ancisco, for he had vetoed the infamous Bulkhead
bill, which planned to give private interests the control of the
waterfront. He also pocketed a libel measure aimed at San Francisco's
independent press. But in the national crisis--a time when political
temporizing was not tolerated--he "did not believe that war should be
waged upon any section of the Confederacy, nor that the Union should be
preserved by a coercive policy."

"I saw the letter," Adrian told Benito. "They were going to read it at
first, but they decided not to. After all, the little Governor's not
afraid to utter his thoughts."

"I've more respect for him than for Latham," Windham answered. "He's to
make a speech today. Only a few weeks ago he damned us up and down in
Congress. Now he's for the Union. I despise a turn-coat."

They were interrupted by a voice that made announcements from the
platform.

Starr King arose amid cheers. The preacher was a man of marvelous
enthusiasm. His slight, frail figure gave small hint of his dynamic
talents. He had come to California for rest and health. But in the
maelstrom of pre-war politics, he found neither "dolce far niente" nor
recuperation. He plunged without a thought of self into the fight for
California.

As he began to talk the crowd pressed forward, packed itself into a
smaller ring. Medlied sounds of converse died into a silence, which was
almost breathless.

For an hour King went on discussing clearly, logically and deeply, all
the issues of the Civil War; the attitude, responsibilities and
influences of California, particularly San Francisco. He made no great
emotional appeals; he dealt in no impassioned oratory nor invective.

At the close there was a little pause, so deep the concentration of
their listening, before the concourse broke into applause. Then it was
hysteria, pandemonium. Hats flew in the air; whistles, cheers and bravos
mingled. The striking of palm against palm was like a great volley.
Again and again the preacher rose, bowed, retired. Finally he thanked
them, called the meeting closed, and bade them a good afternoon. Only
then the crowd began to melt. Fifty thousand people knew their city--and
their State no doubt--were safe for anti-slavery.

[Illustration: The concourse broke into applause. Then it was hysteria,
pandemonium. Fifty thousand knew their city was safe for Anti-Slavery.]

CHAPTER LVII

WATERS PAYS THE PRICE

Months passed to a tune of fifes and drums. Every