THE LEGEND OF DEVIL'S POINT

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 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 for these stories, it was certain that a more weird and
desolate-looking spot could not have been selected for their theatre.
High hills, verdureless and enfiladed with dark canadas, 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 in all affairs, aquatic
as well as terrestrial. "The 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 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 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,
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 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
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 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 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 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.

"Her Majestie is very sicke,
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:--

"I am ycleped J. Keyser--I was born at Spring, hys Garden,
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 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,
reappeared 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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