THE RAINY SEASON, AND ITS EFFECTS--DISEASE AND MISERY AT LITTLE CREEK--
REAPPEARANCE OF OLD FRIENDS--AN EMIGRANT'S DEATH--AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL.
Captain Bunting, after two days' serious consideration, made up his mind
to go down alone to San Francisco, in order to clear up the mystery of
the letter, and do all that he could personally in the absence of his
friend. To resolve, however, was easy; to carry his resolution into
effect was almost impracticable, in consequence of the inundated state
of the country.
It was now the middle of November, and the rainy season, which extends
over six months of the year, was in full play. Language is scarcely
capable of conveying, to those who have not seen it, an adequate idea of
how it rained at this period of the year. It did not pour--there were
no drops--it roared a cataract of never-ending ramrods, as thick as your
finger, straight down from the black sky right through to the very
vitals of the earth. It struck the tents like shot, and spirted through
the tightest canvas in the form of Scotch-mist. It swept down cabin
chimneys, and put out the fires; it roared through every crevice, and
rent and seam of the hills in mad cataracts, and swelled up the Little
Creek into a mighty surging river.
All work was arrested; men sat in their tents on mud-heaps that melted
from below them, or lay on logs that well-nigh floated away with them;
but there was not so much grumbling as one might have expected. It was
too tremendous to be merely annoying. It was sublimely ridiculous,--so
men grinned, and bore it.
But there were many poor miners there, alas! who could not regard that
season in a light manner. There were dozens of young and middle-aged
men whose constitutions, although good, perhaps, were not robust, and
who ought never to have ventured to seek their fortunes in the
gold-regions. Men who might have lived their full time, and have served
their day and generation usefully in the civilised regions of the world,
but who, despite the advice of friends, probably, and certainly despite
the warnings of experienced travellers and authors, rushed eagerly to
California to find, not a fortune, but a grave. Dysentery, scurvy in
its worst and most loathsome type, ague, rheumatism, sciatica,
consumption, and other diseases, were now rife at the diggings, cutting
down many a youthful plant, and blasting many a golden dream.
Doctors, too, became surprisingly numerous, but these disciples of
Esculapius failed to effect cures, and as their diplomas, when sought
for, were not forthcoming, they were ultimately banished _en masse_ by
the indignant miners. One or two old hunters and trappers turned out in
the end to be the most useful doctors, and effected a good many cures
with the simple remedies they had become acquainted with among the
red-men.
What rendered things worse was that provisions became scarce, and,
therefore, enormously dear. No fresh vegetables of any kind were to be
had. Salt, greasy and rancid pork, bear's-meat, and venison, were all
the poor people could procure, although many a man there would have
given a thousand dollars--ay, all he possessed--for a single meal of
fresh potatoes. The men smitten with scurvy had, therefore, no chance
of recovering. The valley became a huge hospital, and the banks of the
stream a cemetery.
There were occasional lulls, however, in this dismal state of affairs.
Sometimes the rain ceased; the sun burst forth in irresistible
splendour, and the whole country began to steam like a caldron. A cart,
too, succeeded now and then in struggling up with a load of fresh
provisions; reviving a few sinking spirits for a time, and almost making
the owner's fortune; but, at the best, it was a drearily calamitous
season,--one which caused many a sick heart to hate the sight and name
of gold, and many a digger to resolve to quit the land, and all its
treasures, at the first opportunity.
Doubtless, too, many deep and earnest thoughts of life, and its aims and
ends, filled the minds of some men at that time. It is often in seasons
of adversity that God shews to men how mistaken their views of happiness
are, and how mad, as well as sinful, it is in them to search for joy and
peace apart from, and without the slightest regard for, the Author of
all felicity. Yes, there is reason to hope and believe that many seeds
of eternal life were sown by the Saviour, and watered by the Holy
Spirit, in that disastrous time of disease and death,--seed which,
perhaps, is now blessing and fertilising many distant regions of the
world.
In one of the smallest and most wretched of the huts, at the entrance of
the valley of Little Creek, lay a man, whose days on earth were
evidently few. The hut stood apart from the others, in a lonely spot,
as if it shrank from observation, and was seldom visited by the miners,
who were too much concerned about their own misfortunes to care much for
those of others. Here Kate Morgan sat by the couch of her dying
brother, endeavouring to soothe his last hours by speaking to him in the
most endearing terms, and reading passages from the Word of God, which
lay open on her knee. But the dying man seemed to derive little comfort
from what she said or read. His restless eye roamed anxiously round the
wretched hut, while his breath came short and thick from between his
pale lips.
"Shall I read to ye, darlin'?" said the woman, bending over the couch to
catch the faint whisper, which was all the poor man had strength to
utter.
Just then, ere he could reply, the clatter of hoofs was heard, and a
bronzed, stalwart horseman was seen through the doorless entrance of the
hut, approaching at a brisk trot. Both horse and man were of immense
size, and they came on with that swinging, heavy tread, which gives the
impression of irresistible weight and power. The rider drew up
suddenly, and, leaping off his horse, cried, "Can I have a draught of
water, my good woman?" as he fastened the bridle to a tree, and strode
into the hut.
Kate rose hurriedly, and held up her finger to impose silence, as she
handed the stranger a can of water. But he had scarcely swallowed a
mouthful when his eye fell on the sick man. Going gently forward to the
couch, he sat down beside it, and, taking the invalid's wrist, felt his
pulse.
"Is he your husband?" inquired the stranger, in a subdued voice.
"No, sir,--my brother."
"Does he like to have the Bible read to him?"
"Sometimes; but before his voice failed he was always cryin' out for the
priest. He's a Catholic, sir, though I'm not wan meself and thinks he
can't be saved unless he sees the priest."
The stranger took up the Bible, and, turning towards the man, whose
bright eyes were fixed earnestly upon him, read, in a low impressive
voice, several of those passages in which a free salvation to the chief
of sinners is offered through Jesus Christ. He did not utter a word of
comment; but he read with deep solemnity, and paused ever and anon to
look in the face of the sick man as he read the blessed words of
comfort. The man was not in a state either to listen to arguments or to
answer questions, so the stranger wisely avoided both, and gently
quitted the hut after offering up a brief prayer, and repeating twice
the words--
"Jesus says, `Him that cometh to _Me_, I will in no wise cast out.'"
Kate followed him out, and thanked him earnestly for his kindness, while
tears stood in her eyes.
"Have you no friends or relations here but him!" inquired the stranger.
"Not wan. There was wan man as came to see us often when we stayed in a
lonesome glen further up the Creek, but we've not seen him since we came
here. More be token he didn't know we were goin' to leave, and we wint
off in a hurry, for my poor brother was impatient, and thought the
change would do him good."
"Take this, you will be the better of it."
The stranger thrust a quantity of silver into Kate's hand, and sprang
upon his horse.
"I don't need it, thank 'ee," said Kate, hurriedly.
"But you _may_ need it; at any rate, _he_ does. Stay, what was the name
of the man who used to visit you?"
"O'Neil, sir--Larry O'Neil."
"Indeed! he is one of my mates. My name is Sinton--Edward Sinton; you
shall hear from me again ere long."
Ned put spurs to his horse as he spoke, and in another moment was out of
sight.