MULE-HUNTING EXPEDITION FROM VANCOUVER ISLAND TO SAN FRANCISCO—THE
ALMADEN QUICKSILVER MINES—POISON-OAK AND ITS ANTIDOTE.
The Commission, in 1860, were to commence the work of marking the
boundary-line on the eastern side of the Cascades. A large addition to
our staff of pack-mules being indispensable, I was despatched to San
Francisco to purchase them; and instructed to rejoin the Commission, as
soon as practicable, at the Dalles, already mentioned as a small town
on the upper part of the Columbia river.
I introduce the journal of my mule-hunting adventures at this part of
the volume, as it enables me to explain the systems of transport and
travelling resorted to in wild countries, where roads and railways are
unknown. I transcribe my journal, the events of each day as hastily
recorded:—
_Feb. 29th, 1860._—Left Esquimalt Harbour in the steamer
‘Panama,’—my destination San Francisco,—my mission to purchase mules.
The island is still in its winter garb; not a bud has burst into leaf,
and very few migratory birds have made their appearance. At 10.30 a.m.
we are steaming out of the harbour; no wind, water smooth as a lake;
run pleasantly down the Straits of Juan de Fuca, and pass Cape Flattery
about 4 p.m. Wind blowing unpleasantly fresh, and a heavy tumbling
swell makes the ‘Panama’ disagreeably lively. Passengers rapidly
disappear; various gulping sounds, heavy sighs, and impatient calls for
the steward, tell clearly enough that the most terrible leveller next
to death, seasickness, has begun its work below.
_March 1st._—A bleak misty morning, a heavy sea, wind dead ahead, and
cold driving hail-showers. The ship, rolling from side to side, renders
it difficult for even practised hands to guide anything spillable
to the mouth; and walking, save to a sailor or a housefly, is an
impossible performance.
_March 2nd._—Managed to scramble on deck about 7 a.m., by going
through a series of acrobatic performances, that came near to
dislocating all my joints; wind moderated, but a heavy sea still rocked
us very rudely. We are close inshore, passing Cape Blanco, 350 miles
below Cape Flattery. Port Orford, a place celebrated for its cedar, is
just visible through the haze; the rounded hills behind it are quite
white with snow. Kept close inshore all day, but the weather is too
cold, and sea too rough, for one to enjoy the scenery.
_March 3rd._—Scrambled on deck again about 7 a.m.; wind still ahead,
but altogether a better morning than yesterday. Had a good look at Cape
Mendozena, a bold rocky headland, to the south of which is Mendozena
city, consisting of a few houses and a groggery. The coast-line is
exceedingly picturesque and pretty: between this headland and Point
Arena a series of undulating hills, capped with massive pine-trees;
their sides and grassy slopes, reaching down to the sea-line, remind me
of English hayfields; it seems almost like enchantment, the change in
the vegetation three days only from Vancouver Island.
_March 4th._—At sunrise I am on deck, called by the captain, to get
a peep at the ‘Golden Gate.’ There is just enough light to reveal a
stupendous mass of bold mountain scenery, rising apparently from the
sea, and towering up 3,000 feet and over, until lost in the haze of the
morning. Under the shadow of these hills we are puffing towards an
opening, as if cut purposely through a solid wall of rock. On the right
stands an immense fortress, built of red brick. Alcatraz Island, right
ahead, is dimly visible, like a grey spot in the line of water. The
ripple, touched by the sunbeams that are slanting into the bay, seems
converted into revolving cylinders of brilliants. As we steam through
this magnificent portal, the finest harbour in the world opens out to
the southward and westward. On the curving shore of the bay, I can see
the city of San Francisco, built on the slopes of three hills; to the
left the island of Yerba Buena; farther to the right a forest of masts,
from which flags representing every nation flutter in the breeze;
ahead a long stretch of water, as far as eye could follow it—the
continuation of the harbour.
We ran alongside an immense pier at 6 a.m. I am mobbed by touters from
every hotel in San Francisco, and have hard work to keep my luggage
from being equally divided amongst them. Passengers appear, for the
first time since leaving Vancouver Island, blanched like celery or
seakale. By dint of strong arms and stronger language, I get my luggage
fastened to a grating that lets down by machinery, at the end of an
omnibus marked ‘Oriental Hotel.’ I am hustled into the ‘bus with three
pale passengers, and we are rapidly whirled off to the ‘Oriental.’ The
mail-packet from Panama has also just arrived; all the beds are taken
at the hotel, so I bide my chance of some one leaving before night.
Called on the Consul, and through his kindness am located in the Union
Club House, a grand improvement on the ‘Oriental.’
_March 5th._—Occupied in giving my letters of introduction, and
arranging money-matters. The club-house in which I am staying is a
massive granite building. The granite, beautifully faced and fitted,
was all hewn in China; the house was put together there, to see
everything was properly finished, then taken to pieces, packed, and
shipped for San Francisco. Chinese builders came with it, brought their
own scaffolding (made entirely from bamboo), put it together, built up
the granite edifice in which I transcribe this, as handsome a structure
as any San Francisco can boast of.
_March 6th._—Having nothing particular to do, determine to visit the
New Almaden quicksilver mines. There are two routes to these mines—one
per stage the whole distance (56 miles), the other per steamer to the
head of the Bay of San Francisco, and thence by stage to San José.
Past experience had taught me, whenever possible, scrupulously to avoid
stage travelling. Being tossed in a blanket, or rolled down a steep
hill in a cask, produce much the same bruised and general state of
sprain and dislocation as a day’s ride in a stage. Choosing the steamer
lessened the chance of jolting by quite one-half, at the same time
affording a good opportunity of seeing the famed Bay of San Francisco.
I embark at seven from a wooden pier—early as it is, alive with the
hum, buzz, and bustle of the awakening city—and steam away over the
unrippled waters of the bay. The temperature is delicious; a few fleecy
clouds are swept rapidly over the clear blue sky by a light breeze
blowing softly from the land, laden with the perfume of wild flowers
and forest trees. A run of a few hours brought us to the embarcadero,
or landing, at the head of the bay, from whence a stage bumped me over
the road about four miles, to the old town of San José.
Pueblo San José stands at the entrance of a lovely valley. The town
consists of a collection of adobe houses; a few in the main street are
built of wood, painted white, with brilliant green jalousies outside
the windows. The older houses are scattered round an open space,
the plaza: trees of greenest foliage, in double rows, shade one from
the burning sun, and everywhere spacious orchards and flower-gardens
testify to the fertility of the soil.
Having a note from a friend in San Francisco to the host of ‘——
House,’ more than ordinary civility was accorded me, and by some
superhuman means a buggy would be ready in about two hours to take
me to the mines. Crossing the Alameda, a grove of willows and oaks,
planted by the padres, leads to the old crumbling walls of what was
once a very spacious mission, now rapidly falling to decay. The
interior of the old church is decorated with rude carvings, paintings
of the Crucifixion, and frescoed figures of saints and martyrs,
clad in garments of dazzling colours. One old shaven priest, with a
particularly dirty cassock, and a face so begrimed with layers of filth
as to be mosquito-proof, was the only ecclesiastic visible. Thousands
of cliff swallows (_Hirundo lunifrons_) were busy building their
bottle-shaped mud nests under the dilapidated roof.
Discovered little worth looking at in the town. Found the buggy
waiting: my coachman, a regular Yankee, puffing vigorously at an
immense cigar, was seated in readiness, his legs resting on the
splash-board. Without removing the cigar from his mouth, he drawled
out, ‘Say, Cap’en, guess you’d better hurry up if you mean making the
ranch before sundown. Bet your pants this child ain’t agwine that road
in the dark nohow.’ ‘What’s to happen?’ I mildly enquired. ‘Happen!
Wal, maybe upset; maybe chawed up by a grizzly; maybe cleaned slick out
by the greasers. You’d better believe a man has to keep his eye skinned
in the daytime; so hurry up, Cap.’ Without further parley I scrambled
in, and away we went.
Our road lay over broad plains and through occasional belts of timber;
deep, gravelly arroyos, in and out of which we dashed with a plunging
scramble, marked the course of the floods. Everything was steaming
hot; the baked ground reflected back the scorching sun-rays, until the
atmosphere quivered as one sees it over a limekiln; the mustangs in a
fog of perspiration; the Jehu, denuded of coat and vest, continually
yelled ‘A git along,’ with a rein in each hand, steering rather than
driving, was red-hot in body and temper. But this was nothing to my
state of broil. Exposed to a temperature that would have made one
perspire sitting in the shade; to be kept in a state of bodily fear of
instant upset; to undergo a continuous exercise that would have been
good training for an athlete, to avoid being shot out of the buggy
like a shell from a mortar, would have set an Icelander in a glow. The
rapidity with which we whirled along, and the eccentric performances of
the vehicle, destroyed, in a measure, the enjoyment of a scene quite
new to me.
We rattled through the splendid valley of Santa Clara, passing here and
there a fertile ranch; on either side, the wooded slopes looked like
lawns of Nature’s own contriving; far on my left, the bay glimmered
like a line of silver light, the ground carpeted with flowers,
brilliant escholtzia and blue nemophila were most conspicuous amidst a
natural harvest of wild oats and grass; and on all sides, from amongst
the clumps of buck-eye and oak, the cheery whistle and chirp of birds
rang pleasantly on the ear.
Reaching the ‘Halfway House’ (as a small wooden building is named,
midway betwixt San José and the mine), we stopped to water the mustangs
and refresh the inward man—a respite most acceptable. A ‘tall drink’
worked wonders on my hitherto taciturn coachman, who, as we jogged
along the remaining half the journey, related such wonderful stories,
that it seemed to me we had hardly left the ‘Halfway House’ ere we
rattled under a grove of trees completely shutting out the fading
light, and pulled up with a sudden jerk, that well-nigh pitched me over
the mustangs. ‘Guess we’ve made it, Cap’en; this here’s the manager’s.’
Giving my letters of introduction to Mr. Young, a hospitable invitation
to be his guest was readily accepted. I cannot help devoting a line to
the praise of a house most enjoyable in its minutest details, with a
host and hostess it refreshes one’s heart to recall to memory.
The lower village of Almaden consists of a long row of very pretty
cottages, the residences of the workmen employed in smelting the ore;
each cottage was completely buried with honeysuckle and creeping
roses the gardens in front filled with flowers, and at the back with
vegetables and fruit. A small stream of water, clear and cold, ripples
past the frontage, brought from a mountain-burn that runs swiftly at
the back, a barrier dividing the gardens from the surrounding hills. An
avenue of trees leads from the cottages to the spacious brick buildings
used for smelting.
The discovery of these fabulously rich mines of quicksilver is briefly
told. Long ere gold was discovered in California, the padres and early
settlers knew of a cavern in the hillside, about a mile and a half from
the present village. Deeming it merely a natural fissure or cleft in
the rock, explorations only were made by the more adventurous as to its
extent, which proved to be in length one hundred feet, running into
the mountain horizontally. No one ever thought it was an artificial
excavation of great antiquity. When the vaqueros and old dons of the
neighbourhood were questioned by a new-comer about the cave, a shrug
of the shoulders, and the usual reply, ‘Quien sabe? son cosas muy
antiguas,’ was the sole information obtained.
A gold-seeker, assaying some of the rock, salivated himself, and
thus discovered it was rich in quicksilver. A grant, with the land
adjoining, was procured, and the original opening widened; in clearing
away the rubble and dirt at the end of the cave, several skeletons
were discovered, together with rude mining-tools and other curious
relics, clearly proving it an old excavation made by the natives for
the purpose of procuring vermilion, so much used by all savages to
paint themselves. The position of the skeletons in the rubbish covering
them left no doubt that, having followed the vein of cinnabar without
exercising due precaution to prop the loose ground overhead, they had
been literally buried alive in a grave of their own digging. Further
research soon revealed the immense value of the deposit. Many years
rolled away, and very little was done until it passed from the hands of
an English company into that of an American firm.
The mine is about a mile and a half from the smelting-works, on the
side of a mountain; an admirable road leads to it by a gentle ascent,
down which waggons drawn by mules bring the ore to be smelted. On
reaching the summit I rested on a level plateau, on which the upper
works are built; I am to descend presently into the depths of the mine
to see how the ore is deposited, and trace, step by step, the various
processes it has to go through before it is marketable.
The main entrance is a tunnel ten feet high, and about an equal width
throughout, in which runs a tramway leading to the shaft. At the end of
this tunnel a small steam-engine does the work of the poor ‘tanateros,’
or carriers, who, until very recently, brought the ore and rubbish from
the bottom of the mine on their backs, a system still adopted in Spain
and Peru, each man having to bring up a load of two hundred pounds, in
a bag made of hide, fastened by two straps passing round the shoulders,
and a broader one across the forehead, which mainly sustains the load.
It was fatal work to the poor Mexicans who had to do it, the terrible
muscular strain soon producing disease and death!
On reaching the engine I am undressed and rigged as a miner, a costume
far more loose and easy than becoming. Three dip-candles dangled from a
button on my jacket by the wicks, and one enveloped in a knob of clay
for my hand, completed my toilet. The next process is to be lowered
down into the mine. Squeezing myself into a huge kind of bucket, and
assuming as near as practicable the shape and position of a frog, my
candle lighted, ‘All right!’ says somebody, and I find myself rapidly
descending a damp dismal hole, dripping with water like a shower. Of
course I shudder, and have horrible ideas of an abyss, ending no one
knows where; the candle hissed, sputtered, and went out; the bucket
swang as the chain lengthened, and bumped unpleasantly against the
rocks; now a sudden stop, and a lively consciousness of being dragged
bodily out like a bundle of clothes, discloses the fact of my safe
arrival at the bottom.
The swarthy Mexican miner deputed as guide leads the way along a narrow
gulley, and down an incline to the mouth of another hole, the descent
to which has to be effected on a slanting pole, with notches cut in it,
very like a bear-pole, called by the miner an _escalera_, requiring a
saltatory performance that would not have been so bad if I had only
known where I should have landed in case of falling. After this we
scramble down a flight of steps cut in the rock, and reach the lowest
excavation, about one thousand feet from the surface.
The cinnabar is found in large pockets, or in veins, permeating a kind
of trap-rock; and as the miners dig it out, large columns or pillars
are left to support the roof, and prevent the chance of its falling in.
A small charcoal-fire burned slowly at the base of one of these massive
columns, and as its flickering light fell dimly, illuminating with a
ruddy glow the bronzed faces and nearly nude figures of the miners,
the vermilion hue of the rugged walls and arched roof, sparkling with
glittering crystals, forcibly reminded me of a brigand’s cave, such as
Salvator Rosa loved to paint.
All the work is done by contract: each gang taking a piece of ground
on speculation, is paid according to the amount of ore produced; the
ore averaging about thirty-six per cent. for quicksilver, although some
pieces that I dug myself produced seventy-five per cent. Many mines in
Europe have been profitably worked when the cinnabar has yielded only
one per cent.
A shrill whistle rings through the mine; the miners from all directions
rush towards the pillars. Thinking, at least, the entire concern was
tumbling in, I was about to scamper off, when the guide, seizing my
arm, drags me behind a projecting mass of rock, simply saying, ‘A
blast!’ For a while there was a deathlike silence—not a sound save
the hiss of the fusee, and the heavy breathing of the men; then the
cave lighted up with a lurid flash, shedding a blinding glare over
every object like tropical lightning. The dark galleries appeared
and disappeared in the twinkling of an eye, whilst the report, like
countless cannon, was echoed and reechoed through the cavernous
chamber. Showers of fragments came rattling down in every direction,
hurled up by the force of the powder. On the smoke clearing, the
miners set to work to collect the scattered fragments of cinnabar. If
a blast has been successful, often many tons of rock are loosened and
torn out, to be broken into small pieces and conveyed to the bucket,
and hauled by the engine to the surface. The mining operations are
continued night and day, seventy-four pounds of candles being consumed
every twenty-four hours.
I finish the survey of this singular mine perfectly free from foul air
or fire-damp; ascend as I came down; and, by vigorous rubbing with
soap-and-water, am slowly restored from bright vermilion to my normal
colour.
The ore, on reaching the surface, is conveyed by the tram-cart to the
sorting-shed, where it is broken and carefully picked over by skilful
hands, great caution being needed in selection, as much valuable ore
might be thrown away, or a large quantity of useless rock taken to
the smelting-furnaces. The picked ore is placed in large bags made of
sheepskin, weighed, and then hauled by the mules to the lower works.
Near the mine is a primitive kind of village, the abode of the miners,
sorters, and ore-carriers, who are principally Mexicans; dirty señoras
in ragged finery, dirtier children devoid of garments, together with
dogs, pigs, poultry, and idle miners playing monte on the doorsteps,
contrast sadly with the exquisite little village at the works.
Descending from the mine to the level ground by a short track down
the hillside, through scenery indescribably picturesque, I reach the
smelting furnaces; these, occupying about four acres of land, are
built of brick, admirably neat, and well contrived. As quicksilver is
found in several forms—namely, native quicksilver, occurring in small
drops, in the pores or on the ledges of other rocks, argental mercury,
a native silver amalgam, and sulphide of mercury or cinnabar, different
processes are requisite for its reduction. Here it is found solely in
form of cinnabar, and to reduce it a kind of reverberatory furnace is
used, three feet by five, placed at the end of a series of chambers,
each chamber seven feet long, four wide, and five high. About ten
of these chambers are arranged in a line, built of brick, plastered
inside, and secured by transverse rods of iron, fitted at the ends with
screws and nuts, to allow for expansion. The top is of boiler iron,
securely luted.
The first chamber is the furnace for fire, the second for ore,
separated from the first by a grated partition, allowing the flame to
pass through and play over the cinnabar. This ore-chamber, when filled,
contains ten thousand pounds of cinnabar. The remaining chambers are
for condensing the metal, communicating by square holes at the opposite
corners; for instance, the right upper corner and lower left, and
_vice versâ_, so that the vapour has to perform a spiral course in its
transit through the condensers. Leaving the chambers, the vapour is
conducted through a large wooden cistern, into which a shower of water
continually falls, and thence through a long flue and tall chimney
carried far away up the hillside.
The mercury is collected, as condensed, in gutters running into a long
conduit outside the building, from which it drops into an iron pot sunk
in the earth. As the pot fills, the mercury is conveyed to a store-tank
that holds twenty tons. So great is its density, that a man sitting on
a flat board floats about in the tank on a lake of mercury without its
flowing over the edges of his raft. From this tank the metal is ladled
out, and poured into iron flasks containing each seventy pounds (these
flasks are made in England, and sent to New Almaden): in this state it
is shipped for the various markets.
Although every possible care has been taken to prevent the mercurial
fumes from injuring the smelters, still a great deal of it is
necessarily inhaled, most injurious to health. Clearing out the
furnace is the most hurtful process, the men employed working short
spells, and resting a day or two between. A furnace charged with ore, I
am told, takes about eight days to sublime and cool.
It is difficult to obtain a correct statement of the absolute yield of
this mine; proprietors, for many reasons, deeming it inexpedient to let
the world know the extent of their riches. The export of quicksilver
from San Francisco, a few years back, may, I think, be averaged at
1,350,000 pounds of mercury per annum, valued at 683,189 dollars; and
this, together with the large amount consumed in California, was the
sole produce of the New Almaden mines.
There are fourteen furnaces, arranged with passages ten feet wide
between them, the whole covered with a roof sufficiently high to allow
a current of air to circulate freely. Between the furnaces and on
all the open spaces are innumerable bricks, just as we see them in a
brickyard to harden before baking. On inquiring what these were made
for, I discover that all the fragments and dust-cinnabar are pounded
together, mixed with water, and made into bricks: in this form the ore
can be conveniently built into the furnace, securing intervening spaces
for the flame and heat to act on; thus more perfect sublimation is
secured, and a great saving of metal effected. There are blacksmiths’
and carpenters’ shops and a sawmill adjoining the furnaces.
Until recently all the ore was brought down from the mine packed on
the backs of mules, a most costly system of transport as compared to
the one now in use. The vegetation only suffers immediately round
the chimney, and even there not to any alarming degree. The flue,
being of great length, carried at a moderate slope up the hill, and
terminating in a very tall chimney, completely condenses all mercurial
and arsenical fumes. Before this flue and stack were constructed, even
the mules and cattle grazing in the pastures died from the poisonous
effects of the mercurial vapour; and its deadly action on vegetation
was like that of the fabled upas-tree. The workmen now, as a rule,
enjoy very good health, and are admirably cared for; the village boasts
a capital hotel, and stages run daily to San José and San Francisco.
A spring of native soda-water, bubbling up in the centre of the
village, protected and fitted like a drinking-fountain, is said to work
wonders as a curative agent in all maladies arising from the effects
of mercury. This spring is supposed to be under the especial care of
a ‘Saint Somebody,’ a lady whose image, attired in very dirty finery,
figures in niches cut in the rocks at the mine. No miner ever leaves or
enters the mine without prostrating himself before this dirty effigy.
_March 9th._—Return to San Francisco by road; dine at San Mateo,
as lovely a spot as I ever gazed on. The grass is kneedeep, and the
chimps of buck-eye (_Esculus flava_) and handsome oaks besprinkling
the rounded hills and banks of the clear stream winding its way past
the village to the Bay of San Francisco, like a lake glistening in
the distance, reminded me of a park in fertile Devonshire. Completely
shut in, and sheltered from the wind that blows nearly all the summer,
withering up the vegetation exposed to its influence, everything round
about this favoured spot grows in wild luxuriance. In the garden
belonging to the roadside house, the summer flowers are in full bloom,
and vegetables of all kinds in rare abundance, such as for size and
quality equal anything Covent Garden Market can show.
The bay runs inland about forty miles, and the land on its shores is
particularly fertile, and employed in great measure for dairy-farms and
stock-ranches.
For the first time I gather the poison-oak (_Rhus toxicodendron_),
a pretty plant, that climbs by rootlets, like the ivy, and trails
gracefully over both rocks and trees. Some persons are most seriously
affected by it, especially such as are of fair complexion, if they
only venture near where it grows. It produces swelling about the
eyes, dizziness, and fever; the poisonous effects are most virulent
when the plant is bursting into leaf. I picked, examined, and walked
amidst the trees over which it twined thickly, but experienced not the
slightest symptoms of inconvenience. Still, I know others that suffer
whenever they come near it. Where the poison-oak thrives, there too
grows a tuber known to the settlers as Bouncing Bet, to the botanist
as _Saponaria officinalis_, the common soapwort. The tuber is filled
with a mucilaginous juice which, having the property of entangling air
when whisked up, makes a lather like soap. This lather is said to be an
unfailing specific against the effects of the poison-oak—the poison
and its antidote growing side by side!