DOWN WITH THE FLOOD
I had occasion to return to San Francisco at this time, and the journey
was about the most unpleasant I ever performed. The roads had been
getting worse all the time, and were quite impassable for stages or
wagons. The mail was brought up by express messengers, but other
communication there was none. The nearest route to San Francisco--that
by Sacramento--was perfectly impracticable, and the only way to get down
there was by Marysville, situated about fifty miles off, at the junction
of the Yuba and Feather rivers.
I set out one afternoon with a friend who was also going down, and who
knew the way, which was rather an advantage, as the trails were hidden
under three or four feet of snow. We occasionally, however, got the
benefit of a narrow path, trodden down by other travelers; and though we
only made twelve miles that day, we in that distance gradually emerged
from the snow, and got down into the regions of mud and slush and rain.
We stayed the night at a road-side house, where we found twenty or
thirty miners starved out of their own camps, and in the morning we
resumed our journey in a steady pour of rain. The mud was more than
ankle-deep, but was so well diluted with water that it did not cause
much inconvenience in walking, while at the foot of every little hollow
was a stream to be waded waist-high; for we were now out of the mining
regions, and crossing the rolling country between the mountains and the
plains, where the water did not run off so quickly.
When we reached the only large stream on our route, we found that the
bridge, which had been the usual means of crossing, had been carried
away, and the banks on either side were overflowed to a considerable
distance. A pine tree had been felled across when the waters were lower,
but they now flowed two or three feet over the top of it--the only sign
that it was there being the branches sticking up, and marking its course
across the river.
It was not very pleasant to have to cross such a swollen stream on such
a very visionary bridge, but there was no help for it; so cutting sticks
wherewith to feel for a footing under water, we waded out till we
reached the original bank of the stream, where we had to take to the
pine log, and travel it as best we could with the assistance of the
branches, the water rushing past nearly up to our waists. We had fifty
or sixty feet to go in this way, but the farther end of the log rose
nearly to the surface of the water, and landed us on an island, from
which we had to pass to dry land through a thicket of bushes under four
feet of water.
Towards evening we arrived at a ranch, about twenty miles from
Marysville, which we made the end of our day’s journey. We were
saturated with rain and mud, but dry clothes were not to be had; so we
were obliged to pass another night under hydropathic treatment, the
natural consequence of which was that in the morning we were stiff and
sore all over. However, after walking a short distance, we got rid of
this sensation--receiving a fresh ducking from the rain, which continued
to fall as heavily as ever.
The plains, which we had now reached, were almost entirely under water,
and at every depression in the surface of the ground a slough had to be
waded of corresponding depth--sometimes over the waist. The road was
only in some places discernible, and we kept to it chiefly by steering
for the houses, to be seen at intervals of a few miles.
About six miles from Marysville we crossed the Yuba, which was here a
large rapid river a hundred yards wide. We were ferried over in a little
skiff, and had to pull up the river nearly half a mile, so as to fetch
the landing on the other side. I was not sorry to reach _terra firma_
again, such as it was, for the boat was a flat-bottomed, straight-sided
little thing, about the size and shape of a coffin, and was quite
unsuitable for such work. The waves were running so high that it was
with the utmost difficulty we escaped being swamped, and all the
swimming that could have been done in such a current would not have done
any one much good.
From this point to Marysville the country was still more flooded. We
passed several teams, which, in a vain endeavor to get up to the
mountains with supplies, were hopelessly stuck in the mud at the bottom
of the hollows, with only the rim of the wheels appearing above water.
Marysville is a city of some importance: being situated at the head of
navigation, it is the depot and starting-point for the extensive
district of mining country lying north and east of it. It is well laid
out in wide streets, containing numbers of large brick and wooden
buildings, and the ground it stands upon is ten or twelve feet above the
usual level of the river. But when we waded up to it, we found the
portion of the town nearest the river completely flooded, the water
being nearly up to the first floor of the houses, while the people were
going about in boats. In the streets farther back, however, it was not
so bad; one could get along without having to go much over the ankles.
The appearance of the place, as seen through the heavy rain, was far
from cheering. The first idea which occurred to me on beholding it was
that of rheumatism, and the second fever and ague; but I was glad to
find myself here, nevertheless, if only to experience once more the
sensation of having on dry clothes.
I learned that several men had been drowned on different parts of the
plains in attempting to cross some of the immense pools or sloughs such
as we had passed on our way; while cattle and horses were drowned in
numbers, and were dying of starvation on insulated spots, from which
there was no escape.
I saw plenty of this, however, the next day in going down by the
steamboat to Sacramento. The distance is fifty or sixty miles through
the plains all the way, but they had now more the appearance of a vast
inland sea.
It would have been difficult to keep to the channel of the river, had it
not been for the trees appearing on each side, and the numbers of
squatters’ shanties generally built on a spot where the bank was high
and showed itself above water, though in many cases nothing but the roof
of the cabin could be seen.
On the tops of the cabins and sheds, on piles of firewood, or up in the
trees, were fowls calmly waiting their doom; while pigs, cows, and
horses were all huddled up together, knee-deep in water, on any little
rising ground which offered standing-room, dying by inches from
inanition. The squatters themselves were busy removing in boats whatever
property they could, and at those cabins whose occupants were not yet
completely drowned out, a boat was made fast alongside as a means of
escape for the poor devils, who, as the steamer went past, looked out of
the door the very pictures of woe and dismay. We saw two men sitting
resolutely on the top of their cabin, the water almost up to their feet;
a boat was made fast to the chimney, to be used when the worst came to
the worst, but they were apparently determined to see it out if
possible. They looked intensely miserable, though they would not own it,
for they gave us a very feigned and uncheery hurrah as we steamed past.
The loss sustained by these settlers was very great. The inconvenience
of being for a time floated off the face of the earth in a small boat
was bad enough of itself; but to have the greater part of their worldly
possessions floating around them, in the shape of the corpses of what
had been their live stock, must have rather tended to damp their
spirits. However, Californians are proof against all such
reverses,--they are like India-rubber, the more severely they are cast
down, the higher they rise afterwards.
It was hardly possible to conceive what an amount of rain and snow must
have fallen to lay such a vast extent of country under water; and though
the weather was now improving, the rain being not so constant, or so
heavy, it would still be some time before the waters could subside, as
the snow which had fallen in the mountains had yet to find its way down,
and would serve to keep up the flood.
Sacramento City was in as wretched a plight as a city can well be in.
The only dry land to be seen was the top of the levee built along the
bank of the river in front of the town; all the rest was water, out of
which rose the houses, or at least the upper parts of them. The streets
were all so many canals crowded with boats and barges carrying on the
customary traffic; watermen plied for hire in the streets instead of
cabs, and independent gentlemen poled themselves about on rafts, or on
extemporized boats made of empty boxes. In one part of the town, where
the water was not deep enough for general navigation, a very curious
style of conveyance was in use. Pairs of horses were harnessed to large
flat-bottomed boats, and numbers of these vehicles, carrying passengers
or goods, were to be seen cruising about, now dashing through a foot or
two of mud which the horses made to fly in all directions as they
floundered through it, now grounding and bumping over some very dry
spot, and again sailing gracefully along the top of the water, so deep
as nearly to cover the horses’ backs.
The water in the river was some feet higher than that in the town, and
it was fortunate that the levee did not give way, or the loss of life
would have been very great. As it was, some few men had been drowned in
the streets. The destruction of property, and the pecuniary loss to the
inhabitants, were of course enormous, but they had been flooded once or
twice before, besides having several times had their city burned down,
and were consequently quite used to such disasters; in fact, Sacramento
suffered more from fire and flood together than any city in the State,
without, however, apparently retarding the growing prosperity of the
people.
I arrived in Sacramento too late for the steamer for San Francisco, and
so had the pleasure of passing a night there, but I cannot say I
experienced any personal inconvenience from the watery condition of the
town.
It seemed to cause very little interruption to the usual order of things
in hotels, theaters, and other public places; there was a good deal of
anxiety as to the security of the levee, in which was the only safety of
the city; but in the meantime the ordinary course of pleasure and
business was unchanged, except in the substitution of boats for wheeled
vehicles; and the great source of consolation and congratulation to the
sufferers from the flood, and to the population generally, was in
endeavoring to compute how many millions of rats would be drowned.
On arriving in San Francisco the change was very great--it was like
entering a totally different country. In place of cold and rain and
snow, flooded towns, and no dry land, or snowed-up towns in the
mountains with no food, here was a clear bright sky, and a warm sun
shining down upon a city where everything looked bright and gay. It was
nearly a year since I had left San Francisco, and in the meantime the
greater part of it had been burned down and rebuilt. The appearance of
most of the principal streets was completely altered; large brick stores
had taken the place of wooden buildings; and so rapidly had the city
extended itself into the bay that the principal business was now
conducted on wide streets of solid brick and stone warehouses, where a
year before had been fifteen or twenty feet of water. All, excepting the
more unfrequented streets, were planked, and had good stone or plank
side-walks, so that there was but little mud notwithstanding the heavy
rains which had fallen. In the upper part of the town, however, where
the streets were still in their original condition, the amount of mud
was quite inconceivable. Some places were almost impassable, and carts
might be seen almost submerged, which half-a-dozen horses were vainly
trying to extricate.
The climate of San Francisco has the peculiarity of being milder in
winter than in summer. Winter is by far the most pleasant season of the
year. It is certainly the rainy season, but it only rains occasionally,
and when it does it is not cold. The ordinary winter weather is soft,
mild, subdued sunshine, not unlike the Indian summer of North America.
The San Francisco summer, however, is the most disagreeable and trying
season one can be subjected to. In the morning and forenoon it is
generally beautifully bright and warm: one feels inclined to dress as
one would in the tropics; but this cannot be done with safety, for one
has to be prepared for the sudden change in temperature which occurs
nearly every day towards the afternoon, when there blows in off the sea
a cold biting wind, chilling the very marrow in one’s bones. The cold
is doubly felt after the heat of the fore part of the day, and to some
constitutions such extreme variations of temperature within the
twenty-four hours are no doubt very injurious, especially as the wind
not unfrequently brings a damp fog along with it.
The climate is nevertheless generally considered salubrious, and is
thought by some people to be one of the finest in the world. For my own
part, I much prefer the summer weather of the mines, where the sky is
always bright, and the warm temperature of the day becomes only
comparatively cool at night, while the atmosphere is so dry, that the
heat, however intense, is never oppressive, and so clear that everything
within the range of vision is as clearly and distinctly seen as if one
were looking upon a flat surface, and could equally examine each
separate part of it, so satisfactory and so minute in detail is the view
of the most distant objects.
Considering the very frequent use of pistols in San Francisco, it is a
most providential circumstance that the climate is in a high degree
favorable for the cure of gunshot wounds. These in general heal very
rapidly, and many miraculous recoveries have taken place, effected by
nature and the climate, after the surgeons, experienced as they are in
that branch of practice, had exhausted their skill upon the patient.