I am again in San Francisco, and my revisit
to California is closed.
I have touched too lightly and rapidly
for much impression upon the reader on my last visit into the
interior; but, as I have said, in a mere continuation to a narrative
of a sea-faring life on the coast, I am only to carry the reader
with me on a visit to those scenes in which the public has long
manifested so gratifying an interest. But it seemed to me that
slight notices of these entirely new parts of the country would
not be out of place, for they serve to put in strong contrast with
the solitudes of 1835-6 the developed interior, with its mines,
and agricultural wealth, and rapidly filling population, and its
large cities, so far from the coast, with their education, religion,
arts, and trade.
On the morning of the 11th January, 1860, I passed, for the eighth
time, through the Golden Gate, on my way across the delightful Pacific
to the Oriental world, with its civilization three thousand years
older than that I was leaving behind. As the shores of California
fadcd in the distance, and the summits of the Coast Range sank
under the blue horizon, I bade farewell - yes, I do not doubt,
forever - to those scenes which, however changed or unchanged,
must always possess an ineffable interest for me.
- - -
It is time my fellow-travellers and I should part company. But I
have been requested by a great many persons to give some account of
the subsequent history of the vessels and their crews, with which
I had made them acquainted. I attempt the following sketches in
deference to these suggestions, and not, I trust, with any undue
estimate of the general interest my narrative may have created.
Something less than a year after my return in the Alert, and when,
my eyes having recovered, I was again in college life, I found one
morning in the newspapers, among the arrivals of the day before,
"The brig Pilgrim, Faucon, from San Diego, California." In a
few hours I was down in Ann Street, and on my way to Hackstadt's
boarding-house, where I knew Tom Harris and others would lodge.
Entering the front room, I heard my name called from amid a group
of blue-jackets, and several sunburned, tar-colored men came forward
to speak to me. They were, at first, a little embarrassed by
the dress and style in which they had never seen me, and one of
them was calling me Mr. Dana; but I soon stopped that, and we
were shipmates once more. First, there was Tom Harris, in a
characteristic occupation. I had made him promise to come and
see me when we parted in San Diego; he had got a directory of
Boston, found the street and number of my father's house, and,
by a study of the plan of the city, had laid out his course,
and was committing it to memory. He said he could go straight to
the house without asking a question. And so he could, for I took
the book from him, and he gave his course, naming each street and
turn to right or left, directly to the door.
Tom had been second mate of the Pilgrim, and had laid up no mean
sum of money. True to his resolution, he was going to England to
find his mother, and he entered into the comparative advantages
of taking his money home in gold or in bills, - a matter of some
moment, as this was in the disastrous financial year of 1837.
He seemed to have his ideas well arranged, but I took him to
a leading banker, whose advice he followed; and, declining my
invitation to go up and show himself to my friends, he was off
for New York that afternoon, to sail the next day for Liverpool.
The last I ever saw of Tom Harris was as he passed down Tremont
Street on the sidewalk, a man dragging a hand-cart in the street
by his side, on which were his voyage-worn chest, his mattress,
and a box of nautical instruments.
Sam seemed to have got funny again, and he and John the Swede
learned that Captain Thompson had several months before sailed
in command of a ship for the coast of Sumatra, and that their
chance of proceedings against him at law was hopeless. Sam was
afterwards lost in a brig off the coast of Brazil, when all hands
went down. Of John and the rest of the men I have never heard.
The Marblehead boy, Sam, turned out badly; and, although he had
influential friends, never allowed them to improve his condition.
The old carpenter, the Fin, of whom the cook stood in such awe
(ante p. 41), had fallen sick and died in Santa Barbara, and was
buried ashore. Jim Hall, from the Kennebec, who sailed with us
before the mast, and was made second mate in Foster's place,
came home chief mate of the Pilgrim. I have often seen him
since. His lot has been prosperous, as he well deserved it
should be. He has commanded the largest ships, and when I
last saw him, was going to the Pacific coast of South America,
to take charge of a line of mail steamers. Poor, luckless Foster
I have twice seen. He came into my rooms in Boston, after I had
become a barrister and my narrative had been published, and told
me he was chief mate of a big ship; that he had heard I had said
some things unfavorable of him in my book; that he had just bought
it, and was going to read it that night, and if I had said anything
unfair of him, he would punish me if he found me in State Street.
I surveyed him from head to foot, and said to him, "Foster, you were
not a formidable man when I last knew you, and I don't believe you
are now." Either he was of my opinion, or thought I had spoken of
him well enough, for the next (and last) time I met him he was civil
and pleasant.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 163 of 167
Words from 166078 to 167120
of 170236
