* * * * *

At Post and Market streets, thousands waited, though the day was young.  Constantly the crowd increased.  From all directions came pedestrians, horsemen, folks in carriages, buggies—­all manner of vehicles, even farm wagons from the outlying districts.  Most of them looked upon attendance as a test of loyalty.  When it was learned that Governor Downey had sent his regrets a murmur of disapproval ran through the throng.  He had been very popular in San Francisco, 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