Chapter Chapter 25 · IN WHICH A SLIGHT GLIMPSE IS HAD OF SAN FRANCISCO

IN WHICH A SLIGHT GLIMPSE IS HAD OF SAN FRANCISCO

It was seven in the morning when Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout set

foot upon the American continent, if this name can be given to the

floating quay upon which they disembarked. These quays, rising and

falling with the tide, thus facilitate the loading and unloading of

vessels. Alongside them were clippers of all sizes, steamers of all

nationalities, and the steamboats, with several decks rising one above

the other, which ply on the Sacramento and its tributaries. There were

also heaped up the products of a commerce which extends to Mexico,

Chili, Peru, Brazil, Europe, Asia, and all the Pacific islands.

Passepartout, in his joy on reaching at last the American continent,

thought he would manifest it by executing a perilous vault in fine

style; but, tumbling upon some worm-eaten planks, he fell through them.

Put out of countenance by the manner in which he thus “set foot” upon

the New World, he uttered a loud cry, which so frightened the

innumerable cormorants and pelicans that are always perched upon these

movable quays, that they flew noisily away.

Mr. Fogg, on reaching shore, proceeded to find out at what hour the

first train left for New York, and learned that this was at six o’clock

p.m.; he had, therefore, an entire day to spend in the Californian

capital. Taking a carriage at a charge of three dollars, he and Aouda

entered it, while Passepartout mounted the box beside the driver, and

they set out for the International Hotel.

From his exalted position Passepartout observed with much curiosity the

wide streets, the low, evenly ranged houses, the Anglo-Saxon Gothic

churches, the great docks, the palatial wooden and brick warehouses,

the numerous conveyances, omnibuses, horse-cars, and upon the

side-walks, not only Americans and Europeans, but Chinese and Indians.

Passepartout was surprised at all he saw. San Francisco was no longer

the legendary city of 1849—a city of banditti, assassins, and

incendiaries, who had flocked hither in crowds in pursuit of plunder; a

paradise of outlaws, where they gambled with gold-dust, a revolver in

one hand and a bowie-knife in the other: it was now a great commercial

emporium.

The lofty tower of its City Hall overlooked the whole panorama of the

streets and avenues, which cut each other at right-angles, and in the

midst of which appeared pleasant, verdant squares, while beyond

appeared the Chinese quarter, seemingly imported from the Celestial

Empire in a toy-box. Sombreros and red shirts and plumed Indians were

rarely to be seen; but there were silk hats and black coats everywhere

worn by a multitude of nervously active, gentlemanly-looking men. Some

of the streets—especially Montgomery Street, which is to San Francisco

what Regent Street is to London, the Boulevard des Italiens to Paris,

and Broadway to New York—were lined with splendid and spacious stores,

which exposed in their windows the products of the entire world.

When Passepartout reached the International Hotel, it did not seem to

him as if he had left England at all.

The ground floor of the hotel was occupied by a large bar, a sort of

restaurant freely open to all passers-by, who might partake of dried

beef, oyster soup, biscuits, and cheese, without taking out their

purses. Payment was made only for the ale, porter, or sherry which was

drunk. This seemed “very American” to Passepartout. The hotel

refreshment-rooms were comfortable, and Mr. Fogg and Aouda, installing

themselves at a table, were abundantly served on diminutive plates by

negroes of darkest hue.

After breakfast, Mr. Fogg, accompanied by Aouda, started for the

English consulate to have his passport _visaed_. As he was going out,

he met Passepartout, who asked him if it would not be well, before

taking the train, to purchase some dozens of Enfield rifles and Colt’s

revolvers. He had been listening to stories of attacks upon the trains

by the Sioux and Pawnees. Mr. Fogg thought it a useless precaution, but

told him to do as he thought best, and went on to the consulate.

He had not proceeded two hundred steps, however, when, “by the greatest

chance in the world,” he met Fix. The detective seemed wholly taken by

surprise. What! Had Mr. Fogg and himself crossed the Pacific together,

and not met on the steamer! At least Fix felt honoured to behold once

more the gentleman to whom he owed so much, and, as his business

recalled him to Europe, he should be delighted to continue the journey

in such pleasant company.

Mr. Fogg replied that the honour would be his; and the detective—who

was determined not to lose sight of him—begged permission to accompany

them in their walk about San Francisco—a request which Mr. Fogg readily

granted.

They soon found themselves in Montgomery Street, where a great crowd

was collected; the side-walks, street, horsecar rails, the shop-doors,

the windows of the houses, and even the roofs, were full of people. Men

were going about carrying large posters, and flags and streamers were

floating in the wind; while loud cries were heard on every hand.

“Hurrah for Camerfield!”

“Hurrah for Mandiboy!”

It was a political meeting; at least so Fix conjectured, who said to

Mr. Fogg, “Perhaps we had better not mingle with the crowd. There may

be danger in it.”

“Yes,” returned Mr. Fogg; “and blows, even if they are political, are

still blows.”

Fix smiled at this remark; and, in order to be able to see without

being jostled about, the party took up a position on the top of a

flight of steps situated at the upper end of Montgomery Street.

Opposite them, on the other side of the street, between a coal wharf

and a petroleum warehouse, a large platform had been erected in the

open air, towards which the current of the crowd seemed to be directed.

For what purpose was this meeting? What was the occasion of this

excited assemblage? Phileas Fogg could not imagine. Was it to nominate

some high official—a governor or member of Congress? It was not

improbable, so agitated was the multitude before them.

Just at this moment there was an unusual stir in the human mass. All

the hands were raised in the air. Some, tightly closed, seemed to

disappear suddenly in the midst of the cries—an energetic way, no

doubt, of casting a vote. The crowd swayed back, the banners and flags

wavered, disappeared an instant, then reappeared in tatters. The

undulations of the human surge reached the steps, while all the heads

floundered on the surface like a sea agitated by a squall. Many of the

black hats disappeared, and the greater part of the crowd seemed to

have diminished in height.

“It is evidently a meeting,” said Fix, “and its object must be an

exciting one. I should not wonder if it were about the ‘Alabama,’

despite the fact that that question is settled.”

“Perhaps,” replied Mr. Fogg, simply.

“At least, there are two champions in presence of each other, the

Honourable Mr. Camerfield and the Honourable Mr. Mandiboy.”

Aouda, leaning upon Mr. Fogg’s arm, observed the tumultuous scene with

surprise, while Fix asked a man near him what the cause of it all was.

Before the man could reply, a fresh agitation arose; hurrahs and

excited shouts were heard; the staffs of the banners began to be used

as offensive weapons; and fists flew about in every direction. Thumps

were exchanged from the tops of the carriages and omnibuses which had

been blocked up in the crowd. Boots and shoes went whirling through the

air, and Mr. Fogg thought he even heard the crack of revolvers mingling

in the din, the rout approached the stairway, and flowed over the lower

step. One of the parties had evidently been repulsed; but the mere

lookers-on could not tell whether Mandiboy or Camerfield had gained the

upper hand.

“It would be prudent for us to retire,” said Fix, who was anxious that

Mr. Fogg should not receive any injury, at least until they got back to

London. “If there is any question about England in all this, and we

were recognised, I fear it would go hard with us.”

“An English subject—” began Mr. Fogg.

He did not finish his sentence; for a terrific hubbub now arose on the

terrace behind the flight of steps where they stood, and there were

frantic shouts of, “Hurrah for Mandiboy! Hip, hip, hurrah!”

It was a band of voters coming to the rescue of their allies, and

taking the Camerfield forces in flank. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix found

themselves between two fires; it was too late to escape. The torrent of

men, armed with loaded canes and sticks, was irresistible. Phileas Fogg

and Fix were roughly hustled in their attempts to protect their fair

companion; the former, as cool as ever, tried to defend himself with

the weapons which nature has placed at the end of every Englishman’s

arm, but in vain. A big brawny fellow with a red beard, flushed face,

and broad shoulders, who seemed to be the chief of the band, raised his

clenched fist to strike Mr. Fogg, whom he would have given a crushing

blow, had not Fix rushed in and received it in his stead. An enormous

bruise immediately made its appearance under the detective’s silk hat,

which was completely smashed in.

“Yankee!” exclaimed Mr. Fogg, darting a contemptuous look at the

ruffian.

“Englishman!” returned the other. “We will meet again!”

“When you please.”

“What is your name?”

“Phileas Fogg. And yours?”

“Colonel Stamp Proctor.”

The human tide now swept by, after overturning Fix, who speedily got

upon his feet again, though with tattered clothes. Happily, he was not

seriously hurt. His travelling overcoat was divided into two unequal

parts, and his trousers resembled those of certain Indians, which fit

less compactly than they are easy to put on. Aouda had escaped

unharmed, and Fix alone bore marks of the fray in his black and blue

bruise.

“Thanks,” said Mr. Fogg to the detective, as soon as they were out of

the crowd.

“No thanks are necessary,” replied Fix; “but let us go.”

“Where?”

“To a tailor’s.”

Such a visit was, indeed, opportune. The clothing of both Mr. Fogg and

Fix was in rags, as if they had themselves been actively engaged in the

contest between Camerfield and Mandiboy. An hour after, they were once

more suitably attired, and with Aouda returned to the International

Hotel.

Passepartout was waiting for his master, armed with half a dozen

six-barrelled revolvers. When he perceived Fix, he knit his brows; but

Aouda having, in a few words, told him of their adventure, his

countenance resumed its placid expression. Fix evidently was no longer

an enemy, but an ally; he was faithfully keeping his word.

Dinner over, the coach which was to convey the passengers and their

luggage to the station drew up to the door. As he was getting in, Mr.

Fogg said to Fix, “You have not seen this Colonel Proctor again?”

“No.”

“I will come back to America to find him,” said Phileas Fogg calmly.

“It would not be right for an Englishman to permit himself to be

treated in that way, without retaliating.”

The detective smiled, but did not reply. It was clear that Mr. Fogg was

one of those Englishmen who, while they do not tolerate duelling at

home, fight abroad when their honour is attacked.

At a quarter before six the travellers reached the station, and found

the train ready to depart. As he was about to enter it, Mr. Fogg called

a porter, and said to him: “My friend, was there not some trouble

to-day in San Francisco?”

“It was a political meeting, sir,” replied the porter.

“But I thought there was a great deal of disturbance in the streets.”

“It was only a meeting assembled for an election.”

“The election of a general-in-chief, no doubt?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“No, sir; of a justice of the peace.”

Phileas Fogg got into the train, which started off at full speed.