by Bill Peschel
Apropos of the soundness of the race, I cannot, I think, conclude this article more fully than by quoting a passage touching on the subject. It comes from “The Surgeon Talks.” It was written some years ago, but apparently Sir Arthur still holds the same views.
“Some people say” (it runs) “that the more one has to do with human nature, and the closer one is brought in contact with it, the less one thinks of it. I don’t believe that those who know most would uphold that view. My own experience is dead against it. I was brought up in the miserable-mortal-clay school of theology, and yet here I am, after thirty years of intimate acquaintance with humanity, filled with respect for it. The evil lies commonly upon the surface. The deeper strata are good.”
The words might be used as a motto for “V.C.” It is exactly these sentiments that we are doing our best to promulgate.
The Humorist’s Curse
Bill Peschel
As a longtime reader of the adventures of Mark Twain and Sherlock Holmes, it seemed like an amusing challenge to come up with a series of stories putting them together. This is the second in a projected series that introduces a very young John H. Watson. Keep in mind that this occurs before undergoing his crisis in Afghanistan, and you might see the boy that grew into the man he became.
[A previously unknown excerpt from Mark Twain’s autobiography.]
Harriet Beecher Stowe crossed the river a decade ago this week. An article in a Cape Town newspaper reminded us of her passing, and that started a train of thought in my head. She lived next door to us in Hartford. I knew her well. She was an eccentric lady, and as she grew older her mind began to slip its moorings, when she would wander and talk nonsense. If she caught you unawares, she’d let out a war whoop just to see you leap. Seeing her then, you wouldn’t believe that this was the woman credited with starting the late, lamented conflict. But she always had a kind word for people. Once, she stopped me on the street and held my hand in her shaky, firm grip. She told me that the Pauper book was the finest story for children she had ever read. I about busted into tears. She was so sincere and so powerful in her opinion, that you knew it had to be true. This, you knew, was the woman capable of making you care about Eliza and Eva and Uncle Tom and what happened to them and to hate with a passion the men and society who put them there. To her, the argument over slavery was simple. Men and women should be free. Everything else in her philosophy flowed from it, and we became a better nation for it.
I watched the storm that grew and broke over that book of hers, and I wondered what she did with her words that caused it. The difference between lightning and the lightning-bug. That’s the difference, as I’ve said elsewhere, between myself and the humorists, acclaimed in their time and forgotten today. The humorist who gauges his success by the number of laughs he elicits is damned to obscurity. He tells jokes; I preached. I made the audience laugh, and that gave me the opening to slip in my sermon. But did anyone really listen? Mrs. Stowe did not tell jokes, yet her words carried all before her, like an avenging army of angels.
It brings to mind another writer whose stories are popular, and I wonder what’ll happen to them when he’s gone. They’re all the rage nowadays, and I blush to say now that I knew him before he wrote those stories. But this is my autobiography, set down now and not to be published until long after I have slid into my grave. So I will tell this story, because I knew John H. Watson, and I knew Sherlock Holmes. I will not see them anymore on this side of the earth. Watson’s retired and Holmes, we’re told, has fled to his farm on the coast. They are in my past, and as long as I’m telling my story I might as add my times with them as well. I don’t know if I want them read. I’ll decide that afterwards. If I don’t, I’ll have Katy use the manuscripts to light her fires.
The story takes place in San Francisco back in 1868. It is a mighty metropolis today, a crown jewel in the coronet of this nation. Back in my day, it was a roaring, brawling mining town. The first wave of ‘49ers had crashed into the California hills and receded, leaving 50,000 souls, half of them miners from the hills, the rich and the busted, and the other half tending to their needs. Inland, there were thousands more in the mining camps from Rich Bar to Mariposa, scratching and digging for their lives.
I had spent several years out West, failing as a miner and day laborer until finding my niche in a Virginia City newspaper. Then I moved to San Francisco, stayed a few years, and then rambled about the Sandwich Islands. I had made some noise in the East with a villainous backwoods sketch about a jumping frog, and saw the wonders of the Holy Land with a pack of pilgrims aboard the Quaker City. My letters to the Daily Alta newspaper created a boom in my stock, and the publishers were asking me to make it into a book. At the time, I was working for Senator Stewart in Washington and heard that the Alta was planning to do the same with my letters. There might be a call in the market for one book, but two would be more than it could bear. I had to throw up my position, take a steamer via Panama, and land in San Francisco to resolve the matter.
When that was settled to my satisfaction, I resumed work on the manuscript for “The Innocents Abroad.” I lectured in town, then wandered to Sacramento, Virginia City and Carson City. That kept my pockets full without descending into newspaper work. I finished the book and the lecturing before the Fourth of July. That left me two days before the 6th, when the steamer Montana would carry my carcass back to the East.
Nowhere else could the Fourth of July be celebrated with as much spirit as in San Francisco. The town dressed itself up in bunting and flags so elaborate that some buildings acquired a second skin. If that wasn’t enough to remind you of the founding of the country, there were the parades, literary exercises, bands a-playing, speechifying, parties, and balls to remind you. The day had begun chilly and windy. The breeze came in off the bay, turning a ton of Pacific water to mist that hazed the streets. The field batteries at Fort Point and Alcatraz raised the dawn, and the vessels in the harbor responded with full-throated roars of their own. That’s the signal for people to set off their fireworks, and the racket did not stop. When one group faded, another picked up the job. I was enjoying the riot with Bret Harte. He had been working like a fiend, overseeing the Overland Monthly and reading the “Innocents” manuscript, and was ready to play. We cheered the procession, looking in on the speechifying, and drank the health of the country at lunch. The tide turned in the afternoon, and it became sunnier and warmer, adding to the cheerfulness of the day. We observed the regatta during the afternoon, and walked the crowded streets, dodging the Chinese fireworks and soaked up the happiness.
We landed on the grounds behind the old Mission Church, watching the cricket match between the Pioneers and St. George clubs when we heard an English voice explaining the leg-before-wicket rule.
“It’s quite simple, really. A batsman who uses his pads to stop the ball from hitting the wicket can be declared lbw by the umpire after an appeal by the opposing team. But only if the ball is in line with the wickets and its trajectory is such that it would have hit the wickets if the batsman did not stop it. But not if it hits him outside the line of off stump—oh! well played! Did you see that googly?”
He was a young lad, barely old enough to shave, but already he was bluff and hearty in that English fashion. He seemed animated by springs, and his voice carried in great gusts across the field. Despite his ancestors being on the losing side nearly a century before, he was in love with the world and wanted everyone to appreciate the day as much as he.
He saw us noticing him and asked if that was, indeed, the googliest googly we had ever seen. We agreed heartily.
“Who is the lad bowling for the Pioneers?”
We said it was the captain, Chisholm. This pleased him even though he didn’t know the man. We said who we were. That pleased him more.
He told us he was John Watson and pumped our hands as if he were a thirsty man hoping for water. He was bound for Australia. He had developed a powerful curiosity to see the New World. He looked in at New
York, then took a steamer via the Isthmus of Panama to San Francisco. The next ship bound for Sydney was the Day Dawn on the 15th, but he hoped to find one leaving before that, as he was low on funds.
We were charmed by his accent and his bluff heartiness. He was as boisterous as a puppy. Harte and I knew our duty. I was flush with proceeds from my speaking tour, and Harte knew the freshest entertainments the City offered. We needed to take this child of the Empire under our wing and show him Western hospitality. From that moment, his purse was not to be opened under any circumstance.
After the match was over, we toured young Watson through the town. We walked down Market, passing the wooden stands that were erected to watch the fireworks show. John described the ascension of the flying machine Gladiator earlier that day, and we speculated on using giant balloons some day to travel across the sea in comfort and complete safety. We stopped for refreshments frequently and at each stop introduced Watson to a new companion. At each encounter, he revealed a mind fired with curiosity. To Doctor Gillespie, he enquired about the diseases he had befriended and the course of his medical training. To Buck Kennedy, who haunted the mining camps since ’49, he educated himself about the latest mining processes. With Colonel Warden, the Indian fighter, there was an earnest discussion about the difference between spotting a Comanche and an Apache at a distance—the best way to encounter them.
By sundown, the winds had shifted seaward and a chill infested the air. The streets darkened, and the gaslights illuminated the buildings and cast parades of shadows on the streets. We had enough time before the fireworks exhibition to duck into Martin’s. We loaded up on porterhouse steaks and buckwheat cakes, topped with shots of whiskey, and followed the crowd back out into the street. Overhead the fireworks glowed and thundered, some low enough to dust our clothes with stray cinders.
We were nearing the intersection with Montgomery when we realized that we had mislaid a Watson. We scanned the crowds high and low, but neither hide nor scalp could we see. Bret and I retraced our path. The street was wide, so he cast an eye to port and me to starboard. We let our ears set our course. San Francisco is home to many accents. It is Babel of flat American tones, lilting Irish chants, melodic Mexican accents, and the inscrutable Chinese dialects. But speakers of the Queen’s English stand out.
I spotted him in earnest discussion with a trio of ruffians down one of the narrow alleys. He was just a few steps off the street, down in the shadows. I looked over his broad back, and saw that one of the men was holding a young Chinese woman dressed in the plain woolen dress common to their race. Her downward stare did not show fear, but her rigid stance, still as a cemetery angel, spoke volumes. What caught my attention, moreover, was her hair. It was streaked with silver, bound with the traditional bun in the back.
As I drew near, the gist of John’s talk grew clearer. The three men had been sporting with the girl; her objections had caught John’s ear and he was giving them an earful of English invective about their manners and sportsmanship. They were shooting each other sly looks, and it was clear that their steam was rising. Two of them were of a type common in the City. They could have been twins. They wore slouch hats, blue woolen shirts, loose denims crammed into boots. They were clean-shaven, but only a mite dusty, and were expelling fumes like a distillery, so I reckoned they had come in from the mining fields and been civilized only for the day.
The third fellow was leaning with his arms crossed against the far alley wall and showed more intelligence in his eye than the other two combined. His face looked familiar but I could not spare too much time from the conversation in progress.
John became aware of me by his side and said, “Sam! I’m glad you’re here. They refuse to let this girl be.”
“This is none of your concern,” the man holding the girl grumbled, “so why don’t you skedaddle before you get hurt, kid.” John’s Adam’s apple was working like a pile driver, but he wasn’t going to show yellow. “Excuse me, Clemens,” he said, and struck a plucky fighting stance that would have made the Marquis of Queensbury beam with pride for the courage of his countrymen.
When they heard John call to me by my last name, everyone wanted to contribute to the conversation. It’s difficult to express in prose, but imagine if you would the following happening at the same time:
“Now John—” [Me, nervous about what could happen.]
“Let the girl go.” [John, striking a pose reminiscent of Ivanhoe.]
“Clemens! Clemens of the Call!” [Wall-holding fellow deciding to take a part in the proceedings, at least the part that involved me.]
“Bugger off, Limey” [One of the twins, giving the Chinese girl’s arm a wrench for emphasis.]
“Fang kai wo de gebó.” [The Chinese girl, begging to be released.]
“Want us to scrag ’em, Big Jim?” [The other twin, reaching behind him for something that was probably not to our liking.]
“Ching-wah tsao duh liou mahng!” [The Chinese girl, characterizing their parentage and suggesting they’re fond of frogs, better left untranslated.]
“Release the girl!” John said. He began bobbing on his toes like an engine piston turning over.
“Oh,—” [Me, realizing with a sinking heart that I had been spotted by Big Jim Crosby, saloon owner and brother of a police official I had regularly torn apart in my columns years before.]
I looked for Bret, but he had vanished in the riot of wagons and crowds. Meanwhile, the twins had a good laugh at John’s threat, until he bounded like a kangaroo and popped one of them in the nose. It was the one holding the girl, and he squealed like a lanced pig and clapped his hands to staunch the flood of blood from his nose. The girl was quick-witted enough to push behind him and sprint down the dark alley, but not before turning around and giving him a kick.
A blast overhead temporarily deafened the conversation, and that was the last I saw of John. He advanced to engage the enemy. I retreated onto the higher ground of the sidewalk and then streaked into the street. I plunged into the crowd, hit the dirt road, and pumped my legs. The twins followed, leaving John and Big Jim to settle the debate between them. Any guilty emotions that I felt for abandoning him were tabled unanimously in favor of saving my skin from a hiding.
At the cross street, I dodged under a slow-moving wagon and turned right. I pounded down the sidewalk, dodging the strolling citizens and hunting for a bolt-hole. I ducked down an alley, blindly scattering the trash and gasping for breath. My thoughts caught up with me and I began to put the pieces together. Big Jim Crosby was noted for never straying far from his saloon. That meant that I was running around Big Jim’s building. I was in the alley behind his place, so one more right turn, and I would run into him.
I was planning on streaking straight, but my arm had other plans. Something hooked my elbow at the intersection. Most of me wanted to turn. My feet debated carrying on straight, but changed their vote at the last minute and that carried the motion unanimously. I faced the rough wooden wall and the blow scattered my wits. The wind was fair knocked out of me, and I was helped down to the ground near some crates. Before I could ask who was to lead this dance, a soft feminine hand clamped over my mouth. She was none too careful about it, because she closed my nose as well. Suffocation became a consideration.
The alley had grown crowded. There seemed to be a convention in progress, but I wasn’t in any hurry to stumble away, so I held my peace. In the dark, the pounding footsteps grew louder and louder. I heard boots scraping the dirt near us as they skidded to a halt.
“Where’d he turn?”
“I don’t know. I was following you!”
“You were ‘posed to keep track of him.”
“How was I ‘sposed to do that when you were in front? Where were you looking?”
“I was making sure you were following me! You’re as slow as a sway-back mule.”
They continued to discuss the matter some until Big Jim showed up. He cursed them. He cursed John. He cursed me in particular and most of a
ll the missing Chinawoman. He added a few words blistering the thunder of fireworks, too, just to let off some of the pressure. When he ran low on steam, he ordered his men back to the tavern. That was followed by thundering knocks on a door: Bam! Bam! Bam! followed after a pause by another Bam! A voice from inside cursed the knocker, not realizing it was his boss until, judging by the exhalation of air, he took a kick in the gut. The door slammed behind the crew, and all we could hear was the riot in the streets and the hammering of my heart.
John’s voice said my name, soft and hoarse and scented with whiskey. The hand vanished from my mouth, and I stood up and leaned against the boxes to catch my breath. I suggested that we caucus elsewhere that didn’t remind one of the bottom of a mineshaft. John agreed, and he took my arm and we continued down the alley toward the main street.
“Let’s head to the Occidental Hotel,” I said. “I have a powerful hankering for oysters. Evading a thrashing from Big Jim works up a powerful hunger.”
“I don’t think that will be possible,” John said.
“Nonsense. After that scare, not even the devil and his legions will keep me away—”
“It won’t be the devil, Sam, but our company that will keep us out.”
We had reached the end of the street. John turned me around to introduce me to his new companion, and I had seen what he meant.
