While in California, I had charge, for a while, of a little girl, whose
mother had died just as the steamer upon which she was on board neared
the wharf at San Francisco. The father, mother, and two children were on
board the ill-fated Independence, which was wrecked, and then burnt, on
the coast of Old California.
When she commenced burning, the father hoped to save his family from the
flames by swimming with them to the shore. Being an expert swimmer, he
thought that, by taking one at a time, he might succeed in bringing them
all to the land. He suspended his wife over the ship’s side farthest
from the flames, wrapped the babe of ten months in a shawl, and
consigned it to the care of a passenger until his return, took the
little girl of four years in his arms, lowered himself into the water,
and commenced swimming for the shore. He clasped her little arms about
his neck, told her to hold on, shut her eyes and mouth, and she would
soon be on the land, and then he would return for mother and the baby.
Long before they reached the land, she was senseless. In the meantime,
the flames were increasing with such rapidity that it behooved the
father to hasten back, in order to save his wife from the devouring
element. He left the little girl senseless upon the beach, dove into the
foaming surf, and was several times borne back to the shore before he
could get beyond it. As he neared the burning wreck, the flames burst
out afresh, forcing the frightened passengers to leap into the angry
waters. The gentleman who held the babe threw it into the ocean to save
himself. In its descent, the shawl became detached from it, and the
child fell into the water a short distance from the mother, but beyond
her reach. In one of its little hands it held a toy; and, as it was
borne off on the top of a receding wave, its little plump arms were
raised, and the mother saw the white, dimpled hand firmly grasping the
toy. She could look no longer. Her babe was hastening on to swell the
angel-band in the courts of the blessed!
When her husband reached her, the flames were close around; her dress
had even been scorched. With her he started back to the shore. But very
few could have breasted the angry waters as he did; but he was impelled
by a motive which seemed to lend strength to his well-nigh exhausted
frame. He reached the shore with his wife. Some one had found the little
girl senseless, and had succeeded in restoring her to consciousness. The
body of the infant was afterwards washed ashore, with the toy grasped in
its hand. They made its little grave on the lonely beach, and placed it
therein.
For three or four days these shipwrecked passengers remained upon the
beach, their only nourishment being molasses and vinegar. They were then
taken on board a vessel, and carried to San Francisco.
The mother, weakened by exposure, and suffering from a hurt which she
received in her side while being suspended from the ship, breathed her
last just as she was nearing their destined port.
Little Rosa (her name was Rosa Taylor) often told me the sad story in
her artless, baby way. How impressive was her manner, when, seated in a
little chair by my side, her dimpled face upturned, her large, dark,
mournful eyes raised to mine, her rosy lips parted, to tell of the
dreadful shipwreck; of the baby brother being drowned; of her being so
hungry and cold on the beach; of her dear mother dying, and clasping her
so closely in her arms, when she said, “Be a good girl, Rosa, and love
your father; for he is all the one left to love you.” Then the dying
mother said, “Raise me up, and let me look upon the land once more.”
Then she lay back, and died.
Rosa staid with me three months, while her father was at the mines. Then
he came, and took her away to Oregon.
I must not forget to mention the delights of stage-coaching in
California. In the first place, the coaches are built of the strongest
materials to be obtained, and are sufficiently large to carry from
twenty to thirty persons. They are drawn by six large, beautiful horses.
In the dry season, when the rivers are low, large boats do not run to
Marysville, and most of the travel is effected by stages. I once rode to
Sacramento and back in one of those six-horse coaches, when the
passengers, inside and out, numbered twenty-eight. The thermometer stood
at 110 deg., and the dust was so dense as to almost suffocate one. We
were all obliged to _unpack_ ourselves, and walk over all the bridges
on the way; and then, so frail were these structures, that they trembled
and swayed as the empty coach was being drawn over.
By the time you arrive at the end of your journey, your eyes, nose, and
mouth are filled with dust, as well as your clothes. One day’s ride
ruins the clothes; but, if a person is blessed with a strong
constitution, he may possibly survive several consecutive days’ riding
in those crowded coaches. The roads between Marysville and Sacramento
are very level, it being a vast plain the whole way.
Journeying through the mountainous sections of the country in coaches,
is perfectly awful. The passengers are obliged to alight, and push
behind the vehicle, to assist the horses up every hill, and, when they
arrive at the summit, chain the wheels, all get in, and ride to the base
of the next mountain, in danger every moment of being overturned, and
having their necks broken. For thus working their passages they have to
pay exorbitant fares.
One night, about eleven o’clock, a lady came into the hotel, looking
more dead than alive. She was leading a little girl, of about seven
years of age, who was in the same plight as the mother. They were both
covered with bruises, scratches, and blood, with their garments soiled
and torn. They were coming from Bidwell’s Bar, a place about forty miles
above Marysville, in a stage-coach, in which were nine Chinamen. The
coach was all closed, as it was rather cool in the mountains in the
evening. All at once, they found themselves turning somersets. The coach
was overturned down a steep bank.
All the Chinamen, with their long cues reaching to their heels, were
rolling and tumbling about in the most ungraceful manner imaginable.
They were vociferating at the top of their voices in a language which,
if spoken calmly, and with the greatest mellifluence, is harsh and
disagreeable in the extreme. “And,” said she, “such a horrid din of
voices as rang in my ears, it was scarcely possible to conceive of;
which, together with the fright, was almost sufficient to deprive me of
reason.” The driver was seriously hurt, and so were some of the horses;
but the inside passengers escaped without having any limbs broken, but
their cues were awfully disarranged.
In the dry season, there were as many as a dozen coaches which left
Marysville every morning, and as many would arrive every evening.
Generally, they were all loaded to their utmost capacity.
In California, two-thirds of the population seem to be constantly
travelling (in search of new and rich diggins, I suppose). It was quite
amusing to listen to the rigmarole which each driver had over, as they
reined in their horses in front of the different hotels. The names of
the different localities along their routes, which they would sometimes
work into laughable doggerel, the cracking of their whips, and the jokes
cracked upon one another, were quite diverting.
At the time I was in Marysville, it was not safe to walk around in the
suburbs of the town, in a dark evening, unless armed. Late one evening,
as myself and husband were riding into town, we distinctly heard the
click of a revolver, and two reports followed in quick succession. The
balls whizzed past our ears, giving us no very agreeable sensation, I
assure you. There was no moon, but it was starlight. Whether we were
taken for people for whom some one was lying in wait, with the view of
plunder or murder, or for what those shots were fired, ever remained a
mystery to us. At any rate, it gave us such a fright, I never was caught
out there again after dark.
There was one house in Marysville which had been in process of erection
four years, and was not then completed. It was owned by a wealthy
Spaniard, originally from South America. I went, one day, to view this
curious structure. Under it were two regular dungeons, with heavy iron
doors, which could be doubly locked and barred. People conjectured they
were made for the purpose of holding his treasures, of which he was
reputed to possess hoards. The whole building was the most massive,
curious, complicated piece of architecture I ever beheld; and such an
air of mystery and gloom as pervaded the whole place! It was impossible
to elucidate the feelings one was sure to have, as they traversed those
dismal-looking rooms. The sight of so much solid masonry seemed
generative of the darkest designs. In one room were two very large, deep
wells. Some of the floors were constructed of stone. The grounds were to
be inclosed by a high wall. There were complicated wings, and high,
gloomy-looking turrets, projecting in every direction from the main
building. After being completed, it will present more the appearance of
a prison than a private residence.
Now, I will relate one hen story; not about a renowned Shanghai, but a
genuine, old-fashioned, yellow hen. Hens at that time, in California,
were among the things to be coveted: the meanest specimens were sold at
five dollars apiece. Some of the Spanish population kept quite a number
of fowl. A lady told me she wanted to purchase a male hen; that an old
Spaniard came to her house one day, who, she knew, had fowl to sell.
_She_ could not speak Spanish; neither could he English. She was very
much perplexed how to make him know that she wanted a crower. She used
every Spanish word she could think of with no success at all. Finally,
she sprang up in a chair, flapped her arms, and crowed with all her
might. That crow enlightened the Spaniard more than all her Spanish
vocabulary had done.
When I lived in the canvas shanty, a partition of cloth ran across the
centre of the building. On one side of the partition stood my bed, and
on the other my brother’s. An outer door opened into this room. One day,
an old yellow hen walked in very unceremoniously, hopped upon the bed,
and prepared to lay. Soon she jumped off, and left an egg. She conducted
the whole affair with the greatest secrecy, not even indulging in that
greatest luxury of all, cackling. Of course, I fed her, very glad indeed
of her egg, as they were fifty cents apiece. The next day, she came
again, and left another; and so she kept on, until she had laid twelve;
when she evinced symptoms of a desire to sit upon the nest. My brother
took her eggs, carried them out to a ranch, and exchanged them for those
that would be sure to hatch. He then placed them in a half barrel in the
corner of the room, and set the hen upon them. In due time she brought
out twelve little chicks. When they were about a month old, I sold them
for a dollar apiece. She then laid another litter of eggs, and was as
successful in raising another brood of chickens. Then, as we were going
to leave the shanty, I sold her, chickens and all, for twenty dollars.
After I had been living at the Tremont some time, I went to my room one
day, and there, on the window-seat, was perched the identical old hen
that I had sold. My window was open, and she had flown in. She appeared
delighted to see me, and evinced her delight by singing quite merrily.
She seemed determined to room with me, and I allowed her to remain until
I could go and find the one to whom I sold her. He had moved, and was
not to be found. Of course, the hen was mine again; but, situated as I
now was, I could not accommodate her with a room in the house, and for
which she seemed to have a decided predilection. I therefore placed her
to board out on a ranch. She continued to lay eggs and raise chickens,
until I realized, from the sale of them, forty-five dollars. I then sold
her again for five dollars, as she was getting rather old. In one week
after I sold her, she died, from _grief, I suppose, at being sold_. From
that old yellow hen I made quite a _pile_, as they say in California.