Part 6

We passed through the shopping district and lingered for a moment at the edge of Portsmouth Square. My eyes rested affectionately on the clean-cut lawns and blossoming shrubs. Then I turned to the skeptic, but before I could speak, he had dismissed it with a nod.

"Too modern," he commented. "Looks as if it had been planted yesterday. Now the Boston Common--"

A rasping discordant sound burst from a near-by store and the Easterner sent me a questioning glance.

"A Chinese orchestra," I replied. "We are in Oriental San Francisco."

"That park was doubtless made as a breathing place for this congested Chinese quarter," he glanced back at the green square. "A good civic improvement."

"That park is a relic of old Spanish days and one of the most historic spots in San Francisco," I said severely.

He stopped short. "You don't mean--I didn't suppose there was anything old in commercial San Francisco."

"Portsmouth Square was once the Plaza of the little Spanish town of Yerba Buena, and the public meeting place of the community when there were not half a dozen houses in San Francisco."

"Let's go back." He wheeled about abruptly and started in the direction of the square, but I protested.

"I am hungry and I want some luncheon!" "Then we'll return this afternoon." There was determination in his voice.

"We will hardly have time if we visit Luis Argüello's home at the Presidio," I objected.

"All right, we'll take it in tomorrow, then."

Hastening on, we were soon in the midst of the huddled houses of the Latin quarter. Tucked away between two larger buildings, we found a quaint Spanish restaurant. As we opened our tamales, my companion again referred to Portsmouth Square.

"Tell me about it," he demanded. "Does it date with the Mission and Presidio?"

"No, it is of later birth, but still of equal interest in the history of San Francisco. The city grew up from three points--the Mission"--I pulled a poppy from my bouquet and placed it on the table to mark the old adobe--"the Presidio"--I moved a salt cellar to the right of the flower--"and the town of Yerba Buena," this I indicated by a pepper box below the other two. "Roads connected these points like the sides of a triangle and gradually the intervening spaces were filled with houses."

"Go on." He leaned back in his chair, but I had already risen. "It will be more interesting to hear the story on the spot tomorrow," I assured him as I drew on my gloves.

The Presidio

The Spanish Fortifications and the Love Story of Concepcion and Rezánov

The Presidio Past and Present

We hailed a car marked "Exposition" and were soon climbing the hills to the west. Between the houses, we had fleeting glances of the bay with its freight of vessels. Here waved the tri-color of France, while next to it the black, white and red flag of Germany was flung to the breeze, and within a stone's throw, Johnny Bull had cast out his insignia. At a little distance the ships of Austria and Russia rested side by side, and between the vessels the bustling little ferry-boats were churning up the blue water.

"It is difficult to picture this bay as it was in early Spanish days," I said, "destitute of boats and so full of otter that when the Russians and Alaskan Aleuts began plundering these waters, they had only to lean from the canoes and kill hundreds with their oars."

"But what right had the Russian here? Why didn't the Spaniards stop them? Otter must have brought a good price in those days." There was a ring of indignation in his voice, that told his interest had been aroused.

"San Francisco was helpless. There was not a boat on the bay, except the rude tule canoes of the Indians--'boats of straw'--Vancouver called them, and these were no match for the swift darting bidarkas of the Alaskan natives."

"And Luis Argüello in command!"

"I saw my idol falling, and hastened to assure him that the Comandante had built a boat a short time before, but the result was so disastrous that he never tried it again. The Presidio was in great need of repair and the government at Mexico had paid no heed to the constant requests for assistance, so Comandante Argüello had determined to take matters into his own hands. The peninsula was destitute of large timber, but ten miles across the bay were abundant forests, if he could but reach them. He, therefore, secured the services of an English carpenter to construct a boat, while his men traveled two hundred miles by land, down the peninsula to San Jose, along the contra costa, across the straits of Carquinez and touching at the present location of Petaluma and San Rafael, finally arrived at the spot selected. In the meantime the soldiers were taught to sail the craft, and the first ferryboat, at length started across the bay. But a squall was encountered, the land-loving men lost their heads, and it was only through Argüello's presence of mind that the boat finally reached its destination. For the return trip, the services of an Indian chief were secured, a native who had been seen so often on the bay in his raft of rushes, that the Spaniards called him 'El Marino,' the Sailor, and this name, corrupted into Marin, still clings to the land where he lived. Many trips were made in this ferry, but the comandante's subordinates were less successful than he, for one, being swept out to sea, drifted about for a day or two until a more favorable wind and tide brought him back to San Francisco. The Spaniards called the land where the trees were felled 'Corte Madera,' the place of hewn-wood, and a little town on the site still bears the name."

"But what became of the boat? You said--"

"Governor Sola was furious that any one should dare to build a boat without his orders. He called it 'insubordination.' How did he know what was the real purpose of the craft? Might it not have been built to aid the Russians in securing otter or to help the 'Boston Nation' in their nefarious smuggling?"

My companion straightened with interest, "The Boston Nation?"