CALIFORNIA FROM SAN DIEGO TO SAN FRANCISCO
_San Diego. November 6, 1849._ We started for Los Angeles at ten this
morning, leaving behind Havens, Sloat, Watkinson, Lee, Snider, Perry,
Dr. Trask, Steele, Bachman, Stevens and Cree, to follow by boat; Cree
remained at my request to take care of Stevens, who is seriously ill,
and Bachman is not strong enough to march further.
The road from San Diego is a pleasant one; northwest over a few moderate
hills brings the traveller to the edge of a large bay, which from its
appearance seems to be shallow; to the west, mountains, not the Coast
Range, and a few miles along this bay, a beautiful "hollow" rather than
valley, opens, and after six or eight miles leads to some steep and
disagreeable hills, where our first night from San Diego will be passed.
I did not regret leaving San Diego, except for the kindness received
there (it is a miserable Mexican town) and our own rather forlorn
condition. About forty men continue with me, half of us on foot, the
other half scarcely much better, as our animals are woefully jaded, but
we could not stop, for we are even worse off for funds than for mounts,
as we have only about four hundred dollars, for all our expenses, for
over six hundred miles. But our outlay will be small, for with all the
assistance of the officers, which has been most liberally given, we have
only secured half rations of flour and pork; we are so accustomed to
doing without sugar and coffee, that we scarcely care for it.
_November 7th._ We were off at daylight according to custom, and
followed the trail over hill and hollow, with an occasional valley. At
times the ocean was in full view, its soft blue horizon line melting
into the clear, cloudless sky. To our right, high over the Mission of
St. Louis del Rey, smiled, glistening in snowy purity, the highest peaks
of the Snowy Mountains, Sierra Nevada. The soil is black loam, and the
bottoms still blacker, but on this day's travel much of the soil has
been salt.
Seeing a few ducks alight at a little lake, almost like a running
stream, I went after them, and found some hundreds of gadwalls, and
bald-pates, and in half an hour had sufficient for all our company,
which I need not tell you we enjoyed, though not cooked at Baltimore "à
la Canvasback."
Hundreds of California marmots are seen daily, at a distance looking
like a common squirrel, so much so that the men all call them squirrels;
their color varies very much, being every shade of grey and reddish
brown.
The Mission of Luis Rey,[37] as it is now called, now in the possession
of the Americans, is kept by an old Mexican; it presents, as you get the
first view of it going north, one of the most impressive scenes I can
recall; its long row of low, but regular arches, the façade whitewashed,
and the church at the east end, with many outlying buildings covered
with red tiles, the whole standing in a broad valley running eastward
for miles, until the view ends in the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada,
compels the traveller to pause and to admire.
As we stood looking at all this, from a hill higher than the one on
which we were, swooped a California vulture, coming towards us until,
at about fifty yards, having satisfied his curiosity, though not mine,
he rose in majestic circles high above us, and with a sudden dash took
a straight line, somewhat inclining downwards, towards the mountains
across the valley and was lost to sight, from actual distance.
The garden of the Mission has been beautiful, and we found it still
well stocked with vines, olives, figs, etc., but the same desolation
is visible everywhere through this country of splendid soil, which here
is rather sandy. There is still lack of wood and water, irrigation has
been universal.
The Missions seem to have been divided into the residence, with
beautiful gardens, the church, the stock farm and the grain-growing
lands, and all have possessed much comfort if not considerable wealth.
Naturally those who lived in them wished to isolate themselves from the
world, and to surrender the pleasures and ambitions found there, for
the advancement of their religion, or, at least, were willing to do so.
_November 9th._ I have already seen the nucleus of an American rancho,
in this country, which is lonely rather than desolate. We have passed
many fine old Missions, at least six or seven, but though in the midst
of beautiful land, with hundreds of horses and cattle, and many herds of
sheep and goats, the indolence of the people has left all decaying, and
they live in dirt and ignorance, and merely vegetate away this life in
listlessness, except for the occasional excitement of a trade in horses,
or a game of monte. We have had many melons, late in the season as we
are; they are pulled and put up as the French do pears, and keep fresh
for many weeks.
All the people here ride well, and fast, many without saddles; these
latter tie a rope, or if they have it, a surcingle, buckle that around
the body of the horse, and stick both knees under it, so that it is a
great assistance to them. The gallop is the usual gait at which they
travel. The continual absence of wood gives an appearance to all the
hills, of old fields, but many of the valleys are truly beautiful; fine
sycamores, oaks and cottonwoods along the water making everything look
refreshing to a degree that none can realize but those who have been
for weeks exposed to sun and rain, keen winds and cold nights, without
woods for shelter or fire; in cooking we have often had to keep up a
fire with weeds, some men attending to this, while the others fried our
meat, made coffee, and what we _called_ bread.
_Los Angeles._ This "city of the angels" is anything else, unless the
angels are fallen ones. An antiquated, dilapidated air pervades all,
but Americans are pouring in, and in a few years will make a beautiful
place of it. It is well watered by a pretty little river, led off in
irrigating ditches like those at San Antonio de Bexar. The whole town is
surrounded to the south with very luxuriant vines, and the grapes are
quite delightful; we parted from them with great regret, as fruit is
such a luxury to us. Many of the men took bushels, and only paid small
sums for them.
The hills to the north command the whole town, and will be the place
for the garrison.
San Pedro, twenty-seven miles south-west, is the port, and is _said_ to
have a good harbor. All the country round is rolling, and in many places
almost mountainous. Before you get to the Coast Range the soil is most
of it very good, and the cattle are fine; wild mustard grows everywhere,
to the height of five feet or more; in the richest soil attaining seven
and eight feet, and we have twice cooked our meal with no fuel but the
stalks of this weed.
We have had great trouble with our mules for want of grass, and the
poor things wandered miles, and we lost some few, and had difficulty
in getting the others. After long consultations we decided to divide,
eleven of us to bring on the mules and take the valley of the Tulare for
our route; the rest of the company under Henry Mallory going up in the
barque Hector for thirty dollars each, as our mules are utterly broken
down, and we want to get them through to San Francisco if we can. So
much for our splendid outfit, so much for the plans of our Military
Commander. But let it pass, and I will try to describe our route.
[_No date._] Leaving Los Angeles at one o'clock, with forty-six mules
and ten men, I making the eleventh, and two of the number being my
true friends Browning and Simson, we passed eastward of the town, and
followed the little river of the same name, and camped on the best grass
we had had, and with so good a beginning, expected to have the same for
our poor animals for the rest of our journey, and in some degree recruit
them and heal their sore backs.
[_No date._] Today our ride of about eighteen miles was over a plain of
rather poor soil, and we found the rancho; it was formerly the Mission
of San Fernando.[38] Like most of the others, it has a long portico
and arches; a few pictures of the Virgin and some images of the saints
are still standing, but, from an artistic point of view, they are poor
trash. The garden is still most luxuriant, and many grapes are grown
here, and wine made, as well as other liquors distilled. It looked like
sacrilege to me to see the uses made of sacred places but so the changes
appear to be in these countries; dilapidation immediately follows the
removal of the priests. Great dislike was manifested to the Americans
here, and they would neither give nor sell any of the fruits they had
in such abundance, grapes and melons wasting on the ground.
Leaving this rancho we camped five miles further on our way, up an
arroyo, in tall, rush-like grass, where we had only bad water, being so
charged with sulphur and various salts as to be undrinkable. The hills
are of a friable, whitish clay and sandstone, and after a very steep
ascent, we gradually descended into a beautiful valley to the rancho
San Francisco, and encamped in sight of it with good water, and plenty
of wood. In the morning Rhoades killed the first black-tailed deer that
any of the party has secured. We found it very good meat, and quite
enjoyed it, after the continuance of beef we have had since our arrival
on this side of the great divide, as at the rancho we can usually buy
fine, young cattle for from eight to twelve dollars.
[_No date._] We now commenced the regular ascent of the Coast Range, the
mountains at first were sandy loam and sandstone; we had no grand views,
even of distance, and we lost two of our mules from fatigue. Our descent
was rapid for some miles, and brought us to the gorge leading to the
dividing ridge, where was a rapid torrent, about up to our knees, and as
we followed it scenes of the wildest description presented themselves.
Sometimes it looked as if our further progress was completely at an
end, and again a turn at right angles showed us half a mile more of our
road. The rocks here are shelly sandstone, looking at first sight, at
a distance, like slate. The tops of all the mountains are covered with
snow, and the wind from the northwest was blowing so hard as to bring
our tired mules to a standstill, as the puffs struck them.
As we came out into the plain or valley a few squalls of hail and rain
came on, and we were glad to camp near some cottonwoods, not deeming
it prudent to be under them, as their limbs had already, some of them,
yielded to the mountain gusts and fallen.
[_No date._] _Tulare Valley._ One more day brought us to this great
valley, and the view from the last hill looking to northwest was quite
grand, stretching on one hand until lost in distance, and on the other
the snowy mountains on the east of the Tulare valley. Here, for the
first time, I saw the Lewis woodpecker, and Steller's jay in this
country. I have seen many California vultures and a new hawk, with a
white tail and red shoulders. During the dry season this great plain may
be travelled on, but now numerous ponds and lakes exist, and the ground
is in places, for miles, too boggy to ride over, so we were forced to
skirt the hills. This compelled us sometimes to take three days when two
should have been ample. Our journeys now are not more than twenty miles
a day, and our nights are so penetrating and cold, that four blankets
are not too many.
[_No date._] Our morning's ride, as we had anticipated, was pleasant
after the hills, but not directly on our course, as the late rains had
made the soil, always soft, impassable for our mules, from the mud.
We wound round the mountains for about twenty-five miles, to the first
Indian village we had seen, though we had passed several single huts.
Being far ahead of the train, I had time to look at their household
style of living, and saw them grinding their acorns, and fanning grass
and other seeds, so as to prepare their winter's food. They appear to
make a sort of pulp of the acorn by grinding it in a most simple mill
of stone, using two kinds as convenience or ownership suggests. One,
a standing mill, and the other a kind of mortar and pestle style, the
mortar being formed by continual use of the same place, until from two
to six inches deep, and if the large stone is favorable, from ten to
twelve holes are seen in the same one.
These Indians were friendly and seemed pleased to see Americans coming
into the country, and I have no doubt but that their condition will be
greatly ameliorated by the change from savage to half-civilized life.
We saw one company already installing themselves in this beautiful
valley, where they hope to make permanent homes.
[_No date_.] For two days heavy rolling hills of black soil, clay and
gravel with an occasional arroyo of sand, made our journey tedious, but
we gradually arrived in better country for travelling, but less grass,
and, as we neared the San Joaquin River, immense herds of antelope and
elk were seen, so wild that it was difficult to approach them.
[_No date_.] This is our second day on the San Joaquin River, and we
have secured a fine elk and an antelope, three geese and two Sandhill
cranes (I am sure different from ours) so that we have feasted
luxuriously. Many thousand geese are seen daily, and we are travelling
on cheerfully, making our twenty-five miles with ease, and camping by
half-past four or five o'clock. After supper we sit round our camp fires
for an hour or so, and then turn in for the night, to be ready for the
early start on the morrow.
The nights here are in great contrast to the days, and are exceedingly
cold, for all the icy mountains send their damp air down, as the sun
sinks behind them.
Following down the San Joaquin southwest and west, we came to the river
of the lakes, and stood off northwest (its general course) for nearly
two days, but were so impeded in our progress by the bull-rushes that
we turned aside to a clump of trees, where we expected to find water and
grass; but not succeeding, returned to the river, about eight miles, and
with great difficulty reached the edge of it for water at dusk—cold,
tired, and regretting our lost time. We resolved, nevertheless, to
steer off from the rushes next day. This is the locality from which, I
suppose, the valley takes its name, "tulare" meaning "rush," this plant
taking here the place of all others.
[_No date_.] Today I ran on to a herd of about a thousand elk; so
close was I that I could see their eyes perfectly; these elk must be
greatly harassed by the wolves, which are very numerous, and so bold
at night that we have had several pieces of meat, and a fine goose
stolen from over my tent door. Their long, lonely howl at night, the
cries of myriads of wild geese, as well as Hutchinson's goose (which
is very abundant) and the discordant note of the night heron, tell the
melancholy truth all too plainly, of the long, long distance from home
and friends.
There is no trail but that of wild horses and elk, all terminating at
some water-hole, not a sign of civilization, not the track of a white
man to be seen, and sometimes the loneliness and solitude seem unending.
The water is beautifully clear now, and is full of fine-looking fish;
the large salmon of these rivers is a very sharky-looking fellow and
may be fine eating, but as yet we have not been fortunate enough to get
one, though several have been shot by Hudson and Simson as they lay in
the shallows. The average width of the river here (that is, two days'
journey from the mountains) is about eight yards, but as the snows
are high up on the mountains, no doubt a great portion of the water is
absorbed by the sandy soil it runs through.
Among the oaks the long acorns of two shapes, a good deal like nuts in
taste, but still astringent to a disagreeable degree, are plentiful,
and we eat a good many of them both roasted and raw, by way of variety,
though objecting to the flavor. I have seen one or two nearly three
inches long. Out of these acorns the Indians make their "payote," a kind
of paste, which they dry, and then put into water in flakes, no doubt
to allow the acrid matter to escape.
[_No date_.] _Stockton._ For the last five days we have passed over vast
plains of sandy soil and all the recollections of the desert would come
upon us, but for our nightly returns to the river. Passing two small
rivers, we came to the Stanislaus, and went down it to the ferry, having
once tried, unsuccessfully, to cross it. We had to pay a dollar each
for about twenty yards, and went on our way to Stockton.
This mushroom town of skeleton houses and tents, with every class of
dwelling from log cabin with rush roof, to the simple blanket spread to
shelter the hardy miner, is situated like Houston, Texas, on an elevated
flat, so level, that the water lying after every shower, makes the mud
as deep as I ever saw it on the rich levees of Louisiana in winter. I
find the climate much the same as that in Louisiana, but without the
beautifully luxuriant vegetation of that country, and from all accounts
it is quite as healthy, except that the high mountains here give a
pleasant retreat in summer from the diseases incident to that season.
I left the men at the "French Camp," the first prairie out of the water,
five miles to the south-west, and came into Stockton, with Hudson and
Boggs and a pack mule to take out provisions for those at the camp.
We went into the "Exchange Hotel," which might better be called the
"Exchange of Blacklegs." Such a crowd as the bar-room of this hotel
presents nightly, cannot be found except where all nations meet. Cards
were being played for stakes every where, and the crowd around added to
the picture, which once seen is difficult to forget. The tall, raw-boned
Westerner, bearded and moustached like his Mexican neighbor beside him,
the broad-headed German and sallow Spaniard, French, Irish, Scotch, I
know not how many nationalities are here represented. I saw even two
Chilians with their cold, indifferent air, all mixing together, each
man on his guard against his fellow-man. The tight fitting jacket and
flowing sarape touch each other, all blending into weirdness in the dim
light of a few candles, would that I had time and opportunity to sketch
some of the many scenes I beheld.
Having bought what we required we made our way back to camp through the
dark dismal night, wind blowing and rain falling in torrents.
[_No date_.] Today we went up to Stockton again, the approach is through
mud and mire, or rather water, reminding one of that at Houston from
the south; the mud, if anything, more disagreeable to walk through.
One wonders at the way in which men stay here day after day, gambling
going on incessantly. Of course, the sharpers and experts get all the
money, the poor dupes continue to put down gold-dust, even though every
boat that leaves takes away professional card-players, and _they_ have
to return to the mines to dig. The craze for the mines is beyond all
credence; mechanics refuse sixteen dollars a day, to go to the mines
where half an ounce is the regular gain, though sometimes ten times that
amount.
[_No date_.] We leave tomorrow for San Francisco; today I made a sketch
of the east suburb of the town, and as a proof of the good intentions
of the people to be honest, and keep up good principles, a gallows is
the chief object in the foreground. It was erected to execute a man for
murder and robbery.
A party here got up a club called the "Hounds," at first as a patrol,
and were of real service, but later bad habits crept in, such as
knocking up any bar-keeper at any hour of the night and making "a
night of it." For some time they paid for this on the following day,
always saying as they went out "To the charge of the Hounds," but at
last the "charge" became the last of the matter; eventually thefts
were committed, and the thief was convicted by a regular jury, and
sentenced. The day for his execution came, and he felt assured that he
would be rescued by his friends, and probably would have been, but for
the arrival of a ship-load of emigrants, who, on being informed of the
fact, marched out, fully armed, to see the law carried into effect.
The prices of everything here are beyond belief;
Flour, $40.00 per barrel.
Pork, 65.00 per barrel.
Pilot bread, .20 per pound.
India-rubber boots, 50.00 to $60.00.
Flannel shirts, 6.00 to $8.00.
Shot, .30 per pound.
Powder, 1.00 to $1.50 per lb.
Government tents, 40.00, at home $12.00.
India-rubber, 100.00.
Freight to the mines, .50 per pound.
and almost every other article in proportion; for cleaning my watch and
putting on a new crystal, $16.00. Yet with these high prices scarcely
one becomes rich. Board $3.00 to $6.00 a day, without lodging. Washing
and ironing $6.00 a dozen.
We are in a forlorn condition, almost without clothes, and our mules
broken down, yet wretched as we are no company coming by land has done
better, and mine is only the second yet holding together. This shows how
honorable the men are, for [with] wages from $5.00 to $10.00 per day,
and mechanics (of which our company has several) [getting] from $10.00
to $16.00, these men stand by their contract.
[_No date_.] We none of us regret leaving Stockton, where we have been
for four days delayed by the steamer, our ill-luck as regards waitings
still follows us. We are going in the steamer Captain Southern. [?]
_San Francisco. December 23d._ The day we left Stockton we had one
of the most violent gales I had seen for many a week, and our boat, a
little steam side-wheeler, was so flat and so light that the strong wind
from the south-east had us ashore twenty times in the first hour, on
the banks of the slough which leads to the San Joaquin, the main stream
leading to the upper bay, Suisun; finally anchors and all were dragged
high on the bulrushes, and we were delayed two days more.
We reached San Francisco on Saturday night December 21st, and stayed in
our blankets on the floor of the steamer until morning when we went off,
on what is called "the long dock" into mud half-leg deep. We paid fifty
cents for a cup of coffee and a bit of bread, and I went for my letters,
but found none, so went off to hunt up my men, found them all right, and
returned to Henry Mallory, who having received letters was able to set
my anxieties about my family at rest; but I alone of all the company had
no home news. I sat on the deck of the steamer, the most quiet place I
could find, re-read my old letters, and went about my business with a
heavy heart.
[Illustration: SAN FRANCISCO, LOOKING EAST FROM THE WESTWARD HILLS
TOWARD SAN JOSÉ
_May 30, 1850_]
_San Francisco. December 25th 1849._ Christmas Day! Happy Christmas!
Merry Christmas! Not that here, to me at any rate, in this pandemonium
of a city. Not a _lady_ to be seen, and the women, poor things, sad
and silent, except when drunk or excited. The place full of gamblers,
hundreds of them, and men of the lowest types, more blasphemous, and
with less regard for God and his commands than all I have ever seen on
the Mississippi, [in] New Orleans or Texas, which give us the same class
to some extent, it is true; but instead of a few dozen, or a hundred,
gaming at a time, here, there are thousands, and one house alone pays
one hundred and fifty thousand dollars per annum for the rent of the
"Monte" tables.
Sunday makes no difference, certainly not Christmas, except for a little
more drunkenness, and a little extra effort on the part of the hotel
keepers to take in more money.
I spent the morning looking over my journal, and regret it has been
kept so irregularly, yet, as I read it, and recall my experiences since
last March, I wonder that I have been able to keep it at all. I dined
with Havens, Mr. McLea, Lieut. Browning and Henry Mallory, and you may
be sure home was in our thoughts all the time, even if other topics of
conversation were on our lips. It seemed impossible for me to shake off
my depression.
_December 26th._ I was not made more cheerful by finding that our agents
had so conducted our affairs that instead of finding all our provisions
and implements nicely stored, and in good order, waiting for us, I
discovered that all that was most useful to us had been sold, and the
balance lay about in the wet and mud, or was rotting, half dry for want
of the requisite cover. The expenses had eaten up the money procured
by the sales, or so we were told, and I found myself with forty men to
take care of and in debt. I was on the point of breaking up the company,
and letting every man shift for himself, but felt that it was neither
brave nor honorable, so decided to make one more effort. I drew on my
brother for one thousand dollars, borrowed all I could from the boys
who had brought their own mules on with them, and concluded to take all
who were not mechanics with me to the mines; the mechanics had, without
exception, found work instantly at exorbitant prices. They were to keep
half they made, and pay in the other half to the company. I have been
offered thirty-five dollars a day to draw plans for houses, stores,
etc., but though I never intended to go to the mines myself, I feel now
for the sake of the men who stood by me, that I must stay by them. My
paints and canvas have been left on the desert, my few specimens lost
or thrown away; and lack of time, and the weakness produced by my two
illnesses at Monterey and Parras, and the monotonous food, have robbed
me of all enthusiasm; often I had to force myself to swallow the little
I did, knowing I must if I was to get through at all.
Van Horn and Dr. Perry will remain in San Francisco and the men who
go up to the mines with me, are Havens, Layton, Hewes, Bloomfield,
McGown, Lee, Watkinson, Jno. R. Lambert, Jos. Lambert, J. S. Lambert,
Hutchinson, Damon, Jno. Stevens, Cree, Van Buren, Ayres, Hinckley, Jno.
Stevenson, Black, Liscomb, Elmslie, E. A. Lambert, Dr. Trask, Steele,
Weed, Henry Mallory, Mitchell, Walsh, Valentine, Simson, McCusker,
Tone, Hudson, Pennypacker, Clement, Boggs, Lieut. Browning, with myself,
thirty-eight in number.
_December 29th._ We left San Francisco in the same steamer we had
travelled on from Stockton. The week's rain over, with the bay like a
mirror, and a clear sky over all, it was an enchanting scene. I thought
with gratitude of the kindness I had received from Messrs. Chittenden,
Edmondson, McLea and many others; not only had they frequently made me
their guest, but they had given me most valuable information and advice,
in reference to my future proceedings.
As we moved off I could see the whole town situated on high hills facing
the bay, to the southeast on one side, to the southwest on the other.
I could almost fancy as we made our way to the open bay through the
crowd of vessels, that I could hear the chink, chink of dollars as the
gamblers put them down on the Monte tables, and a picture of the whole
place, a regular Inferno, came before me as plainly as if I actually
saw it. Every house, with rare exceptions, letting out their bar-rooms
as well as all other available space, for gambling purposes, immense
rents being paid for a mere shell of a house. In some of the hotels one
hundred dollars a day was paid for space to place a single Monte table;
but I will leave all this, and sail on over the beautiful bay towards
the east, which sends the gold that makes this hell-hole of crime and
dissipation.
Passing out of the mass of shipping to the left, opens out the pass
to the ocean, and ahead of us, surrounded by beautiful hills, smooth
but steep, green and velvety to look upon, a few tall redwoods ended
the view to the south. The water was as smooth as a lake, and the moon
rose on so calm a sheet that its reflection was a long, straight line
of light, almost as brilliant as itself, and I sat late on the deck to
admire it, and to think of all at home, but at last went down to the
filthy cabin, wrapped myself in my blankets and lay down in a corner
possibly a shade less dirty than the others.
We reached Stockton, and after a day in the mud I found my goods stored
safely and all ready for packing, Mr. Starbuck to whom I had entrusted
them having been most faithful. We went to the hotel for supper which
was worth, perhaps, ten cents, but cost a dollar and a half each.
After which, with Browning, Simson, Stevens, Bloomfield and some of
the others, I took a look up and down the town. The gambling was going
on as usual, the tables had changed hands in some instances, but the
many are still sitting behind their "banks." A young English nobleman,
who asked me to keep his name a secret, laughed and said: "We are all
_bankers_ here." One young man, too young for such work, terrible at any
age, I felt sorry to see; he had evidently been a winner to judge from
the large amount before him, having a wall of gold dust ounce high and
three rows deep, leaving a space of nearly a foot square inside, well
filled with gold pieces of all stamps and countries, the 16, 8 and 4 of
the Spanish, the eagles and half-eagles of the United States, sovereigns
and half sovereigns of England, and others from apparently all over
the world, lumps even of unalloyed gold, had all fallen into his hands
today. He seemed quite alone; his candles were still burning, and he
rested his cheek on a delicate, well formed hand, which looked as if it
had not been made for the shovel and pick of the mines. He was a very
handsome young fellow, I should judge from Virginia, with a profusion
of half curling light hair and deep grey eyes. Suddenly he rose, looked
about him, and said in a quivering voice: "Well, I came here to make
my fortune, I've made it, there it is, but, Oh God, how can I face my
mother." He burst into tears and dashed from the room, which for an
instant was in absolute stillness. Two men came up, spoke to the banker
[?] in low tones, swept the gold into two canvas bags and followed the
youth, or so I presume.