Christmas, Warm and Bright

One of the most fun and fascinating aspects of researching the story of Ah Toy is finding out what kind of world she lived in. That world was San Francisco in the 1840s and 1850s.

It was a very different time. You may think that's a "Captain Obvious" statement, but it really bears thinking about. If I were to get up from my chair in  my upstairs writing studio and climb out onto my roof, I would be able to look across the bay and see a faint outline of San Francisco, its gray skyline silhouetted with the snow-white eastern span of the Bay Bridge cutting across the scene in front. It's a beautiful sight, but it's not the San Francisco I'm writing about. The San Francisco I'm writing about was smaller, wilder, smellier, and more fleeting.

"Fleeting"? In the early days, yes. In the thick of the gold rush, in a two and a half year span from 1849 to 1851, San Francisco tried to snuff itself out with six - six! - catastrophic fires that destroyed major portions of the nascent town. The first occurred exactly 166 years ago today, on Christmas Eve.

At that time, the city was basically an overgrown KOA. Canvas tents carpeted the valleys of Yerba Buena and started creeping up the hills. Whatever actual buildings existed were wooden with interior walls lined with canvas and paper. Lighting at night was provided by lanterns and candles. Fire departments, fire hoses, and any inkling of building fire codes were a year away. But take heart, the gun powder was stored safely at the water's edge (with a bunch of other flammable merchandise that was stored out in the open)!

James Parker, in his 1853 directory of the city, describes what we all see coming on that Christmas Eve of 1849:

The first of the series of calamitous conflagrations that have marked the history of the city, broke out on the 24th of December, 1849, about 6 o'clock, A M. It commenced in an upper story of Dennison's Exchange, on the East of the Plaza, about where Kearny is intersected by Merchant street. From this point it spread down Washington street nearly to Montgomery, and also towards Clay street, destroying most of the houses in the block, which had been built up from street to street, with the exception of a portion of Clay street. Nearly 50 houses and stores were consumed, and the destruction of property was estimated at a million of dollars.

A Chilean miner, Vicente Perez Rosales, recounts:

The fire spread in all directions with the same sickening speed with which we sometimes see it spread in Chile in some of our wheat fields at harvest time. In the midst of that immense roaring bonfire, stoked by the explosion of barrels of gunpowder that filled the air with sparks and flaming timbers, everything was soon invaded by burning boards carried by the wind. The fire surrounded us on all sides, and like everyone else we saved ourselves only by the speed of our flight.

Theophile de Rutte, a young Swiss merchant (San Francisco was indeed diverse!) describes:

...the cry of "Fire!" so terrifying for the city of San Francisco built of wood and canvas, echoed in the air and spread rapidly from person to person and street to street... 

It was a horrible and yet spectacular sight. With each new rum, brandy or grog shop it devoured, the fire doubled in intensity and at the same time changed color. It resembled a superb display of Bengal lights with reds, yellows and blues, or else a giant punchbowl ignited by Satan and continuously stirred by the demons of hell. Add to that a habit the Americans have when an entire neighborhood is on fire: they throw kegs of powder into the middle of the conflagration to raze the houses and isolate the fire. Indeed, the buildings collapse, but all too frequently fiery debris tumbles to the other side of the street and sets on fire the houses opposite, which, built of wood and superheated from their proximity to the blaze, catch on fire like matchsticks.

A warm, bright Christmas indeed!

Often, as I've read through accounts of the hustle, bustle, excitement, and wildness of San Francisco in the gold rush days, I've thought how invigorating it must have been to live on the edge of the continent with human energy pulsating around me. Would I have wanted to be a part of that experience? I ask myself. Would I have wanted to be on the frontlines of history? It's tempting, as it would be for any historian whom immerses himself or herself into a particular time and place. But then I think of those who watched their houses (tents) go up in flames as they stood in the muddy streets up to their knees, cold air nipping at their noses and fat, gray rats and minuscule fleas nipping at everything else. The question is easy to answer at that moment. I'll just enjoy the view from 2015, thank you!

Merry Christmas!