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California Gold Rush Journal

PART 2

CHAPTER EIGHT

San Francisco — July-August 1851

I learned the next day that “Dutch Charlie’s” real name was Charles Duane. Apparently, Frank Ball had been on a jury that failed to convict Duane of beating and stomping a man, then shooting him in the back. Duane held a grudge because Ball had voted for conviction. Ball was also a member of the Committee of Vigilance and Duane was convinced they were out to get him because the Committee alleged that Duane’s lawyer bribed a juror to keep Duane from being convicted.

I also read in the French sections of the morning papers that the French community was incensed at the attack and its aftermath which ruined the gala evening for us all. The Executive Committee of the Committee of Vigilance voted to arrest Duane but was too late. He was in police custody where his cronies would protect him from the Committee.

Members of the Committee were divided on how to proceed as a Duck named Lewis was being tried in the courts for arson. Conservative members of the Committee felt the Committee’s work was done as robbery and arson were less of a threat and many of the troublemakers were on the run.

More radical members voted to intensify activities against the Ducks and announced they would hang Lewis when convicted. They were angered that the Executive Committee had voted to hand over to the civil courts three principal associates of Stuart held by the Committee—James Burns, T. Ainsworth and George Adams. The radical wing called an assembly of Committee members and refused to give the three up.

The next day the grand jury indicted James Burns for serious felonies and ordered his immediate trial. The grand jury also declared that the actions of the Committee in trying and hanging Stuart were “in the best interests of the whole” community and refused to indict any Committee member. The action of the grand jury mollified enough Committee members to allow Burns to be turned over for civil trial on a close vote.

Meanwhile, Frank Ball died of his wounds inflicted in the vicious assault by Charles Duane. Judge Campbell presided over Duane’s trial and made sure there were no Committee Members on the jury. Duane’s lawyer successfully argued there was no intent to kill because Duane used no weapon despite his threat to kill. An intimidated jury voted to convict Duane of manslaughter but recommended leniency. Judge Campbell dutifully sentenced Duane to one year in prison which everyone knew would not be served given his political connections.

Governor McDougal issued his pardon on August 17^th. His cronies rejoiced declaring Duane was “a useful wheel of the democratic political machine,” while the Committee of Vigilance denounced the pardon as a double-cross intended “to take care of one of the boys,” when they learned of it later and vowed to retain and try prisoners in its custody.

I was anxious to take a trip to the southern placers, but didn’t want to leave our women unprotected until the tug of war between the civil authorities and the Committee of Vigilance was settled and the Ducks reined in for good. From the look of things, it looked to be a long struggle.

Manon was now uncomfortable with her pregnancy and the doctor confirmed she was carrying twins. I didn’t want to leave her until she gave birth which wouldn’t be until late November or early December. I hoped that Georges would be back with his Nelly by then and could help Manon in the kitchen. I determined to contact all senders of the letters we possessed and put Gino to work on the task.

I drafted a form letter for the printer that asserted my authority and commission by the French Consulate to track down and deliver letters to miners in the northern and southern placers for a fee of five francs per letter which was to be paid by return mail. I explained that mail delivery was spotty at best outside San Francisco and letters to French miners were routinely returned as “undeliverable” by postal clerks who could not read French and dumped them to rot in a dead-letter storage at the city’s postal facility. I asserted my intention to take their letters to the mining camps, collect replies, and forward them to those who had sent their 5 francs.

Fortunately, the postage rate from San Francisco to New York and on to Europe was modified by the Postal Act of March 3, 1851. It lowered the postage rate to 3 cents prepaid and 5 cents collect per ½ ounce for a distance of less than 3,000 miles and to 6 cents prepaid and 10 cents collect for over 3,000 miles effective June 30, 1851. The Act also provided a special rate of 5 cents for unsealed circulars traveling over 3,500 miles. I planned to frank our letters with a 5 cent stamp bearing the likeness of Benjamin Franklin which had been in use since 1847 and was still available at our post office.

As the Act of 1851 declared the use of the 1847 5 and 10 cents stamps invalid after June 30, 1851 and provided for printing of a new series in 1, 3 and 12 cent denominations, I had a hand stamp made to say “5 cents paid” which we would stamp next to the 5 cent stamp. As it would be months before the new stamp issue arrived in San Francisco, our contacts at the post office assured me that the use of the 5 cents stamps would pose no problems coming from California. France might demand some additional postage upon delivery, but the recipient would be sure to pay it to learn the whereabouts of a loved one.

I instructed our printer to use heavy paper that could be folded and to print a small vignette of a view of San Francisco on the fold to contain the addressee and 5 cent stamp and to print larger views of miners panning gold and working the “Long Tom” on the inside of the circular above the text. I thought the circular with attractive views would motivate those with the means to send the requested 5 franc note by return mail. Time would tell.

Since my trip to the southern placers was on hold, I debated how to best keep Gino busy and earning his keep. The answer came from an unexpected source. While Gino addressed and stamped our circular for France, I took a break and decided to visit Pierre-Louis to learn the latest inside info on the struggle between the judicial authorities and the Committee of Vigilance. I was stunned to see Les Bons Amis restaurant chained shut with no note of explanation on the door. I hurried to the French bakery that supplied Pierre-Louis’ restaurant and our wharf-side stands daily with fresh baguettes and other goodies. The baker, Emile, was cleaning his ovens and prep tables when I hailed him.

“Emile, what’s happening at Pierre-Louis’ bistro? I just passed there and the place is shuttered.”

“Ah, I guess you haven’t heard. Pierre-Louis fell coming down the stairs from the apartment over the restaurant and hurt himself badly.”

“When did this happen?”

“Two days ago. The cook came by to say his boss was in the hospital and the restaurant would be closed until further notice. The cook was really upset to be out of a job just like that.”

“Did he say which hospital?”

“Yeah, since he couldn’t walk, the ambulance wagon took him to the American hospital over by the entrance to the harbor.”

“I’m going to hire a cab and see how he’s doing.”

“See if you can find out when he plans to reopen the restaurant so I can restart bread deliveries.”

“Will do. Thanks for the information. I’ll be in touch.”

I rushed over to the Plaza to the taxi stand where a paunch-bellied, irate business man in a suit and top hat haggled for a lower rate for a ride to an address on the steep slope of Broadway. I brushed past the man and hopped into the cabriolet.

“I’ll pay double the rate to get to the American Hospital as soon as you can,” I said.

The cabbie untied the reins of his horse from the hitching post and hopped onto the driver’s seat in a flash.

“Hey. You can’t do that. That’s my cab. I was here first,” the now livid business man yelled. I just waved goodbye and the cabbie roared with laughter as he deftly maneuvered his nag around the corner of Clay Street and avoided a dray cart loaded with lumber and a matronly woman trying to protect her layers of petticoats as she herded a young boy in knickerbockers, school coat and cap across the street and around piles of horse dung.

The cabbie must have thought it was a matter of life and death as we whipped down Kearny Street on the way to North Beach. I just held fast to the grips beside my seat and marveled at the cabbie’s skill in avoiding obstacles and near misses as he honked a horn by his seat and yelled to make way. When we arrived at the entrance to the hospital, I tipped my hat in appreciation of his skill and arranged for him to wait for me to return.

The duty nurse passed me off to a gangly, acne-faced orderly in his twenties who led me down a long hallway and pointed to a door on the right. “You’ll find him in there with the rest of the patients with broken bones who can’t walk,” he said and retreated back the way we’d come.

The large room looked like a school dormitory with metal beds lined against both walls at three feet intervals with a center isle wide enough that two wheelchairs could pass. Most beds had a metal A-frame attachment with ropes and pulleys to elevate broken limbs. Pierre-Louis spotted me before I saw him. “Thank god you’ve found me Pierre,” he shouted from a bed near the far wall.

Both his legs were bound in casts to his hip and slightly elevated on the iron triangle over his bed. I scrounged a beat-up wooden chair nearby and dragged it alongside his bed. “Thank God you’re alive,” I said softly with my back to his nosy neighbor who had craned his neck like an alert, big-eared jack rabbit at my approach.

“Just barely,” replied Pierre-Louis. “If I understand the bloody doctors, my legs are broken in several places and it’s going to be a bitch to heal them. They’re not even sure I’ll be able to walk with a cane for several months. Thank God for the laudanum. The pain’s been a killer. But the worst thing is being trussed up like a living mummy in this infernal room with a bunch of noisy, obnoxious buffoons. Snoring, wheezing, coughing and yelling all night. You’ve got to get me out of here pronto, mon ami. They’ll kill me with their lousy food, weak coffee and ignorance. If I’m going to be trussed up like this, I need good food, alcohol, the newspapers and good cigars,” he pleaded.

I laughed, looked around me to assure no attendants could see and poured a large measure of cognac from my pocket flask into Pierre-Louis’ empty water glass. Pierre-Louis seized the glass, put his nose to savor the aroma and quaffed it in a go. “Ah, mon dieu, but that’s good. I’ve been dreaming of good wines, our cheeses and cigars in that order. It’s incredible what the Americans serve you to eat here. I ate better as a poor private in military service in France,” he said holding his glass out for a refill.

I shook my head, no. “Not all at once, my friend. I’ll leave you the flask, but you’ll have to go slow. I’ve been told that laudanum and alcohol don’t mix. It’s dangerous to take too much of either; together they could kill you if the dose is too much.” He took the flask greedily and stuffed it inside his blanket.

“How did it happen?”

“Stupidly, of course. I was late for an appointment, rushing down the stairs, not looking at the steps and missed the bottom ones. I fell hard on both legs at a bad angle trying to avoid hitting my head. Just like that I become a cripple in this infirmary. Worse than a prison where you can buy liquor and cigars and newspapers to read. You must get me out of here, Pierre.”

“Where do you want to go? You need full-time nursing care and medical supervision. You’re going to be trussed up like this for a long time according to what you’ve been told.”

“Find me a French nurse and a ground level apartment. I’ve money to pay whatever is necessary. My legs are in plaster of Paris casts, so I can’t move and no doctor can help until it’s time to remove them.”

“We can do that, but what about the restaurant and your employees? The baker said your cook was distraught.”

“I’ve had nothing else to think about since they parked me here. I’ve been contemplating a change for some time. You know I’ve groused about how I hate to provide a cheap fixed-price meal for the miserly new arrivals, who are too cheap to order a carafe of wine to wash it down. It sends the wrong message to my regular customers. The place needs a new look and better clientele. Obviously I can’t do it, especially in my condition. Do you think Manon would take it on?”

“Wow, that’s a big order. She’s always wanted to run a restaurant of her own. I’m not sure she’d want to run one that wasn’t hers. Plus she’s five months pregnant with twins due near the end of the year. What sort of arrangement did you have in mind? I’ll ask her, of course.”

“I thought you and Manon could buy the restaurant. We could arrange favorable terms so you make payments from profits. I think the Americans call the arrangement a lease with option to buy.”

“How would it work and what would be your role in the business?” My interest was now peaked.

“We could do a long-term lease and agree on a monthly lease payment that would be credited to the purchase price. I have enough savings to live comfortably and frankly, it’s time I eased up. That’s what the doctor told me. Said I’ve also got a problem with my ticker. Said if I’m not careful and don’t cut back on my drinking, I’m at risk to stroke out any time. So, you see, I need to make arrangements now while I’m not incapacitated. If I don’t, I’ll return to premises full of squatters and have to start from scratch. I’m too old for that.”

“So, we’d buy the restaurant business and the entire building including the apartment, right?”

“Yes, with these crippled legs I’m not going to risk those treacherous stairs again. I need to be at ground level both for my legs and heart. That’s what the doctor said.”

My mind was racing at the possibilities. Manon would have her cherished restaurant and I could use the large room at the top of the stairs as my office. We could use the apartment as a residence. We’d both be close to the business and not have to traverse dangerous streets at night when we closed the restaurant.

“How soon would we need to reopen the restaurant?” He really had my interest now.

“As soon as you possibly can so we don’t lose our suppliers or regular customers. I’m sure my cook, Henri Royat, would be happy to work for Manon. He loves his job and the restaurant.”

“But, he’s never worked for a boss who’s a woman. Manon’s very independent and will insist to run the restaurant her way; that’s why she came to San Francisco.”

“It’s true French chefs are all male. Henri’s a good cook, but he has always taken orders from me and I determine the menus. I think he’d like to see a more lively operation and the kind of glamour only a woman can bring, especially in this town starved for women.”

“Well, I have to talk it over with Manon. It’s going to be difficult to run two businesses with her pregnancy.”

“I’ve worked up some figures for how I think it could work,” he said and handed me some sheaves of notebook paper filled with figures and the address of his cook. “And mon ami, next time you come, bring me a refill for the flask and a couple of dry sausages from my cellar. I’m dying for some real food.”