X.
A Midnight Phantasy in California
The Vision—The Capture—“Frisco” and Its Favorite Haunts.
Having had considerable experience with copper thieves in the navy yards of Washington, D. C., New York, and Cavite, Philippine Islands, I was not overly surprised when, about midnight late in the autumn of 1903, while serving in the capacity of patrol at the Mare Island Navy Yard, California, as I chanced along the waterfront, to see the shadow of an apparent river pirate, presumably collecting copper bars from a large pile of this valuable metal. The man evidently, it appeared to me, had a boat in which he was storing the bars to be rowed across the channel to Valejo, the old Spanish gambling town and gold-miners’ retreat of the old days.
Without the least exaggeration, I must acknowledge to having been during my career in some very uncomfortable predicaments while grovelling through the vicissitudes of life’s various phases, and a strong resolution, which I have always held sacred, has been, never to take a life without giving the person a chance for his own; therefore, self-defence or being in action with the enemy could be my only palliation. This night, however, presented cause for exception to this rule. The corner of a large steam-engineering building hid from view the man whose shadow played in grotesque evolutions on the pier, and it was impossible to see him without uncovering myself to his gaze, but there lurked the shadow of every move cast vividly before my keen-set eyes.
As I quietly knelt in seclusion surrounded by the densest gloom, meditating as to how I might take the object alive, positively realizing that he was well armed, from my previous experience with river thieves, I saw the shadow portray a man drawing a gun and examining it closely, the shadow indicating that he was either trying the trigger or testing the T block of an automatic pistol.
It dawned on me that my duty bade me to halt this man, and, if in any way he attempted to evade me, to kill him.
I had the narrow neck of the channel covered, and it was my intention, if he attempted to shove off in a boat with any copper, to halt him, and, if he ignored my command, to fire. However, not seeing the shadow disappear for even an instant aroused my suspicion, as to load the copper in the boat in any shape or manner it would have been necessary to pass on the opposite side of an old obsolete sentry-box, thereby obliterating even the semblance of a shadow.
I was cognizant of the fact that had I aroused the guard they would send out the steam-launch to cover the exit, and, if the man attempted to escape, fire on him, which I wished to prevent.
What in the devil can that fellow be doing? I conjectured in silence, as the mystical representation of his every move, like a phantom depicting anything and everything, was cast along the ground and pier as if superinduced by some supernatural agency. Merely prowling for the choicest bars, I soliloquized. Hark! “Number one, one o’clock and all is well!” The stillness of the night had been broken by the sentries calling off the hour. “Number two, one o’clock and all is well!” “Number three, one o’clock and all is well!” “Number four, one o’clock and all is well!” “All is well!” repeated sentry number one at the guard-house as he continued on his beat. “Third relief, fall in! Get a move on, boys! The officer of the day is apt to be lurking around!” commanded the corporal of the guard, as the men promptly fell into their proper places for posting formation. “Count off!” commanded the non-commissioned officer, each man counting the number of his post. “Port arms! Open chambers! Close chambers! Order arms! Number one!” As number one was being posted, the sergeant of the guard interposed: “Corporal, I want those sentries to turn over not only their special orders but their general orders as well; see that they know them thoroughly: have them tell you what is to be done in case of fire, and be sure that they know where the fire-plugs are located. Butt Plate Willie is officer of the day and is raising hell around here because the sentries don’t know their orders; now, they better get wise to the military or off come their belts.” “Pshaw! Butt Plate Willie don’t know his own orders,” ejaculated the corporal as he gave the command, “Shoulder arms! Right face! Forward march!”
The shadow had taken another position and seemed to be in kneeling posture at the rifle-range, setting the wind-gauge of his rifle for the prone figure in the skirmish run.
The corporal was marching the old relief back to the guard-house, as sentry number one called out, “Number one, half past one and all is well!” followed in succession by each sentry calling off the hour. Each man of the relief, on falling out, kicked like a mule for being detained overtime on post.
It was half past one and surely time for me to make the rounds through my various posts of duty.
At this instant the shadow disappeared, followed by the dull sound of dislodged copper. The moon had taken a position behind a dark cloud, which gave me an opportunity to skirt the end of the pier to another secluded spot where I could await its reappearance, when I could positively determine whether this shadow was an apparition, a reality, or merely a transcript in the memory formed by the imagination of phantasy.
As the lunar glow beamed through the clouds, the outlines of a soldier appeared to my view, merely the profile, with his face resting in the palms of his hands. I momentarily seized this opportunity and pounced upon my prey, and, for the “love of Mike,” who was it but “Stormy Bill,” a “character” at the post. “Ha! ha! What in hell are you doing here? robbing the copper pile, hey?” I exclaimed, knowing in my heart Bill was as honest as the night was long. Like the raven, Bill quoth, “Never more.” “What brought you here at this hour of the night?” I asked. “Bad whiskey,” sighed Bill, his light of enthusiasm burning dimly. “I hid a flask here yesterday and came here to-night to look for it.” “Yes, and keep me prowling around all night expecting every minute to be shot by copper thieves,” I interposed. “You’re a fine specimen of a marine! What do you think this navy yard is, a picnic ground?” Continuing, “Now you draw yourself together quick or I’ll have you manacled and thrown in the brig.” “Ah!” he said, “cut out the strong talk. I came here to look for a flask of rye, I am not going to run away with the copper pile.” “That will do you,” I said. “You have evidently found the rye, and I want you to blow out of here.” “Yes,” said “Stormy,” “I have found it.—Eureka! Let’s go.”
I felt like kicking him a few times, then rubbing him with liniment and kicking him again, merely using the liniment to keep him from becoming callous lest he should fail to feel the kicks.
He became garrulous, and, in order to get him to the barracks without falling into the hands of the guard, it was necessary for me to walk him about two miles to reach one-fourth the distance. Having piloted him over lawns and through the shade of the leafy trees, we finally reached his quarters, where his affable disposition required him to apologize for my trouble, and, thanking me, he hied off to his cot. “Stormy,” in the parlance of the soldier, was “good people,” his greatest fault was in being on too good terms with old “Cyrus Noble.” A few weeks after this event I left “Stormy” behind, having been ordered to another post.
En route from the Philippines with the Twenty-ninth Infantry in 1909, as the transport pulled up to the pier at Honolulu a voice from the dock called out my name. Leaning over the taffrail, whom should I see but “Stormy Bill!” He had been made a non-commissioned officer in a battery of artillery and was stationed on the Island of Oahu.
Mare Island covers considerable space in the Bay of San Francisco, lying about sixteen miles northwest of the “Golden Gate” overlooking the bay and Pacific Ocean. It is the naval base of California.
While stationed at this post I frequently ran over to “Frisco,” either by steam-boat or rail, where with a good convivival bunch I joined in the festivities at such temples of mirth as the famous “Poodle Dog,” from whose showy tiers or projecting balconies the pageants and processions of Market Street could be seen passing by, as the guests, environed by the sweet notes of a Hungarian rhapsody, were the embodiment of gayety and content. Lombardi’s, famous for Italian “table d’hôte” dinners and particularly noted for their mode of preparing macaroni; Svenguenetti’s, whose reputation in crustacean specialties, particularly in the culinary of lobsters and shrimps, was known to the Bohemians far and wide. Zinkand’s, and scores of others, where the music thrilled one’s very soul, and where the nymphs of the “Golden West” could tell you how to braid a lariat and a quirt, break a pony, and twirl the rope, and, although not adepts at the game of golf, could tell some funny stories of picking hops under Western skies. Kearney Street, which afforded the halls for the graceful glide, wherein could be found the same aspect of the West of frontier days. Prepossessing maidens in scalloped buckskin skirts, high-topped shoes, sombreros beautifully banded with Indian beads, and corsages cut very décolletée, danced with gallant young fellows whose costumes savored of the Mexican variety and whose bright and breezy effulgence was conducive to the merriment of the night. The Orpheum, Oberon, Log Cabin, Cascade, and the Grotto, all flourished in prosperous placidity, through a long chain of patronage of the world’s bohemians since the days of the path-finding “Forty-niners.”
Occasionally we tripped to “Mechanic’s Pavilion,” to witness the knights of the fistic art battle for supremacy, and note the radiant smiles of the shining lights of the arena as a “knockout” was perfected. But alas! the old haunts of Market and Ellis Streets and the beautiful edifices of the old-time “Frisco”—where are they? The echo answers, “Where?” Vanished with the stroke of nature’s wand, that calamitous earthquake and subsequent fire of 1906, in whose train the mournful ravages of devastation grinned in fiendish glee.
Though similar to the overwhelming destruction of the ancient city of Campania, San Francisco’s ruin was not irremediable, for, like the surprisingly sudden demolition, there burst into view, like spring flowers following a thunder-storm, the magnificent new city of the “Golden Gate,” blazing in the zenith of prosperity. It may be necessary to make inquiries or perhaps consult a city directory, but you will find the same old joyful haunts flourishing as of yore.
My tour of duty at Mare Island was brought to a close on being ordered to New York to join the mobilization of the St. Louis battalion.