The following summer brought us the good news that Captain
Corliss' company was ordered to Angel Island, in the bay of San
Francisco. "Thank goodness," said Jack, "C company has got some
good luck, at last!"
Joyfully we started back on the overland trip to California,
which took about nine days at that time. Now, travelling with a
year-old baby and a five-year-old boy was quite troublesome, and
we were very glad when the train had crossed the bleak Sierras
and swept down into the lovely valley of the Sacramento.
Arriving in San Francisco, we went to the old Occidental Hotel,
and as we were going in to dinner, a card was handed to us. "Hoo
Chack" was the name on the card. "That Chinaman!" I cried to
Jack."How do you suppose he knew we were here?"
We soon made arrangements for him to accompany us to Angel
Island, and in a few days this "heathen Chinee" had unpacked all
our boxes and made our quarters very comfortable. He was rather a
high-caste man, and as true and loyal as a Christian. He never
broke his word, and he staid with us as long as we remained in
California.
And now we began to live, to truly live; for we felt that the
years spent at those desert posts under the scorching suns of
Arizona had cheated us out of all but a bare existence upon
earth.
The flowers ran riot in our garden, fresh fruits and vegetables,
fresh fish, and all the luxuries of that marvellous climate, were
brought to our door.
A comfortable Government steamboat plied between San Francisco
and its harbor posts, and the distance was not great - only three
quarters of an hour. So we had a taste of the social life of that
fascinating city, and could enjoy the theatres also.
On the Island, we had music and dancing, as it was the
headquarters of the regiment. Mrs. Kautz, so brilliant and gay,
held grand court here - receptions, military functions, lawn
tennis, bright uniforms, were the order of the day. And that
incomparable climate! How I revelled in it! When the fog rolled
in from the Golden Gate, and enveloped the great city of Saint
Francis in its cold vapors, the Island of the Angels lay warm and
bright in the sunshine.
The old Spaniards named it well, and the old Nantucket whalers
who sailed around Cape Horn on their way to the Ar'tic, away back
in the eighteen twenties, used to put in near there for water,
and were well familiar with its bright shores, before it was
touched by man's handiwork.
Was there ever such an emerald green as adorned those hills which
sloped down to the bay? Could anything equal the fields of golden
escholzchia which lay there in the sunshine?
