barque, polacca-rigged
or otherwise--no ship of any kind--no sign of sail--no canvas except a
full set of "courses" which the frigate herself has now set. She is
alone upon the ocean--in the mighty Pacific--a mere speck upon its
far-stretching illimitable expanse.

Every man upon the war-vessel is imbued with a strange sense of sadness.
But all are silent--each inquiring of himself what has become of the
barque, and what the fate of their shipmates.

One alone is heard speaking aloud, giving expression to a thought,
seeming common to all. It is the sailor who twice uttered the
prediction, which, for the third time, he repeats, now as the assertion
of a certainty. To the group gathered around him he says:--

"Shipmates, we'll never see that lieutenant again, nor the young reefer,
nor the old cox--never!"

CHAPTER EIGHT.

A FLEET OF MANY FLAGS.

Scene, San Francisco, the capital of California. Time, the autumn of
1849; several weeks anterior to the chase recounted.

A singular city the San Francisco of 1849; very different from that it
is to-day, and equally unlike what it was twelve months before the
aforesaid date, when the obscure village of Yerba Buena yielded up its
name, along with its site, entering on what may be termed a second
genesis.

The little _pueblita_, port of the Mission Dolores, built of sun-dried
bricks--its petty commerce in hides and tallow represented by two or
three small craft annually arriving and departing--wakes up one morning
to behold whole fleets of ships sailing in through the "Golden Gate,"
and dropping anchor in front of its shingly strand. They come from all
parts of the Pacific, from all the other oceans, from the ends of the
earth, carrying every kind of flag known to the nations. The whalesman,
late harpooning "fish" in the Arctic ocean, with him who has been
chasing "cachalot" in the Pacific or Indian; the merchantman standing
towards Australia, China, or Japan the traders among the South Sea
Islands; the coasters of Mexico, Chili, Peru; men-o'-war of every flag
and fashion, frigates, corvettes, and double-deckers; even Chinese junks
and Malayan prahus are seen setting into San Francisco Bay, and bringing
to beside the wharfless beach of Yerba Buena.

What has caused this grand spreading of canvas, and commingling of queer
craft? What is still causing it; for still they come! The answer lies
in a little word of four letters; the same that from the beginning of