The Legend Of Devil’s Point, California
Nestled on the northern edge of the majestic San Francisco Bay, in the captivating state of California, lies a geographical anomaly shrouded in mystery and steeped in folklore: Devil’s Point. Here, the expansive Golden Gate gracefully yields to the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. A prominent bluff stands sentinel, offering respite from the relentless winds to a semicircular bay embraced by its protective embrace. The landscape surrounding this bay, while possessing a raw and untamed beauty, is often described as bleak and barren. Yet, scattered remnants of human presence hint at a past interwoven with ambition, despair, and perhaps, something far more sinister.
The story of Devil’s Point begins with whispers of abandoned dreams. Traces of a weather-beaten cabin and a deserted corral cling to the hillside, silent witnesses to the failed aspirations of those who sought to tame this wild corner of the world. It is said that an enterprising squatter first erected these structures, only to abandon them for reasons lost to time. A "jumper," eager to seize the opportunity, followed suit, but his fate mirrored that of his predecessor, vanishing as mysteriously as he had arrived.
Undeterred by the misfortunes of those who came before, a third tenant, brimming with optimism, envisioned a grand metropolis rising from the rugged terrain of Devil’s Point. He meticulously divided the property into building lots, staked off the hillside with unwavering conviction, and drafted a map showcasing his ambitious vision of a bustling city. However, his attempts to entice the citizens of San Francisco to relocate proved futile. The allure of the established city overshadowed his dreams, and he gradually succumbed to the crushing weight of disappointment. His spirit broken, he sought solace in dissipation and despair, often seen haunting the narrow strip of beach during low tide or perched precariously upon the cliff as the tide surged in.
One fateful day, a sheep-tender stumbled upon the disheartened visionary on the cliff’s edge, lifeless and cold. A map of his ill-fated property remained clutched in his hand, his face turned towards the boundless sea, a poignant tableau of shattered dreams. This tragic discovery, coupled with the previous disappearances, fueled the already growing unease surrounding the locality, contributing to the dark reputation of Devil’s Point.
The circumstances surrounding these unfortunate events gave rise to a multitude of rumors, attributing the failures and tragedies to a supernatural influence that permeated the very air of Devil’s Point. Tales of a sinister energy lurking within the promontory began to circulate, adding to its ominous allure. The origin of its chilling name, "Devil’s Point," became a subject of intense speculation and conjecture.
Some whispered that the area was haunted by the restless spirit of a sailor who had deserted Sir Francis Drake’s ship. Driven by the allure of gold discoveries rumored by the local Native Americans, the sailor met a tragic end, succumbing to starvation amidst the unforgiving rocks. Others, with a penchant for historical embellishment, claimed that Sir Francis Drake himself, portrayed as little more than a pirate, had chosen Devil’s Point as a clandestine location to conceal his ill-gotten gains, plundered from unsuspecting ships. To protect his hidden treasure, the legend continued, Drake employed dark magic and summoned diabolical forces, forever binding the promontory to a malevolent energy.
Adding to the mystique, reports surfaced of a shadowy ship materializing on moonlit nights, standing off and on in the distance. During periods of dense fog, when visibility was reduced to near zero, the muffled and indistinct sound of oars could be heard, rising and falling in the darkness, fueling the imaginations of those who dared to venture near Devil’s Point.
Whether rooted in truth or embellished by folklore, the landscape of Devil’s Point seemed perfectly suited to nurture such eerie tales. Towering, barren hills, scarred by deep, shadowy canyons, cast long, gaunt shadows upon the restless tide. The wind, an ever-present force, howled incessantly, carrying with it a sense of fierce disquiet and perpetual unrest. As dusk approached, the relentless sea fog crept through the Golden Gate, silently engulfing the shore and slowly ascending the hillside, tenderly enveloping the wind-battered face of the cliff until sea and sky merged into an indistinguishable expanse. During these moments, the bustling city of San Francisco and the nearby settlements seemed to recede into an infinite distance, leaving behind an overwhelming sense of loneliness. The faint creaking of a windlass or the monotonous chant of sailors aboard an unseen ship carried across the water, laden with a profound and unsettling mystery.
About a year prior to this recounting, a well-to-do broker from San Francisco found himself unexpectedly adrift near Devil’s Point as night descended. The afternoon’s leisurely sail had taken an unforeseen turn, leaving him as the sole occupant of a small boat, enveloped in a thick, impenetrable fog. This predicament was attributed partly to his lack of nautical expertise and partly to his unwavering optimism. Having relinquished control of his boat to the capricious whims of the wind and tide, he confidently anticipated a change in fortune, drawing upon his business acumen, which assured him that a reversal was inevitable in all matters, both aquatic and terrestrial. "The tide will turn soon," the broker declared with unwavering conviction, "or something will happen."
As if in response to his optimistic pronouncement, the bow of his boat, seemingly guided by an unseen force, slowly veered around, revealing a dark, looming object in the distance. A gentle eddy propelled the boat further inshore until it was completely sheltered under the lee of a rocky point, barely visible through the dense fog. He desperately scanned his surroundings, hoping to recognize a familiar landmark, but the tops of the towering hills that rose on either side were hidden from view. After managing to secure a line to the rocks, he settled back down with renewed confidence, convinced that his situation was now secure.
The air grew increasingly frigid, and the insidious fog seeped through his tightly buttoned coat, causing his teeth to chatter uncontrollably, despite the occasional sip from a flask he carried. His clothes were damp, and the bottom of the boat was covered in a fine spray. The comforts of a warm fire and a safe shelter filled his thoughts as he gazed longingly at the rugged rocks. Driven by sheer desperation, he finally pulled the boat towards the most accessible part of the cliff and attempted to climb ashore. The ascent proved less challenging than he had anticipated, and within moments, he found himself standing on the hilltop above. A dark shape in the distance caught his eye, and as he approached, he realized it was a deserted cabin.
The story continues with the broker, having gathered stakes from the nearby corral, managing to build a roaring fire inside the cabin. Fueled by the warmth of the flames and the contents of his excellent brandy flask, he managed to endure the early part of the evening with relative comfort. The cabin lacked a door, and the windows were simply square openings, allowing the fog to freely enter. However, despite these discomforts, he amused himself by tending to the fire and observing the ruddy glow that the flames cast upon the surrounding fog. Overcome by weariness, he eventually succumbed to sleep in this desolate refuge.
He was abruptly awakened at midnight by a loud "halloo" that seemed to emanate directly from the sea. Believing it to be the cry of a lost boatman, he cautiously approached the edge of the cliff. However, the thick fog rendered all objects beyond a few feet indistinguishable. He could hear the rhythmic strokes of oars on the water, drawing closer with each passing moment. The "halloo" was repeated. As he prepared to respond, he was startled by an answering call coming from the very cabin he had just left. Hastily retracing his steps, he was astonished to find a stranger warming himself by the fire. Stepping back into the shadows to conceal himself, he carefully observed the intruder.
The man appeared to be around forty years old, with a gaunt and cadaverous face. However, it was his peculiar attire that truly captured the broker’s attention. His legs were concealed by enormous, wide trousers that reached his knees, where they met tall sealskin boots. A pea-jacket with exaggerated cuffs, almost as large as the breeches, covered his chest, and a massive belt with an unusually large buckle supported two trumpet-mouthed pistols and a curved sword. A long braid of hair, extending halfway down his back, completed his eccentric ensemble. As the firelight illuminated his face, the broker noticed with a mixture of amusement and concern that the braid was composed entirely of a type of tobacco known as pigtail or twist. The effect, he remarked, was heightened when the apparition thoughtfully bit off a portion of the braid and rolled it into the cavernous recesses of his jaws.
Meanwhile, the increasingly louder sound of oars indicated the imminent arrival of the unseen boat. The broker barely had time to hide behind the cabin before several uncouth-looking figures clambered up the hill towards the ruined rendezvous.
These new arrivals were dressed similarly to the first comer, exchanging greetings with him in archaic language as they entered the cabin, bestowing upon each other familiar nicknames. "Flash-in-the-Pan," "Spitter-of-Frogs," "Malmsey Butt," "Latheyard Will," and "Mark-the-Pinker" were among the peculiar sobriquets that the broker managed to recall. He couldn’t determine whether these titles reflected some unique characteristic of their owners, as a silence descended upon the group as they arranged themselves in a semicircle around their cadaverous host.
Finally, "Malmsey Butt," a stout, ruddy-faced man-of-war’s-man, rose unsteadily to his feet and addressed the company. He explained that they had gathered that evening, adhering to a time-honored tradition, to relieve one of their number who had maintained watch over the area where hidden treasures had been buried for the past fifty years. At this revelation, the broker’s ears perked up. "If so be, camarados and brothers all," he continued, "ye are ready to receive the report of our excellent and well-beloved brother, Master Slit-the-Weazand, touching his search for this treasure, why, marry, to ‘t and begin."
A murmur of assent rippled through the circle as the speaker resumed his seat. Master Slit-the-Weazand slowly opened his lantern jaws and began to speak. He had dedicated much of his time to pinpointing the exact location of the treasure. He believed – nay, he could state with certainty – that its position had finally been determined. He admitted to having engaged in some minor "business" on the side. While modesty prevented him from divulging the details, he did reveal that none of the three tenants who had occupied the cabin during the past decade were still alive.
Next, "Mark-the-Pinker" rose to address the assembly. Before proceeding with business, he felt obligated to perform a duty in the sacred name of friendship. He deemed it inappropriate to praise the qualities of the previous speaker, as he had known him since "boyhood’s hour." They had worked together during the Spanish war. He challenged anyone to match his comrade’s skill with a Toledo sword, and all could attest to how nobly and beautifully he had earned his current title of "Slit-the-Weazand."
The speaker, with a touch of emotion, apologized if he dwelled too long on their early companionship. He then recounted, with a delicate touch of humor, his comrade’s unique method of slitting the ears and lips of a stubborn Jewish man who had been captured during one of their previous voyages. He promised not to weary his audience and proposed that Slit-the-Weazand’s report be accepted and that the company express its gratitude to him.
A container of strong spirits was brought into the hut, and cans of grog were freely distributed. The health of Slit-the-Weazand was toasted in a fine speech by Mark-the-Pinker, to which the former responded in a manner that brought tears to the eyes of those present. To the broker, concealed in the shadows, this brief diversion from the meeting’s purpose caused considerable anxiety. Nothing had yet been revealed regarding the precise location of the treasure they had alluded to. Fear prevented him from openly inquiring, while curiosity kept him from escaping during the ensuing orgy. But his situation was becoming increasingly precarious. "Flash-in-the-Pan," who seemed to possess a choleric temperament, became enraged during a heated argument and fired both of his pistols at his opponent’s chest. The bullets passed through on either side, just below the armpits, creating clean holes through which the horrified broker could see the firelight behind him. The wounded man, showing no signs of distress, amused the company by putting his arms akimbo and inserting his thumbs into the bullet holes as if they were armholes. This act restored good humor, and the party joined hands and formed a circle in preparation for dancing. A monotonous tune began, hummed in a high key by one of the participants, with the others joining in the following chorus, which sounded strangely familiar to the broker:
"Her Majesty is very sick,
Lord Essex hath the measles,
Our Admiral hath licked ye French –
Poppe! saith ye weasel!"
At the regular recurrence of the final line, the group discharged their loaded pistols in all directions, further endangering the terrified broker.
When the chaos had partially subsided, Flash-in-the-Pan called the meeting back to order, and most of the revelers returned to their places. However, Malmsey Butt insisted on another chorus, singing at the top of his lungs:
"I am ycleped J. Keyser – I was born at Spring, hys Garden,
My father toe make me ane clerke erst did essaye,
But a fico for ye offis – I spurn ye losels offeire;
For I fain would be ane butcher by’r ladykin alwaye."
Flash-in-the-Pan drew a pistol from his belt and, ordering someone to gag Malmsey Butt with the stock of it, proceeded to read from a significant roll of parchment he held in his hand. It was a semi-legal document, written in the archaic language of a bygone era. Following a lengthy preamble affirming their loyalty to Her Majesty the Queen, the document declared that they were taking possession of the promontory and all the treasure hidden within, previously buried by Her Majesty’s loyal Admiral, Sir Francis Drake, with the right to search, discover, and claim the treasure. To that end, they were forming a guild or corporation to find, search for, and reveal the treasures, and they solemnly swore to sign their names. But at that precise moment, the reading of the parchment was interrupted by an exclamation from the group, and the broker was seen frantically struggling at the door in the powerful grip of Mark-the-Pinker.
"Let me go!" he cried, desperately trying to reach Flash-in-the-Pan. "Let me go! I tell you, gentlemen, that document isn’t worth the parchment it’s written on. The State’s laws, the country’s customs, and the mining ordinances are all against it. By all that’s sacred, don’t throw away such a capital investment through ignorance and informality. Let me go! I assure you, gentlemen, professionally, that you have a big thing, remarkably big thing, and even if I ain’t in it, I’m not going to see it fall through. Don’t, for God’s sake, gentlemen, I implore you, put your names to such a ridiculous paper. There isn’t a notary."
He fell silent. The figures surrounding him, which had been growing fainter and more indistinct as he spoke, swam before his eyes, flickered, reappeared, and then vanished completely. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. The cabin was deserted. On the hearth, the red embers of his fire were fading in the bright rays of the morning sun that streamed through the open window. He ran out to the cliff. The brisk sea breeze cooled his feverish cheeks and tossed the whitecaps of waves that crashed on the beach below. A stately merchant ship with white sails was entering the Gate. The cheerful voices of sailors came from a bark anchored below the point. The muskets of the sentries gleamed brightly on Alcatraz Island, and the sound of drums echoed on the breeze. In the distance, the hills of San Francisco, dotted with cottages and lined with wharves and warehouses, met his eager gaze.
Such is the legend of Devil’s Point. Any doubts about its veracity can be countered with the fact that the broker who recounts the story has since established a company called "Flash-in-the-Pan Gold and Silver Treasure Mining Company," and its shares are already trading at a premium. A copy of the original document is said to be kept on file in the company’s office, and on a clear day, the location of the claim can be seen from the hills of San Francisco.
By Francis Bret Harte, 1871. Compiled and edited by Kathy Alexander, updated January 2024.
About the Author: Francis Bret Harte (1836-1902) was an author and poet best remembered for his accounts of pioneering life in California. Originally from New York, he moved to California in 1853, working several jobs, including mining, teaching, messenger, and journalist. During his lifetime, he published several articles for magazines and several books, including The Luck of the Roaring Camp and Other Tales, in 1871, from which this article was excerpted. This tale, however, is not verbatim, as minor editing has occurred for clarity.