I recollect the execution of one man in Marysville, which created quite
an excitement in town. One day my ears were assailed with the most
piercing shrieks. Upon inquiry, I learned that a man had been arrested
by the Vigilance Committee for stealing. A great crowd had collected in
the street in front of the committee’s rooms, among whom was the wife of
the man arrested; and hers were the shrieks which rent the air. Two
little children were following her, crying, “You shall not hang my
father! you must not kill him!” Finally the committee rendered him up
into the hands of the law. He had his trial, was condemned, and
sentenced to be hung. While he was in jail, awaiting his execution, a
lady in town gave a little party for her children. While they were
taking tea, she saw the two children of the doomed man going past. Pity
for the children, so soon to be left fatherless, incited her to call
them in, and seat them at the table spread with delicacies. After they
had partaken of the treat, and gone out to play, the girl who was
clearing the table missed one of the silver spoons. Something prompted
her to go to those two children to inquire for it. She thought the boy
betrayed signs of guilt. She took hold of his arm, and felt the spoon in
his jacket-sleeve. He cried bitterly, and said he did not want to steal,
but his mother told him if he did not, whenever he had an opportunity,
she would whip him severely. Perhaps the father had been stimulated to
commit thefts by similar threats from his wife; and certainly, if her
evil propensities had so far gained the ascendency as to cause her to
instil such principles into the minds of her children, to what evils
would she not resort, to gain her object?
The night previous to the day upon which he was to be executed, she made
an attempt to fire the city, in the hope, doubtless, that her
accomplices in guilt would effect his liberation while the attention of
the citizens would be directed to the fire. She was, however,
unsuccessful. Had the stable burnt which she attempted to fire, the
whole city would probably have been destroyed. The owner of the stable
had just returned from a journey, and was throwing some hay into the
rack for his horse. In, the meantime, she approached, ignited a bunch of
matches, and thrust them under the side of the building, directly
against this hayrack. It blazed up, which the man no sooner saw than he
caught a large blanket, threw it into the rack, and jumped down upon it.
By this means, the flames were extinguished, but not, however, without
quite severely scorching the man. She was carefully guarded after this.
The next day, she begged permission to visit her husband in his cell.
She was allowed to go, but not alone; but, somehow or other, she managed
(they supposed) to slip something into his hand, for, a short time after
the interview, when they went to take him to the gallows, they found him
insensible, whether from fear, or from something which he had taken,
they could not ascertain.
He was taken to the gallows, and the forms of execution enacted,
although he manifested no appearance of life whatever. While this last
act was being performed, it required six or seven women to hold the
wife. She was perfectly frantic.
Every day, for some time after, might be seen this woman, dressed in a
garb of the deepest mourning, holding each of her children by the hand,
and traversing the streets, apparently in great distress. It was thought
she made this public display of grief to excite sympathy. Soon after
this, she disappeared from the city.
It often made me feel sad, during my residence in California, to see the
people recently from the Atlantic states so hopeful and buoyant in
spirits, anticipating such rich harvests of gold, with which they would
return to their homes and families, I knew so well the sufferings and
hardships they would be likely to endure before they could return, if
they ever did. But I ever refrained from casting a shade of melancholy
over the bright future in prospective by prophetic warnings. I recollect
one gentleman in particular, who was so sanguine of success.
He departed for the mines, and, in three months from that time, was
brought back, crippled for life! While blasting rocks, he had one arm so
shattered that he was obliged to have it amputated above the elbow. Both
eyes were rendered sightless for life, and the other hand and arm very
much injured. What a pitiable-looking object he was! and how he begged
of the doctors to use every endeavor to save the remaining hand and arm!
He had a wife and three little children in the state of Maine, dependent
on him for a support. It was in vain the doctors tried, by extracting
piece after piece of splintered rock, to save the last hand. It was
amputated at the wrist. How philosophically he bore his sufferings! Not
a groan escaped his lips; but, by the workings of his countenance, one
could perceive his agony was extreme. Money was raised in Marysville
sufficient to defray his expenses home; and a fellow-townsman of the
sufferer volunteered to accompany him as nurse. I never heard aught
concerning him again.
I often amused myself for hours, studying, not human nature, but mule
nature. It is really astonishing to witness those pack-mules, and see
the wonderful knowledge they display by their manœuvres. In packing them
for a trip to the mountains, the Mexicans load them unmercifully. They
make them carry loads weighing from three hundred to three hundred and
fifty pounds, and strap the articles on so tightly that I should think
it would stop their breaths. The poor creatures will tremble under such
an unmerciful load, and sometimes I have seen them, after going a little
way, fall from exhaustion, and the weight of their load. Then those
cruel Mexicans would beat them, until the blood would run from their
noses; and, if they were very much reduced from previous hard usage,
they would die, with that heavy pack strapped to them. These pack-mules
have such a horror of going with their loads to the mountains, that,
after they are packed, and are waiting for the remainder of the train,
(these trains sometimes consist of fifty and sixty mules,) they will
endeavor to secrete themselves away behind some building or wagon, and
keep so very still and quiet, seemingly listening and hoping they may
not be found. By and by, when the old, cruel Mexican warns them of his
presence by a heavy slap with the piece of untanned hide he invariably
carries in his hand, accompanied with the expression of _hippa, mula!_
one can almost see a shade of the deepest despair cross the poor mule’s
countenance, as he joins the train, which is going to travel many weary,
tedious miles, over rough mountains, and through deep ravines.
These trains are led by a horse, with a bell attached to his neck. He
is designated the bellhorse; and these mules have such an affection for
him, that they will follow anywhere he goes. Generally, three or four
Mexicans accompany each train. When night overtakes them, they unpack
the animals, and form a sort of corral of the pack-saddles, which they
place in a circle around the goods, which they lay in piles, each load
beside the saddle upon which it belongs. The mules are turned out to
graze. In the morning, after giving them their breakfasts, at a signal
from the Mexicans, each mule places himself in a position to be packed
beside his own saddle; and, what is very singular, each mule knows his
own saddle, and never makes a mistake by placing himself beside his
neighbor’s.
When they return to the valley again, they are so delighted, that when
they get to within a mile or two of the town, they commence running, and
braying at the top of their voices. And then look out for the dust! Such
clouds of it as they will raise in passing a house, is almost
suffocating. You must hasten, and close the doors and windows, otherwise
the house will be filled.
“As stubborn as a mule,” is an old adage; and I have seen this maxim
verified oftentimes. I have seen them so obstinate, you might kill, but
never conquer. Perhaps it is this stubborn nature which some of them
(not all) possess, that causes the Mexicans to be so ugly to them. In
order to pack some of them, they are obliged to be chained and blinded.
What struggles I have seen between the Mexican and his mule! I have
heard them say, that a real malicious one would purposely run, so that
he could dash with great violence his pack against a rock or tree, and
smash it to pieces; then, if it contained ought eatable, devour it with
all haste before the driver could reach him. And many such “ugly capers”
are imputed to his muleship.
At one time, there was great excitement in the mountains respecting the
mysterious disappearance of a man named Dunbar, who kept a public-house
on the trail leading from Marysville to Onion Valley, on Slate Creek.
These public-houses, by the way, were nothing more than little shanties;
and the only servant generally employed about them was a cook.
Travellers who passed and repassed Dunbar’s house, and found no one
there but his cook, (a young man formerly from Lowell, Massachusetts,)
naturally inquired for Dunbar, and was told that he had gone to San
Francisco. Finally, the house was closed. Then suspicions were rife
that there had been foul play. About that time, as a hunter was passing
the deserted house, his dog ran into the corral, and began scratching in
the snow, and howling incessantly. His master in vain tried to call him
away. He then went to the spot, dug away the snow, and discovered a
man’s hand and arm protruding from the earth. He dug away the earth, and
there was the body of Dunbar, bent double, thus tied with a rope, and
stamped into that slight excavation.
The cook, very naturally, was the first person suspected of perpetrating
this horrid murder. He was traced to San Francisco and arrested, just as
he was stepping on board a steamer bound to Panama. He was accused of
the murder, appeared very much agitated, and finally confessed what he
knew about the affair. One night, two people came from a mining locality
near by to Dunbar’s house, and requested a night’s lodging. They
frequently came there, and passed the night. That evening, they played
cards with Dunbar; and, in the course of the evening, he had occasion to
go to a chest which stood in the room, and deposit some money. In this
chest was about five thousand dollars. Whether they saw it, or whether
he told them he had it, he (the cook) did not know.
One of the men came to him in the kitchen, and disclosed their
intentions of murdering Dunbar that night, and securing his money, which
they would share with him, if he would take an oath of eternal secrecy;
if not, his life would pay the forfeit. Fear compelled him to agree to
this proposal. Just then, Dunbar and the other villain came into the
kitchen, and advanced to the outer door; whereupon the other one caught
up an axe near by, and struck Dunbar a blow on the back of the head,
causing him to fall. Then followed another blow, which completed the
work of death. He was then buried as above described, and the money
taken possession of by the murderers. Said he, “They offered me a share
of their ill-gotten treasures; but no--I would not pollute my fingers by
receiving one dollar of their blood-stained gold. Dunbar was a friend to
me, and gladly would I have saved him from the horrid death which
awaited him, had it been in my power so to do; but I was paralyzed with
terror at the horrid revelation to which I had just listened. When they
departed, I should have hastened to some authority, and made instant
disclosure of the whole transaction; but was deterred from so doing by
the fear of being murdered by those fiends in human shape.
“I then determined to leave the country; which determination I was in
the act of putting into execution when arrested.
“I declare to you, I am innocent of all or any participation whatever in
the horrid affair.”
The two murderers were at once arrested. They had changed their place of
residence, but were soon ferreted out; and all three were sentenced to
be hung at Slate Creek. My brother was present at the execution. The two
murderers died as they had lived--hardened sinners--profaning and
blaspheming until the last.
The cook declared his innocence to the latest moment, and begged, even
after the rope was adjusted about his neck, to be allowed to write to
his wife. This boon was granted him. He then asked if he might make a
few remarks. He commenced; and so eloquently did he plead for pardon, so
heart-softening were his remarks, that, had not the mob been so
exasperated by previous horrid disclosures made by the two murderers, he
would and ought to have been pardoned. They had gone so far as to say,
“All who are in favor of hanging this man, go down the hill; and all who
are not, go up;” and, as the majority started to go down the hill, some
of the more ferocious ones caught the rope, and ran with it, jerking
him from the ground, and consummating a murder equally as cold-blooded
as the one for which that innocent man had been arraigned.
One more story of blood and murder I will relate, and then close the
calendar of murders. As I was sitting in the parlor, one day, I saw the
people in the street all running towards the front of the hotel. I
stepped out upon the balcony to ascertain the cause of this unusual
excitement, and beheld a sight that almost curdled the blood in my
veins. There lay the form of a man, dead. His clothes were saturated
with blood; his ghastly face upturned; and upon his death-stamped
features rested a look of mortal agony. It was the body of one well
known in our midst. He was coming from one of the mining bars above
Marysville, driving a mule-team, when he was accosted by a man whom he
overtook on the road with a request to give him a ride; which request he
accordingly granted. The stranger jumped into the wagon, and took a seat
behind the teamster. They conversed as they rode along, until they came
to an unfrequented part of the road, when the stranger suddenly plunged
a knife into the body of the teamster. It was a murderous blow, and
carried death in its unerring aim. He robbed the dying man of four
hundred dollars, which he had in his pocket, and then decamped. The man
was not instantly killed, but, before he breathed his last, was found by
a traveller, to whom he told the story, and also gave a description of
the murderer, who was afterwards taken and executed. The murdered man
left a wife and family to mourn his loss.
Many more murders, equally revolting, I might recount; but I have told
enough to give one an idea of the crime existing at that time in
California. I need not say, at that time; it still exists, and, I fear,
ever will. Vigilance committees may, for a while, intimidate the
blood-thirsty villains; but they can never rid the country of _all_
those pests of society who have there congregated to feast their evil
propensities upon the lives and property of the unwary and unsuspecting.
Early in the year 1849, an enterprising, energetic young man, left the
town of D----, situated in one of the Western States, to seek his
fortune in California. He was already in possession of a sum sufficient
to defray his expenses to those golden shores, which held forth so many
charms to an adventurous spirit, leaving but little remaining in his
purse upon his arrival.
Glittering visions of lumps of gold haunted his waking, as well as
sleeping, moments. He was restless and impatient, until he found himself
bounding gayly over the wild, heaving billows of the broad Atlantic.
Being an orphan, deprived, at an early age, of the watchful tenderness
of a mother’s love, the judicious precepts and examples of a father, he
had learned early in life the salutary lesson of self-reliance. No sad
yearnings filled his heart, as he paced the steamer’s deck on the eve of
departure. The delights and social joys of a pleasant home left behind,
the remembrance of a loving mother’s tearful farewell, rose not in his
mind, to cause the tear of affection and regret to bedew his cheek. He
was leaving none behind to mourn his departure. To him the future looked
bright and beautiful, as it ever does to the young, hopeful, and
aspiring heart, over which the chilling waves and bitter disappointments
of the cold, selfish world has never rolled.
There was one passenger on board, who, from his taciturn, repulsive
manner, had made no friends, and formed no acquaintances. A few days
before their arrival at Chagres, he was missed from his accustomed seat
at table. He no more paced the deck with that quick, uncertain tread,
ever accompanied with those nervous, stealthy glances bestowed on all
around, and which had occasioned so many remarks at his expense, by no
means flattering or complimentary. He was confined to his berth from
sickness.
They reached the isthmus of Panama. All were hastening to secure their
passage upon the steamer then waiting at Panama to convey them to their
destined port. Each and all were struggling for themselves. The party to
which the hero of my story had attached himself were toiling on their
“winding way,” when their attention was attracted to a hammock,
suspended between two trees, in which, to all appearance, lay a man in
the agonies of death. They hastened to his side, and discovered, to
their surprise, the repulsive stranger of steamer memory. In a feeble
voice, he besought them, in mercy, to take him along, and not leave him
to die alone! It appeared he had employed some natives to take him
across the isthmus. They had quarrelled among themselves, purloined the
last dollar from the sick man, (Mr. B----,) and vamosed, leaving him to
the fate which was inevitable, unless he was assisted and provided for
immediately. The hot fever-blood was coursing wildly through his swollen
veins; yet there was but one, in that company of men, whose heart was
touched by the appealing looks of the apparently dying man, or whose eye
moistened as the half-articulate words were gasped, “Oh! in God’s name,
leave me not here, to die alone!”
As some extenuation for the apparently heartless course pursued by all
that company of emigrants, (all except one,) I will state their relative
circumstances. They had purchased their tickets at an exorbitant price,
with perhaps the last dollar at their command. The steamer was waiting;
time was pressing; at such a day she was going to leave Panama, and, if
not there, they lost their passage. Panama was crowded with people,
waiting to get even a foothold upon the deck of any floating craft that
would bear them to the desired haven. The delay that must necessarily
accrue from assisting that suffering person would, in all probability,
cost them their passage, and they would be left penniless in a foreign
land.
The call of suffering humanity was counterbalanced by the whisperings of
self. They soliloquized, and hushed the breathings of conscience with
thoughts like these: “I must look to my own interest. No one would lend
a helping hand to raise _me_, if I were sinking. He did not make
friends with us when in health and prosperity; but now, when he is
dying, he calls for succor from those he formerly shunned. I cannot
assist him. He will probably die before night. I must hurry on.” So they
did hurry on, all except Mr. W----. _His_ heart was boiling over with
the “milk of human kindness.” Said he, “If I go on, and leave this man
to die alone, the image of his pale, sad face will be ever by my side.
The memory of my heartless conduct will cast a dark shade over my whole
future existence. I _cannot_ and I _will not_ be so soulless.”
In a softened voice he addressed the now nearly unconscious man, and,
taking the feverish hand in his, said he, “Cease your anxiety. I will
stay with you, and take care of you.” One by one, he saw all his company
depart; and he was alone with the sick one, in the unbroken solitudes of
a Granadian forest. He held a flask of water to the lips of the
sufferer, and bathed his fevered brow. This somewhat revived him. Hours
passed on, and they were still alone. Finally, two Carthaginians came
along, and were induced, by the promise of a liberal reward, to carry
the sick man to Panama. After a toilsome journey, which well-nigh proved
fatal to Mr. B----, they arrived at Panama, but were too late for the
steamer: she had been gone nearly a day. There was no alternative but to
wait until they could secure a passage upon another. Mr. W----’s funds
were fast dwindling away before the exorbitant demands of the Panama
“land-sharks.” Who, among those who were compelled to remain there days
and weeks, when the tide of emigration was rushing irresistibly on
towards the far-famed gold placers of California, can _ever_ forget the
merciless drain upon their purses?
When able to converse, the invalid informed Mr. W---- that he had a
valuable cargo on board a vessel then on her way around Cape Horn; and
that, upon her arrival at San Francisco, in part payment of the debt of
gratitude he owed to him, he (Mr. W----) should receive a share of the
profits derived from the sale thereof. He also spoke of a failure in
business which had occurred a short time previous to his departure; but
omitted to mention, however, the fact that he had acted very dishonestly
as regarded that failure, and also that he had been very unceremoniously
smuggled on board the steamer, to elude the vigilance of officers of
justice. He expected his wife to join him soon in California: perhaps
she might come on the next steamer.
They were detained in Panama four weeks, during which time he was
carefully nursed by Mr. W----. In the meantime, his wife arrived, with
money sufficient to purchase a ticket for her husband. Mr. W---- had not
the wherewithal to purchase one; therefore, he procured a situation as
waiter on board. Upon their arrival at San Francisco, as the ship was
not due for some two months, Mr. W---- concluded to proceed at once to
the mines.
Every day, at that time, might have been seen little companies of men,
with their blankets and tin pans strapped to their backs, commencing
their toilsome march into the interior. Far up those mighty streams they
wandered, and penetrated far into the solitary fastnesses of those
mountain gorges, where the foot of white man never trod before. Forming
one of a party of miners who followed the course of the American River,
was our friend W----. For three weary months they prospected in those
dreary wilds, camping out, rolling themselves in their blankets, with no
roof to shelter them from the night air. The twinkling stars, far, far
above them, peeping out a gentle good-night from the azure dome, were
like messengers of hope to those poor wayfarers. Sickness overtook them,
and death thinned their numbers. Out of a company of ten, but three
returned to San Francisco. One of those three was Mr. W----. Sick,
disheartened, and so emaciated he could scarcely support his feeble
frame, he dragged himself to the door of the only hospital in San
Francisco, and begged for admittance.
For many weeks he lay hovering at the portal of death’s mysterious door.
Finally, a strong constitution triumphed: this once, the destroying
angel was cheated of its prey. He recovered slowly, and, at the
expiration of many weeks, found himself treading the streets of San
Francisco, weak, penniless, and alone--alone, in a land of strangers. He
bethought himself of Mr. B----, made inquiries concerning him, and
ascertained that the ship had arrived which had contained his property;
that he had disposed of it at an immense profit, and had gone to reside
in Sacramento city. Slowly and painfully he dragged his weakened frame
to one of the piers from whence departed the up-river boats, and gained
a hearing with one of the captains, to whom he stated his situation. He
very kindly gave him a passage to “Sac’ city.” When landed upon the
Levee, it was mid-day. So weak was he that it was late in the afternoon
before he reached the residence of Mr. B----. Upon inquiring for that
gentleman, Mrs. B---- made her appearance. She did not recognize him at
first, so changed was he by sickness and poverty. Then, in cold,
heartless words, she expressed her sorrow at his unfortunate condition,
hoped he would get along without any more sickness, and coolly closed
the door in his face.
Imagine his feelings as he turned from that door, sick in body, and
sicker far at heart at this display of sordid selfishness and heartless
ingratitude. He crawled back again to the Levee, where he remained that
night, supperless, shelterless, and penniless. He again solicited a
passage to Marysville, where resided an acquaintance of his who kept a
hotel. To him he applied for a situation to work; for, sick as he was,
his independent spirit spurned the idea of begging. He was at once
engaged to wash dishes; for which service he received seventy-five
dollars per month. After serving awhile in this capacity, he was
promoted to steward, with an increase of salary. From this post he was
admitted as a partner; and, from that day, “Dame Fortune” lavished upon
him her richest gifts.
Just three years from the time he composed his wearied limbs for a
night’s rest, in the open air, on the banks of the Sacramento, he was
standing again upon the same spot, but under what different auspices!
Had prosperity changed his noble heart, that, a little more than three
years ago, listened and “wept for others’ woes”? Ah, no! the same
generous impulses governed his every action. His upright, honest
principles grew and strengthened with his fortune, instead of
deteriorating, as is oftentimes the case.
Curiosity prompted him to inquire after the welfare of Mr. B----. He
learned he was a houseless vagabond around the streets of San Francisco.
From affluence, he was reduced to a state of beggary. His wife had
proved faithless, and decamped with all the money she could get. In
endeavoring to drown his sorrow in the intoxicating cup, he had lost,
dollar by dollar, the remainder of his fortune. That for which he had
sacrificed honor, principle, and every trait which ennobles and exalts
man, had “taken to itself wings,” and the misguided man was bereft of
all which renders life a blessing. From this “ower true” tale may be
deduced a moral.