It is so early that the sky still has not shaded beyond the gray of the dawn, and yet there is already a long line winding up the steps to the building. Armed soldiers patrol up and down the line, rifles at the ready and a backup weapon of a machete tucked into their belts. The building beyond is white and squat and looks less like a government building and more like an Army barrack.
“This place looks like Fort Riley,” Sue says.
“It does,” I murmur.
“It gives me the creeps,” she says, spitting for luck.
The processing station segregates by gender and race, and as Sue, Lily, and I make our way to the line for women, a woman in a uniform waves me over. Sue and Lily follow as I approach the official. The woman is Chinese, and my shock is very quickly replaced by delight.
This is something new after all.
“Do you speak English?” she asks, her tone brusque and dismissive.
“Yes,” I say. “I am sorry, is there some sort of issue?”
“No, of course not, Miss . . . ?”
“Deveraux.”
“Miss Deveraux, there’s no need for Americans to wait in line with the immigrants. You and your girls can follow me.”
I open my mouth to tell the official that neither Sue nor Lily are my girls, but Sue gives me a half headshake. The line is very long, and it seems as though I am once more enjoying the boon of my fair skin.
The official leads us into a small room and closes the door. The room contains a single chair and a desk, but that is all. There’s a small fire burning in the hearth, chasing away the chill of the morning, and it is strange to be taken aside into such a place. She pulls forth a ledger and opens it before me.
“What is your business in San Francisco?”
“Oh, well, I am planning on establishing myself as a businesswoman—”
I break off when she stops scribbling and pushes the ledger across the desk at me, handing me a dripping pen.
“I wrote down marriage. Please print your names in the empty space and follow me.”
I do as she asks, the scrawl barely legible in my haste, and after a quick perusal she nods and puts the ledger away. I exchange a glance with Sue, but she shrugs and we follow along behind the woman without another word.
We are led out a different door than we entered and down a path that leads to yet another set of docks. There is a gate with a guard between us and the waiting area on the docks, but the gate opens at a wave from our administrator.
“The ferry arrives at the top of each hour, and it will cost you each two bits to get to San Francisco,” she says.
“That is it?” I ask, clutching at my satchel.
“Was I unclear?” The woman turns toward Sue. “You understand that slavery is illegal in the Republic of California, so if you are not being compensated you are free to leave at any time.”
Sue’s lips twist as she fights to hide a grin and she nods.
“Excellent, welcome to California,” she says before striding back down the path from which we came. I walk through the gate to the waiting area. The young soldier guarding the gate tips his hat at us.
“Ferry should be along in a few moments,” he says, his gaze lingering on me a bit too long to be appropriate.
We make our way toward the boarding area, and I shake my head. “Sue, what just happened?”
“Same thing that always happens, she thought you were white,” Lily says.
“Good to see things here in California work the same as everywhere else,” Sue says, chuckling mirthlessly.
Indeed, that is what I fear.
I have visited a number of varied cities, from the mishmash of Spanish and French architecture in New Orleans to the staid stone structures of Baltimore. And I had expected something similar when I arrived in San Francisco: imposing stone buildings, wooden clapboard houses, and sprawling grounds with manicured lawns.
But there is no clapboard or stone in San Francisco, at least as far as I can see. The Spanish influence is clear in the stucco and rounded arches of the Presidio that greets us when the ferry docks. The orange of clay tiles seems odd to me, even though I saw its like as we traveled overland through Central America. But it is the landscape beyond that captures my attention. The steep hills rise up and down, and multihued buildings with intricate scrollwork and sweeping roofs that curve up into points at the four corners cling precariously to those inclines, like barnacles to a hull. San Francisco’s architecture is part Spanish and part Chinese, and it is beautiful. I have never seen anything like it.
“Is that a dragon?” Lily asks from next to me, squinting at a carved arch that welcomes us to San Francisco in a half-dozen languages, only two of which I can read.
“Most definitely. The Chinese got a thing about dragons, well, about all animals in fact. They have a calendar that assigns a different animal to each lunar year.”
I turn, and leaning against a piling is Carolina, looking fresh as a daisy.
“I thought you were returning to the Capitán?” I say.
He shrugs. “I figured I should see you girls to your lodgings first.”
“How’d you make it through clearance so quickly?” Sue asks. “They think you were white as well?”
Carolina barks out a sharp laugh, because he is equally as dark as Sue. “No, I know a few fellows in the center.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Sue looks away, a tad bit scandalized. “But good to know that Katherine can still pass.”
I shrug. “I suppose there are times when my pale skin comes in handy.” This is my least favorite topic of discussion.
“Are there a lot of Chinese in the city?” Lily asks. She has no patience for our conversations, and her eyes still hungrily drink in the beautiful arch and the words and symbols carved into it. From where we stand there is no sign of San Francisco’s fabled Great Golden Wall, a relic from the Years of Discord when officials thought that the hordes in the East would make their way to the western coast of the continent. Perhaps we will see signs of it as we move farther into the urban landscape.
Carolina gestures toward the arch. “There surely are. The Chinese pert near run this city, and those peaked roofs are their contribution to the landscape. Vexes the white folks that ran up in here during the rush mightily. Of course, they ain’t doing us any favors, either. The Negro sector is farther south. Unless you plan on heading to the white sector?”
I take a deep breath and let it out. It is not a sigh, but it is close. This is an old argument between Carolina and me. He has been urging me to pass since I boarded the Capitán. He simply will not accept that I can no longer surrender the Negro part of myself, any easier than I could give up an arm.
Sue strolls up beside me, her sword strapped to her back and a small carpetbag in her hand. In New Orleans she had traded her scythe for a broadsword. Same deadly reach, but a bit more versatile in a fight. She squints at the city before us and makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh, mulling over Carolina’s words. The fact that she is still by my side says much more about her than it does about me. She is loyal to a fault.
“I hope you ain’t planning on playing Polly Plantation Owner again because I’m about done stepping and fetching,” Sue says, her voice low. “You heard that lady back at the island. Slavery is illegal.”
Mirth dances in Sue’s eyes, but I am not laughing. I know the toll these small indignities can take over time. “Negro sector,” I say to Carolina. And we begin to walk.