to have been the ringleaders in the sabbath-day riot. Two of them were
sentenced to be whipped, the remainder to leave the Bar that evening,
the property of all to be confiscated to the use of the wounded
persons. O Mary! imagine my anguish when I heard the first blow fall
upon those wretched men. I had never thought that I should be compelled
to hear such fearful sounds, and, although I immediately buried my head
in a shawl, nothing can efface from memory the disgust and horror of
that moment. I had heard of such things, but heretofore had not
realized that in the nineteenth century men could be beaten like dogs,
much less that other men not only could sentence such barbarism, but
could actually stand by and see their own manhood degraded in such
disgraceful manner. One of these unhappy persons was a very gentlemanly
young Spaniard, who implored for death in the most moving terms. He
appealed to his judges in the most eloquent manner, as gentlemen, as
men of honor, representing to them that to be deprived of life was
nothing in comparison with the never-to-be-effaced stain of the vilest
convict's punishment to which they had sentenced him. Finding all his
entreaties disregarded, he swore a most solemn oath, that he would
murder every American that he should chance to meet alone, and as he is
a man of the most dauntless courage, and rendered desperate by a
burning sense of disgrace which will cease only with his life, he will
doubtless keep his word.
Although, in my very humble opinion, and in that of others more
competent to judge of such matters than myself, these sentences were
unnecessarily severe, yet so great was the rage and excitement of the
crowd that the vigilance committee could do no less. The mass of the
mob demanded fiercely the death of the prisoners, and it was evident
that many of the committee took side with the people. I shall never
forget how horror-struck I was (bombastic as it _now_ sounds) at
hearing no less a personage than the Whig candidate for representative
say that the condemned had better fly for their lives, for the "Avenger
of Blood" was on their tracks! I am happy to say that said very worthy
but sanguinary individual, the Avenger of Blood, represented in this
case by some half-dozen gambling rowdies, either changed his mind or
lost scent of his prey, for the intended victims slept about two miles
up the hill quite peacefully until morning.
The following facts, elicited upon the trial, throw light upon this
unhappy affair. Seven miners from Old Spain, enraged at the cruel
treatment which their countrymen had received on the Fourth, and at the
illiberal cry of "Down with the Spaniards," had united for the purpose
of taking revenge on seven Americans, whom they believed to be the
originators of their insults. All well armed, they came from The
Junction, where they were residing at the time, intending to challenge
each one his man, and in fair fight compel their insolent aggressors to
answer for the arrogance which they had exhibited more than once
towards the Spanish race. Their first move, on arriving at Indian Bar,
was to go and dine at the Humboldt, where they drank a most enormous
quantity of champagne and claret. Afterwards they proceeded to the
house of the Englishman whose brutal carelessness caused the accident
which wounded Pizarro and Oxley, when one of them commenced a playful
conversation with one of his countrywomen. This enraged the Englishman,
who instantly struck the Spaniard a violent blow and ejected him from
the shanty. Thereupon ensued a spirited fight, which, through the
exertion of a gentleman from Chile, a favorite with both nations, ended
without bloodshed. This person knew nothing of the intended duel, or he
might have prevented, by his wise counsels, what followed. Not
suspecting for a moment anything of the kind, he went to Rich Bar. Soon
after he left, Tom Somers, who is said always to have been a dangerous
person when in liquor, without any apparent provocation struck Domingo
(one of the original seven) a violent blow, which nearly felled him to
the earth. The latter, a man of "dark antecedents" and the most
reckless character, mad with wine, rage, and revenge, without an
instant's pause drew his knife and inflicted a fatal wound upon his
insulter. Thereupon followed the chapter of accidents which I have
related.
On Tuesday following the fatal sabbath, a man brought news of the
murder of a Mr. Bacon, a person well known on the river, who kept a
ranch about twelve miles from Rich Bar. He was killed for his money by
his servant, a negro, who, not three months ago, was our own cook. He
was the last one anybody would have suspected capable of such an act.
A party of men, appointed by the vigilance committee, left the Bar
immediately in search of him. The miserable wretch was apprehended in
Sacramento, and part of the gold found upon his person. On the
following Sunday he was brought in chains to Rich Bar. After a trial by
the miners, he was sentenced to be hanged at four o' clock in the
evening. All efforts to make him confess proved futile. He said very
truly that whether innocent or guilty they would hang him, and so he
"died and made no sign" with a calm indifference, as the novelists say,
worthy of a better cause. The dreadful crime and death of Josh, who,
having been an excellent cook, and very neat and respectful, was a
favorite servant with us, added to the unhappiness which you can easily
imagine that I was suffering under all these horrors.
On Saturday evening, about eight o'clock, as we sat quietly conversing
with the two ladies from the hill,--whom, by the way, we found very
agreeable additions to our society, hitherto composed entirely of
gentlemen,--we were startled by the loud shouting, and the rushing
close by the door of the cabin, which stood open, of three or four
hundred men. Of course we feminines, with nerves somewhat shattered
from the events of the past week, were greatly alarmed.
We were soon informed that Henry Cook, vice Josh, had, in a fit of
delirium tremens, cut his throat from ear to ear. The poor wretch was
alone when he committed the desperate deed, and in his madness,
throwing the bloody razor upon the ground, ran part of the way up the
hill. Here he was found almost senseless, and brought back to the
Humboldt, where he was very nearly the cause of hanging poor Paganini
Ned, who returned a few weeks since from the valley; for his first act
on recovering himself was to accuse that culinary individual of having
attempted to murder him. The mob were for hanging one poor Vattel
without judge or jury, and it was only through the most strenuous
exertions of his friends that the life of this illustrious person was
saved. Poor Ned! It was forty-eight hours before his corkscrews
returned to their original graceful curl. He threatens to leave us to
our barbarism, and no longer to waste his culinary talents upon an
ungrateful and inappreciative people. He has sworn war to the knife
against Henry, who was formerly his most intimate friend, as nothing
can persuade him that the accusation did not proceed from the purest
malice on the part of the would-be suicide.
Their majesties the mob, with that beautiful consistency which usually
distinguishes those august individuals, insisted upon shooting poor
Harry, for, said they,--and the reasoning is remarkably conclusive and
clear,--a man so hardened as to raise his hand against his _own_ life
will never hesitate to murder another! They almost mobbed F. for
binding up the wounds of the unfortunate wretch, and for saying that it
was possible he might live. At last, however, they compromised the
matter by determining that if Henry should recover he should leave the
Bar immediately. Neither contingency will probably take place, as it
will be almost a miracle if he survives.
On the day following the attempted suicide, which was Sunday, nothing
more exciting happened than a fight and the half-drowning of a drunken
individual in the river, just in front of the Humboldt.
On Sunday last the thigh of Senor Pizarro was amputated, but, alas!
without success. He had been sick for many months with chronic
dysentery, which, after the operation, returned with great violence,
and he died at two o'clock on Monday morning, with the same calm and
lofty resignation which had distinguished him during his illness. When
first wounded, believing his case hopeless, he had decidedly refused to
submit to amputation, but as time wore on he was persuaded to take this
one chance for his life for the sake of his daughter, a young girl of
fifteen, at present at school in a convent in Chile, whom his death
leaves without any near relative. I saw him several times during his
illness, and it was melancholy indeed to hear him talk of his
motherless girl, who, I have been told, is extremely beautiful,
talented, and accomplished.
The state of society here has never been so bad as since the
appointment of a committee of vigilance. The rowdies have formed
themselves into a company called the "Moguls," and they parade the
streets all night, howling, shouting, breaking into houses, taking
wearied miners out of their beds and throwing them into the river, and,
in short, "murdering sleep" in the most remorseless manner. Nearly
every night they build bonfires fearfully near some rag shanty, thus
endangering the lives (or, I should rather say, the property, for, as
it is impossible to sleep, lives are emphatically safe) of the whole
community. They retire about five o'clock in the morning, previously to
this blessed event posting notices to that effect, and that they will
throw any one who may disturb them into the river. I am nearly worn out
for want of rest, for, truly, they "make night hideous" with their
fearful uproar. Mr. Oxley, who still lies dangerously ill from the
wound received on what we call the "fatal Sunday," complains bitterly
of the disturbances; and when poor Pizarro was dying, and one of his
friends gently requested that they be quiet for half an hour and permit
the soul of the sufferer to pass in peace, they only laughed and yelled
and hooted louder than ever in the presence of the departing spirit,
for the tenement in which he lay, being composed of green boughs only,
could, of course, shut out no sounds. Without doubt, if the Moguls had
been sober, they would never have been guilty of such horrible
barbarity as to compel the thoughts of a dying man to mingle with
curses and blasphemies, but, alas! they were intoxicated, and may God
forgive them, unhappy ones, for they knew not what they did. The poor,
exhausted miners--for even well people cannot sleep in such a
pandemonium--grumble and complain, but they, although far outnumbering
the rioters, are too timid to resist. All say, "It is shameful,"
"Something ought to be done," "Something _must_ be done," etc., and in
the mean time the rioters triumph; You will wonder that the committee
of vigilance does not interfere. It is said that some of that very
committee are the ringleaders among the Moguls.
I believe I have related to you everything but the duel, and I will
make the recital of this as short as possible, for I am sick of these
sad subjects, and doubt not but you are the same. It took place on
Tuesday morning, at eight o'clock, on Missouri Bar, when and where that
same Englishman who has figured so largely in my letter shot his best
friend. The duelists were surrounded by a large crowd, I have been
told, foremost among which stood the committee of vigilance! The man
who received his dear friend's fatal shot was one of the most quiet and
peaceable citizens on the Bar. He lived about ten minutes after he was
wounded. He was from Ipswich, England, and only twenty-five years old
when his own high passions snatched him from life. In justice to his
opponent it must be said that he would willingly have retired after the
first shots had been exchanged, but poor Billy Leggett, as he was
familiarly called, insisted upon having the distance between them
shortened, and continuing the duel until one of them had fallen.
There, my dear M., have I not fulfilled my promise of giving you a dish
of horrors? And only think of such a shrinking, timid, frail thing as I
_used_ to be "long time ago" not only living right in the midst of
them, but almost compelled to hear, if not see, the whole. I think I
may without vanity affirm that I have "seen the elephant." "Did you see
his tail?" asks innocent Ada J., in her mother's letter. Yes, sweet
Ada; the entire animal has been exhibited to my view. "But you must
remember that this is California," as the new-comers are so fond of
informing _us!_ who consider ourselves "one of the oldest inhabitants"
of the Golden State.
And now, dear M., adios. Be thankful that you are living in the
beautiful quiet of beautiful A., and give up "hankering arter" (as you
know what dear creature says) California, for, believe me, this coarse,
barbarous life would suit you even less than it does your sister.
LETTER _the_ TWENTIETH
[_The_ PIONEER, _September_, 1855]
MURDER--MINING SCENES--SPANISH BREAKFAST
SYNOPSIS
Ramada, unoccupied, wrecked by log rolling down hill. Was place of
residence of wounded Spaniard, who died but a few days previously.
Murder near Indian Bar. Innocent and harmless person arrested, said to
answer description of murderer. A humorous situation. A "guard of
honor" from the vigilantes while in custody. Upon release his expenses
paid. Had a rest from hard work. Tendered a present and a handsome
apology. Public opinion in the mines a cruel but fortunately a fickle
thing. Invitation to author to breakfast at Spanish garden. The journey
thereto, along river, with its busy mining scenes. The wing-dam, and
how it differs from the ordinary dam. An involuntary bath. Drifts,
shafts, coyote-holes. How claims are worked. Flumes. Unskilled workmen.
Their former professions or occupations. The best water in California,
but the author is unappreciative. Flavorless, but, since the Flood,
always tastes of sinners. Don Juan's country-seat. The Spanish
breakfast. The eatables and the drinkables. Stronger spirits for the
stronger spirits. Ice, through oversight, the only thing lacking.
Yank's tame cub. Parodic doggerel by the author on her loss of pets. A
miners' dinner-party with but one teaspoon, and that one borrowed. An
unlearned and wearisome blacksmith.
Letter _the_ Twentieth
MURDER--MINING SCENES--SPANISH BREAKFAST
_From our Log Cabin_, INDIAN BAR,
_September_ 4, 1852.
If I could coax some good-natured fairy or some mischievous Puck to
borrow for me the pen of Grace Greenwood, Fanny Forester, or Nathaniel
P. Willis, I might be able to weave my stupid nothings into one of
those airy fabrics the value of which depends entirely upon the
skillful work, or rather penmanship, which distinguishes it. I have
even fancied that if I could steal a feather from the living opal
swinging like a jeweled pendulum from the heart of the great tiger-lily
which nods its turbaned head so stately within the mosquito-net cage
standing upon the little table, my poor lines would gather a certain
beauty from the rainbow-tinted quill with which I might trace them. But
as there is nobody magician enough to go out and shoot a fairy or a
brownie and bind it by sign and spell to do my bidding, and as I have
strong doubts whether my coarse fingers would be able to manage the
delicate pen of a humming-bird even if I could have the heart to rob my
only remaining pet of its brilliant feathers, I am fain to be content
with one of "Gillott's Best,"--no, of "C. R. Sheton's Extra Fine,"
although I am certain that the sentences following its hard stroke will
be as stiff as itself. If they were only as bright, one might put up
with the want of grace, but to be stiff and stupid both, is _too_
provoking, is it not, dear M.? However, what must be, must be; and as I
have nothing to write about, and do not possess the skill to make that
nothing graceful, and as you will fret yourself into a scold if you do
not receive the usual amount of inked pages at the usual time, why, of
course I am bound to act (my first appearance on _any_ stage, I flatter
myself in _that_ character) the very original part of the _bore_, and
you must prepare to be bored with what philosophy you may.
But, without further preface, I will begin with one of the nothings. A
few days after the death of the unfortunate Spaniard, related in my
last letter, a large log, felled by some wickedly careless woodman,
rolled down from one of the hills, and so completely extinguished the
little ramada in which our poor friend lay at the time of his death
that you would never have imagined from the heap of broken branches
that remain that it had once been a local habitation with such a pretty
name. Providentially, at the time of the accident, none of those who
had been in the habit of staying there were within. If Senor Pizarro
had survived the amputation of his leg, it would only have been to
suffer a still more terrible death,--an accident which would have
deepened, if possible, the gloom which we have suffered during the
melancholy summer.
There has been another murder committed within a few miles of this
place, which has given us something to gossip about, for the committee
of vigilance had the good nature, purely for our amusement I conclude,
to apprehend a lucky individual (I call him _lucky_ advisedly, for he
had all his expenses paid at the Humboldt, was remunerated for his lost
time, enjoyed a holiday from hard work, had a sort of guard of honor
composed of the most respectable men on the river, and was of more
consequence for four days than ever he had been in the whole of his
insignificant little life before) whom somebody fancied bore a faint
resemblance to the description of the murderer. This interesting
lion--I was so fortunate as to catch a glimpse of him one morning, and
am convinced that he would "roar you as gently as any sucking
dove"--was fully cleared from the suspected crime; and if, before his
acquittal, one might have fancied from the descriptions of his
countenance that none but that of Mephistopheles in the celebrated
picture of the Game of Life could equal its terrific malignity,
after-accounts drew it a very Saint John's for sweet serenity of
expression. What was then called sullenness now took the name of
resignation, and stupidity was quiet contempt. Indeed, I began to fear
that they would give him a public triumph, and invite me to make the
flag with which to grace it. I confess that I would almost have voted
him a procession myself, in gratitude for the amusement which he had
given us. However, the committee were content with making him a
handsome apology and present, and paying his expenses at the Humboldt.
O public opinion in the mines, thou art in truth a _cruel_ thing, but,
thank God, most _fickle_!
The other day we were invited by a Spanish friend to breakfast at a
garden situated half a mile from The Junction, and owned by another
Spaniard. It was a lovely morning in the latter part of August, and as
we started about six o'clock, the walk was a most delightful one. The
river, filled with flumes, dams, etc., and crowded with busy miners,
was as much altered from its old appearance as if an earthquake had
frightened it from its propriety.
I suppose that you are quite worn out with descriptions of walks, and I
will spare you this once. I will not tell you how sometimes we were
stepping lightly over immense rocks which a few months since lay
fathoms deep beneath the foaming Plumas; nor how sometimes we were
walking high above the bed of the river, from flume to flume, across a
board connecting the two; nor how now we were scrambling over the roots
of the upturned trees, and now jumping tiny rivulets; nor shall I say a
single word about the dizziness we felt as we crept by the deep
excavations lying along the road, nor of the beautiful walk at the side
of the wing-dam (it differs from a common dam, in dividing the river
lengthways instead of across), the glittering water rising bluely
almost to a level with the path. I do not think that I will ever tell
you about the impromptu bath which one of the party took by tumbling
accidentally into the river as he was walking gallantly behind us,
which said bath made him decidedly disagree in our enthusiastic opinion
of the loveliness of the promenade.
No; I shall not say a single word upon any of these subjects, but leave
them all to your vivid imagination. Corkscrews could not draw a
solitary sentence from me, now that I have made up my mind to silence.
But I _will_ tell you about the driftings in the side of the hill,
which we visited on our way,--not so much from a precious desire of
enlightening your pitiable ignorance upon such subjects, you poor,
little, untraveled Yankee woman! but to prove to you that, having
fathomed the depths of shafts, and threaded the mazes of coyote-holes,
I intend to astonish the weak nerves of stay-at-homes, if I ever return
to New England, by talking learnedly upon such subjects, as one having
authority.
These particular "claims" consist of three galleries lying about eighty
feet beneath the summit of the hill, and have already been drifted from
one hundred and fifty to two hundred feet into its side. They are about
five feet in height, slightly arched, the sides and roof, formed of
rugged rocks, dripping with moisture, as if sweating beneath the great
weight above. Lights are placed at regular distances along these
galleries to assist the miners in their work, and boards laid on the
wet ground to make a convenient path for the wheelbarrows which convey
the dirt and sand to the river for the purpose of washing it. Wooden
beams are placed here and there to lessen the danger of caving in, but
I must confess that in spite of this precaution I was at first haunted
with a horrible feeling of insecurity. As I became reassured I repeated
loudly those glorious lines of Mrs. Hemans commencing with--
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
O God, our fathers' God!
And a strange echo the gray rocks sent back, as if the mine-demons,
those ugly gnomes which German legends tell us work forever in the
bowels of the earth, were shouting my words in mockery from the dim
depths beyond.
These claims have paid remarkably well, and if they hold out as they
have commenced, the owners will gather a small fortune from their
summer's work.
There is nothing which impresses me more strangely than the fluming
operations. The idea of a mighty river being taken up in a wooden
trough, turned from the old channel along which it has foamed for
centuries perhaps, its bed excavated many feet in depth, and itself
restored to its old home in the fall,--these things strike me as almost
a blasphemy against nature, And then the idea of men succeeding in such
a work here in the mountains, with machinery and tools of the poorest
description, to say nothing of the unskilled workmen,--doctors,
lawyers, ministers, scholars, gentlemen, farmers, etc.
When we arrived at the little oak-opening described in a former letter,
we were, of course, in duty bound to take a draft from the spring,
which its admirers declare is the best water in all California. When it
came to my turn, I complacently touched the rusty tin cup, though I
never _did_ care much for water, in the abstract, _as_ water. Though I
think it very useful to make coffee, tea, chocolate, and other good
drinks, I could never detect any other flavor in it than that of
_cold_, and have often wondered whether there was any truth in the
remark of a character in some play, that, ever since the world was
drowned in it, it had tasted of sinners!
When we arrived at what may be called, in reference to the Bar, the
country-seat of Don Juan, we were ushered into the parlor, two sides of
which opened upon the garden and the grand old mountains which rise
behind it, while the other two sides and the roof were woven with fresh
willow boughs, crisply green, and looking as if the dew had scarcely
yet dried from the polished leaves.