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THE LEGEND OF DEVIL'S POINT.
On the northerly shore of San Francisco Bay, at a
point where the Golden Gate broadens into the Pacific
stands a bluff promontory. It affords shelter from
the prevailing winds to a semicircular bay on the
East. Around this bay the hillside is bleak and barren,
but there are traces of former habitation in a
weather-beaten cabin and deserted corral. It is said
that these were originally built by an enterprising
squatter, who for some unaccountable reason abandoned
them shortly after. The “Jumper” who succeeded
him disappeared one day, quite mysteriously.
The third tenant, who seemed to be a man of
sanguine, hopeful temperament, divided the property
into building lots, staked off the hill-side, and projected
the map of a new metropolis. Failing, however,
to convince the citizens of San Francisco that
they had mistaken the site of their city, he presently
fell into dissipation and despondency. He was frequently
at low tide, or perched upon the cliff at highwater.
In the latter position a sheep-tender one day found
him, cold and pulseless, with a map of his property
in his hand, and his face turned toward the distant
sea.
Perhaps these circumstances gave the locality its
infelicitous reputation. Vague rumors were bruited
of a supernatural influence that had been exercised
on the tenants. Strange stories were circulated of
the origin of the diabolical title by which the promontory
was known. By some it was believed to be
haunted by the spirit of one of Sir Francis Drake's
sailors who had deserted his ship in consequence of
stories told by the Indians of gold discoveries, but
who had perished by starvation on the rocks. A
vaquero who had once passed a night in the ruined
cabin, related how a strangely-dressed and emaciated
figure had knocked at the door at midnight and
demanded food. Other story-tellers, of more historical
accuracy, roundly asserted that Sir Francis himself
had been little better than a pirate, and had
chosen this spot to conceal quantities of ill-gotten
booty, taken from neutral bottoms, and had protected
his hiding-place by the orthodox means of hellish
incantation and diabolic agencies. On moonlight
nights a shadowy ship was sometimes seen standing
off-and-on, or when fogs encompassed sea and shore,
the noise of oars rising and falling in their row-locks
could be heard muffled and indistinctly during the
night. Whatever foundation there might have been
desolate-looking spot could not have been selected
for their theatre. High hills, verdureless and enfiladed
with dark cañadas, cast their gaunt shadows on the
tide. During a greater portion of the day the wind,
which blew furiously and incessantly, seemed possessed
with a spirit of fierce disquiet and unrest.
Toward nightfall the sea-fog crept with soft step
through the portals of the Golden Gate, or stole in noiseless
marches down the hillside, tenderly soothing the
wind-buffeted face of the cliff, until sea and sky
were hid together. At such times the populous city
beyond and the nearer settlement seemed removed
to an infinite distance. An immeasurable loneliness
settled upon the cliff. The creaking of a windlass,
or the monotonous chant of sailors on some unseen,
outlying ship, came faint and far, and full of mystic
suggestion.
About a year ago, a well-to-do middle-aged broker
of San Francisco found himself at night-fall the sole
occupant of a “plunger,” encompassed in a dense fog,
and drifting toward the Golden Gate. This unexpected
termination of an afternoon's sail was partly
attributable to his want of nautical skill, and partly
to the effect of his usually sanguine nature. Having
given up the guidance of his boat to the wind and
tide, he had trusted too implicitly for that reaction
which his business experience assured him was certain
to occur in all affairs, aquatic as well as terrestrial.
“The tide will turn soon,” said the broker,
confidently, “or something will happen.” He had
before the bow of the plunger, obeying some mysterious
impulse, veered slowly around and a dark object
loomed up before him. A gentle eddy carried the
boat further in-shore, until at last it was completely
embayed under the lee of a rocky point now faintly
discernible through the fog. He looked around
him in the vain hope of recognizing some familiar
headland. The tops of the high hills which rose on
either side were hidden in the fog. As the boat
swung around, he succeeded in fastening a line to
the rocks, and sat down again with a feeling of renewed
confidence and security.
It was very cold. The insidious fog penetrated
his tightly-buttoned coat, and set his teeth to chattering
in spite of the aid he sometimes drew from a pocket-flask.
His clothes were wet and the stern-sheets
were covered with spray. The comforts of fire and
shelter continually rose before his fancy as he gazed
wistfully on the rocks. In sheer despair he finally
drew the boat toward the most accessible part of the
cliff and essayed to ascend. This was less difficult
than it appeared, and in a few moments he had gained
the hill above. A dark object at a little distance attracted
his attention, and on approaching it proved to
be a deserted cabin. The story goes on to say, that
having built a roaring fire of stakes pulled from the
adjoining corral, with the aid of a flask of excellent
brandy, he managed to pass the early part of the
evening with comparative comfort.
There was no door in the cabin, and the windows
the searching fog. But in spite of these discomforts
—being a man of cheerful, sanguine temperament—
he amused himself by poking the fire, and watching
the ruddy glow which the flames threw on the fog
from the open door. In this innocent occupation a
great weariness overcame him and he fell asleep.
He was awakened at midnight by a loud “halloo,”
which seemed to proceed directly from the sea.
Thinking it might be the cry of some boatman lost
in the fog, he walked to the edge of the cliff, but the
thick veil that covered sea and land rendered all
objects at the distance of a few feet indistinguishable.
He heard, however, the regular strokes of oars rising
and falling on the water. The halloo was repeated.
He was clearing his throat to reply, when to his surprise
an answer came apparently from the very cabin
he had quitted. Hastily retracing his steps, he was
the more amazed, on reaching the open door, to find a
stranger warming himself by the fire. Stepping back
far enough to conceal his own person, he took a good
look at the intruder.
He was a man of about forty, with a cadaverous
face. But the oddity of his dress attracted the broker's
attention more than his lugubrious physiognomy. His
legs were hid in enormously wide trowsers descending
to his knee, where they met long boots of sealskin.
A pea jacket with exaggerated cuffs, almost
as large as the breeches, covered his chest, and
around his waist a monstrous belt, with a buckle like
a dentist's sign, supported two trumpet-mouthed pistols
which depended half way down his back. As the
fire-light fell on his ingenuous countenance the broker
observed with some concern that this queue was
formed entirely of a kind of tobacco, known as pigtail
or twist. Its effect, the broker remarked, was
much heightened when in a moment of thoughtful abstraction
the apparition bit off a portion of it, and rolled
it as a quid into the cavernous recesses of his jaws.
Meanwhile, the nearer splash of oars indicated the
approach of the unseen boat. The broker had barely
time to conceal himself behind the cabin before a
number of uncouth-looking figures clambered up the
hill towards the ruined rendezvous. They were
dressed like the previous comer, who, as they passed
through the open door, exchanged greetings with
each in antique phraseology, bestowing at the same
time some familiar nickname. Flash-in-the-Pan,
Spitter-of-Frogs, Malmsey Butt, Latheyard-Will, and
Mark-the-Pinker, were the few sobriquets the broker
remembered. Whether these titles were given to express
some peculiarity of their owner he could not tell,
for a silence followed as they slowly ranged themselves
upon the floor of the cabin in a semi-circle
around their cadaverous host.
At length Malmsey Butt, a spherical-bodied man-of-war's-man
with a rubicund nose, got on his legs
somewhat unsteadily, and addressed himself to the
company. They had met that evening, said the
speaker, in accordance with a time-honored custom.
This was simply to relieve that one of their number
the locality where certain treasures had been buried.
At this point the broker pricked up his ears. “If so
be, camarados and brothers all,” he continued, “ye
are ready to receive the report of our excellent and
well-beloved brother, Master Slit-the-Weazand, touching
his search for this treasure, why, marry, to't and
begin.'
A murmur of assent went around the circle as the
speaker resumed his seat. Master Slit-the-Weazand
slowly opened his lantern jaws, then began. He had
spent much of his time in determining the exact location
of the treasure. He believed—nay, he could
state positively—that its position was now settled.
It was true he had done some trifling little business
outside. Modesty forbade his mentioning the particulars,
but he would simply state that of the three
tenants who had occupied the cabin during the past
ten years, none were now alive. [Applause, and
cries of “Go to! thou wast always a tall fellow!” and
the like.]
Mark-the-Pinker next arose. Before proceeding
to business, he had a duty to perform in the sacred
name of Friendship. It ill became him to pass an
eulogy upon the qualities of the speaker who had
preceded him, for he had known him from “boyhood's
hour.” Side by side they had wrought together
in the Spanish war. For a neat hand with a
toledo he challenged his equal, while how nobly and
beautifully he had won his present title of Slit-the-Weazand,
all could testify. The speaker, with some
too freely on passages of their early companionship;
he then detailed, with a fine touch of humor, his comrade's
peculiar manner of slitting the ears and lips of
a refractory Jew, who had been captured in one of
their previous voyages. He would not weary the
patience of his hearers, but would briefly propose
that the report of Slit-the-Weazand be accepted, and
that the thanks of the company be tendered him.
A breaker of strong spirits was then rolled into the
hut, and cans of grog were circulated freely from
hand to hand. The health of Slit-the-Weazand was
proposed in a neat speech by Mark-the-Pinker, and
responded to by the former gentleman in a manner
that drew tears to the eyes of all present. To the
broker, in his concealment, this momentary diversion
from the real business of the meeting, occasioned
much anxiety. As yet nothing had been said to indicate
the exact locality of the treasure to which they
had mysteriously alluded. Fear restrained him from
open inquiry, and curiosity kept him from making
good his escape during the orgies which followed.
But his situation was beginning to become critical.
Flash-in-the-Pan, who seemed to have been a man of
choleric humor, taking fire during some hotly-contested
argument, discharged both his pistols at the
breast of his opponent. The balls passed through on
each side immediately below his arm-pits, making a
clean hole, through which the horrified broker could
see the fire-light behind him. The wounded man,
without betraying any concern, excited the laughter
and inserting his thumbs into the orifices of the
wounds, as if they had been arm-holes. This having
in a measure restored good humor, the party
joined hands and formed a circle preparatory to
dancing. The dance was commenced by some monotonous
stanzas hummed in a very high key by one
of the party, the rest joining in the following chorus,
which seemed to present a familiar sound to the broker's
ear.
Lord Essex hath ye measles,
Our Admiral hath licked ye French—
Poppe! saith ye weasel!”
At the regular recurrence of the last line, the party
discharged their loaded pistols in all directions, rendering
the position of the unhappy broker one of extreme
peril and perplexity.
When the tumult had partially subsided, Flash-in-the-Pan
called the meeting to order, and most of
the revelers returned to their places, Malmsey Butt,
however, insisting upon another chorus, and singing
at the top of his voice:
My father too make me ane clerke erst did essaye,
But a fico for ye offis—I spurn ye losels offeire;
For I fain would be ane butcher by'r ladykin alwaye.”
Flash-in-the-Pan drew a pistol from his belt, and
bidding some one gag Malmsey Butt with the stock
of it, proceeded to read from a portentous roll of
parchment that he held in his hand. It was a semi-legal
a by-gone period. After a long preamble, asserting
their loyalty as lieges of Her most bountiful Majesty
and Sovereign Lady the Queen, the document declared
that they then and there took possession of the
promontory, and all the treasure trove therein contained,
formerly buried by Her Majesty's most faithful
and devoted Admiral, Sir Francis Drake, with
the right to search, discover and appropriate the
same; and for the purpose thereof they did then and
there form a guild or corporation to so discover,
search for and disclose said treasures, and by virtue
thereof they solemnly subscribed their names. But
at this moment the reading of the parchment was
arrested by an exclamation from the assembly, and
the broker was seen frantically struggling at the door
in the strong arms of Mark-the-Pinker.
“Let me go!” he cried as he made a desperate attempt
to reach the side of Master Flash-in-the-Pan.
“Let me go! I tell you, gentlemen, that document is
not worth the parchment it is written on. The laws of
the State—the customs of the country—the mining
ordinances—are all against it. Don't, by all that's
sacred, throw away such a capital investment through
ignorance and informality. Let me go! I assure
you, gentlemen, professionally, that you have a big
thing—a remarkably big thing, and even if I ain't in
it, I'm not going to see it fall through. Don't, for
God's sake, gentlemen, I implore you, put your
names to such a ridiculous paper. There isn't a notary—”
He ceased. The figures around him, which were
beginning to grow fainter and more indistinct, as he
went on, swam before his eyes, flickered, re-appeared
again, and finally went out. He rubbed his eyes and
gazed around him. The cabin was deserted. On
the hearth the red embers of his fire were fading
away in the bright beams of the morning sun, that
looked aslant through the open window. He ran
out to the cliff. The sturdy sea-breeze fanned his
feverish cheeks, and tossed the white caps of waves
that beat in pleasant music on the beach below. A
stately merchantman with snowy canvas was entering
the Gate. The voices of sailors came cheerfully
from a bark at anchor below the point. The muskets
of the sentries gleamed brightly on Alcatraz,
and the rolling of drums swelled on the breeze.
Farther on, the hills of San Francisco, cottage-crowned
and bordered with wharves and warehouses,
met his longing eye.
Such is the Legend of Devil's Point. Any objections
to its reliability may be met with the statement
that the broker who tells the story has since
incorporated a company under the title of “Flash-in-the
Pan Gold and Silver Treasure Mining Company,”
and that its shares are already held at a
stiff figure. A copy of the original document is said
to be on record in the office of the company, and on
any clear day, the locality of the claim may be distinctly
seen from the hills of San Francisco.
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