TOUR TO THE GOLD MINES.—LOSS OF HORSES.—FIRST NIGHT IN THE
WOODS.—ARRIVAL AT SAN JUAN.—UNDER WAY.—CAMPING OUT.—BARK OF THE
WOLVES.—WATCH-FIRES.—SAN JOSÉ.—A FRESH START.—CAMPING ON THE SLOPE
OF A HILL.—WILD FEATURES OF THE COUNTRY.—VALLEY OF THE SAN
JOAQUIN.—BAND OF WILD HORSES.
WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 20. A servant of James McKinley, Esq., led to my door
this morning a beautiful saddle-horse, with a message from his master,
desiring me to accept the animal as a token of his regard. The gift was
most opportune, as I was on the eve of a trip to the gold mines. To
guard against contingencies I purchased another, and, to prevent their
being stolen, placed them both in the government corral, where a watch
is posted night and day. My companions on the trip were to be Capt.
Marcy, son of the late secretary of war, Mr. Botts, naval storekeeper,
and Mr. Wilkinson, son of our ex-minister to Russia.
Having procured a suitable wagon, we freighted it lightly with
provisions, articles of Indian traffic, tools for working in the mines,
cooking utensils, and blankets to sleep in. To this we attached four
mules, but little used to the harness, and of no great power, but they
were the best that could be got at the time. The whole was put under the
charge of a man who was half sailor and half teamster, and not much of
either. Thus accoutred, the team was sent ahead, and we were to follow
the next day.
THURSDAY, SEPT. 21. The hour for starting having arrived, I sent my man
to the government coral for my horses. He returned in a few moments with
the intelligence that a party of the volunteers had broken into the
coral during the night, and carried off ten horses, and among them both
of mine! There was no time now for ferreting out thieves, or hunting
stolen animals. Our wagon was on the way, and my companions were mounted
and waiting. I hurried to Mr. S——, who I knew had a fine horse in his
yard, and offered him two hundred dollars for the animal, but he
declined parting with him. My only resource now was with Mr. T——, who
had three horses in his coral, but they were off a long journey the
night before. I struck a bargain at a hundred dollars for one of them,
and throwing on my saddle, was under way in a few minutes.
My horse held out pretty well for twenty miles, and then suddenly broke
down. We were on the plain of the Salinas, and there was but little
prospect of my being able to procure a substitute. But just at this
crisis the mail rider hove in sight, with a horse in lead. I arranged
with him for the spare animal, transferred my saddle to him, and with a
farewell to my wearied steed, started again. We had directed our wagoner
to proceed to San Juan, and expected to overtake him at that place
before dark. But night set in while we were eight or ten miles distant,
and it was a night of Egyptian darkness. We lost our way, and brought up
in the woods. To proceed was impossible; so we dismounted, tied our
horses together, felt for some dry leaves, and fired them with a lucifer
which had been given us by a traveller an hour before.
With brush and bits of bark we managed to sustain our fire, but our
prospect for the night was rather gloomy—without a drop of water,
without any food, without an overcoat or blanket to cover us, with heavy
thunder over head, and the wolves barking around. But we divided
ourselves into four watches; one was to keep up the fire while the other
three slept, and each take his turn in feeding the flame. My watch came
first, and it was the longest two hours I ever experienced. Every old
snag I drew to the fire seemed to exhaust the little strength that
remained. My eyelids would fall, and it seemed impossible to lift them.
I heard the wolves bark, but it was like a noise in one’s dream. But my
relief came at last, and throwing myself down close to the fire, I slept
too sound even for the thunder. It was the cold dim gray of advancing
morn when I awoke. A ride of an hour brought us to San Juan, where we
found our baggage-wagon at a stream, the mules tethered, and whistling a
piteous welcome to our steeds, and the driver blowing into a bundle of
reeds and straw, from which a slender thread of smoke was rising into
the chill atmosphere.
San Juan is thirty-four miles from Monterey; the only buildings are a
gigantic church and the contiguous dwelling—once occupied by the priests
and their Indian neophytes. The sanctuary remains; but the priests are
gone, and the Indians are on the four winds, save those over whom the
pine sings its requiem. We broke our long fast on hard bread, broiled
pork, and coffee without milk. The sun was high when our mules were
harnessed, and the crack of the driver’s whip told that we were on the
way. A few miles brought us to the foot of a hill; when half-way up our
mules balked, and the wagon began to travel backward. We blocked the
wheels, and tried to cheer and force them on; but a mule has that
peculiar virtue which is insensible alike to flatteries and frowns.
Still we coaxed, and whipped, and cheered, but in vain—there stuck our
old wagon, fast as a thunder-cloud on a mountain’s bluff. We had to turn
lighters, and carry the greater part of the load, by hand, to the top of
the hill. One of the mules whistled out in seeming derision; while his
fellow looked sorry, as if smitten with compunction. This delay consumed
several hours, and the sun was far down his western slope when we
reached a few shanties on a plain covered in spots with the surviving
verdure of the year: here we camped for the night. One tethered the
animals; two brought wood and water; and one turned cook. We made our
supper by the light of our watch-fire, smoked our cigars, and turned
down upon the earth, with our saddles for our pillows. A blanket served
to protect each from the dews and the night air. How little man wants
here! His palace seems to tower in idle grandeur, between a cradle and a
coffin.
FRIDAY, SEPT. 22. Day glimmered over the hills and we were up; the
gathered brands of our watch-fire kindled again under our camp-kettle.
Our breakfast was soon dispatched, our mules in harness, our blankets
stowed, and we were on the way. Ten miles farther, and my third horse,
which I had procured at San Juan, began to give out, and I was thrown
upon my feet, till relieved by the opportune arrival of a gentleman with
a spare horse, which I purchased at his own price, leaving my own to
shift for himself. When on my feet, my thoughts ran bitterly back to the
two fine horses with which I had expected to leave Monterey. We are the
least forgiving when we feel most the need of that of which we have been
robbed.
Our road lay through a level plain, into which the spur of a mountain
range had thrown its bold terminus. Doubling this, we wound into a deep
cove, where wild oats waved, and a copious spring gushed from a cleft of
the rock. It was yet two hours to sunset; but the next stream lay ten
miles ahead, and we decided to camp where we were. Our horses and mules
were turned into the ample cove untethered; and in half an hour we had
gathered sufficient wood for a strong fire through the night. We were
near the rancho of Mr. Murphy, and the kind old gentleman called, and
invited us to his house; but we deemed it more prudent to stay by our
animals. Our supper of hard bread, broiled pork, and coffee was quickly
prepared, and as quickly disposed of. The shadows of eve fell fast; we
arranged our watches for the night; and each, in his blanket wound,
composed himself to sleep. Mine was the mid-watch: I found the camp-fire
bright, and the cliffs around lit with its rays. I numbered the animals
to see that none had strayed, and then sat down to watch the motions of
a wolf, who was reconnoitering our camp, with step as soft and low—
“As that of man on guilty errand bent.”
SATURDAY, SEPT. 23. We broke camp, were up and away while the dew was
yet fresh on the grass. Ten miles brought us to Fisher’s rancho, where
we procured soft bread and fresh milk. But our animals fared hard; the
grasshoppers had been there before them. We had yet three hours of sun
when we reached the lagoon near San José, but camped there on account of
the grass. A shanty stood near by, where we procured a few potatoes and
onions, and a piece of fresh meat, with which we made a stew—quite a
luxury on a California road. The owner of the shanty invited me to a
night’s lodging, which I accepted, but found my host much more
hospitable than his fleas, for I was driven back to my camp before
midnight. A California flea is not to be trifled with; his nippers drive
you into spasms.
SUNDAY, SEPT. 24. This is the Sabbath, and we are in San José, in the
house of Dr. Stokes, to whose hospitality we are indebted for a good
table and quiet apartments. I must here relate a domestic incident in
the doctor’s family, which fell under my eye while he resided at
Monterey, and which pictured itself strongly on my mind. It was evening,
and the hour for rest with the children, when six little boys and girls
knelt around the chair of their father, repeating the Lord’s prayer, and
closing with the invocation—“God bless our dear parents, and brothers,
and sisters, and grant that we meet in heaven at last.” Then came the
good-night, and the cheerful footsteps to the chamber of soft sleep.
What are gold mines to this? A glow-worm’s light beneath a star that
shall never set!
MONDAY, SEPT. 25. San José is sixty-five miles from Monterey, and stands
in the centre of a spacious valley which opens on the great bay of San
Francisco. It is cultivated only in spots, but the immense yield in
these is sufficient evidence of what the valley is capable. A plough and
harrow, at which a New England crow would laugh, are followed by fields
of waving grain. Within this valley lie the rich lands of Com. Stockton,
and they will yet feel the force of his vivifying enterprise. The
mission buildings of Santa Clara lift their huge proportions on the eye.
The bells that swing in their towers are silent, but they will yet find
a tongue and fill the cliffs with their glad echoes. The Anglo-Saxon
blood will yet roll here as if in its first leap.
Such are the representations of the roads between this and the mines,
that we have concluded to part with our wagon and pack our mules. Mr.
Botts, one of our companions, has received intelligence which requires
his return to Monterey. We must proceed without his agreeable society.
Wm. Stewart, Esq., secretary of Com. Jones, and Lieut. Simmons, of the
Ohio, have just arrived, on their way to the mines. Two of our mules
were now packed, the third mounted by our wagoner, and the fourth
driven, to guard against contingencies. Thus equipped, we started again
for the mines; but we had hardly cleared the town when one of our mules
took fright, plunged over the plain, burst his girth, and scattered on
the winds the contents of his pack. Capt. Marcy and Mr. Wilkinson, with
the mules and their driver, returned into town to repack, and I
proceeded on in the company of Mr. Stewart and Lieut. Simmons.
We passed the mission of San José, which stands three leagues from the
town. The massive proportions of the church lay in shadow, but the
crowning cross was lit with the rays of the descending sun. No hum of
busy streets or jocund voice of childhood saluted the ear. No eye
regarded us but that of the owl gazing in wise wonder from his ivy
tower. He seemed to marvel at the vanity that had brought us here; and
as we hurried past on our gold destination, sent after us an ominous
hoot! The purple twilight was settling fast when we reached a stream
singing along between the slopes of two hills. Here we camped for the
night. The grass was scanty and the ground uneven, but it was now too
late to look for other spots. The dry willows, which skirted the stream,
furnished us with fuel. The lid of our coffee kettle was soon trembling
over the steam, while the fresh steaks, curling on the coals, scented
the evening air. Our supper over, we talked of friends far away, and
spread our blankets for the night. The ground was so descending I put a
stone at my feet to keep from slipping down, but must have rolled from
my pedestal, for on awaking at daybreak, I found myself at the foot of
the slope, and close on the verge of the bubbling stream. My
ground-blanket remained where it had been spread, though it seemed
higher up the hill, as I clambered back to it from my somnambulic roll.
TUESDAY, SEPT. 26. My companions, who had returned to San José to repack
the mules, arrived at our camp about mid-day, accompanied by W. R.
Garner, so long my secretary in the office of alcalde. Our own horses
were soon saddled, and we were off, all the more light-hearted for this
accession to our numbers. Our road lay through a rolling country covered
with live-oak and pine, and through small prairies, cradled in emerald
repose among the hills. It was quite dark when we reached the small
farm-house of Mr. Livermore. Here we camped. A snag-fence supplied us
with fuel, and Mr. L. furnished us with a sheep ready dressed. Our large
camp-fire sent up its waving flame, which threw its red light over a
group gathered around in every attitude which hunger and culinary care
could assume. What was the howl of the wolves on the hills to us,
engaged in picking the bones of that sheep? A camp-life teaches you the
value of three things—meat, salt, and fire: with these you can travel
the globe round.
WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 27. The night had been dark, the wind bleak, and the
rack was driving on the sky, when the first rays of the sun kindled the
soaring cliffs. We had the great Tulare plain to pass, and lost no time
in finishing our breakfast and effecting an early start. Crossing the
plain attached to the rancho, which we had left, our road lay among
steep conical hills feathered with pine, and pyramids of rock piled in
naked majesty. From these we opened on the great plain of the San
Joaquin, stretching away like a Sahara, and without an object on which
the eye could rest. The sun was hot, and not a breath of wind crept over
the cheerless expanse. A column of cloud, soaring on the distant
horizon, showed where the fearful flame was at work.
We were now in the midst of the plain, when a moving object, dim and
distant, rapidly advanced into more distinct vision. It was a band of
wild horses, rushing down the plain like a foaming torrent to the sea.
“With flowing tail and flying mane,
With nostrils never stretched by pain,
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein;
And feet that iron never shod,
And flanks unscarred by spur or rod,
A thousand horse—the wild, the free—
Like waves that follow o’er the sea—
Came thickly thundering on.”
We instantly seized the halters of our pack-mules, and not knowing
whether to advance or retreat, waited the issue where we stood. They
swept past us but a short distance ahead, heeding us as little as the
Niagara the reeds that tremble on its bank. The very ground shook with
the thunder of their hoofs. Their arching necks and flowing mane, their
glossy flanks and sinewy bound made you begrudge them their freedom. You
thought what a flight you might make on them into the mines. It seemed a
pity that so much celerity and strength should be thrown away upon a
stampede.
As we advanced the line of the horizon began to lift itself into
irregular shapes, like a broken coast at sea. These emerging forms
proved to be the broad tops of a belt of trees, which seemed not more
than half a league distant, but which retreated as we advanced, like the
bow which childhood pursues. It was a weary ride before we reached them,
but the tedium of the way was relieved by several adventures among the
wild geese, which hovered near our path in immense flocks. Mr. Stewart,
who is an excellent shot, brought several to the ground: with these
trophies we camped for the night. Some watered and tethered the animals,
others gathered wood, and others ground the coffee and picked the geese.
Having in our panniers a few onions and potatoes, with a piece of pork,
we prepared for a stew. But our geese must have been the goslings of
those that went into the ark, for neither fire nor steam could make an
impression on their sinewy forms. We tried them with the puncture of our
long knives; found them tough as ever, and then swung off the pot. There
was enough, with bread and coffee, without the geese, and as we threw
the legs and wings this way and that, an owl watched the flying
fragments, as much as to say, it is an ill wind that blows nobody any
good.