Jim Boisclair has been in San Francisco for months, and I figure if anyone can help me suss it all out, it’s him. So I arrange to meet Jim early the following morning at Portsmouth Square.
I spring out of bed and scarf down a quick breakfast, eager to see my friend. Even though it’s not raining, the air is so damp with fog, it might as well be. I don a wool coat over a flannel shirt and sturdy trousers, and I’m still cold.
Jim is already waiting for me, leaning against a lamppost. He tips his hat and grins.
After we exchange greetings, I say, “Are you sure we can’t ride? Peony could use the exercise.” She’s taken well to being stabled in the hull of a ship; it’s the not smallest or worst place I’ve had to keep her. But I know she likes to stretch her legs.
“You don’t see as much when you’re riding,” Jim says, pausing to blow on his fingers and rub them together for warmth. “You rush by, in too much of a hurry. Might as well hire a carriage with curtains on the window—that way you don’t have to see the truth or talk to anyone at all.”
I sigh, but I don’t disagree.
“But I’m real glad to hear that pretty mare of yours is all right,” he adds. “I remember the day she was foaled.”
“I couldn’t have made it here without her,” I say. “Which way are we going?”
“Up,” he says. “We’re going to tour some of the city’s most profitable areas, where Hardwick makes most of his money.” He leads the way west, up the city’s hills. The steep climb warms me quickly. “Pay attention as we go, and tell me what you see.”
“And what are you going to do?” I ask.
“I’m going to point out the things you’re not seeing.” It’s exactly the kind of thing my daddy would say, and it puts a lightness in my heart.
Everywhere we go, people are already up and working. Clearing land and roads. Loading wagons full of dirt, unloading wagons full of supplies.
“I see a lot of people working hard,” I tell Jim.
He smiles. “That’s a good start.”
Jim has always been one of the most sociable people I’ve ever known, and traveling across a whole continent has not changed him one bit. He stops and talks to everyone who will speak to us, and he isn’t shy with his questions. Do they own the land or rent it? Some rent it. More say they own it, but when Jim asks about prices, it sure seems like they’re paying installment plans at rates that sound a lot like rent. Why are they working so hard to improve it? So they can sell it for a profit once they’ve paid off the loan. A handful of the laborers are Negro, and they take plenty of time to answer Jim’s questions and give specific answers. We spend almost half an hour talking with an enthusiastic fellow named Isaac who hails from Cincinnati.
Before we take our leave of Isaac, Jim says, “You hear the news about Hampton Freeman?”
“Sure did,” Isaac says. “We’re praying for him.”
“We’ll be taking up a collection.”
“I’ve already told the fellows down at the foundry.”
“That’s good, that’s good.”
When we near the peak, Jim turns north. Outside a two-room shanty is a family of five—husband, wife, and three young children—just sitting there with a pile of belongings. Must be moving day.
But as we walk past, two white men carry a bed frame through the doorway and drop it carelessly to the ground.
The family is not moving by choice. They’re being evicted.
I glance up at Jim, who nods. “If we’d been on horses, you might’ve missed that,” he says.
After crossing a muddy street, we find ourselves in a whole new neighborhood. It’s similar to the first one we passed through—rows of shanties interspersed with the occasional house, lots of men and only a few families—but the faces here are mostly Chinese. They regard Jim and me with suspicion. No one wants to answer our questions.
We head farther north toward Goat Hill, where the semaphore tower raises flags to signal ships coming into harbor. Hammers sound in the quarry, breaking rock to use as ship ballast. Neighborhoods are forming here as well—mostly shacks and tents, though they’re laid out along regular streets. We stop and talk to a few people, and nearly all the accents are Irish.
We head downhill toward the bay. Jim pauses at the corner of Sansome and Vallejo. It’s a whole block of open land, without a single house or structure.
“It’s a cemetery,” I say. Crosses and gravestones stretch before us.
“They call it the Sailor’s Cemetery,” he says. “It’s where all the sailors used to be buried. Now it’s where all the outsiders are buried. People like me. Foreigners. Are you hungry?”
It’s past lunchtime. “Starved. And you’re not a foreigner.” But as soon as the words leave my lips, I know they’re not true. We’re all foreigners, everyone but the Indians, that is, who have made themselves scarce in this city, or more likely been forced to leave. Very few Indians remain in San Francisco, and almost all who stayed are at Mission Dolores.
“Anyway, I know a place,” Jim says. “Just found it a couple days ago.”
Thinking about how we treat the Indians is chasing away my appetite, but I say, “All right, sure.”
He leads me past the cemetery and down toward the choppy gray bay.
“Have I seen what you want me to see?” I say as we walk.
He shrugs. “Maybe.” Jim wants me to put the pieces together myself, but so far I can’t solve the puzzle. I see a lot of people working hard, improving the land, making something for themselves.
We duck into a building without any signs or special markings on it. Conversation trickles off the instant we come through the door.
The room is low ceilinged with exposed rafters, and it’s filled with the darkest-skinned men I’ve ever seen, all clustered around a series of small tables. Most wear something between a robe and a blanket, thrown over one shoulder, all in bright colors. The air bursts with the scents of coffee and spices.
I’m sure it’s a mistake to be here, but Jim takes a seat at an empty table and motions for me to join him. When I do, Jim looks to the proprietor and holds up two fingers.
After a moment’s hesitation, the proprietor nods. The men stop staring and resume their conversations. The room buzzes with unfamiliar words.
I glance around nervously. “Why’d you want to meet here?” I’m whispering.
“Makes you feel a bit uncomfortable being around faces that don’t look anything like yours,” Jim says. It’s not a question.
“No,” I say. A bit too quick and sharp, which gives life to the lie. “Maybe.”
“That’s right,” Jim says. “And it makes Hardwick and all the fellows who work for him uncomfortable, too. Hardwick has spies, maybe even spies close to you. Remember? He knew you were going to the bank that day to get that southern lady’s house back.”
“You’re thinking it was Tom,” I say darkly. “Tom wouldn’t do that.”