GOLD FEVER Part Three. Ken Salter
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to the mining camps where he’d made his pile and knew his way around, I felt confident he’d be happy to settle in Sonora with his Virginie, who had made it clear she was available for marriage only and did not plan to leave her home town.
“Further, I can easily replace Bowers Express which started in 1849 but has been out of business since 1851. They provided mail service to Nevada City for $2.50 a letter. By taking Bower’s route, I’d have an exclusive route from Auburn to Grass Valley and all the mining camps in between – Gold Run, Rough and Ready as well as French Corral and Timbuctoo where there are major concentrations of French miners I have visited. Access to these camps from Nevada City and Grass Valley is only a hop, skip and jump away during the Summer and Fall mining seasons.” As I had no stage coaches, I’d have to use public transport from Sacramento to Nevada City and hire concessionaires to take the mail. I had in the back of my mind to hire a couple of burly ex-policemen I met both to deliver the mail and ride shotgun to accompany gold shipments. When these two visited the mining camps they could also make the inquiries as to the whereabouts of miners whose relatives were willing to have me locate them for a fee. I couldn’t tell Dillon my plans to run my express service on the cheap. He needed to believe I had the necessary resources and personnel in the bag to carry out my ambitious scheme.
Dillon eyed the clock in his office and I’d taken up a lot of his time. One of his staff had been hovering outside his office and pacing back and forth for the last ten minutes. It was time to close the interview and see if I’d achieved his backing. “So, that’s where it stands. Do I have your support for this venture? It will mean a lot to the miners and my associates to know you back this venture.” Ball in his court.
Dillon rose slowly from his chair and extended his hand. “You have my support. I only hope it goes as smoothly as you suggest. I can deal with our banks when you’ve got the gold. Good luck.”
We shook hands on my proposal and I left hoping as Georges would say, “Let’s hope ya can follow on that pack of blarney.”
“THE ABC CLASS”, A BOOKMARK AD FOR HOOD’S SARSAPARILLA — c. 1880 (author’s collection).
“THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE ON PORTSMOUTH SQUARE”
— litho c. 1853 (author’s collection).
California Gold Rush Journal
CHAPTER TWO
San Francisco — 1853
I was buoyed by the news that in January gold shipped through the San Francisco customs house totaled $46.6 million dollars. This figure didn’t include the considerable amount of gold successful miners took with them returning to their home countries. I had been intrigued by several French miners like Marie Suize, her brother and others who wanted to invest their gold in income-producing properties or businesses. As an entrepreneur, I needed both to raise capital for my new venture, “Dubois & Cie. Express” and search out potentially profitable new businesses or products. My business partnership with Bernard Lefebvre to manufacture and sell bear’s grease hair pomade and bear’s oil was profitable after only six months on the market. We supplied the bear’s grease obtained from French trappers who hunted bear and other animals and sold meat and fowl to French restaurants like ours. The bear’s grease was sold to card sharks, gamblers and dandies and the bear’s oil was sold as a patent medicine to cure all sorts of hair problems. By manufacturing our products locally, we avoided customs duties and luxury product taxes. We were able to price our pharmacy items fifty percent cheaper than imported bear’s grease and oils and still make a handsome profit split 50/50 between the Lefebvres and us.
In order to find similar products to manufacture, I had been running a classified ad in the French, Spanish and German language newspapers for several weeks. I claimed I was an entrepreneur with capital to invest in new products or inventions and could make sound, profitable investments for individuals desiring to invest in the local, booming economy. I asked interested parties to describe in writing their products, provide a sketch of the item and deliver it to the wholesale pharmacy near the Long Wharf where I maintained a small office and where my assistant, Gino, and the pharmacist’s sales clerk, Sophie Benson, sorted and organized for delivery letters from the French consulate.
I was on my way to my office when Gino intercepted me. He was out of breath and hoarsely shouting for me to hurry with him back to the office. There was someone there I should definitely see. I was astonished to see outside my office a smallish man peddling a dark colored cloth in a hand cart.
“This is the guy you want me to see?” I asked Gino perplexed. “He’s a peddler,” I said in disbelief.
Gino was still out of breath and shaking his head. He reached into the cart and pulled out a pair of sturdy looking men’s work pants and shoved them at me. “These will be a winner,” Gino croaked. “You gotta talk to this guy.” The little guy with the cart and wide blue eyes and rumpled clothes looked puzzled at Gino’s antics.
I took a hard look at the work pants. They looked to be made with a cloth we call serge de Nîmes — a heavy cloth made in the south of France and sometimes used for tents and canvas products. I had never seen the cloth made into clothes. Close inspection revealed good workmanship and pockets were reinforced with metal rivets. I asked the peddler if he spoke French or English.
“I speak a little English,” he replied sheepishly with a heavy Germanic accent. “I see your ad in our German paper. You have money for products. I need money to make more pants.” He reached into his cart and pulled out 2 more pairs of work pants in different sizes. “Miners want these pants, but I no can get denim material enough to make more,” he said in halting, frustrated English.
“Let’s go into my office and talk. Bring a couple of pairs of pants with you,” I said. Pointing to Gino, I said, “Stay here and watch the peddler’s cart while I speak with him in my office.”
As we walked into the pharmacy and headed for my cubbyhole in the back, Sophie Benson, the salesclerk and my part-time letter sorter, gave me a whimsical look. She’d been taking in the scene on the street and gave me a look as if to say, “look what the cat has brought in from the hunt.”
I motioned my client to take a seat and hand me the pair of work pants he was clutching as if his life depended on them. “I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Pierre Dubois. I put the ad in your German paper. What’s your name,” I asked extending my hand.
“I’m called Levi Strauss,” he replied giving my hand a firm shake.
“Tell me about your pants and why you need assistance to make more.”
“Well, I come to San Francisco with my cloth, needles and thread. I think to make tents for miners cuz’ we read in New York winters here very bad for miners. But miners no need tents, so I try to sell to ladies, but they no want my cloth either; they want only fancy clothes made with silk, velvet and taffeta. So, I get desperate. Nobody told me life so expensive here. I buy a cart for $50 and wheel it from place to place and offer to make clothes, any clothes. I meet miners; they say we need sturdy pants. I say I can make you strong pants. They say ‘how much?’ I say $6. One miner give me $6 and I measure him with my string. I go to tailor’s shop and give him the $6. I say to tailor cut all my cloth to make pants — some big, some small. I sew the pants and sell to miners in front of stores where they