 | Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches |  |
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 as mysteriously. The third
tenant, who seemed to be a man of sanguine, hopeful
temperament, divided the property into building
lots, staked off the hillside, 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 observed haunting the narrow strip of
beach at low tide, or perched upon the cliff at
high water. In the latter position a sheep-tender
one day found him, cold and pulseless, with a map
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 for these stories, it was certain that a more
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 nightfall
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
tide will turn soon,” said the broker, confidently, “or
something will happen.” He had scarcely settled
himself back again in the stern-sheets, 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
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
were simply square openings, which freely admitted
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
trousers 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 and a curved hanger.
He wore a long queue, which depended half-way
down his back. As the firelight 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 toward 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,
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 semicircle 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 who for fifty years had kept watch
and ward over 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, and
began. He had spent much of his time in determining
the exact location of the teasure. 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
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 “boy-hood'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 show of emotion, asked to be pardoned
if he dwelt 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 beaker 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
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 firelight behind him.
The wounded man, without betraying any concern,
excited the laughter of the company, by jocosely
putting his arms akimbo, 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 revellers returned to their places, Malmsey
Butt, however, insisting upon another chorus, and
singing at the top of his voice: —
My father toe 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 document, clothed in the quaint
phraseology of a bygone 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
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 is n'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, reappeared
again, and finally went out. He rubbed
his eyes and gazed around him. The cabin was
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.
| Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches | |