A GLIMPSE AT THE MINES.
And now the romance of “going to California” began to subside into the
dull reality of a pick and shovel. The claim would never have been
purchased but for Sam. It did not suit either Mr. Gilman’s or Colcord’s
inclinations to settle down to steady, hard work, after all the stories
of wonderful “luck” they had heard in the States and on their way to
the mines. Such things had happened more frequently before the crowd of
miners had scoured the whole country. Gold that had laid undisturbed for
ages, silently collecting in the crevices of the rock, was discovered by
some fortunate stroke, and gathered almost pure. But the first boundless
harvest was nearly over, and the gold crop, like any other, was not to be
had without labor.
Every straggling party that came to their camp was questioned by Mr.
Gilman, who took all they said for truth, and was ready to start off
“prospecting,” or searching among the neighboring ravines, and leave
the bar to those who claimed it. Colcord hesitated between the father
and son. Sam talked with the miners by whom he worked steadily all day,
many of whom had explored the whole gold region. They told him that the
gold of the Yuba was the purest, and in the end was sure to make a safe
return. Many of the camps were unhealthy from chills, and more wasting
diseases, and those who roved from place to place were sure to lose as
much time and strength on the road, or in days and days of vain search,
as they made by their most fortunate discoveries. These rough, hard men,
all seemed to like the cheerful, industrious boy, and showed him many a
kindness, that was the more pleasant because unexpected. They taught him
the easiest way to detect and separate the fine particles of gold in the
pans of earth dug up from the river’s bed, and here, as well as at home,
he saw that much was gained by doing things the right way, instead of
wasting time in experiments.
At first he was employed to carry earth from where the men were throwing
it up in piles with shovels and spades, to the cradle, or gold washer,
in which it was cleansed. This was a much more simple affair than the
complicated machine Mr. Gilman had bought under that name. It was
something the shape of the old-fashioned cherry wood cradle in which he
had been rocked to sleep, but was built of rough boards, and in length
would have accommodated a man better than a baby. One end was left open;
in the other was fixed a shallow iron pan, pierced with holes. In this
the dirt was thrown, the water poured over it, and as the cradle was
rocked the gold fell through, and being heavier than the dirt remained
in the bottom, caught between the bars of wood placed across it. As it
needed several persons to manage a cradle properly, others working on
their own account washed out the gold in an ordinary tin pan, such as
they had brought with them.
Some of the more successful miners hired the Indians, who were attracted
to their camp, to work for them at these cradles. Sam was very much
amused at their odd ways, and careless, simple habits. They had no
idea of laying up, or saving any thing for themselves. So that they had
enough to eat, and could purchase any trifle they took a fancy to among
the possessions of the miners, it was all they seemed to care for. Sam’s
first ounce was made by exchanging for it a fanciful worsted cap he had
picked up at sea, from the stores of his friend Jackson, the red tassel
having fascinated his new work-fellow. The natives seemed much more like
children than grown up men, just as he had read of them in books of
travel. He did not think they came up to his idea of the North American
Indians, found by the first settlers on the Atlantic coast. To Ben and
himself, King Philip and his followers had always seemed finely formed,
stern and resolute braves,—it would be hard to transform the thoughtless,
degraded Californian natives into warriors, even in imagination.
Mrs. Gilman might well think anxiously of her absent son, for hard work
was not by any means the worst he had to bear. He could get along well
enough in the daytime, though his back ached with stooping in the hot
sun, or his limbs were chilled by standing almost up to the waist in
water. It was pleasant in the early morning to watch the sunshine drive
away the dense masses of shadow from this mountain gorge, striking the
tents and the bed of the stream with glancing rays,—to listen to the
hum of voices, and the ringing stroke of those at work among the rocks.
When the heat became intense, and his work more severe, there was a
never-ceasing pleasure in dreams of home, and wondering about the changes
that had been, or would be. He could see the ever dear mother’s face, and
Abby’s teasing ways, and Hannah, more quiet, but not so dear to him as
“little Chunk”—his favorite nickname for his chubby playmate. And then
he was always planning their return; how he would leave father to come
on in the stage, and he would hurry on from the last stopping place. He
would be so grown, and brown, and altered, that Mooney would not know
him as he went by the tavern, nor even Ben standing at the post-office
door. But he could not wait to talk to them with the little brown house
in sight. There would be his mother sewing by the window,—but she would
look up as if she had never seen him before, and Abby would answer his
knock, while he asked the way to Squire Merrill’s. His mother would start
when she heard his voice, and come out into the entry, and then he could
not keep in any longer, but say, “don’t you know me, mother?”—in a voice
all choked, and—here the dream was broken by the signal for quitting
work, and weary enough he would go back to their camping ground to find
his father fretful and discontented, or perhaps bearing Colcord’s abuse,
which Sam dared not resent, though it made his very blood boil.
_His_ day’s work was not yet over; not until he had collected brush and
dry sticks in the ravine to cook the evening meal; mixed the cakes of
flour and water—even this was costly fare—stewed the jerked beef, or
boiled the coffee, if they were so fortunate as to have any. His own
share was eaten while trying to keep peace between the two men, who
quarrelled incessantly over their plans and gains, especially when there
was any liquor to be obtained at the shanty, which furnished them with
food at enormous prices.
They had agreed to work their claim on equal shares, Sam proving that he
could earn as much as either of them in the course of the day, by his
steady industry and greater skill. He did not think of claiming any part
for himself. He was working for his father, and his father was working
for “mother and the girls,”—it was all the same thing. But Colcord was
constantly quarrelling about this. He said the partnership was between
himself and Mr. Gilman, and they ought to share equally. Every fresh
outbreak, Sam was in hopes they would separate. He did not care how hard
they worked, so they could keep peace. He was frightened at the wicked
feeling of hate, that would come into his mind, towards this man, who had
been the cause of so much disgrace and trouble to his father; and he was
haunted by the fear that it would end in bloodshed between them. Sleeping
or awake this fear followed him. He often dreamed that he saw Colcord
standing over his father in sleep, with a face made horrible by passion,
and lifting an iron bar, or pick, to strike him dead. Rumors of murder
and robbery came from every part of the country: the curse of avarice
seemed to rest upon it.
Mr. Gilman, who might have lived in peace and plenty in his own house,
among his own fields, had come to work like a slave; to bear such fatigue
as the lowest New England farm-laborer never imagines, and the tyranny
of a man he hated and despised. Yet he was one among hundreds on the
slopes, or in the ravines of the great Sierra, who had thrown away
competency, and the love and comforts of a happy home, for a life that
the prodigal son could not have accepted in his greatest need. To many of
them repentance, when it came, was not less bitter, but the return to a
father’s house, with its plenty and its affection, impossible.
Rumors of a new discovery higher up the river, excited Colcord’s
grasping disposition, just as their claim was beginning to make a yield
that even experienced miners called remarkable. Wonderful stories of
“pockets,” holding a pound of clear gold, and lumps weighing almost
as much, were in busy circulation; and many of the oldest settlers of
Larkin’s Bar emigrated on the first report. If Colcord had not wanted to
go, Mr. Gilman would have insisted on it,—but they happened to be more
at variance than ever, about a disputed loss at cards, and Mr. Gilman
obstinately opposed the plan. Colcord was dogged,—but offered to settle
the matter by selling his share of the claim, at a most enormous sum. He
had no idea Mr. Gilman would agree to it, knowing very well that it was
almost every cent they had saved. Just at that moment Mr. Gilman would
have thrown away every thing in his old pride and obstinacy, and though
Sam saw what an unjust demand it was, he begged his father to consent
to it. And in this way, when he had almost given up all hope of better
times, or ever saving enough from the drinking and gambling Colcord
always contrived to draw Mr. Gilman into, Sam found himself his father’s
sole companion and adviser.
In all his California perils and adventures, that boy never felt a
greater relief, than when he lost sight of Colcord. He hoped it was for
the last time. He thought of the Old Man of the Sea, who had proved such
a troublesome acquaintance to Sinbad, and his father laughed as he had
not done for many a day when he heard the comparison. It was a happy
moment for Sam, when his father cheerfully shouldered his shovel and
said,
“Well, Sammy, as we’ve shaken him off, at a pretty considerable price,
we shall have to work all the harder to make up for it. I guess your
mother won’t be sorry though, if we do have to stay a year longer on the
strength of it.”
Since they came to the mines, Mr. Gilman had hardly ever spoken of home,
and Sam took what he said, as a sign of “the good time coming.”
At last it did begin to seem as if Mrs. Gilman’s trust and hope would
have its reward. Her husband was right in thinking she would be willing
to have them stay longer, when she found out Colcord had left them. She
did not hear of it until three months afterwards, for the cheerful,
affectionate letter, which Sam coaxed his father into writing, had a
long and wandering journey to San Francisco, in the team of the trader
to whose charge it was given. There was no weekly mail, as there is
now, uniting the interests and the lives of the two coasts. The short,
travel-stained letter, was received with a welcome only less glad than
would have been given to the dear exiles themselves.
A new love and interest grew up between the father and son. They toiled
cheerfully all day side by side. Mr. Gilman resumed his old good nature,
and was in better spirits than Sam had ever seen him. He was ready with
a joke and laugh, at the many amusing incidents of their wild life, and
half civilized companions. Every body threw off the artificial manners of
city life, at the mines. Never was there such an odd assembly gathered
together. The rough western farmer was in partnership with a young man
just out of college, or who had danced the polka at Saratoga or Newport
the year before. They troubled themselves very little about dress, and
any one who had never heard of the Californian gold mines, would have
thought them a race by themselves, with a national costume of well worn
trousers and red flannel shirts, who were under a vow never to shave or
submit to the modern operation of hair cutting.
In only one thing was Mr. Gilman unlike himself. “Easy come, easy go”—was
the principle on which most of the miners acted. It seemed folly to
be careful about small sums, when there was so much to be had for the
digging, and not taking care of the “ounces,” the “pounds” soon disposed
of themselves. After Colcord disappeared, the very spirit of avarice
seemed to take hold of Mr. Gilman. He scarcely allowed himself time to
sleep or eat. They had purchased a tent of some departing miner before
Colcord left them, on the anticipation of the rainy season, or they would
still have been sleeping with only their blankets for a covering after
the day’s fatigue.
Mr. Gilman’s habits of idleness and self-indulgence, had injured his
strength before leaving home. The voyage which made Sam so brown and
hardy, had a contrary effect on him. When Sam was braving the cold wind
on deck, or exercising every nerve and muscle in climbing the rigging,
Mr. Gilman slept in his bunk, or played some game of chance in the close
air of the steerage. He had never recovered from the last day’s exposure
on the plains, and it was natural that this severe and unaccustomed toil
should have its effects. Sam did not know that the very industry at
which he wondered and rejoiced, was the effect of a feverish excitement
of mind and body that could not last. It seemed only natural that his
father should exert himself to the utmost, to get home again. Mr. Gilman
appeared almost afraid Sam should know the amount they had collected. In
one month after Colcord left, they had more than made up the amount paid
to him, and Mr. Gilman was never tired of calculating it to himself. He
seemed to grudge the smallest remittance to his family, telling Sam it
was “all for them in the end, every cent,” when he began to talk about
sending home to his mother for the winter, as they had promised. It was
always to be done by the next opportunity, but opportunities passed, and
Mrs. Gilman was looking forward to a penniless winter, while her husband
was hoarding nearly two thousand dollars, on the banks of the Yuba.