A picture began to emerge. The enemy ships did seem to be trying to reach the harbor with their guns, or at least with some of them. Most of the shells were falling short, though. 'Thanks,' Sam muttered sourly as the Morning Call building rattled again. 'I never would have noticed that.'
The Pacific Squadron was moving out to engage the foe. He suspected the handful of antiquated gunboats would be sorry in short order, but making the effort was their job. He wished Edgar Leary would send him something, but the cub remained silent. Maybe he'd been hit on the way to Fort Point. Maybe the telegraph lines were down. And maybe Colonel Sherman wasn't inclined to let any news out of the fort and into the city. Considering how little the fort's guns were doing to drive away the British ironclads, the last explanation struck Clemens as most likely.
Men with rifles started running down Market. Other men with rifles started running up Market. 'Good to see the Volunteers have everything well in hand,' Sam muttered. 'Chickens act this way after the hatchet comes down, but chickens aren't in the habit of carrying Springfields.' Somebody fired one of those rifles. How many of our own shall we kill? Clemens scribbled. How many of them shall we blame on the British?
The telegraph clicker started up again. He hurried over to it. The message was to the point: MARINES LANDING OCEAN BEACH. HERNDON.
Sam was still carrying his notebook and pen. He looked down at the two sentences he'd just written. They were still true. They were, if anything, truer than ever. With three quick, firm strokes, he scratched them out anyhow. 'Who's wearing a hogleg?' he shouted, as loud as he could. 'The God-damned Englishmen are landing troops!'
'We'll nail the sons of bitches!' a typesetter yelled. He and two of the men who served the presses dashed out the front door, pistols in their hands. Clemens wondered if the British Marines knew what they were getting into. Apart from the Volunteer companies, a lot of men in San Francisco carried guns for self-protection-not least, for protection from other men carrying guns.
He wondered whether the Regular Army garrison up at Fort Point and the Presidio knew the ironclads out in the Pacific had landed Marines. Anyone with a lick of sense would have posted lookouts-with luck, lookouts with telegraph keys-all along the ocean front opposite the built-up part of San Francisco. 'Which means the Army likely hasn't done it,' he said. Then he shrugged. 'If they don't know about 'em, they'll find out pretty damn quick.'
He went back to his desk and started writing up some of the reports he was getting. As soon as he finished one, he carried it back to the typesetters, who set about turning it into something someone besides him and them and perhaps Alexandra could read.
By the time he'd finished a couple, a great rattle of small-arms fire had broken out to the west. It rapidly got louder and closer. People might be shooting at the British Marines, but they were shooting back, too, and evidently to better effect.
Smoke started floating in through what had been the front window. Clemens coughed a couple of times, then called, 'Boys, if you want to go out in the street, I won't say a word. This is a fine paper, but it's not worth burning up for.'
Most of the printers and typesetters did leave the building. As long as some of them stuck, Sam did, too, figuring the men out there would warn him before advancing flames got too close. He covered page after page of paper, wondering all the while if what he wrote would meet a hotter critic than he'd ever been.
Clay Herndon burst into the offices without his jacket, with his cravat all askew, and with blood running down the side of his face. 'My God, Sam!' he cried hoarsely. 'They're coming this way! Nobody can stop them. They're coming!'
Clemens pulled a bottle of whiskey out of a desk drawer. 'Here,' he said. 'Drink some of this.' Herndon did, and then wheezed and choked. Sam said, 'Wipe your face and tell me what happened to you.'
Herndon ran a sleeve across his cheek and seemed astonished when it came away red. 'Must have been when a bullet took out a window and sprayed me with glass,' he said. 'It's nothing. Listen, those Royal Marines make the Regulars look sick. Nobody can shift 'em, and they're not far behind me, either.'
'What in tarnation are the limeys up to?' Clemens demanded. 'I thought they'd do some shooting and burning for show, but if they're on your heels'-and the ever-swelling racket of gunfire made that obviously true-'they must be after something bigger. But what?'
'Damned if I know,' the reporter said. 'Whatever it is, who's going to stop 'em?'
'City Hall?' Sam mused. He shook his head. 'No, too much to hope for-and if they shoot Mayor Sutro, the city gets stronger.' And then, almost with the force of divine relation, he knew, or thought he did: 'My God! The U.S. Mint!'
'I don't know.' Herndon took another slug of whiskey. 'You can't imagine what it's like out there. All fire and smoke and chaos and people shooting and people running and people screaming and horses screaming and the only ones who have any notion of what they're doing or where they're going are the Marines.'
'You sound like a man talking about the devils in hell,' Clemens said.
'You aren't far wrong,' Herndon said. 'Listen, if they are after the Mint, it's not far from here-down on Mission, by Fifth.' He swayed where he stood. Shock? Whiskey? Some of both? Probably the last, Sam guessed. The reporter gathered himself. 'They'll be here soon. That's not good.'
'Have to get the story,' Sam said, and pushed outside past Herndon. People were still dashing every which way, some with weapons, some without. And then, almost without warning, they weren't running every which way. They were all running east, with rifle fire lashing them on. Every so often, someone with a rifle or pistol would pause to send back a shot or two. After that, he'd run some more.
Except one of them didn't run any more. Instead, he fell, clutching his chest. A moment later, a skinny little man in an unfamiliar uniform not far from Confederate butternut dashed up and bayoneted him to make sure he didn't get up again. Then he yanked the long, bloody bayonet free and aimed his rifle at Sam Clemens.
Time stretched endlessly. As if in a dream, Sam raised his hands to show he was unarmed. The Royal Marine's face was sweaty and smoke-stained. His scowl showed very bad teeth. He couldn't have stood more than fifty feet from Sam: point-blank range. After a hundred years in which Sam's heart beat once, the Englishman turned the rifle aside and ran on.
All the starch went out of Clemens' knees. Even though the Marine had not shot him, he sagged to the pavement. Now, instead of once in a hundred years, his heart thudded a thousand times a second. More and more Royal Marines dashed past him. None of them gave him a second glance; no one could have imagined him a danger at that moment.
More gunfire rang out, not far to the east: the Mint, sure enough. He remained too dazed to feel proud of being right. Some of the British fighting men must have brought dynamite, for loud explosions smote the ear. 'Move against them!' shouted a fellow in a captain's uniform: surely a volunteer. No one moved against them, no matter how he bellowed and carried on.
And then, quite suddenly, or so it seemed to Sam, the Royal Marines were running west where they had been running east. He went back into the Morning Call offices. 'You know what this is?' he said to Clay Herndon. 'It's the biggest goddamn bank holdup in the history of the world.'
'How much silver and gold do you think however many British Marines there are could carry away?' Herndon asked in an awed voice.
'Don't know the answer to that one, but I'll tell you this: people are going to fight over the bodies of any who got killed the way lions fought over the Christians in the Coliseum,' Sam said.
As the sounds of gunfire had once advanced through San Francisco, so now they retreated toward the Pacific. Half an hour after the Royal Marines departed from whatever was left of the U.S. Mint (by the smoke billowing up from it, not much), two natty companies of Regular Army infantry marched past the Morning Call offices in neat formation, sun gleaming from their fixed bayonets. Sam didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He took that bottle out of his desk and got drunk instead.
Brigadier General Orlando Willcox beamed at Frederick Douglass. 'How good to have you restored to my table here once more,' the commander of the Army of the Ohio said, raising his coffee cup in salute as if it were a goblet of wine. 'A pleasure to see you returned to freedom, and a pleasure to enjoy your company again. Your very good health.' He drank the unspirituous toast.
So did all the officers at his table, even Captain Richardson. 'Thank you very much, General,' Douglass said. 'Believe me, I feel myself delivered, as were the Israelites from Pharaoh's bondage in the land of Egypt.'
