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building with black balconies that, judging by the flag hanging unmoving in the hot humid noon, served as the American consulate. Coins were counted out, and Dr. Merrill pocketed them, thanking Aaron Sweetland’s companions, and then Aaron began to complain as his associates tried to help him up the steps to the consulate.
    â€œYou’re not going to ship me home!” he cried.
    No one could respond to that, as if the entire company had been discovered committing a crime of deception.
    Then friendly voices reasoned with him, one man saying that there was no shame in arranging passage back to New York because of two grievous wounds, either one of which would have slain a buffalo.
    â€œDr. Merrill,” cried Aaron Sweetland, “tell them I’m fit to sail for California.”
    Our medical friend put a thoughtful finger to his lips, and, for the moment, made no further remark.
    Mr. Sweetland bellowed, with surprising strength for a stricken man, “Mr. Gill, I want you to help me.”
    â€œOf course I will,” said Mr. Gill, stepping forward, hat in hand. “If the company will allow me, I’ll do everything in my power to see you all the way to the goldfields.”
    I had never heard a statement put so well.
    â€œThat won’t be necessary,” said one of the Tioga Company, but not unkindly.
    â€œThere is, I think most of you will agree,” said Dr. Merrill, “a certain justice to Mr. Gill’s offer.”
    The Tioga Company ultimately accepted the doctor’s view. Doctors, like clergymen, were an upright authority.
    Dr. Merrill reminded the two of us that we could by no means be certain that the ship would be waiting for us, so we scurried through the streets, along with many of our companions, anxiously hoping our plans would remain intact.
    The afternoon was hot, but a sea breeze stirred the leaves of the palm trees shading the fountains. Everywhere the eye fell some parasitic vine was overgrowing a wall or monument. Even the tallest Moorish tower was succumbing to the insidious claws of creeping, flowering plants. The town had been stirring on our arrival, but the sultry plazas were nearly empty now. The only men on the street now were Americans, spitting and smoking, hurrying through the bright afternoon sun.
    The harbor was grander than I had expected, with long stone breakwaters and sailing ships, most of them three-masted barks, rigging hanging empty and slack in the heavy sun. I wished Elizabeth had been there to see the deep, beautiful blue of the water. A sign at the dock announced the fact that the Pacific Mail steamship California would depart at nine o’clock the following morning.
    We were hungry, and thirsty, too, but we had to be certain. To our relief, the steamship herself was actually moored at the wharf.
    A ship of greater character would be hard to imagine. She had three masts, with tightly furled sails, but her power was expected to be supplied by the steam-driven wheel along her side. The first steamship to enter San Francisco Bay, the California had begun plying the western waters only eight months earlier, but there were continual problems that delayed travelers. Her crew had deserted for three months during early summer, everyone but the cook and the captain heading off to join the stampede for fortune.
    There were many other ships that ferried gold seekers, but this one was the most famous. Crates of provisions, wooden boxes stained with seepage, were being hoisted into her interior. We all walked reverently up and down the wharf in the ship’s shadow, and Ben said she was the finest ship he had ever seen.
    A seaman suspended in a sling touched black paint on scars along the ship’s railing, the result, Dr. Merrill suggested, of a minor collision with another vessel. The ship’s man looked at us and paused, his paintbrush in his hand. I waved, and the mariner gave a salute with his brush.
    I approached a ticket agent leaning