There could not well have been a more uninteresting voyage, than the one
we made to Callao. There was about one hundred and fifty passengers on
board--most of them young and wild adventurers.
The master of the vessel had the good sense _not_ to attempt the game of
starving us. Had he done so, it would have obtained for him an
unpleasant popularity. We had no ground for complaint on the score of
food.
The principal amusement on board the ship was that of gambling; but it
was carried on in a quiet manner; and we had no rows leading to any
serious disaster. We had no particular excitement of any kind; and for
this reason I have pronounced the voyage uninteresting. For all that,
it was not an unpleasant one. I have no hesitation in asserting, that,
with the same number of diggers of the pure Australian type, that long
voyage, before its termination, would have resembled a "hell aboard
ship."
When we at length reached Callao, it was simply to find ourselves
laughed at for leaving Victoria! We had left behind us a land of gold;
and made a long sea voyage to discover that we had been "gulled."
No one appeared to be at all disappointed. Every one was heard to say,
"It's just as I expected!" I may have said so myself--I don't remember
whether I did or not--but I admit now, that I thought myself "some"
deceived; and I believe that each of my fellow-passengers felt something
like myself: and that was, strongly inclined to kill either himself--or
some one else--for having been so damnably duped.
To have heard most of them talk, you could scarce have believed, that
there had been any disappointment! Many alleged that they had been
dissatisfied with the colonies; and had only come to Peru to see that
celebrated country--which they had long desired to do!
Some of them claimed, that they had only left the gold fields of
Victoria on a sea voyage--in order to recruit their strength; and that
they intended to return, and pursue the avocation of gold-digging with
greater energy than ever!
Most of the Americans declared, that, they were on their way home across
the Isthmus of Panama!
No one would acknowledge, that he had been made a fool of. Each,
according to his own showing, had come to Callao for some wise purpose,
which he was anxious to explain to the rest--notwithstanding the obvious
difficulty of obtaining credence for his story.
About half of those, who were the victims of this gold-digging delusion,
became also victims to the fevers of Peru. Some proceeded up the coast
to California; others _did_ go home by the Isthmus of Panama; while a
few, and only a few, returned to Australia.
In Callao I parted with my friend Edmund Lea, who was one of those who
took the Panama route, on his way back to the United States.
He was returning to a happy home, where he would meet those--and there
were many of them--who would rejoice at his return.
There was no such home for me. I was alone in the world--a Rolling
Stone--with no one to love--no one who cared for me--and no place,
except the spot under my feet, that I could call home.
Lea was a young man who won the esteem of all with whom he came in
contact--at least, all whose respect was of any value.
I parted from him with much regret. Before bidding adieu, we made
arrangements to correspond with each other; and I have heard from him
several times since. He is now, or ought to be, living in Lowell, in
the State of Massachusets.
In the first ship "up" for Melbourne, I engaged a passage--resolved upon
returning to the gold fields of Victoria.
The vessel had arrived from Melbourne only three weeks before--freighted
with a full cargo of deluded diggers; and the captain was now about to
extract from them some more of their money, by taking them back!
On board there was one young man, who had come to Peru as a passenger.
He had not the money to take him back; and, being a seaman, he had
joined the ship as one of her crew. We sailed late in the afternoon,
and were some time getting out of the harbour. About ten o'clock at
night this young man was at the wheel, where he was spoken to by the
captain in a very harsh, unpleasant tone. It was said that the skipper
was intoxicated; and that he not only spoke in the manner described, but
struck the young sailor without the slightest cause or provocation. The
exact truth will perhaps never be told. The night was very dark; and
all that was certainly known is: that the sailor drew his knife, plunged
it into the captain's body; and then jumped overboard into the sea!
As the captain had evidently received a mortal wound, the ship was put
about; and brought back to her anchorage within the harbour. The
captain was carried below; and for three or four hours he did nothing
but swear, and threaten to kill the sailor who had stabbed him. His
senses had forsaken him; and it was impossible to make him understand,
that the young man had leaped overboard, and was in all probability at
that moment fifty fathoms under the sea.
The captain had a wife and two children aboard; and what with the noise
made by them, and his own wild ravings, not a soul, either among crew or
passengers, slept during that night. By six o'clock in the morning, the
wounded man had ceased to live.
Three days after, another captain was sent aboard by the agents; and we
again set sail for Melbourne.
Nothing was heard of the sailor previous to our leaving the port or ever
afterwards. At the time he jumped overboard lights were to be seen,
shining on many vessels in the harbour; and some believed that he might
have reached either a ship, or the shore. There was not much
probability of his having been saved. Both ships and shore were too
distant for him to have swum to either. In all likelihood he preceded
the captain, into that unknown world from which there is no return.
Very few, either of the passengers or crew, blamed the young sailor for
what he had done. The captain had the reputation of being a "bully;"
and his having commenced practising his tyranny so early on the voyage--
and especially on the man at the wheel, who, while there, should have
remained unmolested--gave evidence that had he continued to command the
ship, our passage across the Pacific might have proved of a character
anything but "peaceful."
The skipper, who succeeded him, was a man of a different disposition.
He soon became a favourite with all on board; and we had both a quick
and pleasant passage to Melbourne--where we arrived without any further
accident or obstruction.
When setting foot for the second time on Australian soil, I found the
city of Melbourne greatly changed--I am happy to say--for the better.
An attempt was being made at keeping the streets clean. Old buildings
had been taken down; and new ones erected in their stead. The citizens,
too, were better dressed; and looked, as well as acted, more like human
beings.
At the public-houses customers were served with food fitting to eat; and
were also treated with some show of civility. The number of people who
formerly seemed to think, that a public-house keeper held a higher
social position than the governor himself, had become greatly
diminished. They were now in a decided minority.
Men were no longer afraid, during night hours, to trust themselves alone
in the streets; and they did not, as formerly, issue in armed bands from
the public-houses to protect themselves from being robbed, while going
to their homes, or repairing to places of amusement.
Men found lying drunk in the gutters were now in some danger of being
placed upon a stretcher, and taken away by the police.
The convict element was greatly upon the decrease; and the profane
language, imported from the slums of London, was not so disgustingly
universal.
I have hurried through the narrative of my voyages from Melbourne to
Callao, and back, for two reasons. First, because nothing very
interesting occurred to me during either; and secondly, because I feel
somewhat ashamed at having been so ridiculously deluded; and have
therefore no desire to dwell upon the details of that ill-starred
expedition.
Volume Two, Chapter XXIV.