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California Gold Rush Journal

PART 2

CHAPTER SIX

San Francisco — July 1851

I checked with the consulate and was assured I could have tickets to the upcoming French Ball at the Cairo Saloon. I broached the subject with Manon before discussing it with Teri and Giselle.

“So Daddy-to-be wants to check out all the pretty French ladies in town while Manon lugs his progeny around in her bigger and bigger belly, yes?”

“That’s only partially true,” I said tongue-in-cheek. “I look at all the pretty ladies every day, but none compares to you, Mommy-to-be.”

“Hah. So you admit your roving eye can’t be trusted, Heh!”

I laughed at her attempt to say “Gotcha.” “But of course not, ma Chérie. We are being invited to chaperone Teri and Giselle if they want to go. Gino wants to invite Teri and he’s afraid she won’t go with him unless we tag along. We both thought it would be good for Giselle as well to meet other Frenchmen and have some fun. There will lots of successful French businessmen and merchants in attendance. I thought it would be a safe outing for all of us.”

“Yes, and there will be all the French dance hall girls and barmaids and pouffiasses who work in the bars and gambling palaces and make their real money on their backs who will be there to snare respectable French ladies’ husbands, Non?”

“I am not afraid. You can come in your sailor boy outfit with a carving knife in your boot and your marine pistol in your belt. No conniving wench will be able to get near me with you to protect me.”

It was Manon’s turn to laugh. “So you gonna just dance with your pregnant wife dressed as a pot-bellied sailor boy all night?”

“Maybe I’ll get to dance with Teri and Giselle as well if my favorite wife gets tired?”

“Ha, you make goo-goo eyes at any other woman, and mother-to-be will cut you up in little pieces and feed you to the seagulls on the wharf,” she retorted ignoring my reference to her partners.

“So, you’re willing to go?”

“We go only if Teri and Giselle go,” she stated emphatically. “And you don’t go unless I go, so there, Big Boy.”

I let it go at that. I opened the subject at our next communal dinner. All three women were surprised when I related that Gino asked my permission to date Teri. Teri agreed she’d go if we all went as a group. Giselle was unsure and hesitant, but Manon prodded her to tag along with us. Manon even offered to have me dance with her if she didn’t want to dance with any of the men present. Manon gave me a devilish tit-for-tat look.

Later she informed me that the lawyer, Thomas Hawthorne, had been ordering his lunch “take out” the last few days from Giselle’s stand on the wharf and had been finding excuses to hang around, sip a glass of wine and engage Giselle in conversation in his limited French. She suggested I get a ticket for him as well, but not tell Giselle.

“So we are now conniving and running a matrimonial agency?”

“Maybe,” she said coyly. “I sneaked a look at him and he is tall and not unattractive. You don’t expect me to dance only with you when we have other men seeking favors, do you, Big Boy,” she said flirtatiously.

I laughed. “Do you think Giselle will welcome him as part of our group?”

“Well, you are going to do business with him, so we’ll find out. Maybe a chance encounter will break the ice. Giselle is still shy and fearful of men and the lawyer is too timid to ask her for a date. So, we just help the matter along, non?”

“My, my, Manon has become quite the little intriguer, hasn’t she?”

Manon puckered her pouty lips and fluttered her long, black eyelashes for full effect. “If you are going to forsake mother-to-be and go gallivanting around the mining camps with Gino, then who better than a lawyer in love to protect three abandoned women?”

As usual, I was being out maneuvered and chastised at the same time by my clever wife. “It looks like I better get that extra invitation soon so you can finish your theatrical plotting. Just tell me the role you want me to play in your scheme.”

Manon threw me a victory smile. I promised to secure the invitations and headed for my office. I picked up the day’s papers which all featured yesterday’s events culminating in the hanging of Stuart.

The Committee marched Stuart to the Market Street wharf, blocked the entrance to prevent rescue, and hanged him from a cargo derrick. The mayor angrily responded to the hanging declaring in a proclamation that he “would not shirk his duties to curb the power of the Committee of Vigilance.” Judge Alexander Campbell vented his outrage by declaring the hanging an “abomination,” and vowed that “those who aided and abetted the hanging are murderers and would be brought to justice before his grand jury.”

One wag gleefully responded to Judge Campbell’s threats by reminding readers that eight members of the grand jury were members of the Committee of Vigilance. Despite the posturing of the officials, the editorials pointed out the reality that the only civic group with the power to arrest, try, convict and punish criminals effectively in San Francisco was in the hands of the Committee.

The Committee’s response was to release Thomas Berdue with an apology and a sack of gold coins to appease him for his close call with a noose at Marysville and announce that they would be boarding all incoming vessels to ferret out criminals and troublemakers. They promised to investigate and try all of Stuart’s accomplices named in his “confession.”

I made enquiries to locate Etienne Derbec. He was working for a bilingual newspaper in the City. I had been impressed with his candor and uncompromising assessment of the fraud committed by mining societies when I was still in France. He evaluated the situation on arrival in California and wrote in 1850 to warn off French emigrants desiring to come to the placers. His letters, published in Journal des Débats, in Paris had a simple message. Don’t come to California unless you can afford expensive supplies and provisions and have lots of money. His candid assessment of how hard it was to find gold fell mostly on deaf ears given the gushing, frenzied accounts of success in the popular press in France in 1850 and 1851.

I learned that many of his conclusions about the harsh conditions emigrants would face in the mines were based on a trip he’d made to the southern placers. I wanted to meet him to pick his brain as I prepared to visit the same areas he’d traveled to the year before. I had Gino deliver him an invitation to join me for an aperitif when he finished work. I alerted Pierre-Louis and asked him to prepare a plate of cold cuts, cheese and pâté for my meeting.

Derbec arrived promptly at 6 p.m. He was easily recognizable in his baggy corduroy pants, long-sleeved cotton shirt and ink-stained apron slung over his arm. He was short in stature but barrel-chested and muscular. His tawny, penetrating eyes sparkled with energy. He wore his long, black hair in a pony tail. Pierre-Louis directed him to my table at the rear.

“Monsieur Dubois?”

I nodded yes and offered my hand. His no nonsense grip was firm and powerful. His stubby fingers were stained with ink but bore the marks of one who was used to manual as well as intellectual labor. I introduced myself as a private investigator and explained my purpose in visiting the southern placer mines he’d written about in his dispatches to Paris newspapers, most of which had been published while I was at sea. I motioned to Pierre-Louis to bring two carafes of wine—one red and the other white.

“White or red?” I asked.

“I only drink red wine,” he replied. I poured him a large glass of red and one of white wine for me. “How can I help you?” He asked as we clinked glasses.

I explained in general terms what I had seen in the French mining camps along the Yuba River and its tributaries in the northern placers. I also detailed my assignment to gather evidence of promoter fraud against the Californienne Mining Co.

“What can you tell me about the French mining in the southern placers from your experience last year?”

He laughed heartily. “I can probably tell you a lot of things you’d rather not hear,” he said seriously. “Have you read my dispatches to the Journal des Débats?”

“I’ve read only a few as many were published while my wife and I were en route from France to San Francisco via New York. Hopefully, someone will establish a reading library for French newspapers and books.”

“But you know how I have urged the French not to come for mining or expect help from fraudulent mining associations.”

“Yes, of course. It’s why I wanted to meet you and learn whether your experiences in the south were markedly different from mine in the north. I heard that there were altercations between the French and other miners at Les Fourcades, which the Americans call Mokelumne Hill.”

“Ah yes, Moke Hill. The French were the first to strike gold in the area, but they caused a lot of resentment. The first big group there was Les Gardes Mobiles, a paramilitary group sent by the government. They were organized as a militia, wore military uniforms, were commanded by officers and marched in formation to the beat of drummers. They even flew the French tricolor. They made a big strike at Moke Hill and stirred up a lot of animosity with nearby American and Irish miners.”

“Because they were flying the French flag?” I asked and refilled his glass and mine.

“That was part of it. They were mostly angry because they were working poor gravel deposits and only earning enough to pay their food and living expenses while the “Frenchies,” as they called us, were living high off the hog and getting rich. So, the Irish confronted the French and demanded they abandon the Moke Hill diggings or prepare to fight them and the Americans.”

“Was part of it related to the Miner’s Tax?” I motioned Pierre-Louis to bring more wine and the plate of cold cuts now that we were getting to the nitty-gritty.

“The Miner’s Tax caused resentment among the non-American speaking miners including the French. For the Americans and Irish, it validated their belief that the gold in the ground belonged to them and not cheeky foreigners. The Irish had left harsh conditions in their own country, and like the Americans, felt entitled to the most profitable claims and thus, the challenge to give them up or fight.”

I chuckled to myself. Most Irish I’d seen in San Francisco seemed ready to fight over a lot less, even a schooner of beer. I’d even seen one Irishman drop a large pack across the entrance to a saloon, then order drink from the bar and wait. The first person to kick the pack aside was challenged to a bare-knuckled fight for injuring precious property.

“So the Irish actually attacked?”

Derbec shoveled several slices of sausage and a hunk of cheese down his craw and washed it all down with big slugs of red wine before replying. “Yes, they led the attack with pistols and shotguns, but the French had had time to construct a fortified perimeter. The Irish managed to wound several French miners and lost one dead in the initial assault, but couldn’t breach the French positions which were at the top of the hill.”

“Is that when Consul Dillon intervened?”

“Yes, it was basically a standoff with the French holding the high ground and the Irish and Yankees not wanting to risk more serious casualties in storming the French positions. Dillon got the Irish and Americans to agree to a truce and the French were allowed to stay and work their hill, but it created bad blood and ill will that still exists today. The Yankees were ticked off that the Governor didn’t send troops to chase the French out of their redoubt.”

“Did this animosity spill over into other diggings?”

“Yes, but after the Moke Hill confrontation, each group stayed apart. The Yankees, Irish and English speaking miners worked together, often effectively in large companies, while the French worked alongside and camped with Chilean, Mexican and other Spanish speaking miners. Essentially, the two opposing camps tried to avoid each other as all were armed to the teeth and prepared to defend their claims.”

“Were other groups of French able to make major strikes like Les Gardes Mobiles?”

Derbec laughed, then stuffed his mouth with a big gob of pâté on a slice of baguette and filled his empty glass again. “One reason the Gardes were so successful was their organization. They worked and lived as a mining company and shared the profits of their labor equally according to rank. The French were arriving in large numbers when I was there, but they did not work in organized groups. By then, the easy, close to surface gold was gone. Unlike the Americans, who worked in large companies and were able to divert rivers and tributaries to expose the bedrock where the best concentrations of gold lay, the French worked in small groups or solely with a relative. So, they were relegated to the accessible but poor paying river banks or mining claims that had been abandoned because they paid poorly.”

“Couldn’t they see that the American system brought better results?” I asked incredulously.

“Hah. You know our race. Every Frenchman is an individualist; he believes he’ll be successful on his own, and tomorrow he’ll make the lucky strike that will make him rich and he doesn’t want to share it with anyone else. Many new arrivals believed the myth that there was gold to pick by walking the river bank or wading in shallow water. I saw one bunch of French arriving with rakes believing they could just rake the gold out of shallow water. One paunchy Frenchman arrived with his well-fed wife and daughter who carried embroidered stools to sit by the river and pick up gold nuggets with tongs. Incroyable!” Derbec took a gulp of wine, but sputtered and choked as it went down the wrong channel.

I decided to change subjects as his face had gone bright carmine and a neck vein was throbbing uncontrollably. “Was there an organized system for French miners to get their mail regularly?

Derbec refilled his glass and made a half-hearted effort to dab the splotches on his shirt and trousers made by the red wine he’d sprayed about. “Miners around Mariposa, Moke Hill, and Sonora had to walk to town to get or send mail from the post office when they came for provisions or to gamble. Mail only arrived once a month, if at all, in the most remote areas the French mined.”

“Did anyone bring mail to the camps?”

“No, it was too expensive. It cost $2.00 to $3.00 a letter to get mail delivered and most didn’t have it. There were 6,000 to 8,000 French miners working in the south and most were just eking out that much a day to pay for food and shelter.”

Derbec had finished the plate of cold cuts and the second carafe of red wine. I decided to terminate the interview. I had a good sense of what to expect on my trip south and how to prepare and to provision. I invited him to stay and eat dinner at the restaurant as my guest, but made my excuses to leave, pleading a need to help my pregnant wife prepare our meal. Thank goodness Manon did not hear my ignoble excuse. She would have sent me packing with a portion of stale bread and pitcher of water for the evening.