IT was an easier task when all was over to set the little Amazons on
their horses than to keep them there, for by the time we had perched one
on her saddle, or pad rather, and adjusted her with the greatest nicety,
another whom we had just left would lose her balance and fall with a
scream to the ground. It was almost as difficult as packing mules on the
prairie. For my part it must be confessed that I left the completion of
the job to others. Curious and entertaining as the feast was, my whole
attention was centred and absorbed in Arakeeta, which that artful little
enchantress had the gift to know, and lashed me accordingly with her eyes
more cruelly than she had done with her whip. I had got so far, you see,
as to learn her name, the first instalment of an intimacy which my
demolished heart was staked on perfecting. I noticed that she refused
the _kava_ with real or affected repugnance; and when the passage of
arms, and legs, began, she slipped away, caught her animal, and with a
parting laugh at me, started off for home. There was not the faintest
shadow of encouragement in her saucy looks to follow her. Still, she was
a year older than Juliet, who was nearly fourteen; so, who could say what
those looks might veil? Besides:
Das Naturell der Frauen
Ist so nah mit Kunst verwandt,
that one might easily be mistaken. Anyhow, flight provoked pursuit; I
jumped on to my horse, and raced along the plain like mad. She saw me
coming, and flogged the more, but being the better mounted of the two, by
degrees I overhauled her. As I ranged alongside, neither slackened
speed; and reaching out to catch her bridle, my knee hooked under the
hollow of hers, twisted her clean off her pad, and in a moment she lay
senseless on the ground. I flung myself from my horse, and laid her head
upon my lap. Good God! had I broken her neck! She did not stir; her
eyes were closed, but she breathed, and her heart beat quickly. I was
wild with terror and remorse. I looked back for aid, but the others had
not started; we were still a mile or more from Honolulu. I knew not what
to do. I kissed her forehead, I called her by her name. But she lay
like a child asleep. Presently her dazed eyes opened and stared with
wonderment, and then she smiled. The tears, I think, were on my cheeks,
and seeing them, she put her arms around my neck and—forgave me.
She had fallen on her head and had been stunned. I caught the horses
while she sat still, and we walked them slowly home. When we got within
sight of her hut on the outskirts of the town, she would not let me go
further. There was sadness in her look when we parted. I made her
understand (I had picked up two or three words) that I would return to
see her. She at once shook her head with an expression of something akin
to fear. I too felt sorrowful, and worse than sorrowful, jealous.
When the night fell I sought her hut. It was one of the better kind,
built like others mainly with matting; no doors or windows, but with an
extensive verandah which protected the inner part from rain and sun. Now
and again I caught glimpses of Arakeeta’s fairy form flitting in, or
obscuring, the lamplight. I could see two other women and two men. Who
and what were they? Was one of those dark forms an Othello, ready to
smother his Desdemona? Or were either of them a Valentine between my
Marguerite and me? Though there was no moon, I dared not venture within
the lamp’s rays, for her sake; for my own, I was reckless now—I would
have thanked either of them to brain me with his hoe. But Arakeeta came
not.
In the day-time I roamed about the district, about the _taro_ fields, in
case she might be working there. Every evening before sundown, many of
the women and some of the well-to-do men, and a few whites, used to ride
on the plain that stretches along the shore between the fringe of palm
groves and the mountain spurs. I had seen Arakeeta amongst them before
the _Loohou_ feast. She had given this up now, and why? Night after
night I hovered about the hut. When she was in the verandah I whispered
her name. She started and peered into the dark, hesitated, then fled.
Again the same thing happened. She had heard me, she knew that I was
there, but she came not; no, wiser than I, she came not. And though I
sighed:
What is worth
The rest of Heaven, the rest of earth?
the shrewd little wench doubtless told herself: ‘A quiet life, without
the fear of the broomstick.’
Fred was impatient to be off, I had already trespassed too long on the
kind hospitality of General Miller, neither of us had heard from England
for more than a year, and the opportunities of trading vessels to
California seldom offered. A rare chance came—a fast-sailing brig, the
‘Corsair,’ was to leave in a few days for San Francisco. The captain was
an Englishman, and had the repute of being a boon companion and a good
caterer. We—I, passively—settled to go. Samson decided to remain. He
wanted to visit Owyhee. He came on board with us, however; and, with a
parting bumper of champagne, we said ‘Good-bye.’ That was the last I
ever saw of him. The hardships had broken him down. He died not long
after.
The light breeze carried us slowly away—for the first time for many long
months with our faces to the east. But it was not ‘merry’ England that
filled my juvenile fancies. I leaned upon the taffrail and watched this
lovely land of the ‘flowery food’ fade slowly from my sight. I had eaten
of the Lotus, and knew no wish but to linger on, to roam no more, to
return no more, to any home that was not Arakeeta’s.
This sort of feeling is not very uncommon in early life. And ‘out of
sight, out of mind,’ is also a known experience. Long before we reached
San Fr’isco I was again eager for adventure.
How magnificent is the bay! One cannot see across it. How impatient we
were to land! Everything new. Bearded dirty heterogeneous crowds busy
in all directions,—some running up wooden and zinc houses, some paving
the streets with planks, some housing over ships beached for temporary
dwellings. The sandy hills behind the infant town are being levelled and
the foreshore filled up. A ‘water surface’ of forty feet square is worth
5,000 dollars. So that here and there the shop-fronts are ships’
broadsides. Already there is a theatre. But the chief feature is the
gambling saloons, open night and day. These large rooms are always
filled with from 300 to 400 people of every description—from ‘judges’ and
‘colonels’ (every man is one or the other, who is nothing else) to
Parisian cocottes, and escaped convicts of all nationalities. At one end
of the saloon is a bar, at the other a band. Dozens of tables are ranged
around. Monte, faro, rouge-et-noir, are the games. A large proportion
of the players are diggers in shirt-sleeves and butcher-boots, belts
round their waists for bowie knife and ‘five shooters,’ which have to be
surrendered on admittance. They come with their bags of nuggets or
‘dust,’ which is duly weighed, stamped, and sealed by officials for the
purpose.
I have still several specimens of the precious metal which I captured,
varying in size from a grain of wheat to a mustard seed.
The tables win enormously, and so do the ladies of pleasure; but the
winnings of these go back again to the tables. Four times, while we were
here, differences of opinion arose concerning points of ‘honour,’ and
were summarily decided by revolvers. Two of the four were subsequently
referred to Judge ‘Lynch.’
Wishing to see the ‘diggings,’ Fred and I went to Sacramento—about 150
miles up the river of that name. This was but a pocket edition of San
Francisco, or scarcely that. We therefore moved to Marysville, which,
from its vicinity to the various branches of the Sacramento river, was
the chief depot for the miners of the ‘wet diggin’s’ in Northern
California. Here we were received by a Mr. Massett—a curious specimen of
the waifs and strays that turn up all over the world in odd places, and
whom one would be sure to find in the moon if ever one went there. He
owned a little one-roomed cabin, over the door of which was painted
‘Offices of the Marysville Herald.’ He was his own contributor and
‘correspondent,’ editor and printer, (the press was in a corner of the
room). Amongst other avocations he was a concert-giver, a comic reader,
a tragic actor, and an auctioneer. He had the good temper and sanguine
disposition of a Mark Tapley. After the golden days of California he
spent his life wandering about the globe; giving ‘entertainments’ in
China, Japan, India, Australia. Wherever the English language is spoken,
Stephen Massett had many friends and no enemies.
Fred slept on the table, I under it, and next morning we hired horses and
started for the ‘Forks of the Yuba.’ A few hours’ ride brought us to the
gold-hunters. Two or three hundred men were at work upon what had
formerly been the bed of the river. By unwritten law, each miner was
entitled to a certain portion of the ‘bar,’ as it was called, in which
the gold is found. And, as the precious metal has to be obtained by
washing, the allotments were measured by thirty feet on the banks of the
river and into the dry bed as far as this extends; thus giving each man
his allowance of water. Generally three or four combined to possess a
‘claim.’ Each would then attend to his own department: one loosened the
soil, another filled the barrow or cart, a third carried it to the river,
and the fourth would wash it in the ‘rocker.’ The average weight of gold
got by each miner while we were at the ‘wet diggin’s,’ _i.e._ where water
had to be used, was nearly half an ounce or seven dollars’ worth a day.
We saw three Englishmen who had bought a claim 30 feet by 100 feet, for
1,400 dollars. It had been bought and sold twice before for considerable
sums, each party supposing it to be nearly ‘played out.’ In three weeks
the Englishmen paid their 1,400 dollars and had cleared thirteen dollars
a day apiece for their labour.
Our presence here created both curiosity and suspicion, for each gang and
each individual was very shy of his neighbour. They did not believe our
story of crossing the plains; they themselves, for the most part, had
come round the Horn; a few across the isthmus. Then, if we didn’t want
to dig, what did we want? Another peculiarity about us—a great one—was,
that, so far as they could see, we were unarmed. At night the majority,
all except the few who had huts, slept in a zinc house or sort of
low-roofed barn, against the walls of which were three tiers of bunks.
There was no room for us, even if we had wished it, but we managed to
hire a trestle. Mattress or covering we had none. As Fred and I lay
side by side, squeezed together in a trough scarcely big enough for one,
we heard two fellows by the door of the shed talking us over. They
thought no doubt that we were fast asleep, they themselves were slightly
fuddled. We nudged each other and pricked up our ears, for we had
already canvassed the question of security, surrounded as we were by
ruffians who looked quite ready to dispose of babes in the wood. They
discussed our ‘portable property’ which was nil; one decided, while the
other believed, that we must have money in our pockets. The first
remarked that, whether or no, we were unarmed; the other wasn’t so sure
about that—it wasn’t likely we’d come there to be skinned for the asking.
Then arose the question of consequences, and it transpired that neither
of them had the courage of his rascality. After a bit, both agreed they
had better turn in. Tired as we were, we fell asleep. How long we had
slumbered I know not, but all of a sudden I was seized by the beard, and
was conscious of a report which in my dreams I took for a pistol-shot. I
found myself on the ground amid the wrecks of the trestle. Its joints
had given way under the extra weight, and Fred’s first impulse had been
to clutch at my throat.
On the way back to San Francisco we stayed for a couple of nights at
Sacramento. It was a miserable place, with nothing but a few temporary
buildings except those of the Spanish settlers. In the course of a walk
round the town I noticed a crowd collected under a large elm-tree in the
horse-market. On inquiry I was informed that a man had been lynched on
one of its boughs the night before last. A piece of the rope was still
hanging from the tree. When I got back to the ‘hotel’—a place not much
better than the shed at Yuba Forks—I found a newspaper with an account of
the affair. Drawing a chair up to the stove, I was deep in the story,
when a huge rowdy-looking fellow in digger-costume interrupted me with:
‘Say, stranger, let’s have a look at that paper, will ye?’
‘When I’ve done with it,’ said I, and continued reading. He lent over
the back of my chair, put one hand on my shoulder, and with the other
raised the paper so that he could read.
‘Caint see rightly. Ah, reckon you’re readen ’baout Jim, ain’t yer?’
‘Who’s Jim?’
‘Him as they sus-spended yesterday mornin’. Jim was a purticler friend
o’ mine, and I help’d to hang him.’
‘A friendly act! What was he hanged for?’
‘When did you come to Sacramenty City?’
‘Day before yesterday.’
‘Wal, I’ll tell yer haow’t was then. Yer see, Jim was a Britisher, he
come from a place they call Botany Bay, which belongs to Victoria, but
ain’t ’xactly in the Old Country. I judge, when he first come to
Californy, ’baout six months back, he warn’t acquainted none with any
boys hereaway, so he took to diggin’ by hisself. It was up to Cigar Bar
whar he dug, and I chanst to be around there too, that’s haow we got to
know one another. Jim hadn’t been here not a fortnight ’fore one of the
boys lost 300 dollars as he’d made a cache of. Somehow suspicions fell
on Jim. More’n one of us thought he’d been a diggin’ for bags instead of
for dust; and the man as lost the money swore he’d hev a turn with him;
so Jim took my advice not to go foolin’ around, an’ sloped.’
‘Well,’ said I, as my friend stopped to adjust his tobacco plug, ‘he
wasn’t hanged for that?’
‘’Tain’t likely! Till last week nobody know’d whar he’d gone to. When
he come to Sacramenty this time, he come with a pile, an’ no mistake.
All day and all night he used to play at faro an’ a heap o’ other games.
Nobody couldn’t tell how he made his money hold out, nor whar he got it
from; but sartin sure the crowd reckoned as haow Jim was considerable of
a loafer. One day a blacksmith as lives up Broad Street, said he found
out the way he done it, and ast me to come with him and show up Jim for
cheatin’. Naow, whether it was as Jim suspicioned the blacksmith I
cain’t say, but he didn’t cheat, and lost his money in consequence. This
riled him bad, so wantin’ to get quit of the blacksmith he began a
quarrel. The blacksmith was a quick-tempered man, and after some
language struck Jim in the mouth. Jim jumps up, and whippin’ out his
revolver, shoots the t’other man dead on the spot. I was the first to
lay hold on him, but ef it hadn’t ’a’ been for me they’d ’a’ torn him to
pieces.
‘“Send for Judge Parker,” says some.
‘“Let’s try him here,” says others.
‘“I don’t want to be tried at all,” says Jim. “You all know bloody well
as I shot the man. And I knows bloody well as I’ll hev to swing for it.
Gi’ me till daylight, and I’ll die like a man.”
‘But we wasn’t going to hang him without a proper trial; and as the trial
lasted two hours, it—’
‘Two hours! What did you want two hours for?’
‘There was some as wanted to lynch him, and some as wanted him tried by
the reg’lar judges of the Crim’nal Court. One of the best speakers said
lynch-law was no law at all, and no innocent man’s life was safe with it.
So there was a lot of speakin’, you bet. By the time it was over it was
just daylight, and the majority voted as he should die at onc’t. So they
took him to the horse-market, and stood him on a table under the big elm.
I kep’ by his side, and when he was getting on the table he ast me to
lend him my revolver to shoot the foreman of the jury. When I wouldn’t,
he ast me to tie the knot so as it wouldn’t slip. “It ain’t no account,
Jim,” says I, “to talk like that. You’re bound to die; and ef they
didn’t hang yer I’d shoot yer myself.”
‘“Well then,” says he, “gi’ me hold of the rope, and I’ll show you how
little I keer for death.” He snatches the cord out o’ my hands, pulls
hisself out o’ reach o’ the crowd, and sat cross-legged on the bough.
Half a dozen shooters was raised to fetch him down, but he tied a noose
in the rope, put it round his neck, slipped it puty tight, and stood up
on the bough and made ’em a speech. What he mostly said was as he hated
’em all. He cussed the man he shot, then he cussed the world, then he
cussed hisself, and with a terr’ble oath he jumped off the bough, and
swung back’ards and for’ards with his neck broke.’
‘An Englishman,’ I reflected aloud.
He nodded. ‘You’re a Britisher, I reckon, ain’t yer?’
‘Yes; why?’
‘Wal, you’ve a puty strong accent.’
‘Think so?’
‘Wal, I could jest tie a knot in it.’
This is a vulgar and repulsive story. But it is not fiction; and any
picture of Californian life in 1850, without some such faithful touch of
its local colour, would be inadequate and misleading.