flower-seeds, which, mixed with pounded acorns and grasshoppers, form
the bread of these miserable people. The idea, and the really ingenious
mode of carrying it out, struck me as so singular, that I cannot
forbear attempting a description. These poor creatures were entirely
naked, with the exception of a quantity of grass bound round the waist,
and covering the thighs midway to the knees, perhaps. Each one carried
two brown baskets, which, I have since been told, are made of a species
of osier, woven with a neatness which is absolutely marvelous, when one
considers that they are the handiwork of such degraded wretches. Shaped
like a cone, they are about six feet in circumference at the opening,
and I should judge them to be nearly three feet in depth. It is
evident, by the grace and care with which they handle them, that they
are exceedingly light. It is possible that my description may be
inaccurate, for I have never read any account of them, and merely give
my own impressions as they were received while the wagon rolled rapidly
by the spot at which the women were at work. One of these queer baskets
is suspended from the back, and is kept in place by a thong of leather
passing across the forehead. The other they carry in the right hand and
wave over the flower-seeds, first to the right, and back again to the
left, alternately, as they walk slowly along, with a motion as regular
and monotonous as that of a mower. When they have collected a handful
of the seeds, they pour them into the basket behind, and continue this
work until they have filled the latter with their strange harvest. The
seeds thus gathered are carried to their rancherias, and stowed away
with great care for winter use. It was, to me, very interesting to
watch their regular motion, they seemed so exactly to keep time with
one another; and with their dark shining skins, beautiful limbs, and
lithe forms, they were by no means the least picturesque feature of the
landscape.
Ten miles this side of Bidwell's Bar, the road, hitherto so smooth and
level, became stony and hilly. For more than a mile we drove along the
edge of a precipice, and so near, that it seemed to me, should the
horses deviate a hairbreadth from their usual track, we must be dashed
into eternity. Wonderful to relate, I did not "Oh!" nor "Ah!" nor
shriek _once_, but remained crouched in the back of the wagon, as
silent as death. When we were again in safety, the driver exclaimed, in
the classic patois of New England, "Wall, I guess yer the fust woman
that ever rode over that are hill without hollering." He evidently did
not know that it was the intensity of my _fear_ that kept me so still.
Soon Table Mountain became visible, extended like an immense
dining-board for the giants, its summit a perfectly straight line
penciled for more than a league against the glowing sky. And now we
found ourselves among the Red Hills, which look like an ascending sea
of crimson waves, each crest foaming higher and higher as we creep
among them, until we drop down suddenly into the pretty little valley
called Bidwell's Bar.
I arrived there at three o'clock in the evening, when I found F. in
much better health than when he left Marysville. As there was nothing
to sleep _in_ but a tent, and nothing to sleep _on_ but the ground, and
the air was black with the fleas hopping about in every direction, we
concluded to ride forward to the Berry Creek House, a ranch ten miles
farther on our way, where we proposed to pass the night.
LETTER _the_ FIRST
Part Two
[_The_ PIONEER, _February_, 1854]
_The_ JOURNEY _to_ RICH BAR
SYNOPSIS
A moonlit midsummer-night's ride on muleback. Joyous beginning. The
Indian trail lost. Camping out for the night-Attempts in the morning to
find the trail. A trying ride in the fierce heat of midday. The trail
found. A digression of thirty miles. Lack of food, and seven miles more
to ride. To rest is impossible. Mad joy when within sight of Berry
Creek Rancho. Congratulations on escape from Indians on trail.
Frenchman and wife murdered. The journey resumed. Arrival at the "Wild
Yankee's". Breakfast with fresh butter and cream. Indian bucks, squaws,
and papooses. Their curiosity. Pride of an Indian in ability to repeat
one line of a song. Indian women: extreme beauty of their limbs;
slender ankles and statuesque feet; haggardness of expression and
ugliness of features. Girl of sixteen, a "wildwood Cleopatra," an
exception to the general hideousness. The California Indian not the
Indian of the Leatherstocking tales. A stop at the Buckeye Rancho.
Start for Pleasant Valley Rancho. The trail again lost. Camping out for
the night. Growling bears. Arrive at Pleasant Valley Rancho. A
flea-haunted shanty. The beauty of the wilderness. Quail and deer. The
chaparrals, and their difficulty of penetration by the mules. Escape
from a rattlesnake. Descending precipitous hill on muleback.
Saddle-girth breaks. Harmless fall from the saddle. Triumphant entry
into Rich Bar. A tribute to mulekind. The Empire Hotel. "A huge shingle
palace."
Letter _the_ First
Part Two
_The_ JOURNEY _to_ RICH BAR
RICH BAR, EAST BRANCH _of the_ NORTH FORK _of_ FEATHER RIVER,
_September_ 13, 1851.
The moon was just rising as we started. The air made one think of
fairy-festivals, of living in the woods _always_, with the green-coated
people for playmates, it was so wonderfully soft and cool, without the
least particle of dampness. A midsummer's night in the leafy month of
June, amid the dreamiest haunts of "Old Crownest," could not be more
enchantingly lovely.
We sped merrily onward until nine o'clock, making the old woods echo
with song and story and laughter, for F. was unusually gay, and I was
in tip-top spirits. It seemed to me so _funny_ that we two people
should be riding on mules, all by ourselves, in these glorious
latitudes, night smiling down so kindly upon us, and, funniest of
_all_, that we were going to live in the Mines! In spite of my gayety,
however, I now began to wonder why we did not arrive at our intended
lodgings. F. reassured me by saying that when we had _de_scended this
hill or _as_cended that, we should certainly be there. But ten o'clock
came; eleven, twelve, one, _two_! but no Berry Creek House! I began to
be frightened, and besides that, was very sick with a nervous headache.
At every step we were getting higher and higher into the mountains, and
even F. was at last compelled to acknowledge that we were _lost!_ We
were on an Indian trail, and the bushes grew so low that at almost
every step I was obliged to bend my forehead to my mule's neck. This
increased the pain in my head to an almost insupportable degree. At
last I told F. that I could not remain in the saddle a moment longer.
Of course there was nothing to do but to camp. Totally unprepared for
such a catastrophe, we had nothing but the blankets of our mules, and a
thin quilt in which I had rolled some articles necessary for the
journey, because it was easier to pack than a traveling-bag. F. told me
to sit on the mule while he prepared my woodland couch, but I was too
nervous for that, and so jumped off and dropped onto the ground, worn
out with fatigue and pain. The night was still dreamily beautiful, and
I should have been enchanted with the adventure (for I had fretted and
complained a good deal, because we had no _excuse_ for camping out) had
it not been for that impertinent headache, which, you remember, always
_would_ visit me at the most inconvenient seasons.
About daylight, somewhat refreshed, we again mounted our mules,
confidently believing that an hour's ride would bring us to the Berry
Creek House, as we supposed, of course, that we had camped in its
immediate vicinity. We tried more than a dozen paths, which, as they
led _nowhere_, we would retrace to the principal trail. At last F.
determined to keep upon one, as it _must_, he thought, in _time_, lead
us out of the mountains, even if we landed on the other side of
California. Well, we rode on, and on, and on, up hill and down hill,
down hill and up, through fir-groves and oak-clumps, and along the edge
of dark ravines, until I thought that I should go _mad_, for all this
time the sun was pouring down its hottest rays most pitilessly, and I
had an excruciating pain in my head and in all my limbs.
About two o'clock we struck the main trail, and, meeting a man,--the
first human being that we had seen since we left Bidwell's,--were told
that we were seven miles from the Berry Creek House, and that we had
been down to the North Fork of the American River, more than thirty
miles out of our way! This joyful news gave us fresh strength, and we
rode on as fast as our worn-out mules could go.
Although we had eaten nothing since noon the day before, I bore up
bravely until we arrived within two miles of the rancho, when courage
and strength both gave way, and I _implored_ F. to let me lie down
under a tree and rest for a few hours. He very wisely refused, knowing
that if I dismounted it would be impossible to get me onto my mule
again, and we should be obliged to spend another night under the stars,
which, in this enchanting climate, would have been delightful, had we
possessed any food; but, knowing that I needed refreshment even more
than I did rest, he was compelled to insist upon my proceeding.
My poor husband! He must have had a trying time with me, for I sobbed
and cried like the veriest child, and repeatedly declared that I should
never live to get to the rancho. F. said afterwards that he began to
think I intended to keep my word, for I certainly _looked_ like a
dying person.
O Mary! it makes me _shudder_ when I think of the mad joy with which I
saw that rancho! Remember that, with the exception of three or four
hours the night before, we had been in the saddle for nearly twenty-four
hours without refreshment. When we stopped, F. carried me into the
house and laid me onto a bunk, though I have no remembrance of it, and
he said that when he offered me some food, I turned from it with
disgust, exclaiming, "Oh, take it away! give me some cold water and let
me _sleep_, and be sure you don't wake me for the next three weeks."
And I _did_ sleep, with a forty slumber-power; and when F. came to me
late in the evening with some tea and toast, I awoke, oh! _so_
refreshed, and perfectly well, for, after all the great fuss which I
had made, there was nothing the matter with me but a little fatigue.
Every one that we met congratulated us upon not having encountered any
Indians, for the paths which we followed were Indian trails, and it is
said they would have killed us for our mules and clothes. A few weeks
ago a Frenchman and his wife were murdered by them. I had thought of
the circumstances when we camped, but was too sick to care what
happened. They generally take women captive, however; and who knows how
narrowly I escaped becoming an Indian chieftainess, and feeding for the
rest of my life upon roasted grasshoppers, acorns, and flower-seeds? By
the way, the last-mentioned article of food strikes me as rather
poetical than otherwise.
After a good night's rest we are perfectly well, and as happy as the
day itself,--which was one of Heaven's own choosing,--and rode to the
"Wild Yankee's," where we breakfasted, and had, among other dainties,
fresh butter and cream.
Soon after we alighted, a _herd_ of Indians, consisting of about a
dozen men and squaws, with an unknown quantity of papooses,--the last
naked as the day they were born,--crowded into the room to stare at us.
It was the most amusing thing in the world to see them finger my
gloves, whip, and hat, in their intense curiosity. One of them had
caught the following line of a song, "O, carry me back to old
Martinez," with which he continued to stun our ears all the time we
remained, repeating it over and over with as much pride and joy as a
mocking-bird exhibits when he has learned a new sound.
On this occasion I was more than ever struck with what I have often
remarked before,--the extreme beauty of the _limbs_ of the Indian
women of California. Though for haggardness of expression and ugliness
of feature they might have been taken for a band of Macbethian witches,
a bronze statue of Cleopatra herself never folded more beautifully
rounded arms above its dusky bosom, or poised upon its pedestal a
slenderer ankle or a more statuesque foot, than those which gleamed
from beneath the dirty blankets of these wretched creatures. There was
one exception, however, to the general hideousness of their faces. A
girl of sixteen, perhaps, with those large, magnificently lustrous, yet
at the same time soft, eyes, so common in novels, so rare in real life,
had shyly glided like a dark, beautiful spirit into the corner of the
room. A fringe of silken jet swept heavily upward from her dusky cheek,
athwart which the richest color came and went like flashes of
lightning. Her flexible lips curved slightly away from teeth like
strips of cocoanut meat, with a mocking grace infinitely bewitching.
She wore a cotton chemise,--disgustingly dirty, I must confess,--girt
about her slender waist with a crimson handkerchief, while over her
night-black hair, carelessly knotted beneath the rounded chin, was a
purple scarf of knotted silk. Her whole appearance was picturesque in
the extreme. She sat upon the ground with her pretty brown fingers
languidly interlaced above her knee, "round as a _period_," (as a
certain American poet has so funnily said of a similar limb in his
Diana,) and smiled up into my face as if we were the dearest friends.
I was perfectly enraptured with this wildwood Cleopatra, and bored F.
almost beyond endurance with exclamations about her starry eyes, her
chiseled limbs, and her beautiful nut-brown cheeks.
I happened to take out of my pocket a paper of pins, when all the women
begged for some of them. This lovely child still remained silent in the
posture of exquisite grace which she had so unconsciously assumed, but,
nevertheless, she looked as pleased as any of them when I gave her,
also, a row of the much-coveted treasures. But I found I had got myself
into business, for all the men wanted pins too, and I distributed the
entire contents of the papers which I happened to have in my pocket,
before they were satisfied, much to the amusement of F., who only
laughs at what he is pleased to call my absurd interest in these poor
creatures; but you know, M., I always _did_ "take" to Indians, though
it must be said that those who bear that name here have little resemblance
to the glorious forest heroes that live in the Leatherstocking tales,
and in spite of my desire to find in them something poetical and
interesting, a stern regard for truth compels me to acknowledge that
the dusky beauty above described is the only even moderately _pretty_
squaw that I have ever seen.
At noon we stopped at the Buckeye Rancho for about an hour, and then
pushed merrily on for the Pleasant Valley Rancho, which we expected to
reach about sundown. Will you, _can_ you, believe that we got lost
again? Should you travel over this road, you would not be at all
surprised at the repetition of this misfortune. Two miles this side of
Pleasant Valley, which is very large, there is a wide, bare plain of
red stones which one is compelled to cross in order to reach it, and I
should not think that even in the daytime any one but an Indian could
keep the trail in this place. It was here that, just at dark, we
probably missed the path, and entered, about the center of the valley,
at the opposite side of an extensive grove from that on which the
rancho is situated. When I first began to suspect that we might
possibly have to camp out another night, I Caudleized at a great rate,
but when it became a fixed fact that such was our fate, I was instantly
as mute and patient as the Widow Prettyman when she succeeded to the
throne of the venerated woman referred to above. Indeed, feeling
perfectly well, and not being much fatigued, I should rather have
enjoyed it, had not F., poor fellow, been so grieved at the idea of my
going supperless to a moss-stuffed couch. It was a long time before I
could coax him to give up searching for the rancho, and, in truth, I
should think that we rode round that part of the valley in which we
found ourselves, for more than two hours, trying to find it.
About eleven o'clock we went back into the woods and camped for the
night. Our bed was quite comfortable, and my saddle made an excellent
pillow. Being so much higher in the mountains, we were a little chilly,
and I was disturbed two or three times by a distant noise, which I have
since been told was the growling of grizzly bears, that abounded in
that vicinity. On the whole, we passed a comfortable night, and rose at
sunrise feeling perfectly refreshed and well. In less than an hour we
were eating breakfast at the Pleasant Valley Rancho, which we easily
discovered by daylight.
Here they informed us that "we had escaped a great marcy," as old Jim
used to say in relating his successful run from a wolf, inasmuch as the
grizzlies had not devoured us during the night! But, seriously, dear
M., my heart thrills with gratitude to the Father for his tender care
of us during that journey, which, view it as lightly as we may, was
certainly attended with _some_ danger.
Notwithstanding we had endured so much fatigue, I felt as well as ever
I did, and after breakfast insisted upon pursuing our journey, although
F. anxiously advised me to defer it until next day. But imagine the
horror, the _creme de la creme_ of borosity, of remaining for twelve
mortal hours of wakefulness in a filthy, uncomfortable, flea-haunted
shanty, without books or papers, when Rich Bar--easily attainable
before night, through the loveliest scenery, shining in the yellow
splendor of an autumnal morn--lay before us! _I_ had no idea of any
such absurd self-immolation. So we again started on our strange,
eventful journey.
I wish I could give you some faint idea of the majestic solitudes
through which we passed,--where the pine-trees rise so grandly in their
awful height, that they seem to look into heaven itself. Hardly a
living thing disturbed this solemnly beautiful wilderness. Now and then
a tiny lizard glanced in and out among the mossy roots of the old
trees, or a golden butterfly flitted languidly from blossom to blossom.
Sometimes a saucy little squirrel would gleam along the somber trunk of
some ancient oak, or a bevy of quail, with their pretty tufted heads
and short, quick tread, would trip athwart our path. Two or three
times, in the radiant distance, we descried a stately deer, which,
framed in by embowering leaves, and motionless as a tableau, gazed at
us for a moment with its large, limpid eyes, and then bounded away with
the speed of light into the evergreen depths of those glorious old
woods.
Sometimes we were compelled to cross broad plains, acres in extent,
called chaparrals, covered with low shrubs, which, leafless and
barkless, stand like vegetable skeletons along the dreary waste. You
cannot imagine what a weird effect these eldrich bushes had upon my
mind. Of a ghastly whiteness, they at first reminded me of a plantation
of antlers, and I amused myself by fancying them a herd of crouching
deer; but they grew so wan and ghastly, that I began to look forward to
the creeping across a chaparral (it is no easy task for the mules to
wind through them) with almost a feeling of dread.
But what a lovely sight greeted our enchanted eyes as we stopped for a
few moments on the summit of the hill leading into Rich Bar! Deep in
the shadowy nooks of the far-down valleys, like wasted jewels dropped
from the radiant sky above, lay half a dozen blue-bosomed lagoons,
glittering and gleaming and sparkling in the sunlight as though each
tiny wavelet were formed of rifted diamonds. It was worth the whole
wearisome journey--danger from Indians, grizzly bears, sleeping under
the stars, and all--to behold this beautiful vision. While I stood
breathless with admiration, a singular sound, and an exclamation of "A
rattlesnake!" from F., startled me into common sense again. I gave one
look at the reptile, horribly beautiful, like a chain of living opals,
as it corkscrewed itself into that peculiar spiral which it is
compelled to assume in order to make an attack, and then, fear
overcoming curiosity, although I had never seen one of them before, I
galloped out of its vicinity as fast as my little mule could carry me.
The hill leading into Rich Bar is five miles long, and as steep as you
can imagine. Fancy yourself riding for this distance along the edge of
a frightful precipice, where, should your mule make a misstep, you
would be dashed hundreds of feet into the awful ravine below. Every one
we met tried to discourage us, and said that it would be impossible for
me to ride down it. They would take F. aside, much to my amusement, and
tell him that he was assuming a great responsibility in allowing me to
undertake such a journey. I, however, insisted upon going on. About
halfway down we came to a level spot, a few feet in extent, covered
with sharp slate-stones. Here the girth of my saddle, which we
afterwards found to be fastened only by four _tacks_, gave way, and I
fell over the right side, striking on my left elbow. Strange to say, I
was not in the least hurt, and again my heart wept tearful thanks to
God, for, had the accident happened at any other part of the hill, I
must have been dashed, a piece of shapeless nothingness, into the dim
valleys beneath.
F. soon mended the saddle-girth. I mounted my darling little mule, and
rode triumphantly into Rich Bar at five o'clock in the evening. The
Rich Barians are astonished at my courage in daring to ride down the
hill. Many of the miners have told me that they dismounted several
times while descending it. I, of course, feel very vain of my exploit,
and glorify myself accordingly, being particularly careful, all the
time, not to inform my admirers that my courage was the result of the
know-nothing, fear-nothing principle; for I was certainly ignorant,
until I had passed them, of the dangers of the passage. Another thing
that prevented my dismounting was the apparently utter impossibility,
on such a steep and narrow path, of mounting again. Then, I had much
more confidence in my mule's power of picking the way and keeping his
footing, than in my own. It is the prettiest sight in the world to see
these cunning creatures stepping so daintily and cautiously among the
rocks. Their pretty little feet, which absolutely do not look larger
than a silver dollar, seem made on purpose for the task. They are often
perfect little vixens with their masters, but an old mountaineer, who
has ridden them for twenty years, told me that he never knew one to be
skittish with a woman. The intelligent darlings seem to know what a
bundle of helplessness they are carrying, and scorn to take advantage
of it.
We are boarding, at present, at the "Empire," a huge shingle palace in
the center of Rich Bar, which I will describe in my next letter.
Pardon, dear M., the excessive egotism of this letter; but you have
often flattered me by saying that my epistles were only interesting
when profusely illuminated by that manuscriptal decoration represented
by a great _I_. A most intense love of the ornament myself makes it
easy for me to believe you, and doubt not that my future communications
will be as profusely stained with it as even you could desire.
LETTER _the_ SECOND
[_The_ PIONEER, _March_, 1854]
RICH BAR--ITS HOTELS _and_ PIONEER FAMILIES
SYNOPSIS
The Empire Hotel, _the_ hotel of Rich Bar. The author safely ensconced
therein. California might be called the "Hotel State," from the
plenitude of its taverns, etc. The Empire the only two-story building
in Rich Bar, and the only one there having glass windows. Built by
gamblers for immoral purposes. The speculation a failure, its occupants
being treated with contempt or pity. Building sold for a few hundred
dollars. The new landlord of the Empire. The landlady, an example of
the terrible wear and tear to the complexion in crossing the plains. A
resolute woman. Left behind her two children and an eight-months-old
baby. Cooking for six people, her two-weeks-old baby kicking and
screaming in champagne-basket cradle. "The sublime martyrdom of
maternity". Left alone immediately after infant's birth. Husband
dangerously ill, and cannot help. A kindly miner. Three other women at
the Bar. The "Indiana girl". "Girl" a misnomer. "A gigantic piece of
humanity". "Dainty" habits and herculean feats. A log-cabin family.
Pretty and interesting children. "The Miners' Home". Its petite
landlady tends bar. "Splendid material for social parties this winter."
Letter _the_ Second
RICH BAR--ITS HOTELS _and_ PIONEER FAMILIES
RICH BAR, EAST BRANCH _of the_ NORTH FORK _of_ FEATHER RIVER,
_September_ 15, 1851.