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Portsmouth Square, San Francisco, during the gold rush, 1851
{Image in Public Domain}
I. Some Sins Never Let Go
I smiled sadly. Young Sammy was all eyes as he walked the dirt sidewalk of the Barbary Coast. His gait was that odd shuffle that stayed with him all his days.
At sixteen, it gave him the odd appearance of old age. When old that shuffle would grant him the illusion of youth. It fit the tangle of contradictions that was the boy who would grow to become Mark Twain.
Sammy smiled, "Did the editor of the San Francisco Herald really promise to make me a reporter?"
"Yes. If I brought the murderer of its publisher, James King, to justice."
Sammy rubbed his hands together. "Captain Sam, I am as good as hired! You're the best lawmen ever."
I studied him. "Isn't your mother worried about you being shot in this wild town?"
"Naw."
"She trusts me that much?"
"Of course not! She says any boy destined to hang has nothing to fear from guns."
I smiled wryly. That sounded like her all right.
Before the Gold Rush of 1849, there were only a few hundred people living in tents and wooden shanties within San Francisco.
However after the gold rush the population of San Francisco would
increase fifty-fold in just two years—from 492 in 1847 to over 25,000 in
1849.
That extreme growth combined with a lack of strong
government had created many opportunities for criminals, corrupt
politicians, and brothel owners.
Sammy's grey-blue eagle eyes widened as he hushed in a breath as we stepped onto the corner of Pacific and Montgomery Streets.
"Welcome to Casa," I said low.
Sammy rasped, "It's like something you'd see in Old New Orleans with those lacy iron terraces."
"There's a Casa there, too. And in Paris. And in Los Angeles."
"Where?"
"A small trading post of 250 people about 400 miles south of here. I own a lot of property there ... as I do here."
Sammy shook his head. "Lord, I ain't never seen the like."
He arched his head back and took in the night sky.
"Yet even with the torches on those balconies, I can still see the constellations shining in their myriad majesty, and moving like an army
dressed in silver mail, marching from unknown victories to conquer in
distant wars."
Even so young, Sammy still had the Way about him and his words.
The tall Chinese man in the doorway breathed a sigh of relief. "At last you come, Xian. Qing Long has crossed the ocean for revenge."
Sammy frowned, "Qing Long?"
"The Azure Dragon," I murmured, feeling as if my sins in the Opium Wars would never stop haunting me.
"Th-That's just a nickname, right?" quavered Sammy.
I shook my head.
Sammy muttered, "Does Los Angeles have a newspaper, Captain Sam?"
