the cord, one end of which was attached to the neck of the prisoner,
across the limb of a tree standing outside of the Rich Bar graveyard,
when all who felt disposed to engage in so revolting a task lifted the
poor wretch from the ground in the most awkward manner possible. The
whole affair, indeed, was a piece of cruel butchery, though _that_ was
not intentional, but arose from the ignorance of those who made the
preparations. In truth, life was only crushed out of him by hauling the
writhing body up and down, several times in succession, by the rope,
which was wound round a large bough of his green-leaved gallows. Almost
everybody was surprised at the severity of the sentence, and many, with
their hands on the cord, did not believe even _then_ that it would be
carried into effect, but thought that at the last moment the jury would
release the prisoner and substitute a milder punishment.
It is said that the crowd generally seemed to feel the solemnity of the
occasion, but many of the drunkards, who form a large part of the
community on these bars, laughed and shouted as if it were a spectacle
got up for their particular amusement. A disgusting specimen of
intoxicated humanity, struck with one of those luminous ideas peculiar
to his class, staggered up to the victim, who was praying at the
moment, and, crowding a dirty rag into his almost unconscious hand, in
a voice broken by a drunken hiccough, tearfully implored him to take
his "hankercher," and if he were _innocent_ (the man had not denied his
guilt since first accused), to drop it as soon as he was drawn up into
the air, but if _guilty_, not to let it fall on any account.
The body of the criminal was allowed to hang for some hours after the
execution. It had commenced storming in the earlier part of the
evening, and when those whose business it was to inter the remains
arrived at the spot, they found them enwrapped in a soft white shroud
of feathery snowflakes, as if pitying nature had tried to hide from the
offended face of Heaven the cruel deed which her mountain-children had
committed.
I have heard no one approve of this affair. It seems to have been
carried on entirely by the more reckless part of the community. There
is no doubt, however, that they seriously _thought_ they were doing
right, for many of them are kind and sensible men. They firmly believed
that such an example was absolutely necessary for the protection of
this community. Probably the recent case of Little John rendered this
last sentence more severe than it otherwise would have been. The
Squire, of course, could do nothing (as in criminal cases the _people_
utterly refuse to acknowledge his authority) but protest against the
whole of the proceedings, which he did in the usual legal manner.
If William Brown had committed a murder, or had even attacked a man for
his money; if he had been a quarrelsome, fighting character,
endangering lives in his excitement,--it would have been a very
different affair. But, with the exception of the crime for which he
perished (he _said_ it was his first, and there is no reason to doubt
the truth of his assertion), he was a harmless, quiet, inoffensive
person.
You must not confound this miners' judgment with the doings of the
noble Vigilance Committee of San Francisco. They are almost totally
different in their organization and manner of proceeding. The Vigilance
Committee had become absolutely necessary for the protection of
society. It was composed of the best and wisest men in the city. They
used their power with a moderation unexampled in history, and they laid
it down with a calm and quiet readiness which was absolutely sublime,
when they found that legal justice had again resumed that course of
stern, unflinching duty which should always be its characteristic. They
took ample time for a thorough investigation of all the circumstances
relating to the criminals who fell into their hands, and in _no_ case
have they hung a man who had not been proved beyond the shadow of a
doubt to have committed at least _one_ robbery in which life had been
endangered, if not absolutely taken.
But by this time, dear M., you must be tired of the melancholy subject,
and yet if I keep my promise of relating to you all that interests _us_
in our new and strange life, I shall have to finish my letter with a
catastrophe in many respects more sad than that which I have just
recounted.
At the commencement of our first storm, a hard-working, industrious
laborer, who had accumulated about eight hundred dollars, concluded to
return to the States. As the snow had been falling but a few hours when
he, with two acquaintances, started from Rich Bar, no one doubted that
they would not reach Marysville in perfect safety. They went on foot
themselves, taking with them one mule to carry their blankets. For some
unexplained reason, they took an unfrequented route. When the
expressman came in, he said that he met the two companions of R. eight
miles beyond Buck's Rancho, which is the first house one finds after
leaving Rich Bar, and is only fourteen miles distant from here.
These men had camped at an uninhabited cabin called the "Frenchman's,"
where they had built a fire and were making themselves both merry and
comfortable. They informed the expressman that they had left their
_friend_ (?) three miles back, in a dying state; that the cold had been
too much for him, and that no doubt he was already dead. They had
brought away the money, and even the _blankets_, of the expiring
wretch! They said that if they had stopped with him they would have
been frozen themselves. But even if their story is true, they must be
the most brutal of creatures not to have made him as comfortable as
possible, with _all_ the blankets, and, after they had built their fire
and got warm, to have returned and ascertained if he were really dead.
On hearing the expressman's report, several men who had been acquainted
with the deceased started out to try and discover his remains. They
found his violin, broken into several pieces, but all traces of the
poor fellow himself had disappeared, probably forever.
In the mean while some travelers had carried the same news to Burke's
Rancho, when several of the residents of that place followed the two
men, and overtook them, to Bidwell's Bar, where they had them arrested
on suspicion of murder. They protested their innocence, of course, and
one of them said that he would lead a party to the spot where they had
left the dying man. On arriving in the vicinity of the place, he at
first stated that it was under one tree, then another, and another, and
at last ended by declaring that it was utterly impossible for him to
remember where they were camped at the time of R.'s death.
In this state of things, nothing was to be done but to return to B.'s,
when, the excitement having somewhat subsided, they were allowed to
proceed on their journey, the money, which they both swore R. had
willed in his dying moments to a near relation of one of these very
men, having been taken from them, in order to be sent by express to the
friends of the deceased in the States.
Although they have been acquitted, many shake their heads doubtfully at
the whole transaction. It seems very improbable that a man, accustomed
all his life to hard labor and exposure, even although slightly unwell,
as it is said he was, at the time, should have sunk under the cold
during a walk of less than twenty miles, amid a gentle fall of snow and
rain, when, as it is well known, the air is comparatively mild. It is
to be hoped, however, that the companions of R. were brutal rather than
criminal, though the desertion of a dying friend under such
circumstances, even to the last unfeeling and selfish act of removing
from the expiring creature his blankets, is, in truth, almost as bad as
actual murder.
I hope, in my next, that I shall have something more cheerful than the
above chapter of horrors to relate. In the mean while, adios, and think
as kindly as you can of the dear California, even though her lustrous
skies gaze upon such barbarous deeds.
LETTER _the_ TWELFTH
[_The_ PIONEER, _February_, 1855]
A STORMY WINTER--HOLIDAY SATURNALIAS
SYNOPSIS
Saturnalia in camp. Temptations of riches. Tribute to the miners.
Dreariness of camp-life during stormy winter weather. Christmas and
change of proprietors at the Humboldt. Preparations for a double
celebration. Mule-back loads of brandy-casks and champagne-baskets.
Noisy procession of revelers. Oyster-and-champagne supper. Three days
of revelry. Trial by mock vigilance committee. Judgment to "treat the
crowd". Revels resumed on larger scale at New Year's. Boat-loads of
drunken miners fall into river. Saved by being drunk. Boat-load of
bread falls into river and floats down-stream. Pulley-and-rope device
for hauling boat across river. Fiddlers "nearly fiddled themselves
into the grave". Liquors "beginning to look scarce". Subdued and
sheepish-looking bacchanals. Nothing extenuated, nor aught set down in
malice. Boating on the river. Aquatic plants. Bridge swept away in
torrent. Loss of canoe. Branch from moss-grown fir-tree "a cornice
wreathed with purple-starred tapestry". A New Year's present from the
river. A two-inch spotted trout. No fresh meat for a month. "Dark and
ominous rumors". Dark hams, rusty pork, etc., stored.
Letter _the_ Twelfth
A STORMY WINTER--HOLIDAY SATURNALIAS
_From our Log Cabin,_ INDIAN BAR,
_January_ 27, 1852.
I wish that it were possible, dear M., to give you an idea of the
perfect saturnalia which has been held upon the river for the last
three weeks, without at the same time causing you to think _too_
severely of our good mountains. In truth, it requires not only a large
intellect, but a large heart, to judge with becoming charity of the
peculiar temptations of riches. A more generous, hospitable,
intelligent, and industrious people than the inhabitants of the
half-dozen bars, of which Rich Bar is the nucleus, never existed; for
you know how proverbially wearing it is to the nerves of manhood to be
entirely without either occupation or amusement, and that has been
preeminently the case during the present month.
Imagine a company of enterprising and excitable young men, settled upon
a sandy level about as large as a poor widow's potato-patch, walled in
by sky-kissing hills, absolutely _compelled_ to remain on account of
the weather, which has vetoed indefinitely their exodus, with no place
to ride or drive even if they had the necessary vehicles and quadrupeds;
with no newspapers nor politics to interest them; deprived of all books
but a few dog-eared novels of the poorest class,--churches, lectures,
lyceums, theaters, and (most unkindest cut of all!) pretty girls,
having become to these unhappy men mere myths; without _one_ of the
thousand ways of passing time peculiar to civilization, most of them
living in damp, gloomy cabins, where heaven's dear light can enter only
by the door; and when you add to all these disagreeables the fact that,
during the never-to-be-forgotten month, the most remorseless,
persevering rain which ever set itself to work to drive humanity mad
has been pouring doggedly down, sweeping away bridges, lying in
uncomfortable puddles about nearly all of the habitations, wickedly
insinuating itself beneath un-umbrella-protected shirt-collars,
generously treating to a shower-bath _and_ the rheumatism sleeping
bipeds who did not happen to have an india-rubber blanket, and, to
crown all, rendering mining utterly impossible,--you cannot wonder that
even the most moral should have become somewhat reckless.
The saturnalia commenced on Christmas evening, at the Humboldt, which,
on that very day, had passed into the hands of new proprietors. The
most gorgeous preparations were made for celebrating the _two_ events.
The bar was retrimmed with red calico, the bowling-alley had a new
lining of the coarsest and whitest cotton cloth, and the broken
lamp-shades were replaced by whole ones. All day long, patient mules
could be seen descending the hill, bending beneath casks of brandy and
baskets of champagne, and, for the first time in the history of that
celebrated building, the floor (wonderful to relate, it _has_ a floor)
was _washed_, at a lavish expenditure of some fifty pails of water, the
using up of one entire broom, and the melting away of sundry bars of
the best yellow soap, after which I am told that the enterprising and
benevolent individuals who had undertaken the herculean task succeeded
in washing the boards through the hopeless load of dirt which had
accumulated upon them during the summer and autumn. All these
interesting particulars were communicated to me by Ned when he brought
up dinner. That distinguished individual himself was in his element,
and in a most intense state of perspiration and excitement at the same
time.
About dark we were startled by the loudest hurrahs, which arose at the
sight of an army of india-rubber coats (the rain was falling in
riverfuls), each one enshrouding a Rich Barian, which was rapidly
descending the hill. This troop was headed by the "General," who, lucky
man that he is, waved on high, instead of a banner, a _live_ lantern,
actually composed of tin and window-glass, and evidently intended by
its maker to act in no capacity but that _of_ a lantern. The General is
the largest and tallest, and with one exception I think the oldest, man
upon the river. He is about fifty, I should fancy, and wears a
snow-white beard of such immense dimensions, in both length and
thickness, that any elderly Turk would expire with envy at the mere
sight of it. Don't imagine that _he_ is a reveler. By no means. The gay
crowd followed _him_, for the same reason that the king followed Madam
Blaize,--because she went before.
At nine o'clock in the evening they had an oyster-and-champagne supper
in the Humboldt, which was very gay with toasts, songs, speeches, etc.
I believe that the company danced all night. At any rate, they were
dancing when I went to sleep, and they were dancing when I woke the
next morning. The revel was kept up in this mad way for three days,
growing wilder every hour. Some never slept at all during that time. On
the fourth day they got past dancing, and, lying in drunken heaps about
the barroom, commenced a most unearthly howling. Some barked like dogs,
some roared like bulls, and others hissed like serpents and geese. Many
were too far gone to imitate anything but their own animalized selves.
The scene, from the description I have had of it, must have been a
complete illustration of the fable of Circe and her fearful
transformations. Some of these bacchanals were among the most
respectable and respected men upon the river. Many of them had resided
here for more than a year, and had never been seen intoxicated before.
It seemed as if they were seized with a reckless mania for pouring down
liquor, which, as I said above, everything conspired to foster and
increase.
Of course there were some who kept themselves aloof from these
excesses, but they were few, and were not allowed to enjoy their
sobriety in peace. The revelers formed themselves into a mock vigilance
committee, and when one of these unfortunates appeared outside, a
constable, followed by those who were able to keep their legs, brought
him before the court, where he was tried on some amusing charge, and
_invariably_ sentenced to "treat the crowd." The prisoners had
generally the good sense to submit cheerfully to their fate.
Towards the latter part of the week, people were compelled to be a
little more quiet, from sheer exhaustion, but on New Year's Day, when
there was a grand dinner at Rich Bar, the excitement broke out, if
possible, worse than ever. The same scenes, in a more or less
aggravated form, in proportion as the strength of the actors held out,
were repeated at Smith's Bar and The Junction.
Nearly every day I was dreadfully frightened by seeing a boat-load of
intoxicated men fall into the river, where nothing but the fact of
their _being_ intoxicated saved many of them from drowning. One morning
about thirty dollars' worth of bread (it must have been tipsy-cake),
which the baker was conveying to Smith's Bar, fell overboard, and
sailed merrily away towards Marysville. People passed the river in a
boat, which was managed by a pulley and a rope that was strained across
it from Indian Bar to the opposite shore.
Of the many acquaintances who had been in the habit of calling nearly
evening, three, only, appeared in the cabin during as many weeks. Now,
however, the saturnalia is about over. Ned and Chock have nearly
fiddled themselves into their respective graves, the claret (a favorite
wine with miners) and oysters are exhausted, brandied fruits are rarely
seen, and even port-wine is beginning to look scarce. Old callers
occasionally drop in, looking dreadfully sheepish and subdued, and _so
sorry_, and people are evidently arousing themselves from the bacchanal
madness into which they were so suddenly and so strangely drawn.
With the exception of my last, this is the most unpleasant letter which
I have ever felt it my duty to write to you. Perhaps you will wonder
that I should touch upon such a disagreeable subject at all. But I am
bound, Molly, by my promise to give you a _true_ picture (as much as in
me lies) of mining-life and its peculiar temptations, nothing
extenuating, nor setting down aught in malice. But, with all their
failings, believe me, the miners, as a class, possess many truly
admirable characteristics.
I have had rather a stupid time during the storm. We have been in the
habit of taking frequent rows upon the river, in a funny little
toppling canoe carved out of a log. The bridge at one end of our
boating-ground, and the rapids at the other, made quite a pretty lake.
To be sure, it was so small that we generally passed and repassed its
beautiful surface at least thirty times in an hour. But we did not mind
_that_, I can assure you. We were only _too_ glad to be able to go onto
the water at all. I used to return loaded down with the magnificent
large leaves of some aquatic plant which the gentle frosts had painted
with the most gorgeous colors, lots of fragrant mint, and a few wan
white flowers which had lingered past their autumnal glory. The richest
hothouse bouquet could never give me half the pleasure which I took in
arranging, in a pretty vase of purple and white, those gorgeous leaves.
They made me think of Moorish arabesques, so quaint and bizarre, and at
the same time dazzlingly brilliant, were the varied tints. They were in
their glory at evening, for, like an oriental beauty, they lighted up
splendidly. Alas! where, one little month ago, my little lake lay
laughing up at the stars, a turbid torrent rushes noisily by. The poor
little canoe was swept away with the bridge, and splendid leaves hide
their bright heads forever beneath the dark waters.
But I am not entirely bereft of the beautiful. From my last walk I
brought home a tiny bit of outdoors, which, through all the long, rainy
months that are to come, will sing to me silently, yet eloquently, of
the blue and gold of the vanished summer, and the crimson and purple of
its autumn. It is a branch, gathered from that prettiest feature of
mountain scenery,--a moss-grown fir-tree. You will see them at every
step, standing all-lovely in this graceful robe. It is, in color, a
vivid pea-green, with little hard flowers which look more like dots
than anything else, and contrast beautifully with the deeper verdure of
the fir. The branch which I brought home I have placed above my window.
It is three feet in length, and as large round as a person's arm; and
there it remains, a cornice wreathed with purple-starred tapestry,
whose wondrous beauty no upholsterer can ever match.
I have got the prettiest New Year's present. You will never guess what
it is, so I shall have to tell you. On the eve of the year, as the
"General" was lifting a glass of water, which had just been brought
from the river, to his lips, he was startled at the sight of a tiny
fish. He immediately put it into a glass jar and gave it to me. It is
that most lovely of all the creatures of Thetis, a spotted trout, a
little more than two inches in length. Its back, of mingled green and
gold, is splashed with dots of the richest sable. A mark of a dark-ruby
color, in shape like an anchor, crowns its elegant little head. Nothing
can be prettier than the delicate wings of pale purple with which its
snowy belly is faintly penciled. Its jet-black eyes, rimmed with silver
within a circlet of rare sea-blue, gleam like diamonds, and its whole
graceful shape is gilded with a shimmering sheen infinitely lovely.
When I watch it from across the room as it glides slowly round its
crystal palace, it reminds me of a beam of many-colored light, but when
it glides up and down in its gay playfulness, it gleams through the
liquid atmosphere like a box of shining silver. "A thing of beauty is a
joy forever," and truly I never weary watching the perfected loveliness
of my graceful little captive.
In the list of my deprivations above written, I forgot to mention a
fact which I know will gain me the sympathy of all carnivorously
disposed people. It is, that we have had no fresh meat for nearly a
month! Dark and ominous rumors are also floating through the moist air,
to the effect that the potatoes and onions are about to give out! But
don't be alarmed, dear Molly. There is no danger of a famine. For have
we not got wagon-loads of hard, dark hams, whose indurated hearts
nothing but the sharpest knife and the stoutest arm can penetrate? Have
we not got quintals of dreadful mackerel, fearfully crystallized in
black salt? Have we not barrels upon barrels of rusty pork, and flour
enough to victual a large army for the next two years? Yea, verily,
have we, and more also. For we have oysters in cans, preserved meats,
and sardines (apropos, I _detest_ them), by the hundred-boxful.
So, hush the trembling of that tender little heart, and shut those
tearful and alarmed eyes while I press a good-night kiss On their
drooping lids.
LETTER _the_ THIRTEENTH
[_The_ PIONEER, _March_, 1855]
SOCIABILITY _and_ EXCITEMENTS _of_ MINING-LIFE
SYNOPSIS
Departure Indian Bar of the mulatto Ned. His birthday-celebration
dinner, at which the New Year's piscatory phenomenon figures in the
bill of fare. A total disregard of dry laws at the dinner. Excitement
over reported discovery of quartz-mines. A complete humbug. Charges of
salting. Excitement renewed upon report of other new quartz-mines. Even
if rich, lack of proper machinery would render working thereof
impossible. Prediction that quartz-mines eventually will be the most
profitable. Miners decamp without paying their debts. Pursuit and
capture. Miners' court orders settlement in full. Celebration, by
French miners, of the Revolution of 1848. Invitation to dine at
best-built log cabin on the river. The habitation of five or six young
miners. A perfect marvel of a fireplace. Huge unsplit logs as firewood.
Window of glass jars. Possibilities in the use of empty glass
containers. Unthrift of some miners. The cabin, its furniture, store of
staple provisions, chinaware, cutlery. The dinner in the cabin. A cow
kept. Wonderful variety of makeshift candlesticks in use among the
miners. Dearth of butter, potatoes, onions, fresh meat, in camp.
Indian-summer weather at Indian Bar. A cozy retreat in the hills. A
present of feathered denizens of the mountains. Roasted for dinner.
Letter _the_ Thirteenth
SOCIABILITY _and_ EXCITEMENTS _of_ MINING-LIFE
_From our Log Cabin_, INDIAN BAR,
_February_ 27, 1852.
You will find this missive, dear M., a journal, rather than a letter;
for the few insignificant events which have taken place since I last
wrote to you will require but three lines apiece for their recital. But
stop; when I say "insignificant" I forget one all-important misfortune
which, for our sins I suppose, has befallen us, in the sudden departure
of our sable Paganini.