March 3d 1850 Placerville Eldorado co. California
Dear Cousin
Agreeable to my promise & after thus long delaying, I now sit down to address a few lines to you touching my general health, my success thus far in our expedition & of California news and prospects generally.
First, my health has been very good most of the time since I left home. I was seasick a few days after leaving New York but soon got over this & enjoyed myself very well the rest of the passage to Chagres, & here I will not weary you with a long description of our journey across the Isthmus & of our long stay there. But simply say that we did not find any of those difficulties & frightful obstacles that played before the timorous imagination of Stephen H. Branch, but proceeded up the river in canoes rowed by the natives, and enjoyed the scenery & howling of the monkeys & chattering of Parrots very much. We pitched our tents at Gorgona & most of our party stayed there several weeks. S. Miller & myself went on to Panama to look out for a chance to get up to San Francisco. Of our ill success you have probably been informed & consequently of our long stay there, & of the deaths in our party. Yes, here Mr. Crooker, J. Miller & L. Alden yielded up their breath to God who gave it, & as I humbly hope & trust their spirits winged a happy flight upward to that world of bliss & love where sin & sorrow never can come & where parting is not known.
After many delays & vexations, we at length took passage on a German ship & set sail again on our journey to the Eldorado of the west. We went south nearly to the Equator, then turned west, the weather was warm, the winds light & contrary for our course. Our ship was a slow sailer & consequently our passage was long & tedious. Nothing worthy of note occurred, except now & then the spouting of Whales, & occasionally their broad backs & enormous tails would be seen rolling up from their watery abodes, & the nimble Porpoises & smooth Sharks & beautiful Dolphins, were seen playing around our ship & the long & wearisome days were seemingly shortened by the sport & excitement of catching them. Our appetites were sometimes satisfied by the excellent dish that was served up from them. One of the sailors fell from the rigging into the water & it was known that he could not swim, so the excitement was great. Ropes, planks and every thing that could be got hold of was thrown to him. He caught a plank & got on it, a boat was lowered & soon they had him on board again. He was much frightened, but not much hurt. We had one heavy squall of wind & rain, that tore the sails & broke some of the yards in pieces, & gave us a quick step motion to keep upon our feet, but soon all was right again & we were ploughing through the gentle Pacific at the rate of ten knots pr hour. On the 85th day out we hove in sight of an object that greatly attracted our attention & ere long the green hills of San Francisco bay began to show their highest points, & soon we were gliding smoothly along between them, down the bay, & when the order came to let go anchor, we brought up directly in front of the City amidst a fleet of vessels, of all kinds & sizes.
One of our party went on shore & obtained some letters for us. I received one from my wife & the first word I had received from home was this. You can imagine with what anxiety I read it & how pleased I was to hear that all was well. The next morning we all went on shore & glad was all to once more set foot on land & be able to enjoy the fresh breezes & fresh food & water that it contains.
The city is built on the side Hill south of the bay & commands a fine view of the harbor & shipping and the distant hills that surround it on all sides. The buildings were mostly of cloth, some small frames were covered with it, others covered with shingles & boards, & some few good buildings were up & many more in the course of erection. The hills in all directions were covered with tents & the streets crowded with people from all parts of the world anxious to make their fortunes in a few days in this golden land of promise. Here our company disbanded, owing to several causes which I will not now stop to mention & a division was made of all property funds on hand & each man took his share & went his own way. I was much opposed to this & used my best endeavors to keep them together, but was overruled by the casting vote of our President H. Taylor of Prattsville. Mr. J. S. Cornwall & S. L. Hayes of Cairo were sick at the time & we took the money that belonged to the shares of those that died in Panama & took Cornwall to a good hospital & Hayes went with him to take care of him & for company, not being able to work. We paid 10 Dollars pr day for Cornwall & $2 for Hayes. We left $300 with them & most of the company gave a joint note for the payment of this to those that it belongs to.
We staid here about one week, then eight of us left for Sacramento City enroute for the mines. Cornwall & Hayes both died here, Cornwall of Diarrhea & Hayes of Dropsy. We took passage on a small schooner, crossed the bay with a gentle breeze & soon were winding our way up the crooked Sacramento. We passed the town of Benicia a pleasant place, also N York on the other side of the Sacramento & at the mouth of the San Joaquin. It is destined to be a business place, & of considerable importance. We soon entered Suisun bay & our Capt. not being acquainted with the channel we ran on the ground at high tide & a stiff breeze, so that we were fast in reality. As the tide fell our little schooner fell also on her side & filled with water. We clung to the upper side, but were so thick that as night drew on the Capt. thought some of us had better go on shore. Some of our party went, myself among the rest. We came very near getting swamped on the water, but nearer, after landing. For it proved to be a swamp surely, & the mosquitoes gave us battle immediately in such numbers that we were obliged to give them a fire that subdued all...[FRAGMENT MISSING]...we laid our frail bodies down to rest, & after a short nap the watch waked us with the sad news that the tide was rising fast & would soon overflow our resting place. Some found their feet asoak, others their blankets, & all jumped up exclaiming what shall we do, but we managed to keep out of the water by getting on old logs & bogs until morning, which being Sunday & being obliged to stay there all day made it one of the most unpleasant Sabbaths that I ever spent. At night the Capt. sent a boat and took us on board & at high tide at midnight we succeeded in getting off & after spending one week & getting fast several times more we at length reached Sacramento City to the joy of our hearts & the relief of our hands.
We staid here some week or more viewing the sights & wonders of this City of a month’s existence, composed principally of tents & situated on the east bank of the river, & at the mouth of the American fork, & is I think destined to be the pleasantest & most business City in California. But will have to be levee'd to prevent inundations, as it has all been overflowed this winter. We hired an ox team to carry our baggage & started for this place then called Hangtown, from the fact that three persons had been hung here for stealing & attempting to murder. Ten miles from the river we passed Sutter’s fort, an old looking heap of buildings surrounded by an high wall of unburnt [adobe] brick, & situated in the midst of a pleasant fertile plain, covered with grass and a few scattering oaks, with numerous tame cattle & mules. We walked by the wagon & at night cooked our suppers, rolled our blankets around us & lay down to rest on the ground, with nothing but the broad canopy of the heavens over us & slept soundly without fear or molestation.
After leaving the plains we passed over some hills that looked dry & barren being burnt up by the sun & the long droughts that we have here. We reached this place at night on the fourth day, & in the morning found ourselves in the midst of the diggings, being surrounded by holes dug...[FRAGMENT MISSING]...
We pitched our tents, shouldered our picks & shovels & with pan in hand sallied forth to try our fortunes at gold digging. We did not have very good success being green at mining, but by practice & observation we soon improved some, & found a little of the shining metal. Wm Ramsdell & Cooke of our party were sick with the scurvy & could not work. This is the worst disease that we have to contend with here, it settles in the legs & ankles, making the person quite lame. The skin turns purple & if not arrested soon, spots will decay & fall off leaving a running sore. It is brought on by eating salt food & no vegetables. Some are also troubled with diarrhea, others with ague & fever & various other diseases incident to all new countries. It is quite sickly here & every person ought to be very careful & not expose himself more than is necessary. Many here are so anxious to get rich that they work, rain or snow, regardless of life or health.
After working a few weeks I was taken sick very suddenly & became deranged & for four days the Drs all thought that I could not live, but that God in whom I trust for life & health, interposed his almighty arm & spared my life & restored me to health again. And I will praise him while I've breath & when my voice is hush'd in death I hope to praise him through a vast Eternity. After I got well five of us concluded to build a sawmill, so we went two miles below town & built us a fine log cabin & we have our mill nearly built. Lumber has been worth 4 & $500 pr thousand. But now it comes in so fast from the states that the price is down from 50 to $100 pr thousand. Our mill is on a stream that dries up in summer so we shall not do much more to it until fall. We think of going up on the Yuba river this summer among the Sierra Nevada Mountains, where the Indians & Grizzly Bear are plenty & troublesome. But gold is plenty too.
I am going to give you a long yarn & make you pay double postage, but never mind it will not cost you half as much as I have to pay for mine, for I have paid $2.40 for some...[FRAGMENT MISSING]...And now probably you have read better descriptions of the country, mines, & the manner of obtaining the gold than I can give, but as many conflicting accounts have been given, & believing that you will place some confidence at least in what I write, I will give you a short description of what I know, have seen & heard from sources of credit.
First then, the country around the mines, is hilly, mountainous & barren of vegetation, except trees & these being rooted so deep do not dry up in summer like all other vegetables, consequently we have some fine pines, spruce, fir & oaks of smaller size. The hills resemble the color of the Windham soil & are high & steep in many places, & some very deep ravines, in which there has [sic] been large quantities of Gold found. The rivers appear to a person standing on the bank almost sunk out of sight, & in places very difficult to descend & ascend on foot. Along the banks & in the bed of some of them very large quantities of Gold have been found & taken out & large quantities still remain for American industry to extract & put in circulation. And most of the country around the mines never can be made productive & consequently never will be worth any thing for agricultural purposes. We have the dry season that lasts from six to ten months without any rain. The wet commenced about the first of Nov last, nearly 2 months earlier than usual. Many had not got their provisions up from Sacramento City & the roads became very bad.
Hauling was 50 cts per pound with the prospect that soon all transportation would be impossible, consequently provisions ran up in price to an enormous height. Flour & pork were $125 pr Bll., lard & Butter $200 Bll., Cheese $1.50 lb., Dried Apples, $1.50, Saleratus $5.00, Molasses from $8. to $10.00 pr Gallon & all other things about in that proportion. Potatoes & onions were worth $1.25 & $1.50 pr pound &c. In Dec. we had a dry spell & then all went to getting up provisions. I went down to Sacramento City & found our provisions had got around but most of them were left down...[FRAGMENT MISSING]... Sacramento City. Here I learned that Hayes, Cornwall & Wm Ramsdell had all died. The latter left the mines on account of the scurvy, & was taken with the diarrhea & bloody flux & died in a short time. Thus six of our little party have gone to their long home & rendered up their last account to their maker God, & have received their sentences of woe, or bliss. May it have been the latter, is my humble hope & prayer, & that I may meet them in that world of love & joy shall be my chief desire & the great object of my life.
I saw Mr Jones from Durham, at San Francisco. He was well & doing very well, & I was told that he was very steady & saved what he earned. I staid here about one week & went back to Sacramento & then up home to the mines, a distance of 50 miles from Sacramento. I stayed a few days & then went back again. Sold some more of our provisions, some were spoilt, some sold low, others high.
Our cook stove I sold for $200.00, butter $1.00 pr lb., Oil $3.00 pr Gallon, Sperm candles $3.00 pr pound, Pork from 25 to $30 pr Barrel &c. Here I got our Mill Irons made, they cost us $800.00. Our provisions we had to pay 50c pr lb. for hauling, which brought us in debt about $2,000. We paid on $500.00 of it 60 pr cent. Some here pay 10 per cent pr month for money, others less, as they can get it. We have paid nearly all of our debts & have earned it or dug it out of the creek within a few weeks past.
Now I will give you a short history of the mode of getting it, of where it is found, & in what quantities so far as my knowledge extends. It is found (as I have said) along the banks of the streams & in the beds of the same, & in almost every little ravine putting into the streams. And often from 10 to 50 ft. from the beds up the bank. We sometimes have to dig several feet deep before we find any, in other places all the dirt & clay will pay to wash, but generally the clay pays best. If there is no clay, then it is found down on the rock. All the lumps are found on the rock--& most of the fine gold. We tell when it will pay by trying the dirt with a pan. This is called prospecting here. If it will pay from six to 12 1/2 pr pan full, then we go to work.
Some wash with cradles some with what is called a tom & various other fixings. But I like the tom best of any thing that I have seen. It is a box or trough about 8 or 9 feet long, some 18 in. wide & from 5 to 6 in. high, with an iron sieve in one end punched with 1/2 in. holes. Underneath this is placed a ripple or box with two ripples across it. The tom is then placed in an oblique position, the water is brought on by means of a hose. The dirt, stone, clay & all is then thrown in & stirred with a shovel until the water runs clear, the gold & finer gravel goes through the sieve & falls in the under box & lodges above the ripples. Three men can wash all day without taking this out as the water washes the loose gravel over and all the gold settles to the bottom. One man will wash as fast as two can pick & shovel it in, or as fast as three rockers or cradles.
And now I will tell you what I have done by digging for the last few weeks. I commenced about the first of Feb with F. Allerton of our party & L. Dutcher of Cairo. The first week I made $82.72 cents, the next, $42.00, we had to prospect some this week & fix a new place, the next I made $61.44, we built a dam & dug a race to turn the water this week & one day it rained & snowed. The next week $112.81, & one day it stormed so that we did not work. The next week two of us dug on Monday and made $21.50, each. The next day three dug in the forenoon & made $11.33 each. In the afternoon three of us dug & we made $24.00 apiece. This was the best half day's work that I have done in the mines & the last that I have dug as it has rained & snowed most of the time since.
Some of our party have not done so well, & none better. Some have done very well about here last fall & this winter. Pieces have been found that were worth from $1. to $50. Allerton found one, worth $20.00. Some have made as [much as] 4, 5, 6, & 8 oz. per day, & one man last fall made one pound or $192. in one day, near here, & at Georgetown about 25 miles from here one man took out 27 1/2 lb in one day, & another party found one lump worth $1019.00 & another worth $450.00. This I was told by one of the party that found the big lumps, & the largest one they sold [for] $1150.00 & I frequently hear of others making fortunes in one day or a week. These statements are all made calling the gold worth $16.00 pr ounce, as this is what it is worth here, but in the states it is worth more. It passes here at that as quick as the coin & is taken everywhere but at the Post Offices.
So you see that all is not Gossip about California, after all, there is gold here in abundance, but it requires patience & hard labor, with some skill & experience to obtain it. If any man has his health & will work, he can make more than ten times as much here as he can in the states in the same length of time. But many, very many, that come here meet with bad success & thousands will leave their bones here. Others will lose their health, contract diseases that they will carry to their graves with them. Some will have to beg their way home, & probably one half that come here will never make enough to carry them back. But this does not alter the fact about the gold being plenty here, but shows what a poor frail being man is, how liable to disappointments, disease & death. How many that left home & friends with every comfort of life that any man ought to ask, & with hopes high & prospects fair, have been cut down by the destroying angel, Death, & left their friends & families to weep & mourn over their untimely end & to struggle through this world, perhaps dependent upon the cold charities of its inhabitants & finally be called upon by the same messenger to depart hence & be here no more forever. How sad the thought that man did sin, & thus Death entered our world and passed upon all--for all had sinned. But how Glorious the thought that Christ hath died to redeem us from sin, & that we, poor, frail, & sinful as we are, can by a life of obedience & love to him, look up on death without a fear & rise triumphant o'er the tomb & wing our happy course to his bright mansion in the Skies, where sin & death cannot come, but where all will be happiness, love & praise.
Oh, is not this worth living for, is not this worth more than all the
gold of California & the riches of India. Surely it is. Then let us
bear the ills of this life & meet its disappointments with Christian
fortitude & patience.
Nor never by the changes of fate be depressed,
Nor wear like a fetter time's sorrowful chain,
But believe that this world though it be not the best,
Is the next to the best we shall ever attain....
There is a good deal of sin & wickedness going on here, Stealing, lying, Swearing, Drinking, Gambling & murdering. There is a great deal of gambling carried on here. Almost every public House is a place for Gambling, & this appears to be the greatest evil that prevails here. Men make & lose thousands in a night, & frequently small boys will go up & bet $5 or 10-- & if they lose all, go the next day & dig more.
We are trying to get laws here to regulate things but it will be very difficult to get them executed. We have had the President's message & some of the proceedings of Congress. The Message was generally liked here by those of both parties. Congress has probably had a stormy session, in relation to California & Slavery. But the South cannot compel us to receive their slaves as such, nor can they expect to fasten that black & wicked institution upon the soil of California. If they do, their expectations will fail, for the spirit of freedom is too strong here to ever be admitted into the Union except as a free State. Slavery never can exist here unless an entire revolution of feeling takes place for nearly all are deadly opposed to it.
I am very anxious to get the later news from Washington. There is considerable excitement here to know the result of the application for admission. We cannot get papers very often. When we do we have to pay one dollar each for them, so that we do not get all the news from the states. The Message was the last we got. Our Post Office affairs are in a state of perfect derangement, & if something is not done soon by the government we shall make our own laws & execute them too, for we have the cash & plenty of grit & enterprise to carry them out. And now my second sheet is full & I have not told half yet, but you will probably be glad to find the end & here it is, so good bye, excuse all mistakes. Give my best respects to all inquiring friends & write soon.
Dear Cos.
Not having an opportunity of sending my letter to the Office as soon as I expected I shall trouble you with a few lines more. I shall send this tomorrow, by a friend. It has rained & snowed all this week so that we have not dug any, but have been making shingles in our Cabin. We have a good Cabin, with windows, fireplace & oven. There are seven of us & we live very well & enjoy life as well as any one can under such circumstances. We have plenty to eat. Beef is from 25c to 50c pr pound, fresh pork from 60c to 80c pd & venison about the same. We have not killed any deer, but we found a calf that a Spanish cow had with her & we shot it & had some veal, & today we shot a spanish steer & now we have fresh a plenty. These cattle get away from drovers that bring them from the plains where they run wild, & they never look for them. So any one kills them that pleases. We get potatoes plenty, Irish at 50 cts pr pound, & sweet ones at from 60 to 75c pd...[FRAGMENT MISSING]...are brought from the Sandwich Islands. Onions we pay...[FRAGMENT MISSING]...5 pr pound.
We do our own cooking, washing & mending & some of it is in good style too, but after all it is not like home to me, & I look forward to the time when I can say ‘tis enough now I will go home, with a good deal of anxiety. But I have left those that I love as my own life behind & risked every thing and endured many hardships to get here, & I want to make enough to live easier & do some good with, before I return. And if God sees fit to spare my life & health I think I shall. My great anxiety is for my wife & child. I cannot hear from them. The last time I heard from them was dated the 14 August. I think Margaret has written often but owing to the disarrangement of the Post Office & the distance that I am from one, (50 miles) makes it very difficult to get letters.
I got one from Fulton a short time ago. Mother & the girls ere well, & now John I want when you receive this, you should take his & your wife & go over and see Margaret & let her read it & make her a visit, now, won't you? well I think you will. I do not know as she has ever got any of the letters that I have written her from California, for I have written 7 or 8, & have not received an answer to one yet. I sent her a small specimen of the gold in one by a Methodist Minister that was going to the States. Also let Mr Tibbal's family read this, to whom I send my best respects, as I count them among my best friends & shall write to them after I get upon the Yuba & see what success I have there, tell them to write to me. Also give my best respects to the rest of the cousins & families, to Mr Hotchkiss & Lady, & to your Father & Mother, when you write to them & to all that take the trouble to enquire after my welfare. Also to Mrs Crooker, although a stranger. Still I feel an interest in her welfare, & shall ever consider myself her friend. Should fortune frown, or sickness bring low, write to me & direct to Sacramento City, California. Give my respects to your wife & reserve a large share to yourself. Yours affectionately,
S.SHUFELT
Document 2: Fictional stories from the California Gold Rush:
THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP
There was commotion in Roaring Camp. It could not have been a fight, for in 1850 that was not novel enough to have called together the entire settlement. The ditches and claims were not only deserted, but "Tuttle's grocery" had contributed its gamblers, who, it will be remembered, calmly continued their game the day that French Pete and Kanaka Joe shot each other to death over the bar in the front room. The whole camp was collected before a rude cabin on the outer edge of the clearing. Conversation was carried on in a low tone, but the name of a woman was frequently repeated. It was a name familiar enough in the camp,--"Cherokee Sal."
Perhaps the less said of her the better. She was a coarse and, it is to be feared, a very sinful woman. But at that time she was the only woman in Roaring Camp, and was just then lying in sore extremity, when she most needed the ministration of her own sex. Dissolute, abandoned, and irreclaimable, she was yet suffering a martyrdom hard enough to bear even when veiled by sympathizing womanhood, but now terrible in her loneliness. The primal curse had come to her in that original isolation which must have made the punishment of the first transgression so dreadful. It was, perhaps, part of the expiation of her sin that, at a moment when she most lacked her sex's intuitive tenderness and care, she met only the half-contemptuous faces of her masculine associates. Yet a few of the spectators were, I think, touched by her sufferings. Sandy Tipton thought it was "rough on Sal," and, in the contemplation of her condition, for a moment rose superior to the fact that he had an ace and two bowers in his sleeve.
It will be seen also that the situation was novel. Deaths were by no means uncommon in Roaring Camp, but a birth was a new thing. People had been dismissed the camp effectively, finally, and with no possibility of return; but this was the first time that anybody had been introduced AB INITIO. Hence the excitement.
"You go in there, Stumpy," said a prominent citizen known as "Kentuck," addressing one of the loungers. "Go in there, and see what you kin do. You've had experience in them things."
Perhaps there was a fitness in the selection. Stumpy, in other climes, had been the putative head of two families; in fact, it was owing to some legal informality in these proceedings that Roaring Camp--a city of refuge--was indebted to his company. The crowd approved the choice, and Stumpy was wise enough to bow to the majority. The door closed on the extempore surgeon and midwife, and Roaring Camp sat down outside, smoked its pipe, and awaited the issue.
The assemblage numbered about a hundred men. One or two of these were actual fugitives from justice, some were criminal, and all were reckless. Physically they exhibited no indication of their past lives and character. The greatest scamp had a Raphael face, with a profusion of blonde hair; Oakhurst, a gambler, had the melancholy air and intellectual abstraction of a Hamlet; the coolest and most courageous man was scarcely over five feet in height, with a soft voice and an embarrassed, timid manner. The term "roughs" applied to them was a distinction rather than a definition. Perhaps in the minor details of fingers, toes, ears, etc., the camp may have been deficient, but these slight omissions did not detract from their aggregate force. The strongest man had but three fingers on his right hand; the best shot had but one eye.
Such was the physical aspect of the men that were dispersed around the cabin. The camp lay in a triangular valley between two hills and a river. The only outlet was a steep trail over the summit of a hill that faced the cabin, now illuminated by the rising moon. The suffering woman might have seen it from the rude bunk whereon she lay,--seen it winding like a silver thread until it was lost in the stars above.
A fire of withered pine boughs added sociability to the gathering. By degrees the natural levity of Roaring Camp returned. Bets were freely offered and taken regarding the result. Three to five that "Sal would get through with it;" even that the child would survive; side bets as to the sex and complexion of the coming stranger. In the midst of an excited discussion an exclamation came from those nearest the door, and the camp stopped to listen. Above the swaying and moaning of the pines, the swift rush of the river, and the crackling of the fire rose a sharp, querulous cry,--a cry unlike anything heard before in the camp. The pines stopped moaning, the river ceased to rush, and the fire to crackle. It seemed as if Nature had stopped to listen too.
The camp rose to its feet as one man! It was proposed to explode a barrel of gunpowder; but in consideration of the situation of the mother, better counsels prevailed, and only a few revolvers were discharged; for whether owing to the rude surgery of the camp, or some other reason, Cherokee Sal was sinking fast. Within an hour she had climbed, as it were, that rugged road that led to the stars, and so passed out of Roaring Camp, its sin and shame, forever. I do not think that the announcement disturbed them much, except in speculation as to the fate of the child. "Can he live now?" was asked of Stumpy. The answer was doubtful. The only other being of Cherokee Sal's sex and maternal condition in the settlement was an ass. There was some conjecture as to fitness, but the experiment was tried. It was less problematical than the ancient treatment of Romulus and Remus, and apparently as successful.
When these details were completed, which exhausted another hour, the door was opened, and the anxious crowd of men, who had already formed themselves into a queue, entered in single file. Beside the low bunk or shelf, on which the figure of the mother was starkly outlined below the blankets, stood a pine table. On this a candle- box was placed, and within it, swathed in staring red flannel, lay the last arrival at Roaring Camp. Beside the candle-box was placed a hat. Its use was soon indicated. "Gentlemen," said Stumpy, with a singular mixture of authority and EX OFFICIO complacency,-- "gentlemen will please pass in at the front door, round the table, and out at the back door. Them as wishes to contribute anything toward the orphan will find a hat handy." The first man entered with his hat on; he uncovered, however, as he looked about him, and so unconsciously set an example to the next. In such communities good and bad actions are catching. As the procession filed in comments were audible,--criticisms addressed perhaps rather to Stumpy in the character of showman; "Is that him?" "Mighty small specimen;" "Has n't more 'n got the color;" "Ain't bigger nor a derringer." The contributions were as characteristic: A silver tobacco box; a doubloon; a navy revolver, silver mounted; a gold specimen; a very beautifully embroidered lady's handkerchief (from Oakhurst the gambler); a diamond breastpin; a diamond ring (suggested by the pin, with the remark from the giver that he "saw that pin and went two diamonds better"); a slung-shot; a Bible (contributor not detected); a golden spur; a silver teaspoon (the initials, I regret to say, were not the giver's); a pair of surgeon's shears; a lancet; a Bank of England note for 5 pounds; and about $200 in loose gold and silver coin. During these proceedings Stumpy maintained a silence as impassive as the dead on his left, a gravity as inscrutable as that of the newly born on his right. Only one incident occurred to break the monotony of the curious procession. As Kentuck bent over the candle-box half curiously, the child turned, and, in a spasm of pain, caught at his groping finger, and held it fast for a moment. Kentuck looked foolish and embarrassed. Something like a blush tried to assert itself in his weather-beaten cheek. "The damned little cuss!" he said, as he extricated his finger, with perhaps more tenderness and care than he might have been deemed capable of showing. He held that finger a little apart from its fellows as he went out, and examined it curiously. The examination provoked the same original remark in regard to the child. In fact, he seemed to enjoy repeating it. "He rastled with my finger," he remarked to Tipton, holding up the member, "the damned little cuss!"
It was four o'clock before the camp sought repose. A light burnt in the cabin where the watchers sat, for Stumpy did not go to bed that night. Nor did Kentuck. He drank quite freely, and related with great gusto his experience, invariably ending with his characteristic condemnation of the newcomer. It seemed to relieve him of any unjust implication of sentiment, and Kentuck had the weaknesses of the nobler sex. When everybody else had gone to bed, he walked down to the river and whistled reflectingly. Then he walked up the gulch past the cabin, still whistling with demonstrative unconcern. At a large redwood-tree he paused and retraced his steps, and again passed the cabin. Halfway down to the river's bank he again paused, and then returned and knocked at the door. It was opened by Stumpy. "How goes it?" said Kentuck, looking past Stumpy toward the candle-box. "All serene!" replied Stumpy. "Anything up?" "Nothing." There was a pause--an embarrassing one--Stumpy still holding the door. Then Kentuck had recourse to his finger, which he held up to Stumpy. "Rastled with it,--the damned little cuss," he said, and retired.
The next day Cherokee Sal had such rude sepulture as Roaring Camp afforded. After her body had been committed to the hillside, there was a formal meeting of the camp to discuss what should be done with her infant. A resolution to adopt it was unanimous and enthusiastic. But an animated discussion in regard to the manner and feasibility of providing for its wants at once sprang up. It was remarkable that the argument partook of none of those fierce personalities with which discussions were usually conducted at Roaring Camp. Tipton proposed that they should send the child to Red Dog,--a distance of forty miles,--where female attention could be procured. But the unlucky suggestion met with fierce and unanimous opposition. It was evident that no plan which entailed parting from their new acquisition would for a moment be entertained. "Besides," said Tom Ryder, "them fellows at Red Dog would swap it, and ring in somebody else on us." A disbelief in the honesty of other camps prevailed at Roaring Camp, as in other places.
The introduction of a female nurse in the camp also met with objection. It was argued that no decent woman could be prevailed to accept Roaring Camp as her home, and the speaker urged that "they didn't want any more of the other kind." This unkind allusion to the defunct mother, harsh as it may seem, was the first spasm of propriety,--the first symptom of the camp's regeneration. Stumpy advanced nothing. Perhaps he felt a certain delicacy in interfering with the selection of a possible successor in office. But when questioned, he averred stoutly that he and "Jinny"--the mammal before alluded to--could manage to rear the child. There was something original, independent, and heroic about the plan that pleased the camp. Stumpy was retained. Certain articles were sent for to Sacramento. "Mind," said the treasurer, as he pressed a bag of gold-dust into the expressman's hand, "the best that can be got,--lace, you know, and filigree-work and frills,--damn the cost!"
Strange to say, the child thrived. Perhaps the invigorating climate of the mountain camp was compensation for material deficiencies. Nature took the foundling to her broader breast. In that rare atmosphere of the Sierra foothills,--that air pungent with balsamic odor, that ethereal cordial at once bracing and exhilarating,--he may have found food and nourishment, or a subtle chemistry that transmuted ass's milk to lime and phosphorus. Stumpy inclined to the belief that it was the latter and good nursing. "Me and that ass," he would say, "has been father and mother to him! Don't you," he would add, apostrophizing the helpless bundle before him, "never go back on us."
By the time he was a month old the necessity of giving him a name became apparent. He had generally been known as "The Kid," "Stumpy's Boy," "The Coyote" (an allusion to his vocal powers), and even by Kentuck's endearing diminutive of "The damned little cuss." But these were felt to be vague and unsatisfactory, and were at last dismissed under another influence. Gamblers and adventurers are generally superstitious, and Oakhurst one day declared that the baby had brought "the luck" to Roaring Camp. It was certain that of late they had been successful. "Luck" was the name agreed upon, with the prefix of Tommy for greater convenience. No allusion was made to the mother, and the father was unknown. "It's better," said the philosophical Oakhurst, "to take a fresh deal all round. Call him Luck, and start him fair." A day was accordingly set apart for the christening. What was meant by this ceremony the reader may imagine who has already gathered some idea of the reckless irreverence of Roaring Camp. The master of ceremonies was one "Boston," a noted wag, and the occasion seemed to promise the greatest facetiousness. This ingenious satirist had spent two days in preparing a burlesque of the Church service, with pointed local allusions. The choir was properly trained, and Sandy Tipton was to stand godfather. But after the procession had marched to the grove with music and banners, and the child had been deposited before a mock altar, Stumpy stepped before the expectant crowd. "It ain't my style to spoil fun, boys," said the little man, stoutly eyeing the faces around him," but it strikes me that this thing ain't exactly on the squar. It's playing it pretty low down on this yer baby to ring in fun on him that he ain't goin' to understand. And ef there's goin' to be any godfathers round, I'd like to see who's got any better rights than me." A silence followed Stumpy's speech. To the credit of all humorists be it said that the first man to acknowledge its justice was the satirist thus stopped of his fun. "But," said Stumpy, quickly following up his advantage, "we're here for a christening, and we'll have it. I proclaim you Thomas Luck, according to the laws of the United States and the State of California, so help me God." It was the first time that the name of the Deity had been otherwise uttered than profanely in the camp. The form of christening was perhaps even more ludicrous than the satirist had conceived; but strangely enough, nobody saw it and nobody laughed. "Tommy" was christened as seriously as he would have been under a Christian roof and cried and was comforted in as orthodox fashion.
And so the work of regeneration began in Roaring Camp. Almost imperceptibly a change came over the settlement. The cabin assigned to "Tommy Luck"--or "The Luck," as he was more frequently called--first showed signs of improvement. It was kept scrupulously clean and whitewashed. Then it was boarded, clothed, and papered. The rose wood cradle, packed eighty miles by mule, had, in Stumpy's way of putting it, "sorter killed the rest of the furniture." So the rehabilitation of the cabin became a necessity. The men who were in the habit of lounging in at Stumpy's to see "how 'The Luck' got on" seemed to appreciate the change, and in self-defense the rival establishment of "Tuttle's grocery" bestirred itself and imported a carpet and mirrors. The reflections of the latter on the appearance of Roaring Camp tended to produce stricter habits of personal cleanliness. Again Stumpy imposed a kind of quarantine upon those who aspired to the honor and privilege of holding The Luck. It was a cruel mortification to Kentuck--who, in the carelessness of a large nature and the habits of frontier life, had begun to regard all garments as a second cuticle, which, like a snake's, only sloughed off through decay--to be debarred this privilege from certain prudential reasons. Yet such was the subtle influence of innovation that he thereafter appeared regularly every afternoon in a clean shirt and face still shining from his ablutions. Nor were moral and social sanitary laws neglected. "Tommy," who was supposed to spend his whole existence in a persistent attempt to repose, must not be disturbed by noise. The shouting and yelling, which had gained the camp its infelicitous title, were not permitted within hearing distance of Stumpy's. The men conversed in whispers or smoked with Indian gravity. Profanity was tacitly given up in these sacred precincts, and throughout the camp a popular form of expletive, known as "D--n the luck!" and "Curse the luck!" was abandoned, as having a new personal bearing. Vocal music was not interdicted, being supposed to have a soothing, tranquilizing quality; and one song, sung by "Man-o'-War Jack," an English sailor from her Majesty's Australian colonies, was quite popular as a lullaby. It was a lugubrious recital of the exploits of "the Arethusa, Seventy-four," in a muffled minor, ending with a prolonged dying fall at the burden of each verse, "On b-oo-o-ard of the Arethusa." It was a fine sight to see Jack holding The Luck, rocking from side to side as if with the motion of a ship, and crooning forth this naval ditty. Either through the peculiar rocking of Jack or the length of his song,--it contained ninety stanzas, and was continued with conscientious deliberation to the bitter end,--the lullaby generally had the desired effect. At such times the men would lie at full length under the trees in the soft summer twilight, smoking their pipes and drinking in the melodious utterances. An indistinct idea that this was pastoral happiness pervaded the camp. "This 'ere kind o' think," said the Cockney Simmons, meditatively reclining on his elbow, "is 'evingly." It reminded him of Greenwich.
On the long summer days The Luck was usually carried to the gulch from whence the golden store of Roaring Camp was taken. There, on a blanket spread over pine boughs, he would lie while the men were working in the ditches below. Latterly there was a rude attempt to decorate this bower with flowers and sweet-smelling shrubs, and generally some one would bring him a cluster of wild honeysuckles, azaleas, or the painted blossoms of Las Mariposas. The men had suddenly awakened to the fact that there were beauty and significance in these trifles, which they had so long trodden carelessly beneath their feet. A flake of glittering mica, a fragment of variegated quartz, a bright pebble from the bed of the creek, became beautiful to eyes thus cleared and strengthened, and were invariably pat aside for The Luck. It was wonderful how many treasures the woods and hillsides yielded that "would do for Tommy." Surrounded by playthings such as never child out of fairyland had before, it is to he hoped that Tommy was content. He appeared to be serenely happy, albeit there was an infantine gravity about him, a contemplative light in his round gray eyes, that sometimes worried Stumpy. He was always tractable and quiet, and it is recorded that once, having crept beyond his "corral,"--a hedge of tessellated pine boughs, which surrounded his bed,--he dropped over the bank on his head in the soft earth, and remained with his mottled legs in the air in that position for at least five minutes with unflinching gravity. He was extricated without a murmur. I hesitate to record the many other instances of his sagacity, which rest, unfortunately, upon the statements of prejudiced friends. Some of them were not without a tinge of superstition. "I crep' up the bank just now," said Kentuck one day, in a breathless state of excitement "and dern my skin if he was a-talking to a jay bird as was a-sittin' on his lap. There they was, just as free and sociable as anything you please, a- jawin' at each other just like two cherrybums." Howbeit, whether creeping over the pine boughs or lying lazily on his back blinking at the leaves above him, to him the birds sang, the squirrels chattered, and the flowers bloomed. Nature was his nurse and playfellow. For him she would let slip between the leaves golden shafts of sunlight that fell just within his grasp; she would send wandering breezes to visit him with the balm of bay and resinous gum; to him the tall redwoods nodded familiarly and sleepily, the bumblebees buzzed, and the rooks cawed a slumbrous accompaniment.
Such was the golden summer of Roaring Camp. They were "flush times," and the luck was with them. The claims had yielded enormously. The camp was jealous of its privileges and looked suspiciously on strangers. No encouragement was given to immigration, and, to make their seclusion more perfect, the land on either side of the mountain wall that surrounded the camp they duly preempted. This, and a reputation for singular proficiency with the revolver, kept the reserve of Roaring Camp inviolate. The expressman--their only connecting link with the surrounding world-- sometimes told wonderful stories of the camp. He would say, "They've a street up there in 'Roaring' that would lay over any street in Red Dog. They've got vines and flowers round their houses, and they wash themselves twice a day. But they're mighty rough on strangers, and they worship an ‘Ingin baby.’"
With the prosperity of the camp came a desire for further improvement. It was proposed to build a hotel in the following spring, and to invite one or two decent families to reside there for the sake of The Luck, who might perhaps profit by female companionship. The sacrifice that this concession to the sex cost these men, who were fiercely skeptical in regard to its general virtue and usefulness, can only be accounted for by their affection for Tommy. A few still held out. But the resolve could not be carried into effect for three months, and the minority meekly yielded in the hope that something might turn up to prevent it. And it did.
The winter of 1851 will long be remembered in the foothills. The snow lay deep on the Sierras, and every mountain creek became a river, and every river a lake. Each gorge and gulch was transformed into a tumultuous watercourse that descended the hillsides, tearing down giant trees and scattering its drift and debris along the plain. Red Dog had been twice under water, and Roaring Camp had been forewarned. "Water put the gold into them gulches," said Stumpy. "It been here once and will be here again!" And that night the North Fork suddenly leaped over its banks and swept up the triangular valley of Roaring Camp.
In the confusion of rushing water, crashing trees, and crackling timber, and the darkness -- which seemed to flow with the water and blot out the fair valley -- but little could be done to collect the scattered camp. When the morning broke, the cabin of Stumpy, nearest the river-bank, was gone. Higher up the gulch they found the body of its unlucky owner; but the pride, the hope, the joy, The Luck, of Roaring Camp had disappeared. They were returning with sad hearts when a shout from the bank recalled them.
It was a relief-boat from down the river. They had picked up, they said, a man and an infant, nearly exhausted, about two miles below. Did anybody know them, and did they belong here?
It needed but a glance to show them Kentuck lying there, cruelly crushed and bruised, but still holding The Luck of Roaring Camp in his arms. As they bent over the strangely assorted pair, they saw that the child was cold and pulse-less. "He is dead," said one. Kentuck opened his eyes. "Dead?" he repeated feebly. "Yes, my man, and you are dying too." A smile lit the eyes of the expiring Kentuck. "Dying!" he repeated; "he's a-taking me with him. Tell the boys I've got The Luck with me now;" and the strong man, clinging to the frail babe as a drowning man is said to cling to a straw, drifted away into the shadowy river that flows forever to the unknown sea.
I do not think that we ever knew his real name. Our ignorance of it certainly never gave us any social inconvenience, for at Sandy Bar in 1854 most men were christened anew. Sometimes these appellatives were derived from some distinctiveness of dress, as in the case of "Dungaree Jack"; or from some peculiarity of habit, as shown in "Saleratus Bill," so called from an undue proportion of that chemical in his daily bread; or for some unlucky slip, as exhibited in "The Iron Pirate," a mild, inoffensive man, who earned that baleful title by his unfortunate mispronunciation of the term "iron pyrites." Perhaps this may have been the beginning of a rude heraldry; but I am constrained to think that it was because a man's real name in that day rested solely upon his own unsupported statement. "Call yourself Clifford, do you?" said Boston, addressing a timid newcomer with infinite scorn; "hell is full of such Cliffords!" He then introduced the unfortunate man, whose name happened to be really Clifford, as "Jay-bird Charley"--an unhallowed inspiration of the moment that clung to him ever after.
But to return to Tennessee's Partner, whom we never knew by any other than this relative title; that he had ever existed as a separate and distinct individuality we only learned later. It seems that in 1853 he left Poker Flat to go to San Francisco, ostensibly to procure a wife. He never got any farther than Stockton. At that place he was attracted by a young person who waited upon the table at the hotel where he took his meals. One morning he said something to her which caused her to smile not unkindly, to somewhat coquettishly break a plate of toast over his upturned, serious, simple face, and to retreat to the kitchen. He followed her, and emerged a few moments later, covered with more toast and victory. That day week they were married by a justice of the peace, and returned to Poker Flat. I am aware that something more might be made of this episode, but I prefer to tell it as it was current at Sandy Bar--in the gulches and barrooms--where all sentiment was modified by a strong sense of humor.
Of their married felicity but little is known, perhaps for the reason that Tennessee, then living with his Partner, one day took occasion to say something to the bride on his own account, at which, it is said, she smiled not unkindly and chastely retreated-- this time as far as Marysville, where Tennessee followed her, and where they went to housekeeping without the aid of a justice of the peace. Tennessee's Partner took the loss of his wife simply and seriously, as was his fashion. But to everybody's surprise, when Tennessee one day returned from Marysville, without his Partner's wife--she having smiled and retreated with somebody else-- Tennessee's Partner was the first man to shake his hand and greet him with affection. The boys who had gathered in the canyon to see the shooting were naturally indignant. Their indignation might have found vent in sarcasm but for a certain look in Tennessee's Partner's eye that indicated a lack of humorous appreciation. In fact, he was a grave man, with a steady application to practical detail which was unpleasant in a difficulty.
Meanwhile a popular feeling against Tennessee had grown up on the Bar. He was known to be a gambler; he was suspected to be a thief. In these suspicions Tennessee's Partner was equally compromised; his continued intimacy with Tennessee after the affair above quoted could only be accounted for on the hypothesis of a co-partnership of crime. At last Tennessee's guilt became flagrant. One day he overtook a stranger on his way to Red Dog. The stranger afterward related that Tennessee beguiled the time with interesting anecdote and reminiscence, but illogically concluded the interview in the following words: "And now, young man, I'll trouble you for your knife, your pistols, and your money. You see your weepings might get you into trouble at Red Dog, and your money's a temptation to the evilly disposed. I think you said your address was San Francisco. I shall endeavor to call." It may be stated here that Tennessee had a fine flow of humor, which no business preoccupation could wholly subdue.
This exploit was his last. Red Dog and Sandy Bar made common cause against the highwayman. Tennessee was hunted in very much the same fashion as his prototype, the grizzly. As the toils closed around him, he made a desperate dash through the Bar, emptying his revolver at the crowd before the Arcade Saloon, and so on up Grizzly Canyon; but at its farther extremity he was stopped by a small man on a gray horse. The men looked at each other a moment in silence. Both were fearless, both self-possessed and independent; and both types of a civilization that in the seventeenth century would have been called heroic, but, in the nineteenth, simply "reckless." "What have you got there?--I call," said Tennessee, quietly. "Two bowers and an ace," said the stranger, as quietly, showing two revolvers and a bowie knife. "That takes me," returned Tennessee; and with this gamblers' epigram, he threw away his useless pistol, and rode back with his captor.
It was a warm night. The cool breeze which usually sprang up with the going down of the sun behind the chaparral-crested mountain was that evening withheld from Sandy Bar. The little canyon was stifling with heated resinous odors, and the decaying driftwood on the Bar sent forth faint, sickening exhalations. The feverishness of day, and its fierce passions, still filled the camp. Lights moved restlessly along the bank of the river, striking no answering reflection from its tawny current. Against the blackness of the pines the windows of the old loft above the express office stood out staringly bright; and through their curtainless panes the loungers below could see the forms of those who were even then deciding the fate of Tennessee. And above all this, etched on the dark firmament, rose the Sierra, remote and passionless, crowned with remoter passionless stars.
The trial of Tennessee was conducted as fairly as was consistent with a judge and jury who felt themselves to some extent obliged to justify, in their verdict, the previous irregularities of arrest and indictment. The law of Sandy Bar was implacable, but not vengeful. The excitement and personal feeling of the chase were over; with Tennessee safe in their hands they were ready to listen patiently to any defense, which they were already satisfied was insufficient. There being no doubt in their own minds, they were willing to give the prisoner the benefit of any that might exist. Secure in the hypothesis that he ought to be hanged, on general principles, they indulged him with more latitude of defense than his reckless hardihood seemed to ask. The Judge appeared to be more anxious than the prisoner, who, otherwise unconcerned, evidently took a grim pleasure in the responsibility he had created. "I don't take any hand in this yer game," had been his invariable but good-humored reply to all questions. The Judge--who was also his captor--for a moment vaguely regretted that he had not shot him "on sight" that morning, but presently dismissed this human weakness as unworthy of the judicial mind. Nevertheless, when there was a tap at the door, and it was said that Tennessee's Partner was there on behalf of the prisoner, he was admitted at once without question. Perhaps the younger members of the jury, to whom the proceedings were becoming irksomely thoughtful, hailed him as a relief.
For he was not, certainly, an imposing figure. Short and stout, with a square face sunburned into a preternatural redness, clad in a loose duck "jumper" and trousers streaked and splashed with red soil, his aspect under any circumstances would have been quaint, and was now even ridiculous. As he stooped to deposit at his feet a heavy carpetbag he was carrying, it became obvious, from partially developed legends and inscriptions, that the material with which his trousers had been patched had been originally intended for a less ambitious covering. Yet he advanced with great gravity, and after having shaken the hand of each person in the room with labored cordiality, he wiped his serious, perplexed face on a red bandanna handkerchief, a shade lighter than his complexion, laid his powerful hand upon the table to steady himself, and thus addressed the Judge:
"I was passin' by," he began, by way of apology, "and I thought I'd just step in and see how things was gittin' on with Tennessee thar-- my pardner. It's a hot night. I disremember any sich weather before on the Bar."
He paused a moment, but nobody volunteering any other meteorological recollection, he again had recourse to his pocket handkerchief, and for some moments mopped his face diligently.
"Have you anything to say in behalf of the prisoner?" said the Judge, finally.
"Thet's it," said Tennessee's Partner, in a tone of relief. "I come yar as Tennessee's pardner--knowing him nigh on four year, off and on, wet and dry, in luck and out o' luck. His ways ain't allers my ways, but thar ain't any p'ints in that young man, thar ain't any liveliness as he's been up to, as I don't know. And you sez to me, sez you--confidential-like, and between man and man--sez you, 'Do you know anything in his behalf?' and I sez to you, sez I-- confidential-like, as between man and man--'What should a man know of his pardner?'"
"Is this all you have to say?" asked the Judge impatiently, feeling, perhaps, that a dangerous sympathy of humor was beginning to humanize the Court.
"Thet's so," continued Tennessee's Partner. "It ain't for me to say anything agin' him. And now, what's the case? Here's Tennessee wants money, wants it bad, and doesn't like to ask it of his old pardner. Well, what does Tennessee do? He lays for a stranger, and he fetches that stranger. And you lays for HIM, and you fetches HIM; and the honors is easy. And I put it to you, bein' a far-minded man, and to you, gentlemen, all, as far-minded men, ef this isn't so."
"Prisoner," said the Judge, interrupting, "have you any questions to ask this man?"
"No! no!" continued Tennessee's Partner, hastily. "I play this yer hand alone. To come down to the bedrock, it's just this: Tennessee, thar, has played it pretty rough and expensive-like on a stranger, and on this yer camp. And now, what's the fair thing? Some would say more; some would say less. Here's seventeen hundred dollars in coarse gold and a watch--it's about all my pile--and call it square!" And before a hand could be raised to prevent him, he had emptied the contents of the carpetbag upon the table.
For a moment his life was in jeopardy. One or two men sprang to their feet, several hands groped for hidden weapons, and a suggestion to "throw him from the window" was only overridden by a gesture from the Judge. Tennessee laughed. And apparently oblivious of the excitement, Tennessee's Partner improved the opportunity to mop his face again with his handkerchief.
When order was restored, and the man was made to understand, by the use of forcible figures and rhetoric, that Tennessee's offense could not be condoned by money, his face took a more serious and sanguinary hue, and those who were nearest to him noticed that his rough hand trembled slightly on the table. He hesitated a moment as he slowly returned the gold to the carpetbag, as if he had not yet entirely caught the elevated sense of justice which swayed the tribunal, and was perplexed with the belief that he had not offered enough. Then he turned to the Judge, and saying, "This yer is a lone hand, played alone, and without my pardner," he bowed to the jury and was about to withdraw when the Judge called him back. "If you have anything to say to Tennessee, you had better say it now." For the first time that evening the eyes of the prisoner and his strange advocate met. Tennessee smiled, showed his white teeth, and, saying, "Euchred, old man!" held out his hand. Tennessee's Partner took it in his own, and saying, "I just dropped in as I was passin' to see how things was gettin' on," let the hand passively fall, and adding that it was a warm night, again mopped his face with his handkerchief, and without another word withdrew.
The two men never again met each other alive. For the unparalleled insult of a bribe offered to Judge Lynch--who, whether bigoted, weak, or narrow, was at least incorruptible--firmly fixed in the mind of that mythical personage any wavering determination of Tennessee's fate; and at the break of day he was marched, closely guarded, to meet it at the top of Marley's Hill.
How he met it, how cool he was, how he refused to say anything, how perfect were the arrangements of the committee, were all duly reported, with the addition of a warning moral and example to all future evildoers, in the RED DOG CLARION, by its editor, who was present, and to whose vigorous English I cheerfully refer the reader. But the beauty of that midsummer morning, the blessed amity of earth and air and sky, the awakened life of the free woods and hills, the joyous renewal and promise of Nature, and above all, the infinite Serenity that thrilled through each, was not reported, as not being a part of the social lesson. And yet, when the weak and foolish deed was done, and a life, with its possibilities and responsibilities, had passed out of the misshapen thing that dangled between earth and sky, the birds sang, the flowers bloomed, the sun shone, as cheerily as before; and possibly the RED DOG CLARION was right.
Tennessee's Partner was not in the group that surrounded the ominous tree. But as they turned to disperse attention was drawn to the singular appearance of a motionless donkey cart halted at the side of the road. As they approached, they at once recognized the venerable "Jenny" and the two-wheeled cart as the property of Tennessee's Partner--used by him in carrying dirt from his claim; and a few paces distant the owner of the equipage himself, sitting under a buckeye tree, wiping the perspiration from his glowing face. In answer to an inquiry, he said he had come for the body of the "diseased," "if it was all the same to the committee." He didn't wish to "hurry anything"; he could "wait." He was not working that day; and when the gentlemen were done with the "diseased," he would take him. "Ef thar is any present," he added, in his simple, serious way, "as would care to jine in the fun'l, they kin come." Perhaps it was from a sense of humor, which I have already intimated was a feature of Sandy Bar--perhaps it was from something even better than that; but two-thirds of the loungers accepted the invitation at once.
It was noon when the body of Tennessee was delivered into the hands of his Partner. As the cart drew up to the fatal tree, we noticed that it contained a rough, oblong box--apparently made from a section of sluicing and half-filled with bark and the tassels of pine. The cart was further decorated with slips of willow, and made fragrant with buckeye blossoms. When the body was deposited in the box, Tennessee's Partner drew over it a piece of tarred canvas, and gravely mounting the narrow seat in front, with his feet upon the shafts, urged the little donkey forward. The equipage moved slowly on, at that decorous pace which was habitual with "Jenny" even under less solemn circumstances. The men--half curiously, half jestingly, but all good-humoredly--strolled along beside the cart; some in advance, some a little in the rear of the homely catafalque. But, whether from the narrowing of the road or some present sense of decorum, as the cart passed on, the company fell to the rear in couples, keeping step, and otherwise assuming the external show of a formal procession. Jack Folinsbee, who had at the outset played a funeral march in dumb show upon an imaginary trombone, desisted, from a lack of sympathy and appreciation--not having, perhaps, your true humorist's capacity to be content with the enjoyment of his own fun.
The way led through Grizzly Canyon--by this time clothed in funereal drapery and shadows. The redwoods, burying their moccasined feet in the red soil, stood in Indian file along the track, trailing an uncouth benediction from their bending boughs upon the passing bier. A hare, surprised into helpless inactivity, sat upright and pulsating in the ferns by the roadside as the cortege went by. Squirrels hastened to gain a secure outlook from higher boughs; and the bluejays, spreading their wings, fluttered before them like outriders, until the outskirts of Sandy Bar were reached, and the solitary cabin of Tennessee's Partner.
Viewed under more favorable circumstances, it would not have been a cheerful place. The unpicturesque site, the rude and unlovely outlines, the unsavory details, which distinguish the nest-building of the California miner, were all here, with the dreariness of decay superadded. A few paces from the cabin there was a rough enclosure, which in the brief days of Tennessee's Partner's matrimonial felicity had been used as a garden, but was now overgrown with fern. As we approached it we were surprised to find that what we had taken for a recent attempt at cultivation was the broken soil about an open grave.
The cart was halted before the enclosure; and rejecting the offers of assistance with the same air of simple self-reliance he had displayed throughout, Tennessee's Partner lifted the rough coffin on his back and deposited it, unaided, within the shallow grave. He then nailed down the board which served as a lid; and mounting the little mound of earth beside it, took off his hat, and slowly mopped his face with his handkerchief. This the crowd felt was a preliminary to speech; and they disposed themselves variously on stumps and boulders, and sat expectant.
"When a man," began Tennessee's Partner, slowly, "has been running free all day, what's the natural thing for him to do? Why, to come home. And if he ain't in a condition to go home, what can his best friend do? Why, bring him home! And here's Tennessee has been running free, and we brings him home from his wandering." He paused, and picked up a fragment of quartz, rubbed it thoughtfully on his sleeve, and went on: "It ain't the first time that I've packed him on my back, as you see'd me now. It ain't the first time that I brought him to this yer cabin when he couldn't help himself; it ain't the first time that I and 'Jinny' have waited for him on yon hill, and picked him up and so fetched him home, when he couldn't speak, and didn't know me. And now that it's the last time, why"--he paused and rubbed the quartz gently on his sleeve-- "you see it's sort of rough on his pardner. And now, gentlemen," he added, abruptly, picking up his long-handled shovel, "the fun'l's over; and my thanks, and Tennessee's thanks, to you for your trouble."
Resisting any proffers of assistance, he began to fill in the grave, turning his back upon the crowd that after a few moments' hesitation gradually withdrew. As they crossed the little ridge that hid Sandy Bar from view, some, looking back, thought they could see Tennessee's Partner, his work done, sitting upon the grave, his shovel between his knees, and his face buried in his red bandanna handkerchief. But it was argued by others that you couldn't tell his face from his handkerchief at that distance; and this point remained undecided.
In the reaction that followed the feverish excitement of that day, Tennessee's Partner was not forgotten. A secret investigation had cleared him of any complicity in Tennessee's guilt, and left only a suspicion of his general sanity. Sandy Bar made a point of calling on him, and proffering various uncouth, but well-meant kindnesses. But from that day his rude health and great strength seemed visibly to decline; and when the rainy season fairly set in, and the tiny grass-blades were beginning to peep from the rocky mound above Tennessee's grave, he took to his bed. One night, when the pines beside the cabin were swaying in the storm, and trailing their slender fingers over the roof, and the roar and rush of the swollen river were heard below, Tennessee's Partner lifted his head from the pillow, saying, "It is time to go for Tennessee; I must put 'Jinny' in the cart"; and would have risen from his bed but for the restraint of his attendant. Struggling, he still pursued his singular fancy: "There, now, steady, 'Jinny'--steady, old girl. How dark it is! Look out for the ruts--and look out for him, too, old gal. Sometimes, you know, when he's blind-drunk, he drops down right in the trail. Keep on straight up to the pine on the top of the hill. Thar--I told you so!--thar he is--coming this way, too-- all by himself, sober, and his face a-shining.
As I opened Hop Sing's letter, there fluttered to the ground asquare strip of yellow paper covered with hieroglyphics, which, at first glance, I innocently took to be the label from a pack of Chinese fire-crackers.But the same envelope also contained a smaller strip of rice-paper, with two Chinese characters traced in India ink, that I at once knew to be Hop Sing's visiting-card. The whole, as afterwards literally translated, ran as follows:--
"To the stranger the gates of my
house are not closed: the rice-jar is on the left, and the sweetmeats on
the right, as you enter. Two sayings of the Master:-- Hospitality is the
virtue of the son and the wisdom of the ancestor. The Superior man is light
hearted after the crop-gathering: he
makes a festival. When the stranger is
in your melon-patch, observe him not too closely: inattention is often
the highest form of civility. Happiness, Peace, and Prosperity. HOP
SING."
Admirable, certainly, as was this morality and proverbial wisdom, and although this last axiom was very characteristic of my friend Hop Sing, who was that most somber of all humorists, a Chinese philosopher, I must confess, that, even after a very free translation, I was at a loss to make any immediate application of the message. Luckily I discovered a third enclosure in the shape of a little note in English, and Hop Sing's own commercial hand. It ran thus:--
"The pleasure of your company is requested
at No. – Sacramento Street, on Friday evening at eight o'clock. A cup of
tea at nine,-- sharp.
"HOP SING."
This explained all. It meant a visit to Hop Sing's warehouse, the opening and exhibition of some rare Chinese novelties and curios, a chat in the back office, a cup of tea of a perfection unknown beyond these sacred precincts, cigars, and a visit to the Chinese theatre or temple. This was, in fact, the favorite programme of Hop Sing when he exercised his functions of hospitality as the chief factor or superintendent of the Ning Foo Company.
At eight o'clock on Friday evening, I entered the warehouse of Hop Sing. There was that deliciously commingled mysterious foreign odor that I had so often noticed; there was the old array of uncouth-looking objects, the long procession of jars and crockery, the same singular blending of the grotesque and the mathematically neat and exact, the same endless suggestions of frivolity and fragility, the same want of harmony in colors, that were each, in themselves, beautiful and rare. Kites in the shape of enormous dragons and gigantic butterflies; kites so ingeniously arranged as to utter at intervals, when facing the wind, the cry of a hawk; kites so large as to be beyond any boy's power of restraint,--so large that you understood why kite-flying in China was an amusement for adults; gods of china and bronze so gratuitously ugly as to be beyond any human interest or sympathy from their very impossibility; jars of sweetmeats covered all over with moral sentiments from Confucius; hats that looked like baskets, and baskets that looked like hats; silks so light that I hesitate to record the incredible number of square yards that you might pass through the ring on your little finger,--these, and a great many other indescribable objects, were all familiar to me. I pushed my way through the dimly-lighted warehouse, until I reached the back office, or parlor, where I found Hop Sing waiting to receive me.
Before I describe him, I want the average reader to discharge from his mind any idea of a Chinaman that he may have gathered from the pantomime. He did not wear beautifully scalloped drawers fringed with little bells (I never met a Chinaman who did); he did not habitually carry his forefinger extended before him at right angles with his body; nor did I ever hear him utter the mysterious sentence, "Ching a ring a ring chaw;" nor dance under any provocation. He was, on the whole, a rather grave, decorous, handsome gentleman. His complexion, which extended all over his head, except where his long pig-tail grew, was like a very nice piece of glazed brown paper-muslin. His eyes were black and bright, and his eyelids set at an angle of fifteen degrees; his nose straight, and delicately formed; his mouth small; and his teeth white and clean. He wore a dark blue silk blouse; and in the streets, on cold days, a short jacket of astrachan fur. He wore, also, a pair of drawers of blue brocade gathered tightly over his calves and ankles, offering a general sort of suggestion, that he had forgotten his trousers that morning, but that, so gentlemanly were his manners, his friends had forborne to mention the fact to him. His manner was urbane, although quite serious. He spoke French and English fluently. In brief, I doubt if you could have found the equal of this Pagan shopkeeper among the Christian traders of San Francisco.
There were a few others present,--a judge of the Federal Court, an editor, a high government official, and a prominent merchant. After we had drunk our tea, and tasted a few sweetmeats from a mysterious jar, that looked as if it might contain a preserved mouse among its other nondescript treasures, Hop Sing arose, and, gravely beckoning us to follow him, began to descend to the basement. When we got there, we were amazed at finding it brilliantly lighted, and that a number of chairs were arranged in a half-circle on the asphalt pavement. When he had courteously seated us, he said,--
"I have invited you to witness a performance which I can at least promise you no other foreigners but yourselves have ever seen. Wang, the court-juggler, arrived here yesterday morning. He has never given a performance outside of the palace before. I have asked him to entertain my friends this evening. He requires no theatre, stage accessories, or any confederate,--nothing more than you see here. Will you be pleased to examine the ground, yourselves, gentlemen."
Of course we examined the premises. It was the ordinary basement or cellar of the San Francisco storehouse, cemented to keep out the damp. We poked our sticks into the pavement, and rapped on the walls, to satisfy our polite host--but for no other purpose. We were quite content to be the victims of any clever deception. For myself, I knew I was ready to be deluded to any extent, and, if I had been offered an explanation of what followed, I should have probably declined it.
Although I am satisfied that Wang's general performance was the first of that kind ever given on American soil, it has, probably, since become so familiar to many of my readers, that I shall not bore them with it here. He began by setting to flight, with the aid of his fan, the usual number of butterflies, made before our eyes of little bits of tissue-paper, and kept them in the air during the remainder of the performance. I have a vivid recollection of the judge trying to catch one that had lit on his knee, and of its evading him with the pertinacity of a living insect. And, even at this time, Wang, still plying his fan, was taking chickens out of hats, making oranges disappear, pulling endless yards of silk from his sleeve, apparently filling the whole area of the basement with goods that appeared mysteriously from the ground, from his own sleeves, from nowhere! He swallowed knives to the ruin of his digestion for years to come; he dislocated every limb of his body; he reclined in the air, apparently upon nothing. But his crowning performance, which I have never yet seen repeated, was the most weird, mysterious, and astounding. It is my apology for this long introduction, my sole excuse for writing this article, and the genesis of this veracious history.
He cleared the ground of its encumbering articles for a space of about fifteen feet square, and then invited us all to walk forward, and again examine it. We did so gravely. There was nothing but the cemented pavement below to be seen or felt. He then asked for the loan of a handkerchief; and, as I chanced to be nearest him, I offered mine. He took it, and spread it open upon the floor. Over this he spread a large square of silk, and over this, again, a large shawl nearly covering the space he had cleared. He then took a position at one of the points of this rectangle, and began a monotonous chant, rocking his body to and fro in time with the somewhat lugubrious air.
We sat still and waited. Above the chant we could hear the striking of the city clocks, and the occasional rattle of a cart in the street overhead. The absolute watchfulness and expectation, the dim, mysterious half-light of the cellar falling in a grewsome way upon the misshapen bulk of a Chinese deity in the back ground, a faint smell of opium-smoke mingling with spice, and the dreadful uncertainty of what we were really waiting for, sent an uncomfortable thrill down our backs, and made us look at each other with a forced and unnatural smile. This feeling was heightened when Hop Sing slowly rose, and, without a word, pointed with his finger to the centre of the shawl.
There was something beneath the shawl. Surely--and something that was not there before; at first a mere suggestion in relief, a faint outline, but growing more and more distinct and visible every moment. The chant still continued; the perspiration began to roll from the singer's face; gradually the hidden object took upon itself a shape and bulk that raised the shawl in its centre some five or six inches. It was now unmistakably the outline of a small but perfect human figure, with extended arms and legs. One or two of us turned pale. There was a feeling of general uneasiness, until the editor broke the silence by a gibe, that, poor as it was, was received with spontaneous enthusiasm. Then the chant suddenly ceased. Wang arose, and with a quick, dexterous movement, stripped both shawl and silk away, and discovered, sleeping peacefully upon my handkerchief, a tiny Chinese baby.
The applause and uproar which followed this revelation ought to have satisfied Wang, even if his audience was a small one: it was loud enough to awaken the baby,--a pretty little boy about a year old, looking like a Cupid cut out of sandal-wood. He was whisked away almost as mysteriously as he appeared. When Hop Sing returned my handkerchief to me with a bow, I asked if the juggler was the father of the baby. "No sabe!" said the imperturbable Hop Sing, taking refuge in that Spanish form of non-committalism so common in California.
"But does he have a new baby for every performance?" I asked. "Perhaps: who knows?"--"But what will become of this one?"-- "Whatever you choose, gentlemen," replied Hop Sing with a courteous inclination. "It was born here: you are its godfathers."
There were two characteristic peculiarities of any Californian assemblage in 1856,--it was quick to take a hint, and generous to the point of prodigality in its response to any charitable appeal. No matter how sordid or avaricious the individual, he could not resist the infection of sympathy. I doubled the points of my handkerchief into a bag, dropped a coin into it, and, without a word, passed it to the judge. He quietly added a twenty-dollar gold-piece, and passed it to the next. When it was returned to me, it contained over a hundred dollars. I knotted the money in the handkerchief, and gave it to Hop Sing.
"For the baby, from its godfathers."
"But what name?" said the judge. There was a running fire of "Erebus," "Nox," "Plutus," "Terra Cotta," "Antaeus," &c. Finally the question was referred to our host.
"Why not keep his own name?" he said quietly,--"Wan Lee." And he did.
And thus was Wan Lee, on the night of Friday, the 5th of March, 1856, born into this veracious chronicle.
The last form of "The Northern Star" for the 19th of July, 1865,-- the only daily paper published in Klamath County,--had just gone to press; and at three, A.M., I was putting aside my proofs and manuscripts, preparatory to going home, when I discovered a letter lying under some sheets of paper, which I must have overlooked. The envelope was considerably soiled: it had no post-mark; but I had no difficulty in recognizing the hand of my friend Hop Sing. I opened it hurriedly, and read as follows:--
"MY DEAR SIR,--I do not know whether the bearer will suit you; but, unless the office of 'devil' in your newspaper is a purely technical one, I think he has all the qualities required. He is very quick, active, and intelligent; understands English better than he speaks it; and makes up for any defect by his habits of observation and imitation. You have only to show him how to do a thing once, and he will repeat it, whether it is an offence or a virtue. But you certainly know him already. You are one of his godfathers; for is he not Wan Lee, the reputed son of Wang the conjurer, to whose performances I had the honor to introduce you? But perhaps you have forgotten it.
"I shall send him with a gang of coolies to Stockton, thence by express to your town. If you can use him there, you will do me a favor, and probably save his life, which is at present in great peril from the hands of the younger members of your Christian and highly-civilized race who attend the enlightened schools in San Francisco.
"He has acquired some singular habits and customs from his experience of Wang's profession, which he followed for some years,--until he became too large to go in a hat, or be produced from his father's sleeve. The money you left with me has been expended on his education. He has gone through the Tri-literal Classics, but, I think, without much benefit. He knows but little of Confucius, and absolutely nothing of Mencius. Owing to the negligence of his father, he associated, perhaps, too much with American children.
"I should have answered your letter before, by post; but I thought that Wan Lee himself would be a better messenger for this.
"Yours respectfully,
"HOP SING."
And this was the long-delayed answer to my letter to Hop Sing. But where was "the bearer"? How was the letter delivered? I summoned hastily the foreman, printers, and office-boy, but without eliciting any thing. No one had seen the letter delivered, nor knew any thing of the bearer. A few days later, I had a visit from my laundry-man, Ah Ri.
"You wantee debbil? All lightee: me catchee him."
He returned in a few moments with a bright-looking Chinese boy, about ten years old, with whose appearance and general intelligence I was so greatly impressed, that I engaged him on the spot. When the business was concluded, I asked his name.
"Wan Lee," said the boy.
"What! Are you the boy sent out by Hop Sing? What the devil do you mean by not coming here before? and how did you deliver that letter?"
Wan Lee looked at me, and laughed. "Me pitchee in top side window."
I did not understand. He looked for a moment perplexed, and then, snatching the letter out of my hand, ran down the stairs. After a moment's pause, to my great astonishment, the letter came flying in the window, circled twice around the room, and then dropped gently, like a bird upon my table. Before I had got over my surprise, Wan Lee re-appeared, smiled, looked at the letter and then at me, said, "So, John," and then remained gravely silent. I said nothing further; but it was understood that this was his first official act.
His next performance, I grieve to say, was not attended with equal success. One of our regular paper-carriers fell sick, and, at a pinch, Wan Lee was ordered to fill his place. To prevent mistakes, he was shown over the route the previous evening, and supplied at about daylight with the usual number of subscribers' copies. He returned, after an hour, in good spirits, and without the papers. He had delivered them all, he said.
Unfortunately for Wan Lee, at about eight o'clock, indignant subscribers began to arrive at the office. They had received their copies; but how? In the form of hard-pressed cannon-balls, delivered by a single shot, and a mere tour de force, through the glass of bedroom-windows. They had received them full in the face, like a base ball, if they happened to be up and stirring; they had received them in quarter-sheets, tucked in at separate windows; they had found them in the chimney, pinned against the door, shot through attic-windows, delivered in long slips through convenient keyholes, stuffed into ventilators, and occupying the same can with the morning's milk. One subscriber, who waited for some time at the office-door to have a personal interview with Wan Lee (then comfortably locked in my bedroom), told me, with tears of rage in his eyes, that he had been awakened at five o'clock by a most hideous yelling below his windows; that, on rising in great agitation, he was startled by the sudden appearance of "The Northern Star," rolled hard, and bent into the form of a boomerang, or East-Indian club, that sailed into the window, described a number of fiendish circles in the room, knocked over the light, slapped the baby's face, "took" him (the subscriber) "in the jaw," and then returned out of the window, and dropped helplessly in the area. During the rest of the day, wads and strips of soiled paper, purporting to be copies of "The Northern Star" of that morning's issue, were brought indignantly to the office. An admirable editorial on "The Resources of Humboldt County," which I had constructed the evening before, and which, I had reason to believe, might have changed the whole balance of trade during the ensuing year, and left San Francisco bankrupt at her wharves, was in this way lost to the public.
It was deemed advisable for the next three
weeks to keep Wan Lee closely confined to the printing-office, and the
purely mechanical part of the business. Here he developed a surprising
quickness and adaptability, winning even the favor and good will of the
printers and foreman, who at first looked upon his introduction into the
secrets of their trade as fraught with the gravest political significance.
He learned to set type readily and neatly, his wonderful skill in manipulation
aiding him in the mere mechanical act, and his ignorance of the language
confining him simply to the mechanical effort, confirming the printer's
axiom, that the printer who considers or follows the ideas of his copy
makes a poor
compositor. He would set up deliberately
long diatribes against himself, composed by his fellow-printers, and hung
on his hook as copy, and even such short sentences as "Wan Lee is the devil's
own imp," "Wan Lee is a Mongolian rascal," and bring the proof to me with
happiness beaming from every tooth, and satisfaction shining in his huckleberry
eyes.
It was not long, however, before he learned to retaliate on his mischievous persecutors. I remember one instance in which his reprisal came very near involving me in a serious misunderstanding. Our foreman's name was Webster; and Wan Lee presently learned to know and recognize the individual and combined letters of his name. It was during a political campaign; and the eloquent and fiery Col. Starbottle of Siskyou had delivered an effective speech, which was reported especially for "The Northern Star." In a very sublime peroration, Col. Starbottle had said, "In the language of the godlike Webster, I repeat"--and here followed the quotation, which I have forgotten. Now, it chanced that Wan Lee, looking over the galley after it had been revised, saw the name of his chief persecutor, and, of course, imagined the quotation his. After the form was locked up, Wan Lee took advantage of Webster's absence to remove the quotation, and substitute a thin piece of lead, of the same size as the type, engraved with Chinese characters, making a sentence, which, I had reason to believe, was an utter and abject confession of the incapacity and offensiveness of the Webster family generally, and exceedingly eulogistic of Wan Lee himself personally.
The next morning's paper contained Col. Starbottle's speech in full, in which it appeared that the "godlike" Webster had, on one occasion, uttered his thoughts in excellent but perfectly enigmatical Chinese. The rage of Col. Starbottle knew no bounds. I have a vivid recollection of that admirable man walking into my office, and demanding a retraction of the statement.
"But my dear sir," I asked, "are you willing
to deny, over your own signature, that Webster ever uttered such a sentence?
Dare you deny, that, with Mr. Webster's well-known attainments, a knowledge
of Chinese might not have been among the
number? Are you willing to submit a translation suitable to the capacity
of our readers, and deny, upon your honor as a gentleman, that the late
Mr. Webster ever uttered such a sentiment? If you are, sir, I am
willing to publish your denial."
The colonel was not, and left, highly indignant.
Webster, the foreman, took it more coolly. Happily, he was unaware, that, for two days after, Chinamen from the laundries, from the gulches, from the kitchens, looked in the front office- door, with faces beaming with sardonic delight; that three hundred extra copies of the "Star" were ordered for the wash-houses on the river. He only knew, that, during the day, Wan Lee occasionally went off into convulsive spasms, and that he was obliged to kick him into consciousness again. A week after the occurrence, I called Wan Lee into my office.
"Wan," I said gravely, "I should like you to give me, for my own personal satisfaction, a translation of that Chinese sentence which my gifted countryman, the late godlike Webster, uttered upon a public occasion." Wan Lee looked at me intently, and then the slightest possible twinkle crept into his black eyes. Then he replied with equal gravity,--
"Mishtel Webstel, he say, 'China boy makee me belly much foolee. China boy makee me heap sick.'" Which I have reason to think was true.
But I fear I am giving but one side, and not the best, of Wan Lee's character. As he imparted it to me, his had been a hard life. He had known scarcely any childhood: he had no recollection of a father or mother. The conjurer Wang had brought him up. He had spent the first seven years of his life in appearing from baskets, in dropping out of hats, in climbing ladders, in putting his little limbs out of joint in posturing. He had lived in an atmosphere of trickery and deception. He had learned to look upon mankind as dupes of their senses: in fine, if he had thought at all, he would have been a sceptic; if he had been a little older, he would have been a cynic; if he had been older still, he would have been a philosopher. As it was, he was a little imp. A good-natured imp it was, too,--an imp whose moral nature had never been awakened,-- an imp up for a holiday, and willing to try virtue as a diversion. I don't know that he had any spiritual nature. He was very superstitious. He carried about with him a hideous little porcelain god, which he was in the habit of alternately reviling and propitiating. He was too intelligent for the commoner Chinese vices of stealing or gratuitous lying. Whatever discipline he practised was taught by his intellect.
I am inclined to think that his feelings were not altogether unimpressible, although it was almost impossible to extract an expression from him; and I conscientiously believe he became attached to those that were good to him. What he might have become under more favorable conditions than the bondsman of an overworked, under-paid literary man, I don't know: I only know that the scant, irregular, impulsive kindnesses that I showed him were gratefully received. He was very loyal and patient, two qualities rare in the average American servant. He was like Malvolio, "sad and civil" with me. Only once, and then under great provocation, do I remember of his exhibiting any impatience. It was my habit, after leaving the office at night, to take him with me to my rooms, as the bearer of any supplemental or happy after-thought, in the editorial way, that might occur to me before the paper went to press. One night I had been scribbling away past the usual hour of dismissing Wan Lee, and had become quite oblivious of his presence in a chair near my door, when suddenly I became aware of a voice saying in plaintive accents, something that sounded like "Chy Lee."
I faced around sternly.
"What did you say?"
"Me say, 'Chy Lee.'"
"Well?" I said impatiently.
"You sabe, 'How do, John?'"
"Yes."
"You sabe, 'So long, John'?"
"Yes."
"Well, 'Chy Lee' allee same!"
I understood him quite plainly. It appeared that "Chy Lee" was a form of "good-night," and that Wan Lee was anxious to go home. But an instinct of mischief, which, I fear, I possessed in common with him, impelled me to act as if oblivious of the hint. I muttered something about not understanding him, and again bent over my work. In a few minutes I heard his wooden shoes pattering pathetically over the floor. I looked up. He was standing near the door.
"You no sabe, 'Chy Lee'?"
"No," I said sternly.
"You sabe muchee big foolee! allee same!"
And, with this audacity upon his lips, he fled. The next morning, however, he was as meek and patient as before, and I did not recall his offence. As a probable peace-offering, he blacked all my boots,--a duty never required of him,--including a pair of buff deer-skin slippers and an immense pair of horseman's jack-boots, on which he indulged his remorse for two hours.
I have spoken of his honesty as being a quality of his intellect rather than his principle, but I recall about this time two exceptions to the rule. I was anxious to get some fresh eggs as a change to the heavy diet of a mining-town; and, knowing that Wan Lee's countrymen were great poultry-raisers, I applied to him. He furnished me with them regularly every morning, but refused to take any pay, saying that the man did not sell them,--a remarkable instance of self-abnegation, as eggs were then worth half a dollar apiece. One morning my neighbor Forster dropped in upon me at breakfast, and took occasion to bewail his own ill fortune, as his hens had lately stopped laying, or wandered off in the bush. Wan Lee, who was present during our colloquy, preserved his characteristic sad taciturnity. When my neighbor had gone, he turned to me with a slight chuckle: "Flostel's hens--Wan Lee's hens allee same!" His other offence was more serious and ambitious. It was a season of great irregularities in the mails, and Wan Lee had heard me deplore the delay in the delivery of my letters and newspapers. On arriving at my office one day, I was amazed to find my table covered with letters, evidently just from the post-office, but, unfortunately, not one addressed to me. I turned to Wan Lee, who was surveying them with a calm satisfaction, and demanded an explanation. To my horror he pointed to an empty mail-bag in the corner, and said, "Postman he say, 'No lettee, John; no lettee, John.' Postman plentee lie! Postman no good. Me catchee lettee last night allee same!" Luckily it was still early: the mails had not been distributed. I had a hurried interview with the postmaster; and Wan Lee's bold attempt at robbing the United States mail was finally condoned by the purchase of a new mail-bag, and the whole affair thus kept a secret.
If my liking for my little Pagan page had
not been sufficient, my duty to Hop Sing was enough, to cause me to take
Wan Lee with me when I returned to San Francisco after my two years' experience
with "The Northern Star." I do not think he contemplated the change
with pleasure. I attributed his feelings to a nervous dread of crowded
public streets (when he had to go across town for me on
an errand, he always made a circuit of
the outskirts), to his dislike for the discipline of the Chinese and English
school to which I proposed to send him, to his fondness for the free, vagrant
life of the mines, to sheer willfulness. That it might have been
asuperstitious premonition did not occur to me until long after.
Nevertheless it really seemed as if the opportunity I had long looked for and confidently expected had come,--the opportunity of placing Wan Lee under gently restraining influences, of subjecting him to a life and experience that would draw out of him what good my superficial care and ill-regulated kindness could not reach. Wan Lee was placed at the school of a Chinese missionary,--an intelligent and kind-hearted clergyman, who had shown great interest in the boy, and who, better than all, had a wonderful faith in him. A home was found for him in the family of a widow, who had a bright and interesting daughter about two years younger than Wan Lee. It was this bright, cheery, innocent, and artless child that touched and reached a depth in the boy's nature that hitherto had been unsuspected; that awakened a moral susceptibility which had lain for years insensible alike to the teachings of society, or the ethics of the theologian.
These few brief months--bright with a promise that we never saw fulfilled--must have been happy ones to Wan Lee. He worshipped his little friend with something of the same superstition, but without any of the caprice, that he bestowed upon his porcelain Pagan god.
It was his delight to walk behind her to
school, carrying her books--a service always fraught with danger to him
from the little hands of his Caucasian Christian brothers. He made
her the most marvellous toys; he would cut out of carrots and turnips the
most astonishing roses and tulips; he made life-like chickens out of melon-seeds;
he constructed fans and kites, and was singularly proficient in the making
of dolls' paper dresses. On the other hand, she played and sang to
him, taught him a thousand little prettinesses and refinements only known
to girls, gave him a yellow ribbon for his pig-tail, as best suiting his
complexion, read to him, showed him wherein he was original and valuable,
took him to
Sunday school with her, against the precedents
of the school, and, small-woman-like, triumphed. I wish I could add
here, that she effected his conversion, and made him give up his porcelain
idol.
But I am telling a true story; and this little girl was quite content to fill him with her own Christian goodness, without letting him know that he was changed. So they got along very well together,--this little Christian girl with her shining cross hanging around her plump, white little neck; and this dark little Pagan, with his hideous porcelain god hidden away in his blouse.
There were two days of that eventful year which will long be remembered in San Francisco,--two days when a mob of her citizens set upon and killed unarmed, defenceless foreigners because they were foreigners, and of another race, religion, and color, and worked for what wages they could get. There were some public men so timid, that, seeing this, they thought that the end of the world had come. There were some eminent statesmen, whose names I am ashamed to write here, who began to think that the passage in the Constitution which guarantees civil and religious liberty to every citizen or foreigner was a mistake. But there were, also, some men who were not so easily frightened; and in twenty-four hours we had things so arranged, that the timid men could wring their hands in safety, and the eminent statesmen utter their doubts without hurting any body or any thing. And in the midst of this I got a note from Hop Sing, asking me to come to him immediately.
I found his warehouse closed, and strongly guarded by the police against any possible attack of the rioters. Hop Sing admitted me through a barred grating with his usual imperturbable calm, but, as it seemed to me, with more than his usual seriousness. Without a word, he took my hand, and led me to the rear of the room, and thence down stairs into the basement. It was dimly lighted; but there was something lying on the floor covered by a shawl. As I approached he drew the shawl away with a sudden gesture, and revealed Wan Lee, the Pagan, lying there dead.
Dead, my reverend friends, dead,--stoned to death in the streets of San Francisco, in the year of grace 1869, by a mob of half-grown boys and Christian school-children!
As I put my hand reverently upon his breast, I felt something crumbling beneath his blouse. I looked inquiringly at Hop Sing. He put his hand between the folds of silk, and drew out something with the first bitter smile I had ever seen on the face of that Pagan gentleman.
It was Wan Lee's porcelain god, crushed
by a stone from the hands of those Christian iconoclasts!
Document 5: Mark Twain’s Letters from San Francisco:
Mark Twain, The San Francisco Daily Morning Call, July 12, 1864CHINESE SLAVES
Captain Douglass and Watchman Hager boarded the ship Clara Morse, on Sunday morning, the moment she arrived, and captured nineteen Chinese girls, who had been stolen and brought from Hongkong to San Francisco to be sold. They were a choice lot, and estimated to be worth from one hundred and fifty to four hundred dollars apiece in this market. They are shut up for safe-keeping for the present, and we went and took a look at them yesterday; some of them are almost good-looking, and none of them are pitted with small pox - a circumstance which we have observed is very rare among China women. There were even small children among them - one or two not two years old, perhaps, but the ages of the majority ranged from four teen to twenty. We would suggest, just here that the room where these unfortunates are confined is rather too close for good health - and besides, the more fresh air that blows on a Chinaman, the better he smells. The heads of the various Chinese Companies here have entered into a combination to break up this importation of Chinese prostitutes, and they are countenanced and supported in their work by Chief Burke and Judge Shepheard. Now-a-days, before a ship gets her cables out, the Police board her, seize the girls and shut them up, under guard, and they are sent back to China as soon as opportunity offers, at the expense of the Chinese Companies, who also send an agent along to hunt up the families from whom the poor creatures have been stolen, and restore to them their lost darlings again. Our Chinese fellow citizens seem to be acquiring a few good Christian instincts, at any rate.
To-day the Ning-Yong Company will finish furnishing and decorating the new Josh house, or place of worship, built by them in Broadway, between Dupont and Kearny streets, and to-morrow they will begin their unchristian devotions in it. The building is a handsome brick edifice, two stories high on Broadway, and three on the alley in the rear; both fronts are of pressed brick. A small army of workmen were busily engaged yesterday, in putting on the finishing touches of the embellishments. The throne of the immortal Josh is at the head of the hall in the third story, within a sort of alcove of elaborately carved and gilded woodwork, representing human figures and birds and beasts of all degrees of hideousness. Josh himself is as ugly a monster as can be found outside of China. He is in a sitting posture, is of about middle stature, but excessively fat; his garments are flowing and ample, garnished with a few small circlets of looking-glass, to represent jewels, and streaked and striped, daubed from head to foot, with paints of the liveliest colors. A long strand of black horsehair sprouts from each corner of his upper lip, another from the centre of his chin, and one from just forward of each ear. He wears an open-work crown, which gleams with gold leaf. His rotund face is painted a glaring red, and the general expression of this fat and happy god is as if he had eaten too much rice and rats for dinner, and would like his belt loosened if he only had the energy to do it. In front of the throne hangs a chandelier of Chinese manufacture, with a wilderness of glass drops and curved candle supports about it; but it is not as elegant and graceful as the American article. Under it, in a heavy framework, a big church bell is hung, also of Chinese workmanship; it is carved and daubed with many-colored paint all over. In front of the bell, three long tables are ranged, the fronts of two of which display a perfect maze-work of carving. The principal one shows, behind a glass front, several hundred splendidly gilded figures of kings on thrones, and bowing and smirking attendants, and horses on the rampage. The figures in this huge carved picture stand out in bold relief from the background, but they are not stuck on. The whole concern is worked out of a single broad slab of timber, and only the cunning hand of a Chinaman could have wrought it. Over the forward table is suspended a sort of shield, of indescribable shape, whose face is marked in compartments like a coat of arms, and in each of these is another nightmare of burnished and distorted human figures. The ceiling of this room, and both sides of it, are adorned with great sign boards, (they look like that to a content Christian, at any rate,) bearing immense Chinese letters or characters, sometimes raised from the surface of the wood and sometimes cut into it, and sometimes these letters being painted a bright red or green, and the grand expanse of sign board blazing with gold-leaf, or vice versa. These signs are presents to the Church from other companies, and they bear the names of those corporations, and possibly some extravagant Chinese moral or other, though if the latter was the case we failed to prove it by Ah Wae, our urbane and intelligent interpreter. Up and down the room, on both sides, are ranged alternate chairs and tables, made of the same hard, close-grained black wood used in the carved tables above mentioned; devout pagans lean their elbows on these little side tables, and swill tea while they worship Josh. Now, humble and unpretending Christian as we are, there was something infinitely comfortable and touching to us in this gentle mingling together of piety and breakfast. They have a large painted drum, and a pig or two, in this temple. How would it strike you, now, to stand at one end of this room with ranks of repentant Chinamen extending down either side before you, sipping purifying tea, and all about and above them a gorgeous cloud of glaring colors and dazzling gold and tinsel, with the bell tolling, and the drums thundering, and the gongs clanging, and portly, blushing old Josh in the distance, smiling upon it all, in his imbecile way, from out his splendid canopy? Nice perhaps? In the second story there are more painted emblems and symbols than we could describe in a week. In the first story are six long white slats (in a sort of vault) split into one hundred and fifty divisions, each like the keys of a piano, and this affair is the death-register of the Ning-Yong Company. When a man dies, his name, age, his native place in China, and the place of his death in this country, are inscribed on one of these keys, and the record is always preserved. Ah Wae tells us that the Ning-Yong Company numbers eighteen or twenty thousand persons on this coast, now, and has numbered as high as twenty-eight thousand. Ah Wae speaks good English, and is the outside business man of the tribe - that is, he transacts matters with us barbarians. He will occupy rooms and offices in the temple, as will also the great Wy Gah, the ineffable High Priest of the temple, and Sing Song, or President of the Ning-Yong Company. The names of the temple, inscribed over its doors, are, "Ning Yong Chu Oh," and "Ning Yong Wae Quong;" both mean the same thing, but one is more refined and elegant, and is suited to a higher and more cultivated class of Chinese than the other - though to our notion they appear pretty much the same thing, as far as facility of comprehending them is concerned. To-morrow the temple will be opened, and all save Chinese will be excluded from it until about the 5th of September, when white folks will be free to visit it, due notice having first been given in the newspapers, and a general invitation extended to the public.
Yesterday afternoon a Commission was engaged in the United States District Court room, taking testimony in the criminal proceedings instituted against Luther Hopkins, Master of the American ship Carlisle, for brutally treating Andrew Anderson, one of the ship's crew. The affidavit of the prosecuting witness states that on the 2d April, 1864, Captain Hopkins cruelly beat him with a belaying pin, while he was sick, inflicting serious injuries on him; and also, on the 27th April, Anderson being still sick Hopkins, the defendant, beat him on the head with a belaying pin; and again, on the 27th June, still being an invalid, he was beaten with a heavy, knotted rope, more than twenty blows, by the Captain of the vessel, who also caused him to be bitten by a dog. Poor Jack seeks redress and protection in a United States Court. When the Captain marshals his subordinates, from first officer down to forty-ninth cook, all dependent on him for the tenure of their dignities, they will with one voice swear they never saw the Captain do any such thing - blind as bats - while the poor victim felt it sensibly, and his quaking comrades in the forecastle saw it distinctly enough. It would be a hard thing should a Captain be punished for merely killing a sailor or two, as a matter of pastime.
The Chinese in this State are becoming civilized to a fearful extent. One of them was arrested the other day, in the act of preparing for a grand railroad disaster on the Sacramento Valley Railroad. If these people continue to imbibe American ideas of progress, they will be turning their attention to highway robbery, and other enlightend pursuits.They are industrious.
Sonora, Columbia, and Jamestown were the most important towns in Tuolumne County in 1851-52. Sonora was the county seat, Columbia the most beautiful and Jamestown the most popular. Each one of these flourishing mountain little cities had its landmark. Sonora’s pride was Bald Mountain, Jamestown had Table Mountain and Pulpit Rock and a little later Columbia raised the cross of St. Ann’s Church. It defies time,--a memorial of early days. I hope to live long enough to see it restored to its original beauty and usefulness.
The mining camps that flourished adjacent to Sonora and Columbia were Browns Flat, Douglasville, Springfield, Tuttletown, Hardscrabble, Yankee Hill, Saw Mill Flat, and Shaws Flat.
Those of Jamestown were Camps Seco, Yorktown, Poverty Hill (now Stent), Chile Gulch, Montezuma, Hardtack, and a few others I cannot recall. Algerine, Montezuma, and Chinese Camp were the largest and most important of the smaller mining camps of early day. Most all the smaller camps had a store, a blacksmith shop, a mail box, sometimes a restaurant, and always from one to three saloons….
It has been truthfully said that where the carcass is laid there will the vultures gather. In the early part of ’53, strict laws and the vigilantes sent an ever moving stream of human microbes from the cities – gun men, gamblers, blacklegs, and all the low class of the sporting element (men and women) to this country. They considered our hard-working miners lawful prey; and immediately introduced new means to reap the harvest. They used the method sparingly, mercilessly and thoroughly, introducing all kinds of new gambling games. In the most unexpected places they started groggeries, where both men and women lived, sold whiskey, and gambled; sometimes with music and dancing. And, of course, these dens of vice were the centers [of] gravitation. And, as we all know, whiskey makes a confused and helpless fool out of a man. The honest, hard-working miner entered into these dens of vice, to be robbed of his gold, his health, and often his life. A man’s safety and life often depended upon the swiftness of his draw, -- and the caliber of the gun he wore….
Man can often destroy in a few hours the work of nature that has been centuries in the building. It requires twenty-one years by nature, and the laws, for nature to mature a man. But in early days, I have seen all that made life worth living to a young and handsome man, by a man’s fists. There was a family lived near us on Shaws Flat by the name of Smith. Mrs. Smith was a nice-looking and good woman. There came to the Flat a gambler, well-dressed and flashy, proud of his good looks and fine clothes. He tried to impose his company on Mrs. Smith. One day, Mr. Smith met him and beat his face nearly off; he broke his nose, and knocked out several teeth, and told him to leave the Flat. He certainly left. Before Mr. Smith came in contact with him he was known as “Pie Face,” but after Mr. Smith came in contact with him he was spoken of as “Scar Face” and was soon forgotten.
The early day miners seldom wore guns, and never used them unless necessary to protect life. But believe me, no man stepped on another’s coat-tail with impunity.
Every succeeding year brought thousands to California. And, as a natural consequence, the weak went to the wall, while braggart often diced with his boots on. Conditions changed for the people, and not for their betterment,’ – men wore guns and shot to kill.
Not only conditions of the Pioneers changed, but the face of nature was fain to confess the superior predatory capacity of the newcomers, Denuded hillsides, banks of gravel, tail-races, ditches, tailings, and stumps and boulders were in evidence, wherever gold could be found….
It is true the miners had to put the fear of the Lord, or His teachings, into the hearts of the Mexicans and Indians; and many a single-handed whipping occurred, as some miner would catch them stealing his clothing – often hung out to dry. The punishment was not ladled out a silver spoon, but with a solid stick, and laid on whole-heartedly, without reservation and with enthusiasm.
That mob violence and drastic action was necessary, I will not deny; for in those days it seemed an utter futility to await the legal process and uncertainty of the law. Human life was not valued; it must demand a life for a life.
While the morning glory, black-eyed Susan, and a few other flowers beautified our log cabin on Shaws Flat and were admired by so many, one day there came to our door a woman I will never forget. Her name was Williams and she lived at Springfield. She came to the Loomis store and passed our cabin; she walked up close to the door. “For Massey’s sake, Miss Summers! The sight of your cabin just near give me the fan-tods! It looks like Old Missourey. Lawsey a me, Miss Summers, do you put on table kivers all the time? Say, ain’t they they the orneriest, sentimenterest ijust you ever seen in Californy? I reckon I knows sense when I sees it. I get so mad when they laugh at me – their betters! The meanest, most treacherous men are greasers; but I ain’t askeered of nobody. Well my visit has hoped me up. I want to get home and get my shoes off, and have a smoke. Miss Summers, save me some morning-glory seed.Say, I am honing to get back to Missourey, and I’se agwine to when we make a stake, Fo’ de Lord! Think of wild turkeys, blackberries, strawberries, persimmons and all we left!”
Poor, undesigning, ignorant woman! One of the units of a cosmopolitan population of Pioneers of early days.
Another unique personality on Shaws Flat was Irish Kate. She did laundry work. There were hundreds of ground sluice holes filled with slum, that were a menace to safety. Kate was walking one of the narrow trails, her arms full of nearly washed and iron laundry. She made a misstep and went into ten feet of slum. It required half a dozen men with ropes to land her on terra firma.
It causes a longing, homesick feeling when I pass the spot where the little log cabin we lived in at Shaws Flat stood prominently, to be admired, as something unusual and beautiful. Its commonplace and homey walls were covered with morning glory and other simple vines – from seed that we had brought from Missouri. We were thankful for the roof, even if we lived on a dirt floor. It was an humble and sweet home for us, even if we lived on a dirt floor. It was an humble and sweet home for us, both in theory and reality, because love radiated around and through, hither and thither, lighting up the dark and ugly corners with peace, contentment, and happiness. Let turmoil, hate, and antagonism reign elsewhere, it never entered our door. Dear old Shaws Flat! Around you some of the fondest memories of a life long cling! Around you some of the fondest memories of a life long cling! For then I had youth and a dear mother and father.
In the Fall of 1854 my father moved from Shaws Flat to an unbroken wilderness, where feet of white men had seldom trod, and never those of a white woman. After working his claim on Shaws Flat to a near finish, he sold it, and filed a squatter’s right to land now owned and occupied by the West Side Timber Co., and where the town of Tuolumne is located, in the eastern part of Tuolumne county, ten miles from Sonora. It is now known as the “East Belt” of the Mother Lode. There were no roads; nothing but trails made by wild animals and wilder Indians. Our faithful old oxen, Tom and Jerry, were our main dependence for transit through the wilderness. It required two days to reach our new abode.
We had left what few conveniences Shaws Flat and Sonora could offer and the end of our pilgrimage seemed far worse to mother and me than the beginning.
We moved into a log house with a dirt floor and a big fireplace. We did not mind the storms of winter, for we were warm and dry. As time is the arbiter of all things, we in time lost the fear and dread of the unknown.
The advent of spring in 1855 opened up a vista of enchantment of bud and flower, and we loved it. Today I hold the ground sacred to the memories of the happiest days of my childhood. We had passed the winter in comfort and plenty. The woods were full of game. The cattle were fat. The world – or all we desired of it – was ours. As the summer advanced, we reveled and rejoiced, gathering wild grapes, gooseberries, elderberries, greens, and everything that gave variety to our larder.
Father fenced ground for a garden and planted seeds brought from Missouri.
I then became an important member of the family; and, I will say, a busy one; for it was up to me to keep the ground squirrels and rabbits out of the garden.
Later in the fall of 1855 the Scott brothers, half breed Cherokees, wandered into the mountains, near out place, prospecting. They found good prospects at Cherokee, as they afterward named the place, not much over a mile from our house.
They built themselves a comfortable log cabin as quietly as possible, located their claims, and, borrowing father’s rifle, killed some deer and cured the meat. They hired father to move their long tom, cradle, rocker and tools, also some provisions for the winter and were soon ready for the winter snows. They knew they had good claims, and they wrote for their brother, Dick, to join them, locating a claim for him. They would not drink; were the soul of honor. They were gentlemen in the meaning that all the word implied. They wanted my father to join them, but he was clearing land for grain and hay.
Very early in the spring of 1856 the news of a rich gold discovery leaked out, and the country was soon overrun with prospectors. Cherokee soon became a lively, flourishing mining camp with two stores and two saloons. Of course the saloons were the center of gravity in all camps. Selling vile whiskey to vile men can have only one result. The men had already been inoculated with the virus of evil. They would drink and only taper off when tankage facilities failed. Whiskey created antagonisms, and their faces would remind one of a personified day of judgment, untempered by mercy. Then they were ready for anything – robbery or murder, but above all they loved to fight.
This is only a history of the vultures that preyed on the honest class of miners. Cherokee represented the subsequent camps on the East Belt during ’56 and ’57, during the placer craze.
The first murder that occurred was done by Wilse Walkingstaff in May, 1856, in a cabin on Turnback Creek, not far from Cherokee. Walkingstaff was a Cherokee Indian and a very dangerous man. The trouble was caused by jealousy over a woman – a young squaw. He became jealous of James Ham, almost a boy, that was new to conditions then prevailing. He had not been initiated into the gambling class. Walkingstaff met him alone and cut his bowels open so that they protruded to the ground by his dead body; and then fled in terror from the mob that he knew would hang him. Ham was buried under a beautiful live oak tree and laid first claim to what was afterward known as the Summersville (or Carters) cemetery.
In June, 1856, without warning of the awful shadow of death that was hovering over our peaceful home, my father was shot to death in French Bar, now known as La Grange. Oh, the awful sorrow and desolation of that bereft home! Another cold-blooded murder. My little brother (I forgot to state in proper sequence) was born April 2, 1855, and was too young to realize our loss.
The miners – God bless them – threw a cordon of protection around that humble but desolate home, and none of the rough element ever dared to intrude or molest the helpless an sorrowing inmates.
My dear mother had a problem to solve, alone and unaided. We must live, and in order to live, we must eat; and to pay the exorbitant prices for provisions seemed impossible. After mature and deliberate thought she opened a boarding house, my father having built a comfortable dwelling house the year before. It was not long until she had all the boarders she could possibly cook for.
Our new house was built very near and on the east bank of Turnback Creek. The creek was located and miners at work very near our house. They had cabins, of a sort, everywhere close to us. They were quiet, fun-loving men. They all wanted to board. Mother must have a cook, but the men all refused a China cook. As she could not get a white cook she told them it was a China cook or move boarding house, they consented. With the new help mother took on more boarders.
Everything was quiet, considering new men were coming in. One Sunday a fellow that had been bumming for several days went to Cherokee, dilled up on “oh be joyful” and, coming down the creek to a cabin of three quiet miners he was offensive, with perfectly appalling results. He was ordered away in no gentle tone of voice. One of the rightful inmates of the cabin turned to fill his pipe, and received a bullet in his brain. The pardners grabbed the murderer and gave the alarm. In such times men act quickly and often without reason. Impulse is one thing and judgment another.
Inflamed by the injustice, and cruel murder of their comrade, two hundred miners, to a man, demanded the instant death of the murderer; the vulture in human form, whom they had housed and fed. There being no other rope available they removed the rope from a dry well at our house. Willing hands make quick work, and he was soon hanging between earth and sky. In the shadow of that tree, with its mute evidence of sin and mistaken ideals of life, one of the miners spoke words of warning. He said: “We are living in primitive surroundings; but there is strength in unity, and the strong hand of justice and retribution will not fail to exact a life for a life. Beware!” So ended the fateful year of 1856. That is, there were no more fatalities to record.
The fall and winter passed as quietly as could be expected. The boys taught me woodcraft; the compass, by reading rocks and trees. They taught me how to use firearms and I was an expert; and, old as I am, could take the head off of a gray squirrel in the tallest pine, in this day and generation.
By this time some families had moved into the East Belt. Two or three had moved into Cherokee. Soulsbyville was still unpopulated, but contained the nucleus of a clean flourishing mining camp; for Ben Soulsby had discovered the Soulsby mine. This mine necessitated a different class of miners, men that understood hard rock drilling. Nearly all the quartz miners were Cornishmen, from the old country.
The year 1857 opened up an early spring, with a bright outlook for both the placer and quartz industry. New discoveries were being made and new camps started. The Street ditch was preparing to furnish water to all the East Belt miners, placer and quartz. I think it was in this year William and Penn Price, brothers, brought dairy cows to what in latter days is known as Jack Fry's ranch. In the early days it was known as the Buckhorn.
The question of introducing Chinese labor into the placer mines was bringing a feeling of antagonism between miners and sentiment seemed to be about equally divided; so they decided to leave it to a miners' meeting and vote, and the place selected was Carter's store on Long Gulch. After a short and, as everyone thought, a friendly debate they proceeded to vote. Those in favor of the Chinese lost out by a large majority. Saying nothing, they all walked out of the store into the darkness of a starless night, leaving the door open. Like the crack of doom, pistol shots were the only warning the men in the store had of the horrid pandemonium of death that was to follow. Before the lights could be put out, Bob Clod was shot through the heart, William Connally was shot through both shoulders, Ben Edmondson was shot through the thigh. As soon as the room was in darkness men in the room made for the open, shooting in every direction. The murderers fled, leaving no trace. It was believed by every one that the brutal work was instigated and done by one John Page, aided by Bill Ake and Tom Rich. They left their claims and all their worldly goods, and an unpaid board bill, and were never heard of again.
The little store resembled a slaughter house; the window was completely shattered. The question of coolie labor was effectively settled. Bob Clod was buried near the scene of strife. William Connally and Ben Edmondson recovered after long days of suffering, for medical treatment was uncertain in the early days.
Some time in the spring of 1858 news flew like wild fire that Jim Lyons had killed John Blakely and shot Bill Blakeley's arm off and was in jail. All the mountain folks knew Jim Lyons and liked him, no man ever left his house hungry; the latch string to his door always hung on the outside. The Blakely brothers, John, William and James, were Englishmen. They did a great injustice and a dishonest and low down thing to Lyons. He could not read, and having faith in human integrity, he unknowingly signed away his right and title to his land near Sullivan's Creek, later known as the Hughes place, the Snyder and Frank Gilkey ranch.
I do not know the date of their location, but William and James Blakely discovered the Eureka mine. They did not have much money and mother trusted them for board for a while. But it was not long before they had money to burn. Soon the little town of Summersville (they named it in gratitude for mother's kindness after her) was a busy hive of industry and prosperity. The Blakely boys continued to board at our house until they sold the mine.
In 1858 McCauley murdered Westley Bond, who, with his mother and three sisters, lived on the Shaw's Flat road just across the street from Macomber's orchard. One of the sisters subsequently married Joe Bowers, manager for Charley Manners, meat market, on Main street, Sonora.
In those days the miners did not exact an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, but they demanded a life for a life. Consequently McCauley, with Jim Lyons and Bob Poore, received the death penalty and in the fall of 1858 they were all three taken from the county jail to “Dead Man's Gulch” near the Odd Fellows' cemetery, and all of them at the same time paid the debt of a life for a life. They were buried where they were executed. Vengeance could go no further with them than the portals of the grave. Wild flowers bloom over their unmarked graves, and birds sing their carols to hearts that are dead and ears that hear not. God is merciful.
Joaquin Murietta, the noted highwayman, always, like the under dog, was painted blacker than he deserved. He was a peaceful, quiet miner, with his wife, living near Columbia, or Saw Mill Flat. He was mining some little distance from his cabin when it was entered by three white men. Brutes of the lowest type, after they had heaped every indignity on his wife, they robbed the cabin and set fire to it. Joaquin, seeing the smoke, hastened to his cabin, but too late to aid his wife or save the cabin or its contents. In an untutored, savage heart like his, what more natural or sweet than revenge? I have seen him and talked with him. He never was known to molest women and children. I had a souvenir that once belonged to Joaquin--a silver saddle horn.
During the fall of 1858 a miner on Turnback Creek sold his claim to a company of five Chinamen. They rented a cabin from mother, that she had taken in lieu of a board bill. After they had worked for some time, the miners all along the creek commenced to miss things. The thievery became a menace to the miners. Loss of mining tools and cleand up sluices became of daily occurrence. A miners' meeting was called, and a still hunt for the stolen property instituted. The property was found under the floor of the Chinamen's cabin--picks, pans, shovels, sluice forks, rocker irons; they were found on a Saturday and left where found. The Chinks were at work on their claim. At night they returned as usual, not dreaming of the awful catastrophe awaiting them.
That night a miners' meeting was called for the whole district, and it was decided to whip them publicly. Five men were chosen to do the whipping; three others to guard the house through the night. The five were instructed to lay on good and plenty, but certainly not to overdo, and the whipping place selected is directly in front of where the Methodist church is now, in Tuolumne. At ten o'clock the Chinamen were taken by about forty miners (all wearing guns) to the place--I will not say of “execution”--and before a crowd of over two hundred people each Chinaman was stripped to his waist, and received on his quivering back twenty lashes. After they were whipped, they were given their shirts and told to go home, gather their things, and leave. They did not delay on the order of their going, either.
This proved a salutary lesson, for there were no more sluice boxes robbed. This was justice, or law, administered by the people and for the people.
I am a typical pioneer, and having lived so many years of my life, and seeing turbulence and evil of every description in early days and quick retribution of the people, single-handed or in mobs, I will say I have an unholy desire to see some of the brutish criminals of the present time manhandled as of old. Crime is ubiquitous; it bids fair to darken the canopy of our country--a shadow, a menace far worse than in '49. Evil companions and environment pit the character like the smallpox. There are many things today that lead to crime that the early days never thought of. Idleness in the growing generation of today is the mainspring or great factor of crime.
I will speak now of the Indians of the area. When one died, the Indians gathered from every direction. The corpse would be straightened, and a basket placed over the head. They would build a pen about three feet wide and six feet long out of dry poles and lay two thicknesses of green poles across the top. They would place pitch pine in the center, enough to consume the body. Altogether it would be about four feet high. They would then lay the body on, and light the fire. They would begin dancing the death dance and singing the death chant and grunt, in a circle around the fire. When one would fall, from fatigue, another would fill the place; new fuel would be added and the crying and dancing would continue until not a vestige of the fire or body was left. Then the near relatives would mix the ashes with tar, and, while warm, coat their heads, faces and necks with it, and only time could remove the mourning. I have beads burned in this way over fifty years ago.
They (the Indians) were unable to combat or protect themselves from the brutish indignities heaped upon them by the whites, and for many years they most all lived far back in the mountains. Occasionally a dead man would be found, for, like the Mexicans, the Indian hatred might smolder, but would never die.
At this time (1859) the important towns of Sonora, Columbia and Jamestown, with their prosperity depending on the rich placers, had begun to wane; many and various business houses closed. Quartz mining had reached a sure and paying basis, but on a safer, saner foundation. Quartz miners would not support the sporting fraternity as had the placer miners. Times were changing. Families were making permanent homes, and wherever water could be procured gardens and small orchards were in evidence. Instead of dance halls, saloons and pool rooms, comfortable residences were built. The wild maniacal days of mobs and unlawful hangings were things to be forgotten. Most of the placer miners had drifted to fields of new endeavor; but as they went they were hopeful of finding a new world to conquer.