I was in California in Forty-six a lot of us Frémont men were sent down
from Monterey to San Diego by boat. Every one of us was laid flat, and
Kit Carson was the sickest of all! He vowed he'd rather cross the
desert a hundred times than take another sea voyage."
Charley did not open his eyes again till morning. When he did open
them he was feeling much better. He sat up, and decided that he was
going to be all right. The ship was still pitching up and down, and
was out of sight of land. The deck was littered with sick people lying
in all postures, and some cattle that had been taken aboard at New
Orleans, for beef, were lowing wretchedly as if they, too, were sick.
No doubt they were.
There was not much difficulty in getting a seat at breakfast this
morning, for some of the passengers who had come down from the North
were ill a second time. When Charley was picking his way to the dining
cabin he stumbled on somebody, and looking down he beheld the
long-nosed man. But the long-nosed man did not even notice that he was
being stepped on. Charley chuckled. Mr. Jacobs in such shape need not
be feared.
That day they were not interfered with, in their possession of the
boat. Charley had the fun of sleeping on its canvas covering, that
night, where, all alone, he swung delightfully as in a great cradle,
while the stars shone down upon him, and the spray from the paddle
wheels occasionally drifted across his face. His father and Mr.
Grigsby seemed to prefer the deck, against the rail.
The voyage down to the Isthmus was rated at seven days from New
Orleans. By the third day most of the sea-sick passengers had
recovered, and everybody settled to enjoy themselves. A number of
gamblers and drinkers were aboard; these kept to the main cabin, where
they sat at cards, robbing whomsoever they might, or stood at the bar
and guzzled quantities of liquor. On the decks the main pastime was
reading California travels like Frémont's explorations, or Richard
Dana's splendid "Two Years Before the Mast"--which Charley knew almost
by heart; or in speculating on "How much gold can I dig in a day?"
That was the favorite question: "How much gold do you suppose a fellow
can dig in a day?" The calculations ran all the way from $100 to
$10,000.
An awning was stretched over the upper deck, for shade; and as the
_Georgia_ sped out of the Gulf and headed south for the Yucatan Channel
under the Tropic of Cancer, between Cuba and Yucatan, the shade felt
mighty good. A number of passengers got out their white suits of linen
or cotton; but the majority of the Forty-niners stuck to their flannel
shirts and coarse trousers and boots.
The third evening they crossed the Tropic of Cancer, and by night were
entering the Yucatan Channel, which led to the famous Caribbean Sea
where pirates used to lurk. The long-nosed man and his partners had
not again bothered Charley and his two partners. They had kept below,
most of the time, in the main cabin, with other roisterers, and it
began to look as if they had decided to let the Adams party alone.
Charley continued to sleep on the boat, swinging over the stern of the
steamer, between sky and sea. Here in the tropics the days were
subject to sudden sharp squalls of rain; and Mr. Grigsby unfastened the
edge of the canvas covering of the boat, so that he could stow the
bedding underneath, when not in use. In case of rain at night, Charley
could crawl under, also, and cuddled between the seats might sleep snug
and dry. Mr. Grigsby had been pretty smart, to seize on that boat when
he did, for the awning leaked, in spots, and many of the passengers
found themselves getting wet.
From the Yucatan Channel the _Georgia_ crossed off the mouth of the
large Honduras River, which opened into the Gulf of Honduras, on the
line between Mexico and Central America. The shore of Honduras could
be faintly seen, on the right, and around the course cropped up
wondrous coral keys with snow-white beaches, and tufty palms outlined
against the blue sky. The water was a beautiful green.
That was all very nice, and now the Isthmus of Panama was only two days
ahead, across the Caribbean Sea; but the report spread that the
barometer was falling and a change in weather evidently was due.
Toward evening the sailors tightened the awning and made things more
secure, as if they were preparing for a storm. The sun set gorgeously
crimson--an angry sun; the petrels, skimming the waves about the ship,
twittered excitedly, and other sea-birds seemed hastening early for
land.
"You'd better crawl under the canvas, to-night, Charley," bade his
father. "We're liable to have rain."
"Where'll you sleep, then?" asked Charley.
"Oh, on the deck with Mr. Grigsby. We'll find a dry spot."
Mr. Adams, as a soldier, had slept out many a night before--yes, and in
many a storm; but Charley was fond of his quarters in his own private
nest. He liked to cuddle there and hear the rain patter on the canvas
close above him, while the waves talked beneath him, and the great
paddles whirred and thumped. Under the canvas covering he gladly
slipped, and got in an exceedingly comfortable position there.
He fell asleep soon and soundly--and he awakened to a storm indeed.
The wind was moaning and swishing, the spray was pelting the bottom of
the boat like shot, the rain was pouring in a perfect deluge, with a
steady, thunderous rhythm, and the boat swayed and shook as the big
waves struck the steamer's sides. Underneath the canvas all was pitch
dark. At first Charley was a little bewildered and frightened; but
after a few minutes he settled back to enjoy himself. He rather pitied
the folks trying to sleep dry on deck; and he wondered how it was
faring with his father and Mr. Grigsby.
He could hear hoarse orders to the sailors, and hasty tread of feet,
forward; and calls and exclamations among the passengers. Then there
was a heavy weight almost on top of him, sagging the canvas, the canvas
was torn aside a little way, and he struggled to sit up, in alarm.
Maybe they were to launch the life-boat. But no----
"It's all right, Charley. Lie still," spoke his father's voice. "I'm
only coming in with you, out of the rain. Don't move. Whereabouts are
you?"
"In the stern. Did you get wet?"
"Some. The whole awning leaks and the cabin and every other shelter
are full of people. Whew, but it's dark, isn't it! No lightning,
even. If you're in the stern, I'll take the bow. There. This is
fine."
The canvas had been pulled snug again, and Charley could feel his
father crawling to the bow.
"Where's Mr. Grigsby? There's room for him, too."
"He's found a dry spot, he says. So he'll stay out, as long as he can.
Go to sleep, now."
Charley tried. He heard his father settle himself with a grunt, and
presently begin to breathe in a little snore. That was good, for his
father was not well, yet, and ought to be resting. But Charley himself
found it hard work to go to sleep. The wind soughed, the spray pelted,
the rain hammered, and the ship staggered and quivered, while over the
stern swayed the boat.
Suddenly, amidst the voices outside, along the deck, Charley caught a
quick outcry near at hand, and a scuffle--the scrape of feet, and the
thump of a body falling. The tones were those of Mr. Grigsby.
"What are you doing? Stand back!" Hard breathing--and the sound of a
short struggle. "Now, be off--none of that, or I'll put a hole through
you! You dirty scoundrels! Thought you'd catch us, did you? Keep
away, after this, or I'll shoot on sight."
Charley attempted to sit up, and scraped his face on the low canvas.
His movement aroused his father.
"What's the matter, Charley?"
"I don't know. Mr. Grigsby was scolding somebody."
"What's going on, Grigsby?" hallooed Mr. Adams. "Anything wrong?"
"No, not now. Go to sleep. Tell you in the morning."
"Need me?"
"Not a bit. It's all over with. Just a prowler--and he won't come
again. Go to sleep."
"Well----" assented Mr. Adams. "Are you dry?"
"Dry as powder. Good-night."
"Good-night. But you'd better come in with us. Plenty of room."
"No, thank you. I'm comfortable."
Mr. Adams settled himself. Charley, his heart beating, waited,
listening. But Mr. Grigsby spoke not again. The rain was lessening,
too--and although the seas continued to pound, and the wind to sough,
the storm seemed to be ceasing. Presently Charley dozed off, and when
he awakened, it was morning. His father already had left, for he was
not in the bow under the canvas. Charley hastily crawled out, into
sunshine and a wide expanse of blue under which a gray green ocean
tossed its racing white-caps.
The passengers on the upper deck were astir, spreading out wet clothing
and bedding, to hang them from the awning and the rails to dry.
Charley's father and Mr. Grigsby were talking earnestly together, but
checked themselves when they saw Charley emerge, and land on deck.
"Morning to you," greeted Mr. Grigsby. "Did you sleep well?"
"Fine," said Charley. "Did you? What was the matter in the night?"
"Yes; you can count on me to sleep in any kind of weather," answered
Mr. Grigsby. And--"Shall we tell him?" he queried, of Mr. Adams.
Mr. Adams, who looked a little worried, nodded.
"Yes," he replied. "We might as well. He's one of us."
"The truth is," resumed Mr. Grigsby, to Charley, "one of those three
fellows tried to cut the boat down, in the night. But I caught him.
Here's his knife."
"Which one was it?" gasped Charley, cold at the thought.
"Jacobs," said his father. "And lucky for us that he didn't do it.
Mr. Grigsby has a sharp ear. Why, we wouldn't have lasted a minute in
that sea. Now, wasn't that a cowardly thing even to think of?"
"I'd feared it," admitted Mr. Grigsby. "But it didn't seem possible,
in any human being. Last night was a good night for it--and I suppose
the davits would have looked as though the boat had been torn loose by
a sea. Whew! I ought to have shot the scoundrel without parleying."
"What'll we do about it?" quavered Charley, sitting down hard on the
bench. He felt weak.
"It's all over with, so don't be scared, boy," encouraged his father.
"A miss is as good as a mile, you know. We're safe, after this. Oh,
Mr. Grigsby and I've decided there's little to be done. Of course,
here's the knife for evidence, and we'll speak to the captain; but
there's nothing else to do. We have to look out for ourselves."
After breakfast Mr. Adams brought aft, not the captain, but the first
mate. He was the same official who had objected to their using the
boat at all.
"So you think somebody was bent on cutting that boat down, do you?" he
queried, brusquely, of Mr. Grigsby.
"I don't think so; I know it," returned Mr. Grigsby.
"How do you know it?"
"Because I knocked him down and took his knife."
"Do you know who it was?"
"His name is Jacobs."
"You can prove that, can you?"
"To my own satisfaction; yes."
"Well, I suppose you are aware that there are over a thousand
passengers aboard this boat, and several hundred have knives just like
that one. You can prove nothing. I told you in the beginning that you
occupied this boat at your own risk. So don't bring your complaints
forward. But if any damage is done to this boat you'll be held
responsible."
So speaking, the first mate turned on his heel and left. Charley saw
his father flush angrily, but Mr. Grigsby only laughed.
"Let him go," he said. "We can do our own fighting."
A passenger standing near evidently had overheard the conversation, for
he asked, quietly:
"Do I understand somebody tried to cut your boat down, last night?"
"Yes, sir."
"His name was Jacobs, wasn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"I heard that scuffle, and I've been wondering about it. So the ship
won't do anything about it, according to the mate?"
"No, sir."
"Then I know who will," asserted the man--a quick, erect, middle-aged
man with grayish moustache and goatee. He wore miner's costume, but he
looked like a gentleman, nevertheless. "Wait a bit."
He, too, left. Gazing after him as he passed along the deck under the
awning, they noted him pause and speak with several other men, who
glanced back at the stern as if he was telling them about the boat. A
little group of them accompanied him, and disappeared with him.
Soon they all came up on deck again, and with them was Mr. Jacobs
himself. Charley thought that he looked rather frightened, as in their
midst he moved aft. The group was swelled, en route, until when they
halted before the Adams party they numbered about twenty--a sober,
stern lot, standing in a determined manner with Mr. Jacobs pushed to
the fore.
The man with the goatee acted as spokesman.
"This is the man, is it?" he asked, of Mr. Grigsby.
"I wouldn't call him a man," said Mr. Grigsby, contemptuously. "But
he's the critter I referred to."
Mr. Jacobs scowled blackly at Charley, and his father, and Mr. Grigsby,
and tried to brazen it out. However, 'twas plain to be seen that he
was ill at ease.
"What's the meaning of this?" he demanded, all around. "What did you
bring me up here for?"
"You're accused of attempting to cut that boat down, last night, along
with the persons who were in it," answered the man with the goatee.
"Who accuses me?"
"I do," said Mr. Grigsby, shortly.
"It's a lie," retorted the long-nosed man, with an oath. "I wasn't up
here. I was down below, keeping dry."
"Here's your knife," pursued Mr. Grigsby, holding it out.
The long-nosed man laughed sneeringly.
"Not my knife. I don't carry one. Besides, the ship's full of knives
like that."
"Yes," said Mr. Grigsby. "But it isn't full of dogs like you! If you
weren't up here last night, how did you get that bruised cheek, and
those finger-marks on your throat? You look powerful like somebody
who'd been knocked down and held for a while."
"It's a lie," repeated the long-nosed man, but rather weakly. He
braced up. "Of course it's a lie," he appealed, to the group. "Isn't
my word as good as his?"
The man with the goatee laughed grimly--and so did several others.
"Your word? It's about the poorest security you can offer. Why,
you're nothing but a common gambler and a thug. You're one of those
rascals who've been fleecing people down in the cabin. Just yesterday
you robbed a man of his last cent by cheating him at cards. Faugh!
Some of us have been watching you, and we know all about you. I
wouldn't put it at all beyond you to cut down a boat, in the night, and
drop it, with a man and a boy sleeping in it. Well, gentlemen," and he
addressed the group, "soon or late we'll have to organize a little law
and order committee, for protection in the gold fields, and I suppose
we might as well begin right here. What'll we do with this specimen?"
"Throw him overboard!" came the angry response.
"String him up!"
"We'd better talk it over, first, hadn't we?" proposed a more cautious
voice.
"All right. Somebody guard the prisoner."
"I'll watch him," proffered Mr. Grigsby, significantly handling his
rifle.
The group withdrew a short distance, to confer apart, leaving the
long-nosed man in a clear space before Mr. Grigsby. A number of other
passengers had been attracted by the scene, but they stood at a
respectful distance, saying nothing.
The long-nosed man glared alike at Charley, his father, and Mr.
Grigsby, but he was afraid to move.
"You'll pay for this," he said, loudly. "It's a scheme to get rid of
me, is it, and take my share in that gold mine you're making for? But
it won't work. These passengers won't see an innocent man suffer."
And so forth, and so forth, while Mr. Grigsby and Mr. Adams answered
never a word--and neither, of course, did Charley. He rather hoped
that, after all, the group would decide not to handle the long-nosed
man roughly, even though he was a dangerous person.
Mr. Jacobs evidently was nervous despite his bragging; and when the
group advanced again, he turned pale.
The man with the goatee spoke, first addressing Mr. Grigsby and Mr.
Adams.
"While we believe the accused guilty and deserving of being put into
safe keeping, some of us don't think the evidence that he was cutting
down the boat conclusive enough to warrant us in dealing with him as
we'd like to. As for you," he continued, now sternly addressing the
long-nosed man himself, "we give you this warning. Don't show yourself
on the upper deck again, and don't sit at cards with anybody. If we
catch you up here, or gambling anywhere aboard, we'll relieve the ship
of your society very quickly. Now go."
Still pale, the long-nosed man hastened away, and went below. The next
time Charley saw him was on the Isthmus of Panama.
VI
THE LANDING AT THE ISTHMUS
For the remainder of the voyage Charley slept on the deck instead of in
the boat. He was not exactly afraid, and if anybody had dared him to
he would have slept in the boat just to show that he wasn't afraid.
But the idea that the boat might be cut loose, or might break loose,
was not pleasant. Ugh! Then down he would drop, boat and all, into
the wash of the steamer; the steamer would go on without him--and where
would _he_ go?
Even Mr. Grigsby and his father, who were brave men, approved of his
sleeping on deck, now. As Mr. Grigsby said:
"We know you aren't afraid, but it's only a fool who takes chances when
they aren't necessary. Out in the Indian country the greenhorns were
the fellows who played smart by sitting in the campfire light where the
Injuns could get a good shot at them. Nobody ever saw Kit Carson
exposing himself that way."
The _Georgia_ was ploughing across the Caribbean Sea. Islands were
constantly in view, but now no one paid much attention to these. All
the passengers were on the lookout for the Isthmus of Panama; they were
tremendously eager to get ashore and start across the Isthmus for the
Pacific Ocean.
On the morning of the eighth day out of New Orleans a bank of rain or
fog closed down on the horizon ahead. Off yonder was the Isthmus, but
who could see it? However, evidently it was near; for when Charley
roved about, he discovered that sailors were busy, below, hoisting out
baggage from the hold. They were getting ready to land.
The news spread through the ship, and passengers immediately engaged in
a wild rush to put their things together and crowd for the steps. They
acted as though they expected to make a flying leap ashore as the ship
passed by. Charley was glad to help his father and Mr. Grigsby tie up
their belongings also, so as to be ready.
Here on the rolling Caribbean the sun was shining brightly, tinting the
choppy waves with a beautiful green. The storm ashore was moving on,
evidently, for the streaks of rain were drifting around to the left and
passing out to sea, leaving the mist thin and white. Suddenly voices
forward cried, excitedly: "Land ho! Land ho! There she is! Isthmus
in sight! Land ho!" The cries spread, with everybody on tiptoe,
peering. At one end of the mist line had been uncurtained a background
of rocky, surf-washed shore, with high green hills rising behind it.
Next was uncovered a lower shore, indented by a large bay, and fringed
with palm-trees. Next, as on sped the mist (like a swiftly rolling
curtain, indeed) there came into view a lofty headland, with trees on
its crest and the waves dashing against its base.
The _Georgia_ was swinging about in her course, and pointing up the
coast. This brought the lofty headland on her left. And now all the
deck was rife with questions.
"Where do we land?"
"What's that big point? Porto Bello?"
"The pirates captured it, didn't they, couple of hundred years ago?"
"Can you see the old fort on it?"
"How far's the Pacific Ocean, now?"
"Do we land in that big bay?"
"Don't think so. That's Limon Bay, isn't it? Where is Colon?"
"Colon is where the railroad's going to begin. We land at Chagres."
"Where is Chagres?"
"How far across to the Pacific at Panama?"
"About four days. Three by boat and one by mule, they say."
"Anything to eat at Chagres? Any sleeping place?"
"Don't know."
"Oh, Tom! How'll we engage a canoe? Ought to make up a party and send
a man ashore at once, oughtn't we?"
Accompanied by this babel of cries, the _Georgia_ steamed up along the
shore. She passed the lofty headland, which seemed to guard a fine
harbor; and she passed the big bay which people said was Limon. The
shore looked very tropical, with its beaches and palms and green hills
and thatched huts and glimpses of bright tinted towns, while behind
rose the mountain range. Charley gazed spellbound.
"Say, where is Chagres?" were asking the passengers crowding along the
inshore rail.
Yes, indeed; where was Chagres? The _Georgia_ was supposed to land at
the town of Chagres, which was at the mouth of the Chagres River, and
the way to California then lay up the Chagres River, by canoe, as far
as possible; over the mountains by mule, down to the Pacific Ocean at
Panama; and aboard the Pacific Mail Company steamship there, for San
Francisco.
"According to the map," said Mr. Adams, "Chagres is about eight miles
up the coast from Limon Bay. I shouldn't wonder if we were turning in
for it now."
Sure enough, the _Georgia_ was beginning to point for the shore, which
rose high and steep, seamed with darker lines that proved to be ravines
running down to the sea. A narrow inlet opened in the shore; no, this
was the mouth of a river--the Chagres River, said several voices.
"I see a castle," cried Charley. "It looks like a castle, anyway. On
top of the cliff, above the river. Or maybe it's a fort."
"San Lorenzo castle, they call it, I believe," announced Mr. Grigsby.
Closer to the river's mouth and the castle above swept the _Georgia_.
Her whistle sounded hoarsely. Still no town appeared; and to general
disappointment, when about a quarter of a mile from shore, opposite the
mouth of the river, she stopped her engines, there was a rattle of
chains through the hawse holes, and she had dropped anchor! Almost
immediately a boat pulled away from her, for the shore. It contained
the captain and two or three other officials. They soon entered the
mouth of the river and disappeared. The passengers, pressed against
the rails on all the decks, their hand baggage ready, murmured
irritably, but no other boats were launched and evidently it was not
yet time for them also to go ashore.
"If you two will look after the baggage, I'll try to get ashore among
the first and hire a boat," offered Mr. Adams.
"That's the best idea," approved Mr. Grigsby. "There won't be boats
enough to go 'round, and somebody'll get left."
Charley saw his father shouldering his way through the crowd, to the
head of the stairs, into which he made further way. He descended from
sight. Down below he would have a harder time, for the crowd at the
rails of the lower decks was thicker, where people had clustered
hanging close so as to be in the first of the boats. But Mr. Adams
could take care of himself, all right, whether lame or not. He had
been in many a battle.
For a time there was nothing to do but gaze at the shore--at the old,
crumbling Castle of San Lorenzo, where through glasses a few cannon
could be descried; at the clumps of palms, standing like plumes; at the
rolling green hills, bordering the shore, and at the distant mountain
range which was to be crossed after the river had been ascended as far
as possible. Beyond the mountains lay the Pacific Ocean, where, at the
city of Panama, the steamer for California would be boarded by those
who got there in time. Except for the dots of soldiers, surveying the
_Georgia_ from the walls of the fort, the only signs of life ashore
were the thatched roofs of some huts, back among the trees.
In the course of an hour another murmur arose from the impatient
passengers, for the ship's boat reappeared, issuing from the narrow
mouth of the river--and with it was a much larger boat that soon turned
out to be a big canoe, manned by half a dozen natives. Both boats
headed for the ship. The canoe reached it first. It was a dug-out,
fashioned from the single trunk of a tree; and its crew, wielding their
paddles, were black as coals, their naked bodies streaming with
perspiration. On their legs they wore white cotton trousers, loose and
comfortable.