THE FATHER AND SON.
Sam was always up at the earliest light, and busied himself about the
tent, preparing breakfast, which was generally ready before Mr. Gilman
woke. The first warning he had of his father’s illness was seeing him
toss restlessly on the earthen floor of their tent, moaning and muttering
in his sleep.
“I’d lie by to-day, if I was you, father”—he said, bringing a tin cup of
coffee, as Mr. Gilman sat up with a start, and looked wildly around him.
“I can wash that pile out alone, and to-morrow’s Sunday. One day’s rest
will set you right up again.”
“Who’s talking about resting! I don’t want rest! I ain’t sick, I _tell
you_, I ain’t sick, who said I was?”
Sam was still more alarmed at the quick, almost fierce, manner in which
his father spoke. “Nobody said so, sir,” he answered as quietly as he
could. “Only you know how tired you were last night, and you talked some
in your sleep.”
“Did I? What did I say?” Mr. Gilman began dressing with trembling hands,
the matted hair falling over his thin, sunburnt face, and his blood-shot
eyes glaring around the tent, with the wildness of fever. “What did I
say, Sam—why don’t you answer me? Did I tell you somebody had stolen
every cent? Don’t let them know it, Sam, the rest of them, will you? I
mean it shall be two thousand dollars before the week’s out. Some rascal
or other will track it yet—I know they will. There’s Tucker, don’t tell
him; he wanted to know yesterday, how things stood. His pile don’t grow
so fast just by hard work,—yes, it’s all gone, every cent—ain’t it hard,
Sam?”
“I guess you’re mistaken, father,” Sam said, soothingly. “It was all
right last night, don’t you remember? If I was you, I’d just drink some
coffee and lay down awhile—you’ll remember all about it by-and-by. It
ain’t time to go to work yet, any way.”
But Mr. Gilman would not be persuaded to lie quietly. He insisted on
following Sam to the pile of earth they had prepared for washing out,
and plunged knee-deep into the water, as if the coolness would take way
the fever heat. It was the very worst thing he could have done, for the
fever was followed by chills, and though he worked more than an hour with
unnatural strength, it left him at once, and he laid down as helpless as
a child, in the very glare of a hot sun.
He had been muttering to himself all the while, and his wild gestures
drew the notice of those working around him. Sam was bending over his
father almost as despairingly as he had done on the plains, trying to
rouse him, when he heard some one say—
“I thought the old man needed looking after the last two or three days.
Bear a hand, and we’ll carry him where he can lie more like a Christian.”
It was a young man Sam liked best of any in the camp. He was a general
favorite; for, with his careless manner, and rough ways, there was an
unselfish, generous temper, shown in numberless good turns, to those less
experienced or less fortunate than himself. Nobody knew his real name,
but they all called him “Major.” His costume was rather peculiar, even
for the mines, his red flannel drawers and shirt being girt by a crimson
military sash. For the six weeks since his arrival at Larkin’s Bar, he
had not been guilty of the extravagance of a pair of pantaloons; it was
the only economy, however, that could be set down to his credit, as the
store-keeper could testify. His eyes and teeth were almost all that could
be seen of his face, a mass of brown, waving hair falling over his broad
forehead, and his heavy beard reaching almost to his sash; but the eyes
had always a good-natured smile, and his teeth were even and brilliantly
white.
“Well, you’re not as heavy as you might be, are you, neighbor?” he said,
lifting Mr. Gilman, as if he had been a child, when he found he was
unable to assist himself. Sam followed with a brandy-flask, some one
had brought forward; brandy was both food and medicine to most of them.
He had never seen severe illness before, and was entirely ignorant of
what ought to be done. There was no physician within miles of them,
and no medicine except stimulants, if there had been. The brandy was,
perhaps, the best thing Mr. Gilman could have taken just then—so weak and
exhausted; but when the fever came back at night, more violent than ever,
Sam could only bathe his forehead and hands with cold water, while he
listened to his wild ravings.
The gold seemed to haunt Mr. Gilman the whole time. He assured Sam, over
and over again, that it was all stolen, every cent of it, in the most
pitiful tone, and then the expression of his face changed to cunning,
and he would whisper—“We’ll cheat them all, Sammy, Tucker and the rest.
I guess your mother can get along, don’t you? She knows how to manage,
and Abby’s a smart one. I guess we won’t send just now; you don’t mean
to make me, do you, Sammy? It might get lost, and none of us would be
better off, would we?”—or hours of lethargy followed, from which it was
impossible to rouse him, the convulsive motion of his hands, or his
vacant, rolling eyes, terrifying the solitary boy.
The miners came to offer any service, with their sincere, hearty
kindness, but there was nothing to be done, and their time was too
precious to be wasted. The Major came oftener than any of the rest, and
all that he advised Sam tried to do. It was a relief to be busy about
something, for though he did not think his father’s life was in danger,
it was very hard to see him suffer so. The Major talked as encouragingly
as he could, and told him not to be down-hearted; but the next week
dragged very slowly, and he could not help being discouraged, as the
fever and chills continued. Mr. Gilman’s frame wasted, and his sunken
eyes and haggard face were painful to look at, even when at rest,—and
then came that last awful change, which all but the love-blinded watcher
had foreseen from the first.
Poor, lonely boy! He could not believe it was death, though the wan,
shadowy look startled him, as he stooped down to moisten the parched lips
with water. He left the sick man alone for the first time, while he went
to call assistance, for night was coming, and he thought something might
be done or wanted before daylight.
It was too late for earthly help. The men knew it was death, they were
only too familiar with that fixed and rigid expression. They spoke in low
voices to each other, and did all that was to be done, almost as tenderly
as women, thinking, perhaps, that their turn might come soon. Sam watched
them, following every motion, but he did not hear half they said to him,
or scarcely understand what they were doing. The shock was too sudden for
boyish grief or fear.
They went away again when all was arranged for the simple burial; for
even the kind-hearted young man who had been with him most, felt it was
best to leave the boy alone. The moonlight came in through the opening of
the tent, and made every thing dimly visible, as he sat on the ground, by
that stiff, motionless form. He put his hands over his face, and tried
to think. His father was _dead_. He had heard them say so. His mother’s
husband,—Abby’s father—Hannah’s father! They could not see him again.
They were thinking about his coming home, and they would look for him,
but it was no use. He felt it would kill his mother, when she came
to know about it, and it seemed as if he could hear Abby’s passionate
crying, and sobs, when she heard the dreadful news. She had always been
her father’s favorite, without any jealousy from the others, since the
first moment that her soft baby arms were wound around his neck.
He wished that it was him, instead of his father, who had gone, since
one of them must die; it would not have made half so much difference at
home. Then he lifted up his head from between his knees, and looked at
his father’s face again,—only to sink down and rock his body slowly, as
he thought on, and on.
If his father had died at home, how different it would have been. The
whole neighborhood would have known Mr. Gilman had a fever. The doctor
and the minister, and his mother, would have been by, and he might have
known them, and talked about Heaven, and some one would have prayed.
Then Sam thought, what was _living_, after all, and what use was it to
come into the world so full of trouble? Perhaps the thought was a prayer,
for the answer came in the recollection of many things that he had read
and studied in his Bible. His mother had explained to them again and
again, how Our Father in Heaven permits us to have trials and troubles
as long as we live, so that we shall not forget there is a better and
a higher life. And there every one is told so plainly what is right
and what is wrong; those who do right being happy, even in sickness or
poverty. It was only natural in Sam to think for an instant, how much
better it would have been for them all if his father had been as good and
contented as their mother was, but that feeling was lost in the bitter
one, that it was all over now, life was ended, nothing could be changed.
“Oh, mother, mother, mother,” the boy groaned, and he longed, as if his
heart was breaking, to lay his head on her knee, and look up for comfort
to her face, as he had often done in his childish troubles. “Dear, _dear_
mother!” and the tears came at last, raining through his fingers, and
taking away that dull stupor of pain from his heart. He was exhausted
with his long and anxious watch, and a strange heaviness came over him,
which he struggled against in vain. He did not mean to sleep, but he
must have done so, for he roused himself up and looked around with a
sobbing start. He had not forgotten that his father was lying dead beside
him, that he was keeping watch for the last time—but he thought he had
heard a stealthy footstep outside the tent, and that the shadow of a man
fell across the entrance. But no one came, and there was no sound but the
fretting of the river, as the moon sank behind the hills, and left him in
darkness and solitude.
There was not time for grieving over the dead, or for more than the
simplest burial rites, in that rude mountain life.
The men came again, at earliest light, and found the boy sitting where
they had left him, his long hair falling over his face, bowed down upon
his knee. Sam understood why they had come, and rose to follow them,
though no one spoke a word to him, as they wrapped Mr. Gilman in the
blanket on which he laid, and carried him away. His was not the only
grave they had prepared at midnight, for other low mounds of earth marked
a little slope, half way up the bluff. And here they laid him, with
kindly, not loving, hands,—he was a stranger to them all, and but one
solitary mourner stood near. There was no audible prayer, though no one
can tell what thoughts or wishes passed through their minds, as the men
stood silently for a moment, with uncovered heads, when their task was
finished. It was but a moment, and then their voices, and their footsteps
sounded down the hill, as quick and as careless, as if death could not
reach them.
Sam thought they had all gone, but some one came and laid a hand on his
shoulder. It was the Major, who said cheerfully—
“Come, come, my boy, don’t give up; you’ve got a long life before you
yet.”
“A hard one,” Sam said, turning away his face even from those friendly
eyes, and leaning his head against a tree. No wonder his voice sounded
hopeless, for he was yet a boy, and thousands of miles from any one who
knew him or cared for him, in the first great trouble of his life.
“It’s hard enough, anyhow, for that matter, but there’s no use crying
over it. I suppose you think I’m a jolly dog—most people do.—Well, I
haven’t seen the day for these six years, that I couldn’t thank any body
who’d help me out of it. Let’s sit down here a minute and talk it over.
Do you suppose any body is really happy?”
“Any body!” Sam repeated wonderingly, but he sat down on the grass beside
his stranger friend, who began hacking the root of the tree with his
knife as he talked. He forgot his own troubles, wondering what such a
good-hearted, careless man could be miserable about.
But the Major did not seem disposed to talk any more about himself; only
he said—
“I never had a brother. I don’t know how I’d feel towards one; but if
there’s any thing I can do for you let me know it. I’d advise you to go
home, if you’ve got enough to take you there. California’s not the place
for boys like you.”
“I don’t know that I am different from other boys,” Sam began to say.
[Illustration: SAM AND THE MAJOR.
Page 152.]
“Oh, yes, you are,” the other interrupted. “You don’t swear, and you
don’t drink, you don’t gamble,—now I’d like to know what other boy of
your age, would stand a voyage round the Horn, and three months in
California, without being as bad as the rest of us. Boys are worse I
think.”
“Not if they had such a mother as I’ve got!” and then Sam thought that
his mother was all now,—and his heart sank down again, for there was the
new-made grave,—he was fatherless and she a widow.
“I wish I had a mother—I wish I had any body to care for me, or any
thing to live for. Go home, and take care of your mother, my boy—stay by
her as long as she lives. You!—yes, go home and comfort her. See what
gold’s done for your father—see what it’s doing for all of us, here in
the mines. We live like savages, and we die like sheep. Your father was
taken care of, and buried decently, that ought to make you thankful. I’ve
seen men lie down by the road-side, with no one to give them a drop of
water—with racking pain and thirst. And they’d die so, and nobody knew
even their names, or where they came from. You must go home.”
Sam had not thought of what he was to do; but he did not need such urging
to decide. He could go now,—he was free, his labor of love was ended! He
almost caught his breath with the recollection, that there was nothing
to keep him one day longer away from all the comforts of life, and among
bad men. He was almost happy again—even when looking back to his father’s
grave, for would he not leave death, and toil, and care behind him, and
have a home, and be a boy once more!
“Well, good-bye, if I never see you again,” the Major said, when he found
the boy was fairly roused. Sam had not noticed till then that he seemed
to be ready for a journey, and a pack, such as a New-England pedler might
carry, laid under a bush near them. His companion raised it, and secured
it, with the long red sash, over his shoulder.
“I’m off, you see, I don’t know exactly where. If I did, I’d ask you to
travel with me. You’d better start with the next team that comes in from
Sacramento, and try a steamer this time if you can. I would anyway, I’ve
had enough of the Horn.”
It was a brief, abrupt leave-taking, and Sam had not known him long,
yet he felt as if the only friend he had in the country was gone, as he
watched the tall figure disappear over the bluff above him. A little
kindness had made him feel a great interest in this strange, roving man.
But there are many such in California, who seem to have no settled plans,
and nothing to live for, but the whim of the moment. Sam was thankful
even in his loss, that he had so great a duty and pleasure before him, as
to make his mother happy, and take care of his sisters. He was their only
protector now. He was learning in boyhood what some live a lifetime to
find out,—that the greatest happiness we can ever have in this world, is
thinking more and doing more for other people than ourselves.