When I returned to Stormy he was worse; and I saw that he had not much
longer to live. He was not in so much pain as when I left him; but it
was evident he was sinking rapidly.
"Stormy," said I, "what would you wish me to do to the man, who has
brought you to this?"
"Nothing," he answered; "he's a bad man--but let him go. Promise me
that you will not try to teach him manners--let the Lord do it for us."
"All right, comrade," said I, "your wishes shall be obeyed: for I cannot
harm him now. He has gone."
"I'm glad of that," said the dying man, "for it shows that he knew
himself to be in the wrong. By his running away, others will know it
too; and will not say that I desarved what I've got."
"But he has _not_ run away," said I, "he is dead. I went to the house,
where you met him yesterday. I found him there. Before I came out, he
died."
Stormy's expressive features were lit up with a peculiar smile.
It was evident that he comprehended the full import of my ambiguous
speech, though he made no comment, further than what gave me to
understand, that his object, in making me promise not to harm Red Ned,
was only from fear that I might get the worst of it. I could tell,
however, by the expression upon his features, that he was rather pleased
I had not left to the Lord the work of teaching manners to his murderer.
I remained by the bedside of my dying comrade--painfully awaiting the
departure of his spirit. My vigil was not a protracted one. He died
early in the afternoon of that same day, on which his murder had been
avenged.
There was no inquest held, either upon his body, or that of his
assassin. Perhaps the latter might have been brought to trial, but for
the judgment that had already fallen upon him. This being deemed just
by all the respectable people in the place, there were no farther steps
taken in the matter, than that of burying the bodies of the two men--who
had thus fallen a sacrifice to the play of unfortunate passions.
I have seen many gold-diggers undergo interment, by being simply rolled
up in their blankets, and thrust under ground without any ceremony
whatever, all this, too, only an hour or two after the breath had
departed from their bodies. Such, no doubt, would have been the manner
in which the body of Stormy Jack would have been disposed of, had there
not been by him in his last hour a friend, who had been acquainted with
him long, and respected him much.
I could not permit his remains to be thus rudely interred. I had a good
coffin made to contain them; and gave the old sailor the most
respectable burial I had ever seen among the miners of California.
Poor Stormy! Often, when thinking of him, I am reminded of how much the
destiny of an individual may be influenced by circumstances.
Stormy Jack was naturally a man of powerful intellect. He possessed
generosity, courage, a love of justice, and truth--in short, all the
requisites that constitute a noble character. But his intellect had
remained wholly uncultivated; and circumstances had conducted him to a
calling, where his good qualities were but little required, and less
appreciated. Had he been brought up and educated to fill some higher
station in society, history might have carried his name--which to me was
unknown--far down into posterity. In the proportion that Nature had
been liberal to him, Fortune had been unkind; and he died, as he had
lived, only Stormy Jack--unknown to, and uncared for, by the world he
might have adorned.
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After having performed the last sad obsequies over his body, I recalled
the advice he had given me, along with his gold, to return to Lenore.
I resolved to follow a counsel so consonant with my own desires. I
found no difficulty in disposing of my mining shares; and this done, I
made arrangements for travelling by the stage conveyance then running
between Sonora and Stockton.
Before leaving the Stanislaus, I paid a visit to the young couple, who
had been entrusted with the care of Leary's child.
My object in going to see them was to learn, if possible, something more
of that gentleman's doings in Australia.
It was true, they had said, that they were unacquainted with him there;
but there were several questions I wished to ask them--by which I hoped
to learn something concerning my mother, and whether she had followed
Leary to the colonies.
I found the guardians of the child still living where I had seen them,
on the day the murderer was executed. The orphan was no longer in their
keeping. They had sent it to its grandparents in Sydney, in charge of a
merchant--who had left California for the Australian colonies some weeks
before.
Though I obtained from the man and his wife all the information they
were capable of giving, I learnt but little of what I desired to know.
They thought it likely, that in San Francisco, I might hear more about
the subject of my enquiries. They knew a man named Wilson--who had come
from Sydney in the same ship with them; and who was now keeping a
public-house in San Francisco. Wilson, they believed, had been well
acquainted with Mathews--for this was the name which Leary had assumed
in the colonies.
Such was the scant information I succeeded in obtaining from the friends
of the late Mrs Leary; and with only this to guide me, I commenced my
journey for the capital of California.
Volume Two, Chapter IX.