CHAPTER TWELVE.
SABBATH AT THE DIGGINGS--LARRY O'NEIL TAKES TO WANDERING, AND MEETS WITHADVENTURES--AN IRISH YANKEE DISCOVERED--TERRIBLE CALAMITIES BEFALLTRAVELLERS ON THE OVERLAND ROUTE.
There is no country in our fallen world, however debased and morallybarren, in which there does not exist a few green spots where humantenderness and sympathy are found to grow. The atmosphere of thegold-regions of California was, indeed, clouded to a fearful extent withthe soul-destroying vapours of worldliness, selfishness, andungodliness, which the terrors of Lynch law alone restrained frombreaking forth in all their devastating strength.
And this is not to be wondered at, for Europe and America naturallypoured the flood of their worst inhabitants over the land, in eagersearch for that gold, the _love of which_, we are told in Sacred Writ,"is the root of all evil." True, there were many hundreds of estimablemen who, failing, from adverse circumstances, to make a livelihood intheir native lands, sought to better their fortunes in the far west;but, in too many cases, the gold-fever which raged there soon smote themdown; and men who once regarded gold as the means to an end, came atlast to esteem gold to be the end, and used every means, fair and foul,to obtain it. Others there were, whose constitutions were proof againstthe national disease; whose hearts deemed _love_ to be the highest blissof man, and doing good his greatest happiness.
But stilling and destructive though the air of the gold-mines was, therewere a few hardy plants of moral goodness which defied it--and some ofthese bloomed in the colony of Little Creek.
The Sabbath morning dawned on Ned Sinton and his friends--the firstSabbath since they had begun to dig for gold. On that day the minersrested from their work. Shovel and pick lay quiet in the innumerablepits that had been dug throughout the valley; no cradle was rocked, nopan of golden earth was washed. Even reckless men had come to know fromexperience, that the Almighty in His goodness had created the Sabbathfor the special benefit of man's _body_ as well as his soul, and thatthey wrought better during the six days of the week when they rested onthe seventh.
Unfortunately they believed only what _experience_ taught them; theykept the Sabbath according to the letter, not according to the spirit;and although they did not work, they did not refrain from "thinkingtheir own thoughts and finding their own pleasure," on God's holy day.Early in the morning they began to wander idly about from hut to hut,visited frequently the grog-shops, and devoted themselves to gambling,which occupation materially marred even the physical rest they mightotherwise have enjoyed.
"Comrades," said Ned Sinton, as the party sat inside their tent, roundthe napkin on which breakfast was spread, "it is long since we have madeany difference between Saturday and Sunday, and I think it would be goodfor us all if we were to begin now. Since quitting San Francisco, thenecessity of pushing forward on our journey has prevented our doing sohitherto. How far we were right in regarding rapid travelling as being_necessary_, I won't stop to inquire; but I think it would be well if weshould do a little more than merely rest from work on the Sabbath. Ipropose that, besides doing this, we should read a chapter of the Bibletogether as a family, morning and evening on Sundays. What say you?"
There was a pause. It was evident that conflicting feelings were atwork among the party.
"Perhaps you're right," said Maxton; "I confess that I have troubledmyself very little about religion since I came out here, but myconscience has often reproached me for it."
"Don't you think, messmates," said Captain Bunting, lighting his pipe,"that if it gets wind the whole colony will be laughin' at us?"
"Sure they may laugh," said Larry O'Neil, "an' after that they may cry,av it'll do them good. Wot's the differ to us?"
"I don't agree with you, Ned," said Tom Collins, somewhat testily; "formy part I like to see men straightforward, all fair and above-board, asthe captain would say. Hypocrisy is an abominable vice, whether it iswell meaning or ill meaning, and I don't see the use of pretending to bereligious when we are not."
"Tom," replied Ned, in an earnest voice, "don't talk lightly of seriousthings. I don't _pretend_ to be religious, but I do _desire_ to be so:and I think it would be good for all of us to read a portion of God'sWord on His own day, both for the purpose of obeying and honouring Him,and of getting our minds filled, for a short time at least, with otherthoughts than those of gold-hunting. In doing this there is nohypocrisy."
"Well, well," rejoined Tom, "I'll not object if the rest are agreed."
"Agreed," was the unanimous reply. So Ned rose, and, opening hisportmanteau, drew forth the little Bible that had been presented to himby old Mr Shirley on the day of his departure from home.
From that day forward, every Sabbath morning and evening, Ned Sintonread a portion of the Word of God to his companions, as long as theywere together; and each of the party afterwards, at different times,confessed that, from the time the reading of the Bible was begun, hefelt happier than he did before.
After breakfast they broke up, and went out to stroll for an hour or twoupon the wooded slopes of the mountains. Ned and Tom Collins went offby themselves, the others, with the exception of Larry, walked outtogether.
That morning Larry O'Neil felt less sociable than was his wont, so hesallied forth alone. For some time he sauntered about with his hands inhis pockets, his black pipe in his mouth, a thick oak cudgel, of his ownmaking, under his arm, and his hat set jauntily on one side of his head.He went along with an easy swagger, and looked particularly reckless,but no man ever belied his looks more thoroughly. The swagger wasunintentional, and the recklessness did not exist. On the contrary, thereading of the Bible had brought back to his mind a flood of homememories, which forced more than one tear from his susceptible heartinto his light-blue eye, as he wandered in memory over the green hillsof Erin.
But the scenes that passed before him as he roamed about among the hutsand tents of the miners soon drew his thoughts to subjects lessagreeable to contemplate. On week-days the village, if we may thusdesignate the scattered groups of huts and tents, was comparativelyquiet, but on Sundays it became a scene of riot and confusion. Not onlywas it filled with its own idle population of diggers, but miners fromall the country round, within a circuit of eight or ten miles, flockedinto it for the purpose of buying provisions for the week, as well asfor the purpose of gambling and drinking, this being the only day in allthe week, in which they indulged in what they termed "a spree."
Consequently the gamblers and store-keepers did more business on Sundaythan on any other day. The place was crowded with men in their rough,though picturesque, bandit-like costumes, rambling about from store tostore, drinking and inviting friends to drink, or losing in thegaming-saloons all the earnings of a week of hard, steady toil--toilmore severe than is that of navvies or coal-heavers. There seemed to bean irresistible attraction in these gambling-houses. Some men seemedunable to withstand the temptation, and they seldom escaped beingfleeced. Yet they returned, week after week, to waste in these dens ofiniquity the golden treasure gathered with so much labour during theirsix working days.
Larry O'Neil looked through the doorway of one of the gambling-houses ashe passed, and saw men standing and sitting round the tables, watchingwith eager faces the progress of the play, while ever and anon one ofthem would reel out, more than half-drunk with excitement and brandy.Passing on through the crowded part of the village, which looked as if afair were being held there, he entered the narrow footpath that ledtowards the deeper recesses at the head of the valley. O'Neil had notyet, since his arrival, found time to wander far from his own tent. Itwas therefore with a feeling of great delight that he left the scene ofriot behind him, and, turning into a bypath that led up one of thenarrow ravines, opening into the larger valley, strolled several milesinto deep solitudes that were in harmony with his feelings.
The sun streamed through the entrance to this ravine, bathing with aflood of light crags and caves and bush-encompassed hollows, that atother times were shrouded in gloom. As t
he Irishman stood gazing in aweand admiration at the wild, beautiful scene, beyond which were seen thesnowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada, he observed a small solitary tentpitched on a level patch of earth at the brow of a low cliff. Curiosityprompted him to advance and ascertain what unsociable creature dwelt init. A few minutes sufficed to bring him close upon it, and he was aboutto step forward, when the sound of a female voice arrested him. It wassoft and low, and the accents fell upon his ear with the power of an oldfamiliar song. Being at the back of the tent, he could not see whospoke, but, from the monotonous regularity of the tone, he knew that thewoman was reading. He passed noiselessly round to the front, andpeeping over the tops of bushes, obtained a view of the interior.
The reader was a young woman, whose face, which was partially concealedby a mass of light-brown hair as she bent over her book, seemedemaciated and pale. Looking up just as Larry's eye fell upon her, sheturned towards a man whose gaunt, attenuated form lay motionless on apile of brushwood beside her, and said, tenderly:
"Are ye tired, Patrick, dear, or would you like me to go on?"
Larry's heart gave his ribs such a thump at that moment that he feltsurprised the girl did not hear it. But he could not approach; he wasrooted to the earth as firmly, though not as permanently, as the bushbehind which he stood. An Irish voice, and an Irish girl, heard andseen so unexpectedly, quite took away his breath.
The sick man made some reply which was not audible, and the girl,shutting the book, looked up for a few moments, as if in silent prayer,then she clasped her hands upon her knees, and laying her head uponthem, remained for some time motionless. The hands were painfully thin,as was her whole frame. The face was what might have been pretty at onetime, although it was haggard enough now, but the expression waspeculiarly sorrowful.
In a few minutes she looked up again, and spread the ragged blanket morecarefully over the shoulders of the sick man, and Larry, feeling that hewas at that time in the questionable position of an eavesdropper, lefthis place of concealment, and stood before the tent.
The sick man saw him instantly, and, raising himself slightly,exclaimed, "Who goes there? Sure I can't git lave to die in pace!"
The familiar tones of a countryman's voice fell pleasantly on Larry'sear as he sprang into the tent, and, seizing the sick man's hand, cried,"A blissin' on the mouth that said that same. O Pat, darlint! I'm gladto mate with ye. What's the matter with ye? Tell me now, an' don't belookin' as if ye'd seen a ghost."
"Kape back," said the girl, pushing Larry aside, with a half-pleased,half-angry expression. "Don't ye see that ye've a'most made him faint?He's too wake intirely to be--"
"Ah! then, cushla, forgive me; I wint and forgot meself. Blissin's onyer pale face! sure yer Irish too."
Before the girl could reply to this speech, which was uttered in a toneof the deepest sympathy, the sick man recovered sufficiently to say--
"Sit down, friend. How comed ye to larn me name? I guess I never sawye before."
"Sure, didn't I hear yer wife say it as I come for'ard to the tint,"answered Larry, somewhat staggered at the un-Irish word "guess."
"He is my brother," remarked the girl.
"Troth, ye've got a dash o' the Yankee brogue," said Larry, with apuzzled look; "did ye not come from the owld country?"
The sick man seemed too much exhausted to reply, so the girl said--
"Our father and mother were Irish, and left their own country to sittlein America. We have never seen Ireland, my brother nor I, but we thinkof it as almost our own land. Havin' been brought up in the woods, andseein' a'most no one but father and mother for days an' weeks at a time,we've got a good deal o' the Irish tone."
"Ah! thin, ye have reason to be thankful for that same," remarked Larry,who was a little disappointed that his new friends were not altogetherIrish; but, after a few minutes' consideration, he came to theconclusion, that people whose father and mother were natives of theEmerald Isle could no more be Americans, simply because they happened tobe born in America, than they could be fish if they chanced to be bornat sea. Having settled this point to his satisfaction, he proceeded toquestion the girl as to their past history and the cause of theirpresent sad condition, and gradually obtained from her the informationthat their father and mother were dead, and that, having heard of themines of California, her brother had sold off his farm in the backwoods,and proceeded by the overland route to the new land of gold, in companywith many other western hunters and farmers. They reached it, after themost inconceivable sufferings, in the beginning of winter, and took uptheir abode at Little Creek.
The rush of emigration from the western states to California, by theoverland route, that took place at this time, was attended with the mostappalling sufferings and loss of life. Men sold off their snug farms,packed their heavy waggons with the necessaries for a journey, withtheir wives and little ones, over a wilderness more than two thousandmiles in extent, and set off by scores over the prairies towards theUltima Thule of the far west. The first part of their journey wasprosperous enough, but the weight of their waggons rendered the paceslow, and it was late in the season ere they reached the great barrierof the Rocky Mountains. But severe although the sufferings of thosefirst emigrants were, they were as nothing compared with the direcalamities that befell those who started from home later in the season.All along the route the herbage was cropped bare by those who had gonebefore; their oxen broke down; burning sandy deserts presentedthemselves when the wretched travellers were well-nigh exhausted; andwhen at length they succeeded in reaching the great mountain-chain, itsdark passes were filled with the ice and snow of early winter.
Hundreds of men, women, and children, fell down and died on the burningplain, or clambered up the rugged heights to pillow their dying heads atlast on wreaths of snow. To add to the unheard-of miseries of thesepoor people, scurvy in its worst forms attacked them; and the air ofmany of their camping places was heavy with the stench arising from thedead bodies of men and animals that had perished by the way.
"It was late in the season," said Kate Morgan, as Larry's new friend wasnamed, "when me brother Patrick an' I set off with our waggon and oxen,an' my little sister Nelly, who was just able to run about, with hercurly yellow hair streamin' over her purty shoulders, an' her laughin'blue eyes, almost spakin' when they looked at ye."
The poor girl spoke with deep pathos as she mentioned Nelly's name,while Larry O'Neil sat with his hands clasped, gazing at her with anexpression of the deepest commiseration.
"We got pretty well on at first," she continued, after a pause, "becauseour waggon was lighter than most o' the others; but it was near winterbefore we got to the mountains, an' then our troubles begood. First ofall, one o' the oxen fell, and broke its leg. Then darlin' Nelly fellsick, and Patrick had to carry her on his back up the mountains, for Ihad got so weak meself that I wasn't fit to take her up. All the wayover I was troubled with one o' the emigrants that kep' us company--there was thirty o' us altogether--he was a very bad man, and none o' usliked him. He took a fancy to me, an' asked me to be his wife so oftenthat I had to make Patrick order him to kape away from us altogether.He wint off in a black rage, swearin' he'd be revenged,--an' oh!"continued Kate, wringing her hands, "he kept his word. One day therewas a dispute between our leaders which way we should go, for we had gotto two passes in the mountains; so one party went one way, and we wentanother. Through the night, my--my lover came into our camp to wish megood-bye, he said, for the last time, as he was goin' with the otherparty. After he was gone, I missed Nelly, and went out to seek for heramong the tents o' my neighbours, but she was nowhere to be found. Atonce I guessed he had taken her away, for well did he know I wouldsooner have lost my life than my own darlin' Nell."
Again the girl paused a few moments; then she resumed, in a low voice--
"We never saw him or Nelly again. It is said the whole party perished,an' I believe it, for they were far spent, and the road they took, I'vebeen towld, is worse than the on
e we took. It was dead winter when wearrived, and Patrick and me came to live here. We made a good deal atfirst by diggin', but we both fell sick o' the ague, and we've beenscarce able to kape us alive till now. But it won't last long. DearPatrick is broken down entirely, as ye see, and I haven't strengtha'most to go down to the diggin's for food. I haven't been there for amonth, for it's four miles away, as I dare say ye know. We'll both beat rest soon."
"Ah! now, don't say that again, avic," cried Larry, smiting his thighwith energy; "ye'll be nothin' o' the sort, that ye won't; sure yerbrother Pat is slaipin' now like an infant, he is, an' I'll go downmeself to the stores and git ye medicines an' a doctor, an' what not.Cheer up, now--"
Larry's enthusiastic efforts to console his new friend were interruptedby the sick man, who awoke at the moment, and whispered the word "food."
His sister rose, and taking up a small tin pan that simmered on the firein front of the tent, poured some of its contents into a dish.
"What is it ye give him?" inquired Larry, taking the dish from thegirl's hands and putting it to his lips. He instantly spat out themouthful, for it was soup made of rancid pork, without vegetables of anykind.
"'Tis all I've got left," said the girl. "Even if I was able to go downfor more, he wouldn't let me; but I couldn't, for I've tried more thanonce, and near died on the road. Besides, I haven't a grain o' goold inthe tent."
"O morther! Tare an' ages!" cried Larry, staring first at the girl andthen at her brother, while he slapped his thighs and twisted his fingerstogether as if he wished to wrench them out of joint.
"Howld on, faix I'll do it. Don't give it him, plaze; howld on, _do_!"
Larry O'Neil turned round as he spoke, seized his cudgel, sprang rightover the bushes in front of the tent, and in two minutes more was seenfar down the ravine, spurning the ground beneath him as if life anddeath depended on the race.