told Kendra two clerks from Chase and Fenway’s were using their parlor as a bedroom. Not convenient, but the poor fellows had nowhere else to stay and in times like these folks had to be neighborly.
The next morning Kendra met Rosabel at the market, accompanied by Mrs. Chase. Rosabel told Kendra she was going to have a baby and Mrs. Chase was helping her with everything and being a perfect dear. Of course they were both distressed about the loss of the store, she said. But they still had their homes, and their husbands would soon rebuild the store.
Kendra reported this to Marny when she came in. Marny, sitting at the table with a cup of chocolate before her and Bruno’s sketches in her hand, listened with puzzled amusement.
“I’m glad Rosabel is happy,” she said at length. “I was doubtful when she got married. Such a change. But maybe,” Marny added, with surprise that she did not try to conceal, “maybe this is what she wanted all the time.”
“It’s what a lot of women want, Marny,” Kendra reminded her. “Homes of their own, and children, and a peaceful life.”
“I suppose so. At least, it’s what a lot of them get.”
Kendra did not remind Marny that this was what she wanted herself. There were some things Marny simply did not understand.
Hiram and Kendra were married in a ceremony brief and simple, as they both wanted. Mr. and Mrs. Chase were there, and Mr. Fenway and Rosabel; Pocket and Mr. Gilmore, several employees of the bank, and of course Mr. and Mrs. Eustis. Nobody else but the minister. Marny stayed away, and Kendra knew Mr. and Mrs. Eustis were relieved that she did. After the ceremony Hiram and Kendra went to the readymade cottage with its patchy walls and shaky furniture, and as she looked around it Kendra had never felt so completely at home in any other spot.
At the Calico Palace, Marny was busy with her own affairs. Besides her regular hours of work she was directing the replacement of Bruno’s transparencies and the repairs that had to be made to other outside decorations. While this left her scant leisure, it was good to be rebuilding San Francisco.
But Marny knew, as the rest of the city knew, that not everybody wanted to rebuild. A few of the hoodlums had died in the fire, but more of them had not. The day after Hiram and Kendra were married some scoundrel tried to burn the Verandah.
Not long before daybreak, when the Verandah had been closed and locked for several hours, a watchman outside caught sight of a flame through the window of a storeroom behind the bar. He gave the alarm and the firemen promptly put out the fire. But they used a great deal of strong language when they saw how the villain had set it.
Marny heard the details from Pocket a few days later. Pocket had come into the parlor and bought a cup of coffee at the refreshment table. When Marny started out for coffee of her own, Pocket asked if he might follow her to the kitchen. “I want to tell you something,” he said.
She was glad to see him. Pocket was a member of the company that had put out the fire, and he could give her more details about it than the papers had printed.
In the kitchen, she brought her own cup to the table.
“How are you these days?” Pocket asked as they sat down.
She answered with a candid sigh. “Pocket, I’m scared.”
“Because of that fire?”
“Yes. We think the Calico Palace is well guarded. But so is the Verandah. Tell me how it was done.”
Pocket said the villain’s technique had been simple. While the Verandah was open and full of customers, he had moved away from the other men drinking at the bar and had slipped into the storeroom. Here he had laid down a “slow match”—a long hempen string soaked in a solution of saltpeter and lime. He had lit one end of the string, put some oil-soaked rags at the other end, and slipped back to the bar before anybody missed him. Since fire crept along a slow match at the rate of about one foot an hour, a man could light such a string three or four feet long and leave the building well before the flame reached the rags and blazed up.
Marny shivered as she listened. While the fire of May fourth had shown that the Calico Palace itself was fireproof, the costly furnishings inside it were not, and neither were the people who lived there. Pocket was saying,
“I suppose this ruffian felt cheated because the Verandah had stood through the big fire and he missed some loot he expected. So he tried again.”
“That’s the spirit of San Francisco,” Marny commented dryly. “Never give up.”
Pocket laid his hand over hers. He looked straight into her eyes.
“Our side isn’t giving up either,” he said, slowly and gravely. “That’s why I came here today, to tell you so. I knew you’d be worried.” He repeated with resolution, “We are not giving up, Marny.”
His manner had such significance that Marny was startled. “What do you mean by that?”
“I’m on my way to a meeting,” Pocket returned. “Hiram will be there, and Mr. Chase and Mr. Fenway and Mr. Eustis, and a good many others. We’re going to clean up San Francisco.”
Marny answered with admiration. “Pocket, you really mean that, don’t you?”
“We really mean it,” said Pocket. He stood up. “Now it’s time for me to go.”
“All right, and thanks for coming in. You’ve cheered me up.”
Pocket went to the door, waving goodby over his shoulder. He had an air of quiet confidence, like a man on his way to a task which he felt himself quite capable of performing. Pocket had a heart full of kindness, but as she saw him now Marny was reminded of what the poet Dryden had said long ago. “Beware the fury of a patient man.”
In the days that followed, both Pocket and Hiram made frequent visits to the Calico Palace. Often Kendra came with them. On these occasions they brought steaks or chops, and Kendra cooked dinner for them all. Kendra was glowing with happiness. She and Hiram had chosen the site of their permanent home, and had engaged an architect to draw plans for the house they would live in. Meanwhile the readymade cottage, cramped and drafty though it was, gave them a joyous haven.
Hiram sometimes left Kendra with Marny while he went to the meetings, and Marny told her the news of the Calico Palace. Kendra was glad to hear that Hortensia’s divorce was under way. Hortensia’s friends Jeff and Daisy Quellen had come down from Sacramento, and were being lodged at Norman’s expense in one of the rooming houses that had shot up since the fire. The Quellens were a witty and amusing pair and the four of them were having a good time together. Marny thought it likely that Hortensia was no longer locking her bedroom door, because Norman’s temper was so much improved of late.
Pocket and Hiram rarely spoke of what went on at their meetings. If Hiram had told Kendra anything she did not say so, and Marny did not ask. It was enough to know these men were making ready to clean up San Francisco.
Marny knew, as well as they knew, how desperately San Francisco needed cleaning up. Except in the central district where businessmen hired their own guards and patrolled their own streets, the hoodlums had turned the town into a place of constant terror. Robberies, assaults, and even murders occurred nearly every day. Taxes were high, but policemen were meanly paid and
often they quit because they were not paid at all. Few lawbreakers were arrested; still fewer were ever convicted; and the men who did go to jail had little trouble getting out.
With the horrors of the May fire, the decent citizens had reached the end of their endurance. They no longer doubted that the “government” was sharing the spoils of crime, and nothing would be done to stop the rampage unless they did it themselves. Five weeks after the fire, Marny and the rest of San Francisco learned what had been going on at the meetings.
A group of two hundred responsible men made the announcement. They asked that their names and their intentions be published in the papers. They said they had organized a Committee of Vigilance and they were going to make the town safe to live in.
Their program was definite. They had a written constitution, a meeting place, and a signal. One of their number was to be always on duty at a fire engine building on the plaza. The signal—two quick strokes on the firebell, repeated at one-minute intervals—would call them together at any time.
The hoodlums were warned. But they were not impressed. For so long they had been having their own way, carousing in crime while honest men worked, that few of them could believe the carnival was over. The first day after the Vigilantes were formally organized, the bell rang to tell them they were needed.
It was late in the afternoon. Hiram and Pocket and Kendra were all together in the kitchen of the Calico Palace. While they waited for Marny to take a break from her card table, Kendra was arranging steaks in a pan, Pocket was drinking coffee, while Hiram was holding a glass of whiskey and water and grumbling because there was no ice in it. For some months now the San Francisco bars had had ice, cut from the frozen mountain lakes and brought down on the river boats, but this week the boats were late. The bars had no ice and patrons of the bars were loudly complaining.
Marny came into the kitchen, and Hiram greeted her with a lift of his glass. “Join me in a warm drink?”
“No thanks. Your day’s work is over, mine has just begun. I’ll take coffee.” She shook her head at him. “And if you don’t like warm drinks don’t buy them.”
Hiram laughed as she spoke. “Yes, I’m a spoilt brat.”
“So am I,” said Marny. “I miss the ice as much as anybody.” Pocket brought her a cup of coffee and she began to sip.
Kendra set the pan of steaks aside. “When do you want dinner?” she asked.
The men glanced questioningly at Marny. “At my next break, if that’s all right,” she said. “Hiram will have time for another of our warm drinks.”
“Fine,” said Pocket, and Hiram added,
“Suits me. Maybe I’ll have time for two of your—”
His words were interrupted by a sharp noise from outside—a double clang, and then a pause.
“What’s that?” cried Kendra, and Marny gasped,
“If it’s another fire—”
“Hush!” ordered Hiram. Both he and Pocket had sprung to their feet. Hiram took out his watch and held up a hand for silence. The double clang sounded again.
“It’s not a fire,” said Pocket.
His voice had an ominous note. He and Hiram looked at each other, stern-faced.
Hiram said, “It’s our signal.” He put away his watch and felt his holster as if to make sure his gun was there. He turned to Kendra. “My darling, I don’t know what this means, but I’ve got to leave you.”
She was trembling, but she made herself speak steadily. “I know you must, Hiram.”
Hiram put his arm around her. Marny and Pocket stood silently while he said, “If I don’t come back tonight, you’ll understand it’s because I can’t.” With regret as deep as Kendra’s he spoke to Marny. “If I don’t come back, she can stay here?”
“Of course.”
The double clang sounded again. Hiram tightened his arm around Kendra and kissed her. “It’s a war, Kendra,” he reminded her. “If we don’t win now, they will.”
He and Pocket went to the door. On the threshold Pocket turned and waved goodby, and Hiram blew Kendra another kiss. Pocket closed the door, quietly, as he did everything.
Marny put a hand on Kendra’s shoulder. “Hiram’s right, dear,” she said. “This is a war.”
“I know,” said Kendra.
“Go on and cry,” said Marny.
Kendra answered with sudden force. “I don’t feel like crying. I’m mad. I’m burning up inside. Those miserable wretches.” She drew a deep determined breath to calm her nerves. With a glance at the steaks that now Hiram would not share, she asked, “Dinner at your next break, as you said?”
“Yes, please,” said Marny. She made herself be casual. “Well, time I got back to work.”
When she returned to the parlor most of the men she had left there were on their way out. One or two were leaving because they belonged to the Vigilance Committee, others because they wanted to see if the committee was serious in its intent, the rest for no reason except that the signal bell had promised some excitement and they wanted to be on hand.
But the men of the Vigilance Committee were not only serious, they were too serious to act in haste. They gathered at their temporary headquarters in a hotel just beyond the southern limit of the fire. Here they went into their meeting room and closed the doors.
The men who had rushed out of the Calico Palace began to drift back. They stood around, talked, went out again to ask for news, came in again to discuss what they had heard. Marny continued her game, pausing now and then to hear the talk. By bits and pieces she learned what was going on.
The men told her the Vigilance Committee had been summoned to sit in judgment on a well-known desperado, one of those who had been keeping the city in fear. He was a man named Jenkins, a big fellow of enormous strength. Jenkins was an Englishman who had been deported to one of the convict colonies of Australia. Hearing of the gold strike in California, Jenkins had taken ship from Sydney to San Francisco. There was no record of his having earned an honest dollar since he got here.
Late this afternoon Jenkins had crept into a shipping office on the waterfront, grabbed a safe heavy with money, and made off with it in a rowboat. Men at work on the wharf had seen him and shouted an alarm. In two or three minutes half a dozen other boats were chasing him.
He was strong, but he was outnumbered, and his pursuers managed to tie him up and take him to the fire station. The committee member on duty there gave the signal. When the committee had assembled at their meeting place, Jenkins’ captors presented their case.
Here, they said, was a man whose latest crime had been seen by scores of witnesses, most of them present and ready to testify. Did the gentlemen mean what they said or didn’t they?
They did.
Jenkins was put on trial. The trial lasted a long time, for there were many witnesses to be heard. They made their statements, while outside the building hundreds of persons, both men and women, gathered to wait for the verdict. There was no disorder among them. There was almost no sound. They spoke in hushed voices. They waited tensely. They waited through the long June twilight and they were still waiting by the light of the moon.
In Marny’s parlor, men were restless, uneasy. They fidgeted about, now at the bar, then at a card table, then making bets at dice or roulette, then starting the round again. With her usual self-possession Hortensia played the piano, but tonight even her most devoted hearers did not sit and listen. They wanted to keep moving. The bartenders poured drinks, and said almost nothing except an occasional “Sorry” when a drinker lamented the lack of ice. At the bar, some men said Jenkins would never get out of this. Others said the hoodlums would surely put up a fight, and rescue him. Like the crowd waiting outdoors, they spoke in undertones. They walked softly. Marny had never known the room to be so quiet. This was a moment of crisis. War was declared and they were waiting for the first gun.
It seemed a long time, though the Harvard man came promptly at his regular hour to take her place so she could go to dinner. Marny finished her deal and
spoke to him.
“Can I talk to you a minute, Harvard?”
Harvard went with her into the back hall. He had been out, and he was expecting her question.
“How is it going?” she asked.
“All quiet so far,” he answered. “Now and then a man comes out on a balcony and urges everybody to be patient. He tells nothing. But rumors get around, you know.”
“Rumors of what?” she asked in a low voice.
With a swift gesture, the Harvard man drew his hand across his neck.
Marny was not surprised, but she felt a chill.
“It had to come to this sometime,” said the Harvard man.
“Yes,” she answered, “it had to. All right, you can take over. We’re having no trouble here.”
Marny went to the kitchen. At another time the aroma of the steaks on the fire would have been tempting; tonight she only wished she did not have to eat. Kendra sat by the table, trying to read this morning’s Alta. She stood up as Marny came in.
“I’ve made some soup to start,” she said.
“Thanks,” said Marny.
She took a chair. Kendra brought her a cup of soup. Marny’s throat felt tight. She wondered if she could get the soup down.
She knew she would feel better if she did, so she tasted it. The soup was a clear vegetable broth, brewed with Kendra’s customary skill, and Marny tasted it again.
Kendra too had heard the rumor, brought by Lulu and Lolo, who had heard it from the Blackbeards. When she had poured a cup of soup for herself she sat down facing Marny at the table.
“Are they going to hang that man?” she asked abruptly.
“That’s the talk,” Marny told her.
For a few moments they were silent. Marny sipped the broth. Kendra asked, again abruptly, “Marny, if you were on that committee—would you vote for execution?”
Marny looked at her cup. She looked at the sugar bowl. She looked at a scrap of paper that had blown into a corner. She looked up at Kendra. She said, “Yes.”