Part 9

"Oh yes, there was an earthquake--but it didn't do much damage," I hastened to add. "Just 'knocked down a few chimneys and rickety buildings that the city was going to pull down anyway. It was the fire that destroyed the city."

"So Mother Nature was just favoring 'Frisco by lending a helping hand to the city officials," he laughed. "Well, you see I'm prepared for the deluge." He indicated his upturned trousers. "But if it isn't an arroyo--"

"It's the bay," I explained. "It used to touch the shore about where we are standing, forming a little inlet called Yerba Buena Cove."

"But," objected the man, mentally measuring the distance down the straight paved street to where the slender shaft-like tower of the Ferry Building broke the sky line, "it must be seven blocks from here to the present waterfront, two thousand feet at least."

"Yes, fully that," I agreed. "A large part of the business section of San Francisco stands on made-land. The water along the shore, here at Montgomery street, was very shallow, and at the time of the gold rush, when seven or eight hundred vessels were waiting in the bay to discharge their freight and passengers, a corporation of energetic Americans built a long wharf from here to the deep water, where the ships were anchored. Look down Commercial Street to the Ferry Building and, instead of the houses on either side, imagine it open to the water. Then you will see Central Wharf as it was in 'forty-nine.'"

"Central Wharf!" The name had caught his interest.

"Yes, it was called that from the one you have in Bost."

"Bost?" he repeated, mystified. "Bost?"

"Yes, Bost!" I answered. "You called our, city 'Frisco, not five minutes ago, so why shouldn't I--"

"I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I will never offend in that way again."

"But the building of the wharves and the filling in of the waterfront belong to a later time and we are back in Spanish days. When Vancouver landed he tells us that he cast anchor within a small inlet surrounded by green hills, on which herds and cattle were grazing. Historians say that his ship lay about where the Ferry Building now stands and that the crew put off for the shore in small boats. This place was a waste of sand-dunes and chaparral but the Englishmen were refreshed by the cool waters of the arroyo and spent a pleasant morning shooting quail and grouse."

"Quail, grouse and chaparral," he repeated, as his eyes traveled up and down the solidly built blocks and rested on the pedestrians hurrying in and out of the buildings. "Let's take a look at the bed of the arroyo."

We paused at the corner and for a moment watched the car laboriously climb the Sacramento Street hill and disappear over the crest; then we turned for another look at the mass of buildings now resting on the solid ground which had taken the place of the shining waters of Yerba Buena Cove.

"It was about here," I announced, "that the arroyo opened out into the Laguna Dulce, a little fresh water pool where Richardson's Indians delighted to take a cold plunge on leaving their steaming temescal."

"Richardson? Hardly a Spanish name!"

"No, but a Spaniard by naturalization and marriage. He was an Englishman who had come to the coast in the whaler 'Orion,' and being fascinated by the country and the carefree Spanish life, had married a lovely little señorita, the daughter of Lieutenant Martinez, later Comandante of the Presidio. Richardson settled on a ranch at Sausalito and in 1835, when Governor Figueroa decided to establish a commercial city on the shore of Yerba Buena Cove, he appointed as harbor master, this Englishman, who was already carrying on a small business with the Yankee skippers, and the future town was made a port of entry for all vessels trading up and down the coast. Richardson built the first house in the little settlement of Yerba Buena, afterwards San Francisco."

"Since this is an historic pilgrimage, we must take a look at the spot where the first house stood. Is it far?"

"Only a few blocks," I assured him. "But we shall have to venture into the heart of Chinatown."

We made our way up Sacramento Street, where the straight-lined grey business blocks gave way to fantastic pagoda-like buildings gaily decorated in green, red, and yellow. Bits of carved ivory, rich lacquer ware and choice pieces of satsuma and cloisonné appeared in the windows. In quiet, padded shoes, the sallow-faced, almond-eyed throng shuffled by, us; here a man with a delicate lavender lining showing below his blue coat, there a slant-eyed woman with her sleek black hair rolled over a brilliant jade ornament, leading by the hand a little boy who looked as if he had stepped out of a picture book with his yellow trousers and pink coat.

We turned to the right at Grant Avenue, passing a building conspicuous on account of its elaborately carved balconies hung with yellow lanterns and ornamented with plants growing in large blue and white china pots. The Bostonian looked curiously at the Orientals lounging about the door, then his face brightened as he read the words, "Chop Suey."

"It's a Chinese restaurant," he exclaimed delightedly. "Let's go in for a cup of tea, as soon as we have taken a look at your historic landmarks."

On the northwest corner of Grant Avenue and Clay Street, we paused before a dingy four-story brick building on whose sides were pasted long strips of red paper ornamented with quaint Chinese characters. I secretly wished that the building had been designed as a gay pagoda with bright colored, turned-up eaves like many of those in Chinatown and that its windows had displayed the choice embroideries and carved ivories of some of its neighbors, but as we peered through the glass, we saw only utilitarian articles for the coolie Chinaman.

"Rather a sordid setting for my story," I bemoaned. "The first house in commercial San Francisco stood here. It was only a sail stretched around four pine posts, but two years later was replaced by a picturesque, red-tiled adobe, so commodious that the Spaniards called it the Casa Grande. I am afraid the building now occupying the spot where the second house stood will be equally disappointing," I said ruefully, as we recrossed the street to where a Chinese butcher and vegetable vender was displaying his wares. We gazed curiously at the dangling pieces of dried fish, strings of sausage-like meat, unfamiliar vegetables, lichee nuts and sticks of green sugar cane.

"Somewhat different from the silks, satins and laces displayed on this spot by Jacob Leese in Spanish days," I reflected. "He was a Bostonian, who like Richardson had become an adopted son of California and settled at Yerba Buena for the purpose of trading with the American vessels."

"This must have been a lively business center." The man raised his voice above the rumble of the wagons and cars. "Two little houses in the midst of a sea of sand-dunes and no settlement nearer than the Mission."

"Oh, it didn't take the American long to make things hum," I assured him. "He arrived here on July second. Two days later he had built a house and was entertaining all the Spaniards from miles around, at a grand Fourth of July celebration."

"Quick work even for a Yankee," laughed my companion. "But rather hard on his English neighbor, I should think. Did Richardson attend?"

"Of course he did! Delivered the invitations, too! Leese was busy building his house, so the Englishman, in his little launch, called at all the ranchos and settlements about the bay and invited the Spaniards to come to Yerba Buena for a Fourth of July fandango."