The stage, by which I travelled from Sonora to Stockton, was nothing
more than a large open waggon, drawn by four Mexican horses.
We started at six o'clock in the morning, on a journey of eighty-four
miles. This we should have to perform before four o'clock in the
afternoon of the same day--in order to catch the steamer, which, at that
hour, was to start from Stockton for San Francisco.
Notwithstanding that the road over most of the route was in reality no
road at all, but an execrable path, we made the eighty-four miles within
the time prescribed: for the stage arrived at Stockton more than twenty
minutes before the time appointed for the sailing of the steamer!
In spite of this rapidity of transit, I did not at all enjoy the journey
between Sonora and Stockton. I was all the time under an impression
that my life was in imminent danger; and, as I was at last on my way to
Lenore, I did not wish to be killed by the overturning of a Californian
stage coach--behind four half-wild horses, going at the top of their
speed.
Sometimes we would be rushing down a steep hill, when, to keep the
horses out of the way of the waggon they were drawing, the driver would
stand up on his box, and fling the "silk" at them with all the energy he
could command. On such occasions there would be moments when not a
wheel could be seen touching the ground; and not unfrequently the
vehicle would bound through the air, to a distance equalling its own
length!
We were fortunate enough to reach Stockton, without breaking either the
wheels of the waggon, or the bones of any of the passengers, which to me
at the time seemed something miraculous.
I do not relish describing scenes of a sanguinary character; but, to
give the reader some idea of the state of society in California, at the
time I write of, I shall mention a circumstance that transpired during
my twenty minutes' sojourn in Stockton--while waiting for the starting
of the steamer.
Just as we were getting out of the stage waggon, several pistol-shots
were heard, close to the spot where we had stopped. They had been fired
inside the gambling room of a public-house, on the opposite side of the
street; and several men were seen rushing out of the house, apparently
to escape the chances of being hit by a stray bullet.
As soon as the firing had ceased, the retreating tide turned back again;
and re-entered the house--along with a crowd of others, who had been
idling outside.
I walked over; and went in with the rest. On entering the large saloon,
in which the shots had been fired, I saw two men lying stretched upon
separate tables--each attended by a surgeon, who was examining his
wounds.
I could see that both were badly--in fact mortally--wounded; and yet
each was cursing the other with the most horrible imprecations I had
ever heard!
One of the surgeons, addressing himself to the man upon whom he was
attending, said:--
"Do not talk in that profane manner. You had better turn your thoughts
to something else: you have not many hours to live."
Neither this rebuke, nor the unpleasant information conveyed by it,
seemed to produce the slightest effect on the wretch to whom it was
addressed. Instead of becoming silent, he poured forth a fresh storm of
blasphemy; and continued cursing all the time I remained within hearing.
I was told that the two men had quarrelled about a horse, that one of
them first fired at the other, who fell instantly to the shot; and that
the latter, while lying on the floor, had returned the fire of the
assailant, sending three bullets into his body.
I heard afterwards that the shots had proved fatal to both. The man who
had fired the first shot died that same night--the other surviving the
sanguinary encounter only a few hours longer.
I had no desire to linger among the spectators of that tragical tableau;
and I was but too glad to find a cue for escaping from it: in the
tolling of the steam-boat bell, as it summoned the passengers aboard.
A few minutes after, and we were gliding down the San Joaquin--_en
route_ for the Golden City.
The San Joaquin is emphatically a crooked river. It appeared to me that
in going down it, we passed Mount Diablo at least seven times. Vessels,
that we had already met, could be soon after seen directly ahead of us,
while those appearing astern would in a few minutes after, encounter us
in the channel of the stream!
A "Down-easter," who chanced to be aboard, made the characteristic
observation:--that "the river was so crooked, a bird could not fly
across it: as it would be certain to alight on the side from which it
had started!"
Crooked as was the San Joaquin it conducted us to the capital of
California--which we reached at a late hour of the night.
So impatient was I to obtain the information, which had brought me to
San Francisco, that on the instant of my arrival I went in search of the
tavern, kept by Mr Wilson.
I succeeded in finding it, though not without some difficulty. It was a
dirty house in a dirty street--the resort of all the worthless
characters that could have been collected from the low neighbourhood
around it, chiefly runaway convicts, and gay women, from Sydney. It was
just such a hostelrie, as I might have expected to be managed by a
quondam companion of Mr Leary.
Mr Wilson was at "home," I was at once ushered into his presence; and,
after a very informal introduction, I commenced making him acquainted
with my business.
I asked him, if, while at Sydney, he had the pleasure of being
acquainted with a man named Mathews.
"Mathews! Let me see!" said he, scratching his head, and pretending to
be buried in a profound reflection; "I've certainly heard that name,
somewhere," he continued, "and, perhaps, if you were to tell me what you
want, I might be able to remember all about it."
I could perceive that my only chance of learning anything from Mr
Wilson was to accede to his proposal, which I did. I told him, that a
man named Mathews had been hung a few weeks before on the Stanislaus,
that it was for the murder of a young girl, with whom he had eloped from
Australia; and that I had reason to believe, that the man had left a
wife behind him in Sydney. I had heard that he, Mr Wilson, had known
Mathews; and could perhaps tell me, if such had been the case.
"If it was the Mathews I once knew something about," said the
tavern-keeper, after listening to my explanation, "he could not have
left any money, or property, behind him: he hadn't a red cent to leave."
"I didn't say that he had," I answered. "It is not for that I make the
inquiry."
"No!" said the tavern-keeper, feigning surprise. "Then what can be your
object, in wanting to know whether he left a wife in Sydney?"
"Because that wife, if there be one, is my mother."
This answer was satisfactory; and Mr Wilson, after healing it, became
communicative.
He had no objections to acknowledge acquaintance with a man who had been
hung--after my having admitted that man's wife to be my mother; and,
freely confessed, without any further circumlocution, that he had been
intimate with a man named Mathews, who had eloped from Sydney with a
shopkeeper's daughter. He supposed it must be the same, that I claimed
as my stepfather.
Wilson's Mathews had arrived in Sydney several years before. About a
year after his arrival he was followed by his wife from Dublin--with
whom he had lived for a few weeks, and then deserted her.
Wilson had seen this woman; and from the description he gave me of her,
I had no doubt that she was my mother.
The tavern-keeper had never heard of her, after she had been deserted by
Mathews, nor could he answer any question: as to whether she had brought
my children to the colony. He had never heard of her children.
This was the sum and substance of the information I obtained from Mr
Wilson.
My mother, then, had actually emigrated to Australia; and there, to her
misfortune, no doubt, had once more discovered the ruffian who had
ruined her.
Where was she now? Where were her children? My brother William, and my
little sister Martha, of whom I was once so fond and proud?
"I must visit Australia," thought I, "before going back to England.
Until I have recovered my relatives I am not worthy to stand in the
presence of Lenore!"
Volume Two, Chapter X.