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California Gold Rush Journal

PART 2

CHAPTER ONE

San Francisco — July 1851

As with the disastrous fire of May 3-4, the newly burned area of the June 22nd arson fire was now a scene of frenetic rebuilding. Though the City’s administrative center was still sooty rubble, the rest of the burned area from Montgomery Street to Broadway was rife with the sound of carpenters’ hammers on redwood framing and the slapping of masons’ mortar on bricks as the affected commercial and residential areas quickly were resurrected anew.

Manon’s catering business and accompanying wine bar were booming on the Long Wharf where our British brig, “The Eliza,” was berthed. Manon’s newly liberated partners, Teri and Giselle, who ran our food and liquor tables on the wharf, were largely responsible for the increase in male patronage at their stands. Both now eschewed “respectable” married woman’s traditional mode of dress—high-necked dresses with petticoats and a fashionable bonnet to discreetly hide one’s hair. Teri, whose Chilean boyfriend had dumped her and stolen her earnings after his liquor store burned in May, now wore her long, blond tresses loose down the back of her form-fitting Chilean peasant’s dress with low-cut bodice. Giselle, more reserved, now wore a minimum of petticoats under form-fitting dresses that no longer covered her dainty shoes and boots which now gave an alluring glimpse of well-turned ankles as she served Manon’s hearty soups and thick slices of home-made pâtés on freshly baked baguettes to an ever increasing male clientele. Each women now wore a flower in their loose flowing hair to signify they were no longer married or bound to an unappreciative male.

After the fire, my assistant, Georges, took the first paddle-steamer leaving for Panama and was on his way to escort his American fiancé, Nelly Swanson, to San Francisco to thwart her father’s plans to marry her off to an eligible New York bachelor who could help promote the father’s many business interests. He’d received a tear-stained letter from Nelly attesting to her desperate plight. Their shipboard romance on the trip to New York on the Clipper, “Flying Cloud,” and Georges’ departure meant I now had to find another assistant to help in my newly established private detective and notary business serving the legions of French arriving weekly and those already trying their luck in the gold fields.

I decided to head for town, scour the newspapers for the latest efforts of the Committee of Vigilance to apprehend the villains responsible for torching half the city less than six weeks after the last arson that destroyed the main commercial area and most warehouses. I also wanted to seek the advice of our friend, Pierre-Louis, proprietor of Les Bons Amis restaurant on Dupont Street.

The papers teemed with caustic accusations against the Sydney Ducks, who were generally blamed for the fire. The city was now effectively without police or judicial protection. City Hall, the courts and police headquarters all burned in the fire. The Committee of Vigilance was the only organized group that had the backing of the business and professional communities and the capability to arrest, incarcerate, try and execute arsonists and criminals. They were currently detaining 30-40 suspects at their armed headquarters, which had escaped the fire’s wrath.

Judge Campbell sought to thwart the Committee of Vigilance by appointing a new grand jury to investigate the fire and charge criminals. The grand jury was the sole judicial body that was difficult to corrupt or bribe as its members were not randomly selected but appointed from the city’s leading citizens — bankers, merchants and professionals who owned property. Ironically, several members of the new grand jury were also Committee members.

The papers were screaming for the neck of a Sydney Duck, named James Stuart, also known as “English Jim,” who claimed he was Thomas Berdue. He’d been recognized by a Committee member on the street and arrested. He was wanted for the murder of Sheriff Charles Moore in Auburn, California during a robbery attempt in October, 1850. Stuart had been convicted of murder and sentenced to hang in Marysville. He escaped and fled when the rope around his neck broke. Berdue protested adamantly not to be Stuart, but the Committee sent him to Marysville to be quickly retried and hung.

“What do you think of the Stuart affair?” I asked Pierre-Louis when he joined me for an aperitif. “Do they have the right man?”

“Even if they don’t, the guy’s a Duck and in with the gang that torched the city and nearly got my restaurant this time. I say hang ‘em all or deport ‘em; enough’s enough,” Pierre-Louis replied with vehemence.

I explained my dilemma at the loss of my assistant, Georges. “Any ideas how I might find a replacement?” I asked.

“You could always put a help wanted ad in the French sections of the newspapers, but you’d be flooded with unqualified and desperate job seekers. Better to ask people you know and trust,” he replied.

“You’re right as usual. I’ll try to be patient and ask around. I can’t afford to make a mistake.” I was thinking of the latest delivery of several sacks of mail from the French Consulate. I needed someone who could read and sort through the piles of letters addressed to the thousands of French gold seekers who couldn’t read or write or were constantly on the move in search of richer diggings. Most of the letters were addressed to someone “at San Francisco” or simply “in the gold fields.”

My agreement with the consulate required me to match names of emigrants with ship’s manifests provided by the consulate and forward the letters to the groups of French miners working either the northern or southern placers where the consul general had sent the mostly impoverished arrivals. Georges and I had delivered letters to the northern mining camps along the north and south forks of the Yuba River. I would now need to take a similar trip to the southern placers and seek out French miners there.

Hundreds of new immigrants arrived weekly and brought even more letters from mothers, wives, fiancées and other family members desperate to know their loved one was safe and sound and hopefully getting rich. By visiting French mining camps and delivering letters, I made contacts and solicited business for my newly established notary enterprise. For those I couldn’t locate, I sent a letter back to France informing the anxious relative that their loved one arrived safely in San Francisco and had been dispatched by the consulate to join other French miners. For a fee, I promised to try to locate the loved one and deliver the letter and mail a reply. Fortunately, the cost of mailing letters from California to France was only a few cents. The consulate paid me $1.00 for each letter the overwhelmed post office couldn’t deliver or decipher the name of the sender or addressee.

While there was little profit in this activity, it made important contacts I hoped would translate into increased business. I calculated that my offer to locate miners and others who’d not made contact would promote my detective service with those who could afford my daily fee of $64.00 (four ounces of gold) plus expenses. I was reminded of how John Sutter abandoned his wife and kids in Switzerland in order to try his luck first in the Sandwich Islands and then the fertile lands of the Sacramento Valley. I was sure he wasn’t the only scoundrel to seek his fortune in the gold fields while leaving a family and debts behind. Time would tell if my gamble paid off.

I was curious to see how the Italians in the “Little Italy” part of town that burned were making do. Manon had been impressed with the quality of the Italian salumi we had sampled in the trattoria Bella Toscana before the fire. She was considering adding Italian cold cuts and spicy sausage panini and pasta with cheese from Parma to her lunch menu if we could secure a reliable supply at a reasonable price. As the proprietor, Luigi Salterini, spoke French, I was determined to find him and sound him out on the idea.

As I made my way down the burned part of Dupont Street toward Broadway, I had to dodge tenacious carters hauling lumber, bricks and building supplies through the bog the street had become. Reluctant horses bellowed their displeasure at the slippery slog along the once elegant street while their carters whipped, yelled and cursed at their reticent animals. One cart full of barrels of nails and metal doors had broken an axel in a deep pot hole and now blocked half the street with its spilled load and frenzied horses. The gridlock and resulting chaos would be funny if the two carters seeking to pass the accident in opposite directions were not threatening to shoot each other for the right to pass first.

When I reached Pacific Street and the start of “Little Italy,” I was surprised to see that while very little new construction was underway, lots had been cleared of burned structures and debris and were now occupied by Italian merchants selling goods from makeshift stalls — rough-planed lumber supported by barrels to make a stand for merchandise, the bed of a lumber cart, or a tent with makeshift tables and goods stacked on barrels. Each merchant had a tent to stow goods and a shotgun to defend against thieves and squatters during the night.

As I approached Broadway and the area where Luigi Salterini’s trattoria once stood, I hailed a merchant selling olive oil and pasta. “Donde posso trovare Luigi Salterini?” I muttered in halting Italian. The merchant, a bright-eyed, bushy-haired, olive-skinned man in his forties, laughed and waved his arm to indicate down the street somewhere.

I turned left on Broadway, as I remembered when Manon and I first sought out his restaurant after visiting “Little China,” with Manon disguised as an American sailor boy the day the Committee of Vigilance hanged the Sydney Duck, Jenkins, in Portsmouth Square for armed robbery. I strolled along the street pleased to hear the sing-song lyricism and beauty of the Italian language as buyers with colorful baskets haggled the price of the wares for sale.

Salterini was clapping his hands together to ward off the chill breeze now blowing down the street while he chatted animatedly with customers for his panini, sausages, salamis, cheeses and Italian red wines on a makeshift counter inside a large tent. I admired his friendly, sociable selling manner as his customers selected his appetizing foods and their favorite wines. For some customers he knew, he marked their purchases in a ledger for payment later, while others paid in gold dust or coin.

Once the transactions were completed and the little store emptied of customers, I made my presence known.

“I’m pleased to see you survived the fire and are still in business,” I said in French and thrust out my hand to him. “Bravo!” I added as he pumped my hand with gusto. Despite his losses, this small, full-fleshed man with rosy cheeks and bulbous nose the color of the wine he sold looked cheerful and upbeat.

“We Italians are used to hard times. That’s why we left Italy for California. The Ducks aren’t going to drive us out. We’ll rebuild and let the Committee of Vigilance stretch their necks at the end of a rope,” he said with conviction.

“I’m glad you and the rest of the community feel that way. The French merchants are of the same opinion. Will it take long to rebuild your trattoria?”

“Hopefully, not too long. I have two nephews who managed to strike some good gold in Mariposa. With what I’ve saved and their help, I can build again. The problem is we are last on the list to get materials and skilled carpenters. We are merchants, not artisans, so we must wait our turn until the Yankee gambling houses and stores are rebuilt and back in business. Until then, we sell out of our lots and keep the bad guys out.”

“I’m surprised to see so much good merchandise for sale. I would have thought it would have burned with the businesses,” I said pointing to his panini sandwiches and the heaps of sausages, salamis and other goods.

He laughed and rubbed his ample belly. “When you live and work so close to crooks and robbers, you don’t leave all your eggs in one basket. We learned our lesson after the first fire and knew there would be more. We hired a ship to store our goods. My nephews and others live on the ship and guard it where it’s anchored in the bay. We take off what we need or can sell each day and nothing more.”

“Smart,” I beamed. “That’s what my wife and her associates do as well. We have our ship docked at the Long Wharf and pull up the gang plank each evening. She sells breakfast and lunch to the dock workers and travelers going to and from Sacramento on the paddle steamers that leave from the wharf. She’d like to supplement her French offerings with some Italian dishes as well. She would like to offer Italian sausage and salami sandwiches and pasta with a marinara sauce and cheese from Parma. Is it possible to get a steady supply of these items?”

Salterini pointed to a rough stool and motioned me to sit down. From behind the counter he pulled out a half-full, corked bottle of Chianti and swiftly filled two glasses. “We’re not gonna discuss business without a glass of wine and some of my best smoked sausage.” From behind the counter, he pulled out a wooden cutting board and large butcher’s knife and began to slice one of the sausages on his counter. That done, he popped a large slice in his mouth and washed it down with a healthy slug of wine.

“Ah bellisimo. Que combinazione—salciccia e vino rosso, che divino, no? Sorry, I got carried away. Please try some sausage with the wine; it’s almost as good as red wine with Italian cheeses. Sadly, so many of our cheeses don’t keep during the voyage through the tropics. Only the hard parmesan cheeses come through okay.” He hacked off a big sliver of parmesan from a huge round and thrust it at me. “Try this with the wine,” he said with big grin as he shoveled another slice of sausage into his mouth.

After sampling both the sausage and cheese with a refilled glass of wine, I beamed my appreciation. “Divine it is as you say. It’s almost as good as a glass of Gigondas with a slice of saucisson sec de l’Ardèche or an aged fromage de Salers.” I said tongue-in-cheek.

Salterini guffawed so hard he spit out his mouth full of wine and sausage despite an effort to control it. “My friend, you must be kidding. You French have very good wines and cheeses but not better than the best from Italy,” he said seriously as if Italian honor was at stake.

“Let’s agree that the French and Italian wines and cheeses are the best in the world,” I said in a spirit of compromise. “We can drink to that, non?”

Salterini quickly topped up our glasses and we toasted both countries’ wines and cheeses. “I know my wife would agree. I’d like to buy one of each you sell along with a hunk of parmesan so she can sample them for herself. Do you think you could supply the ones she prefers on a regular basis?” I asked.

“But of course, my friend. She’s that cute little sailor girl you bring to my trattoria, yes?” I nodded yes. He took a white crayon and marked a figure on the skin of several different sausages and salamis. “I mark a special price for your principessa. We maybe can trade food if she has good meat and seafood for me when my restaurant is rebuilt, eh?”

I nodded my assent. “We get a weekly delivery of deer and boar meat from French hunters along with duck, quail, partridge and other game birds.” I paused to let him salivate while I contemplated the effects of the red wine on his bulbous nose. “And of course she has regular deliveries of fresh shellfish for her fish stews—shrimp, oysters, clams, mussels, scallops and often tasty salmon and trout, and of course, fresh baby squid and crab when in season.” Salterini’s rapt attention to each item I mentioned indicated that he was clearly hooked on the prospect of fresh calamari fritti and pasta dishes loaded with shellfish.

While he savored the prospect of preparing Italian cuisine with our products, I opened a new subject. “You said your nephews were miners in the Mariposa area. Would they know someone familiar with that area who speaks and reads French? My assistant left for New York and I’m looking for someone who can help me in my legal business and my contract to deliver mail to French mining camps in the southern placers.”

Salterini opened a new bottle of Italian red wine from Tuscany as he pondered my question, then poured more wine. “My nephew, Gino Lamberti, might be very interested. He speaks French and Spanish as well as the English he picked up here. He worked in Genoa as a shipping clerk and is good with figures. He went often to Nizza where they speak Italian and French. He’s not too excited to work on the ship or in my restaurant. He knows the mining camps in Calaveras, Tuolumne and Mariposa counties. He and his cousin worked with both Chilean and French miners. He might just be your man. Would you like to meet him?”

“I’d love to meet him. How soon do you think you could arrange it?”

“I can send a message to the ship this evening. Where can he meet you?”

“See if he can join me for lunch tomorrow at 1 p.m. at the French restaurant, Les Bons Amis; it’s on Dupont Street past the plaza on the right hand side.”

“He’ll be there. He loves eating in restaurants and with almost all Italian restaurants destroyed, he’ll jump at the chance to meet you in a restaurant.” Salterini hurriedly packaged the salamis, sausages and cheese and added a couple of bottles Italian red wine and thrust it at me while motioning newly arrived clients to sample the few pieces of sausage he had not polished off with the wine. He waved off my attempt to pay. “We’ll settle when your principessa decides what to order. Make her sample my food with our Italian red wine only,” he said with a wicked grin.

The satchel he’d packed was heavy but my heart light as I headed back to our ship on the wharf. Manon would be delighted to sample Salterini’s wares and know he could supply her needs. I was looking forward to our sampling session together and the lunch meeting the next day.