Volume Two—Chapter Nine.
A Rough Ride.
The stage, by which I travelled from Sonora to Stockton, was nothing more than a large open waggon, drawn by four Mexican horses.
We started at six o’clock in the morning, on a journey of eighty-four miles. This we should have to perform before four o’clock in the afternoon of the same day—in order to catch the steamer, which, at that hour, was to start from Stockton for San Francisco.
Notwithstanding that the road over most of the route was in reality no road at all, but an execrable path, we made the eighty-four miles within the time prescribed: for the stage arrived at Stockton more than twenty minutes before the time appointed for the sailing of the steamer!
In spite of this rapidity of transit, I did not at all enjoy the journey between Sonora and Stockton. I was all the time under an impression that my life was in imminent danger; and, as I was at last on my way to Lenore, I did not wish to be killed by the overturning of a Californian stage coach—behind four half-wild horses, going at the top of their speed.
Sometimes we would be rushing down a steep hill, when, to keep the horses out of the way of the waggon they were drawing, the driver would stand up on his box, and fling the “silk” at them with all the energy he could command. On such occasions there would be moments when not a wheel could be seen touching the ground; and not unfrequently the vehicle would bound through the air, to a distance equalling its own length!
We were fortunate enough to reach Stockton, without breaking either the wheels of the waggon, or the bones of any of the passengers, which to me at the time seemed something miraculous.
I do not relish describing scenes of a sanguinary character; but, to give the reader some idea of the state of society in California, at the time I write of, I shall mention a circumstance that transpired during my twenty minutes’ sojourn in Stockton—while waiting for the starting of the steamer.
Just as we were getting out of the stage waggon, several pistol-shots were heard, close to the spot where we had stopped. They had been fired inside the gambling room of a public-house, on the opposite side of the street; and several men were seen rushing out of the house, apparently to escape the chances of being hit by a stray bullet.
As soon as the firing had ceased, the retreating tide turned back again; and re-entered the house—along with a crowd of others, who had been idling outside.
I walked over; and went in with the rest. On entering the large saloon, in which the shots had been fired, I saw two men lying stretched upon separate tables—each attended by a surgeon, who was examining his wounds.
I could see that both were badly—in fact mortally—wounded; and yet each was cursing the other with the most horrible imprecations I had ever heard!
One of the surgeons, addressing himself to the man upon whom he was attending, said:—
“Do not talk in that profane manner. You had better turn your thoughts to something else: you have not many hours to live.”
Neither this rebuke, nor the unpleasant information conveyed by it, seemed to produce the slightest effect on the wretch to whom it was addressed. Instead of becoming silent, he poured forth a fresh storm of blasphemy; and continued cursing all the time I remained within hearing.
I was told that the two men had quarrelled about a horse, that one of them first fired at the other, who fell instantly to the shot; and that the latter, while lying on the floor, had returned the fire of the assailant, sending three bullets into his body.
I heard afterwards that the shots had proved fatal to both. The man who had fired the first shot died that same night—the other surviving the sanguinary encounter only a few hours longer.
I had no desire to linger among the spectators of that tragical tableau; and I was but too glad to find a cue for escaping from it: in the tolling of the steam-boat bell, as it summoned the passengers aboard.
A few minutes after, and we were gliding down the San Joaquin—en route for the Golden City.
The San Joaquin is emphatically a crooked river. It appeared to me that in going down it, we passed Mount Diablo at least seven times. Vessels, that we had already met, could be soon after seen directly ahead of us, while those appearing astern would in a few minutes after, encounter us in the channel of the stream!
A “Down-easter,” who chanced to be aboard, made the characteristic observation:—that “the river was so crooked, a bird could not fly across it: as it would be certain to alight on the side from which it had started!”
Crooked as was the San Joaquin it conducted us to the capital of California—which we reached at a late hour of the night.
So impatient was I to obtain the information, which had brought me to San Francisco, that on the instant of my arrival I went in search of the tavern, kept by Mr Wilson.
I succeeded in finding it, though not without some difficulty. It was a dirty house in a dirty street—the resort of all the worthless characters that could have been collected from the low neighbourhood around it, chiefly runaway convicts, and gay women, from Sydney. It was just such a hostelrie, as I might have expected to be managed by a quondam companion of Mr Leary.
Mr Wilson was at “home,” I was at once ushered into his presence; and, after a very informal introduction, I commenced making him acquainted with my business.
I asked him, if, while at Sydney, he had the pleasure of being acquainted with a man named Mathews.
“Mathews! Let me see!” said he, scratching his head, and pretending to be buried in a profound reflection; “I’ve certainly heard that name, somewhere,” he continued, “and, perhaps, if you were to tell me what you want, I might be able to remember all about it.”
I could perceive that my only chance of learning anything from Mr Wilson was to accede to his proposal, which I did. I told him, that a man named Mathews had been hung a few weeks before on the Stanislaus, that it was for the murder of a young girl, with whom he had eloped from Australia; and that I had reason to believe, that the man had left a wife behind him in Sydney. I had heard that he, Mr Wilson, had known Mathews; and could perhaps tell me, if such had been the case.
“If it was the Mathews I once knew something about,” said the tavern-keeper, after listening to my explanation, “he could not have left any money, or property, behind him: he hadn’t a red cent to leave.”
“I didn’t say that he had,” I answered. “It is not for that I make the inquiry.”
“No!” said the tavern-keeper, feigning surprise. “Then what can be your object, in wanting to know whether he left a wife in Sydney?”
“Because that wife, if there be one, is my mother.”
This answer was satisfactory; and Mr Wilson, after healing it, became communicative.
He had no objections to acknowledge acquaintance with a man who had been hung—after my having admitted that man’s wife to be my mother; and, freely confessed, without any further circumlocution, that he had been intimate with a man named Mathews, who had eloped from Sydney with a shopkeeper’s daughter. He supposed it must be the same, that I claimed as my stepfather.
Wilson’s Mathews had arrived in Sydney several years before. About a year after his arrival he was followed by his wife from Dublin—with whom he had lived for a few weeks, and then deserted her.
Wilson had seen this woman; and from the description he gave me of her, I had no doubt that she was my mother.
The tavern-keeper had never heard of her, after she had been deserted by Mathews, nor could he answer any question: as to whether she had brought my children to the colony. He had never heard of her children.
This was the sum and substance of the information I obtained from Mr Wilson.
My mother, then, had actually emigrated to Australia; and there, to her misfortune, no doubt, had once more discovered the ruffian who had ruined her.
Where was she now? Where were her children? My brother William, and my little sister Martha, of whom I was once so fond and proud?
“I must visit Australia,” thought I, “before going back to England. Until I have recovered my relatives I am not worthy to stand in the presence of Lenore!”
Volume Two—Chapter Ten.
The Partner of the Impatient Man.
As my return to Liverpool and Lenore was now indefinitely postponed, I was in less haste to leave San Francisco. I wished to see something of this singular city, which had grown up, as it were, in a single day.
The citizens of the Californian capital—composed of the young and enterprising of all nations—were at that time, perhaps, the fastest people on record; and more of real and active life was to be seen in the streets of San Francisco in a single week, than in any other city in a month—or, perhaps, in a year.
The quick transformation of the place—from a quiet little seaport to a large commercial city—astonished, even those who had witnessed its growth, and played a part in the history of its development.
Half of the present city is built upon ground, which was once a portion of the bay, and under the water of the sea. Boats used to ply where splendid buildings now stand—in the very centre of the town!
On my visit to San Francisco on this occasion, I saw fine substantial houses, where, only one year before, wild bushes were growing—on the branches of which the bachelors of the place used to dry their shirts! Mountains had been removed—carried clear into the bay—and hundreds of acres had been reclaimed from the encroachments of the sea.
Twice, too—within a period of only two years—the city had been burned down, and rebuilt; and for all this work that had been done, prices had been paid, that would seem extravagant beyond belief—at least, when compared with the small wages of labour, in any other country than California.
The amusements, manners, and customs, of almost every nation upon earth, could, at this time, have been witnessed in San Francisco. There was a Spanish theatre patronised by Chilians, Peruvians, and Mexicans. For the amusement of these people there was also a “Plaza de Toros,” or amphitheatre for their favourite pastime—the bull fight.
In visiting these places of amusement—or the French and Italian opera houses—or some of the saloons where Germans met to continue the customs of their “Faderland”—one could scarce have supposed himself within the limits of a country, whose citizens were expected to speak English.
I paid a visit to all the afore-mentioned spectacles, and many others—not wholly for the sake of amusement; but to learn something of the varied phases of life there presented to observation. I could have fancied, that, in one evening, I had been in Spain, France, Italy, Germany, China, and over all parts of both North and South America!
For several days I wandered about the streets of San Francisco, without meeting a single individual I had ever seen before.
I was beginning to feel as if I knew no one in the world, when one afternoon I was accosted by a person bearing a familiar face.
It was Farrell, whom I had known at the diggings of the Stanislaus—the partner of the impatient man, who used to worry the postmaster of Sonora; and who had gone home in such haste, after learning of the death of his wife.
“Come along with me,” cried Farrell, “I have got a queer story to tell you.”
I accompanied him to the “Barnum House,” where he was staying; and we sat down to have a talk and a drink.
“You were quite right about that fellow Foster,” said he, as soon as we had got settled in our chairs; “a more treacherous deceitful villain never trod Californian turf—nor any other, for that matter.”
“You are a little mistaken.” I replied, “I never accused him of being either treacherous, or deceitful.”
“Do you not remember our having a talk about him, the evening before he started home; and my telling you, that he was an honest, plain-speaking fellow?”
“Yes; and I remember telling you, that if your statement, of the reason of his anxiety to get his letters, was true, he could not be so very deceitful, or he would have had the decency to have concealed the cause of that anxiety even from you.”
“I have never been more deceived in my life, than I was in that man,” continued Farrell. “Do you know why he was so desirous to hear of his wife’s death?”
“You said something about another woman.”
“I did. Who do you suppose that other woman was?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“I’ll tell you then. It was my wife! He wanted his own wife to die, so that he could go home and elope with mine. It’s a fact—and he’s done it too. That’s who the second epistle he used to get, was from. I have just got a letter from my brother, giving me the whole news. It’s interesting, isn’t it?”
“Yes; what are you going to do?”
“Find them, and kill them both!” said Farrell, hissing the words through his teeth.
“I should not do that. A man is fortunate in getting rid of a wife, who would treat him after that fashion. Your thanks are rather due to your fair-dealing friend, for relieving you of any further trouble with such a woman.”
“There’s some truth in what you say,” rejoined Farrell. “But I don’t like being humbugged. He was such a plain-speaking fellow, I wonder why he didn’t tell me what he was intending to do, and who was writing to him all the time. In that case, perhaps, I should have made no objection to his running away with her. But there is one thing, I should have decidedly objected to.”
“What is that?”
“Furnishing the money to pay their travelling expenses—as well as to keep them comfortably wherever they have gone.”
“Did you do that?”
“I did. When Foster left the Stanislaus to go home, I entrusted all my gold to him—to take home to my precious wife. For all his frank open ways, and plain-speaking, he did not tell me that he intended to assist my wife in spending it; and that’s what gives me the greatest chagrin. I’ve been regularly sold. Over every dollar of that money—as they are eating or drinking it—will they be laughing at the fool who worked so damned hard to make it. Now I don’t like that; and I should like to know who would. Would you?”
“Not exactly. But where do you expect to find them?”
“In this city—San Francisco.”
“What! They surely would not be such simpletons as to come out to California, and you here?”
“That’s just what they’ll do,” replied Farrell. “They’ll think their best plan to keep clear of me, will be to leave the States, and get out here, by the time I would be likely to reach home. They will expect me to start from this place, the moment I hear the news of their elopement; and that by coming here, they will be safe not to see me again—thinking I would never return to California. For that reason I don’t intend going home at all; but shall stay here till they arrive.”
After spending the evening in his company, I admonished the injured husband—in the event of his meeting with his false partner and friend—to do nothing he might afterwards regret.
Farrell and I then parted; and I saw no more of him before leaving San Francisco.
I sojourned another week in the capital of California; and, having learned enough of its mysteries and miseries, I began to make preparation for my voyage across the Pacific.
An eminent banking firm in London had established an agency in San Francisco; and by it I forwarded to England all the gold I had collected—excepting a few ounces retained for my travelling expenses to Australia.
I found no difficulty in obtaining a passage from San Francisco to the latter place. Gold-diggings had been recently discovered in New South Wales—in Port Philip, as Victoria was then called; and as many people from the colonies wished to return, for their accommodation, numbers of large ships were being “laid on” for Sydney and Melbourne.
There is no class of passenger so profitable as the gold-digger going away from a diggings; and this being a fact, well-known among the captains and owners of ships, there was no scarcity in the supply of vessels then fitting out in the harbours of California.
Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.
A Difference among Diggers.
I engaged passage in the Dutch brig “Ceres,” bound for Sydney; and sailed in the early part of June out of San Francisco Bay.
When I again embark as a passenger in a Dutch vessel, it will be after I have learnt to speak that detestable lingo. Of all the crew of the “Ceres,” only the first officer could speak a word of English; and, during the time I was aboard the brig, I discovered more than one good reason for my resolve never again to embark in a ship, where I could not understand the language by which she was worked.
A majority of the passengers had originally come from the Australian Colonies to California; and were now returning to their homes—dissatisfied with a country, where they were not regarded as good citizens.
The worst characters amongst them had conceived a strong antipathy for everything American.
This will be easily understood, by taking into consideration the fact, that many of the people from the Australian Colonies who went to California, were men of infamous character. Indeed it is rather to the credit of the Californians: that they had treated with some severity these English convicts, who had made their appearance amongst them, for the express purpose of thieving and robbing.
I do not wish to be understood as saying, that all the gold seekers from Australia were of this character. I formed the acquaintance of many Anglo-Australian diggers, who had won the respect of all who knew them.
Too many of the class, however, were undoubtedly bad men. They had been bad men in their mother country, were bad men in the colonies, bad in California; and will continue to be bad wherever they go. They justly merited the contempt, which the Americans had bestowed upon them.
I have more respect for the great nation to which I belong than to defend the conduct of its convicts, against the opinions formed of them by the people of California.
There were three or four Californians amongst the passengers of the “Ceres,” who appeared to be respectable, as they were well conducted young men, yet they were intensely hated by a majority of the passengers—merely because they were Americans, and not English convicts from the colonies.
The Australians, while in California, when not drunk, generally behaved themselves like other people. This, however, arose from the absolute compulsion of circumstances, and the dread of being punished for their misdeeds; but no sooner had we got clear of the Golden Gate, than they resumed their former vulgar habits of acting and speaking; and not a sentence could be uttered by one of them, without reference to the circulating fluid of the body.
Early in the month of August, we came in sight of one of the numerous groups of islands with which the Pacific ocean is enamelled.
About twelve o’clock at night—while going at a speed of not more than five knots an hour—we ran straight upon a reef of rocks.
A scene of wild confusion then ensued—every one expecting the brig to go immediately to the bottom—but it was soon ascertained, that she was hanging or resting on a point of the rocks, which had penetrated her timbers; and that she was in no immediate danger of sinking. Fortunately the weather was calm at the time, and the sea perfectly tranquil, else the brig would certainly have been knocked to pieces.
As usual, the long boat was found to be not sea-worthy; and there was but one other, a small pinnace, that would hold about twelve of the seventy-six passengers comprising the cargo of the “Ceres”—to say nothing of her crew!
We could see land, about a mile from our position; and it was evident, that no watch could have been kept aboard; else the brig could not have been lost.
As soon as order had been somewhat restored, and our exact situation ascertained, the crew, assisted by the passengers, commenced building a raft, upon which, when finished, we were to attempt making a passage to the shore.
At daybreak we obtained a better view of the land—indistinctly seen during the darkness. It was a small island—apparently about three miles in circumference—with groves of palm trees standing thickly over it.
The raft having been at length got ready, the work of landing commenced.
By nine o’clock all hands were ashore; and then some efforts were made towards transporting to the beach such provisions as could be saved from the wreck of the brig.
The men, who first volunteered their services for this duty, were some of the most disreputable of the passengers.
Their object in returning to the brig was simply to plunder. The boxes belonging to their fellow-passengers were broken open by these scoundrels, who appropriated to themselves every article of value they could conceal about their persons.
When the work of saving the provisions really commenced, it was found that there was but little to be saved. All the bread, and most of the other stores, had got soaked in the sea-water, and consequently spoilt. A barrel of beef, and another of pork, were all the stores that could be procured in a fit condition for food.
Before we had been ashore over an hour, we became acquainted with the unpleasant circumstance that no fresh water was to be found upon the island.
This intelligence produced great consternation; and the wreck was revisited—for the purpose of ascertaining if any could be procured there. But very little water fit for drinking could be had on board the brig—most of her supply being down in the hold, and of course submerged entirely out of reach.
Some mining tools and American axes had constituted a portion of the cargo. Some of these were now brought ashore, and put into requisition in the search for water.
With the picks and shovels we scooped out a deep hole in the centre of the island, which, to the delight of all, soon became filled with the wished-for fluid.
Our joy was of short continuance. We tasted the water. It was briny as the billows of the ocean. It was the sea-water itself—that went and came with the tides.
Next morning, the captain and six men were despatched in the pinnace—in the hope of then finding some ship to take us off, or reaching some inhabited island—where they might obtain the means of assisting us.
They took with them nearly all the water that remained—leaving over seventy people to depend on the milk of cocoa-nuts as a substitute.
To go out to sea in an open boat, with but a short allowance of water, and some salt beef, was not a very pleasant undertaking; but the captain and his crew seemed highly elated at even this opportunity of getting away from the island. They preferred their chances to ours.
Although the island was small, there was a sufficient quantity of fruit growing upon it to have supported us for many weeks. The chief trouble to be apprehended, was from the lawless wretches who comprised a large minority of the passengers.
After the shipwreck, these men became possessed with the idea: that they were no longer to be under any restraint. The only law they appeared disposed to regard was, that of might; and there was a sufficient number of them to give trouble should they combine in any evil design.
The old convicts, of course, felt sympathy for, and aided one another, while those of the passengers that were honestly inclined, gave themselves too little concern, on the score of combination.
The consequences were, that matters soon proceeded to a state of dangerous insubordination; and each hour it was becoming more evident, that those who wished to live without molesting others, or being molested themselves, must enter into a league against the scoundrels, who would otherwise devote the whole community to destruction.
Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.
Government Agreed Upon.
The more respectable of the castaways were now convinced that some form of government was necessary; and that it should be a strong one. Some who had been willing to acknowledge the authority of the officers of the brig while aboard their craft, would now no longer concede it to them; and yet authority of some kind was essential to our salvation.
We had much to do. The boat had gone away in search of assistance. It might be lost; and the captain and crew along with it. Even if they should succeed in reaching some inhabited land, they might never return to us? There was no wisdom in trusting to that source for relief. We must do something for ourselves.
A new vessel might be built from the materials of the wreck; but to accomplish this we should have to adopt some form of government, and submit to its authority.
There was another and still stronger reason why some ruling power should be established. The cocoa-nuts grew at a height rather inconvenient for a hungry or thirsty man to reach them; and a readier and simpler way of obtaining them was by felling the trees. As we were well supplied with axes brought from the wreck, those so inclined were able to effect this object; and, before we had been three days ashore, many of the trees were thus ruthlessly levelled to the ground.
Considering, that we might have to reside on the island for weeks, or even months, and that our only substitute for water was the milk to be obtained from these cocoa-nuts, it was evident that the trees should not be destroyed.
A meeting of all hands was at length got together; and a committee of five appointed, to form some regulations by which we should all agree to be governed.
Next day, something in the shape of order was inaugurated. We were divided into three parties—to each of which special duties were assigned. One party was entrusted with the business of carpentering. They were to take the wreck to pieces, and construct out of the fragments a new vessel. This party comprised half of the able-bodied men on the island; and was placed under the control of the first officer of the brig—with the carpenter to instruct them in their new duties.
Another party was appointed to act as fishermen—which calling also included the gathering of such shell-fish as could be found along the shore.
The third party—principally composed of the invalids—were to act as cooks, and fill other light offices, while a few young men who were expert in climbing the cocoa-nut trees, were specially appointed for procuring the nuts.
A chief statute of our improvised code was: that any one who should cut down, or in any way injure, a cocoa-nut tree, so as to cause its destruction, was, on conviction of the offence, to be shot!
The punishment may appear out of proportion to the offence; but when it is considered that our very existence might depend on the preservation of these precious trees, it will be seen at once, that the crime was of no light character.
A majority of those who voted for this resolution were in earnest; and I am positive that, any one acting in opposition to it, would have suffered the punishment of death.
Some of the old convicts were much opposed to the arrangements thus made; but they were compelled to submit, and act in accordance with them.
These men were masters of the island when we first landed; and seemed to think, they had the right to help themselves to whatever they wished, without regard to the general good.
Two of these “Sydney birds,” who chanced to be a shade worse than their fellows—were specially informed, that if they should be caught violating the rules we had established, no mercy would be shown them.
A man of some influence amongst the more respectable of the passengers, had detected one of these worthies in possession of some articles that had been taken out of his chest on board the brig. He not only compelled a quick surrender of the misappropriated chattel, but promised for the future to watch for an opportunity of sending the thief where he would be in no danger of repeating the theft. Several others threw out hints to the two men to behave themselves—telling them that their only chance of life would be to act honestly, otherwise they would certainly meet with immediate chastisement. Such hints were effectual; and for a time the peace of the community remained undisturbed.
Three weeks passed—during which the work of ship-building progressed, as well as could be expected. The wreck had been taken to pieces, and floated ashore; and from the materials a tolerable commencement had been made in the construction of a new craft.
At this time serious fears began to be entertained, that many of us must die for the want of water. The cocoa-nuts were each day becoming scarcer; the trees did not grow them as fast as they were consumed; and a close watch was kept on the actions of every one in the community—in order that no one should have more than his share.
This duty was very harassing: as it had to be performed by the honest and respectable men, who were far from being the majority among us.
To our great relief, we were one night favoured by a fall of rain.
It rained but very little—a mere shower—and we had a good deal of trouble in collecting it. All the shirts on the island, clean or dirty, as they chanced to be, were spread out upon the grass; and, when saturated with the rain, were wrung into vessels.
Every exertion was made to save as much water as possible; and not without some success: for a sufficient quantity was collected to place us beyond the fear of want for several days longer.
Some of the men began to suffer severely from the want of tobacco. Only those, who had originally acted in the salvage of the wreck, were in possession of this precious commodity—having freely helped themselves while in the performance of that duty. Some of them did not refuse to sell a portion of their stock; and small plugs of tobacco, weighing about a quarter of a pound, readily found purchasers at ten dollars the plug!
One man, on paying his “eagle” for a pair of these plugs, was heard to remark: “Well! this is the second time I’ve bought this tobacco, though the price has been awfully raised since my first purchase. I know these plugs well. They’ve been taken out of my own chest!”
The person from whom the tobacco was purchased seemed highly amused, and not a little flattered. He was proud to think the purchaser did not take him for a fool!
It gradually became the conviction of all: that we should have to depend on our own vessel for getting away from the island. It was not a very agreeable prospect: since we knew that we should have to put to sea, with but little food and less water. Even from the first, it had seemed exceedingly doubtful that the captain would ever return.
Some were of the opinion that he could not, even if inclined; that he knew not the position of the island, on which we had been cast away; and, consequently, could give no instructions about finding it—even should he be so fortunate as to fall in with a ship.
There were many probabilities in favour of this belief; and those who entertained it did not fail to bring them forward.
“If he knew where the island lay,” argued they, “why was the brig run ashore upon it on a calm, clear night?”
Certainly this question suggested a very discouraging answer.
At the end of the fifth week, our new vessel was nearly completed; and we set industriously to the collecting of shell-fish, cocoa-nuts, and other articles of food, to serve as stores for our intended voyage.
The craft we had constructed was not a very beautiful creature to look at; but I have no doubt it would have answered the purpose for which we had designed it.
By good fortune, we were never called upon to make trial of its sailing qualities. Just as we were about to launch it, a ship was seen bearing down for the island!
Before her anchor was dropped, a boat was seen shoving off for the shore; and, soon after, we had the pleasure of looking once more on the cheerful, honest countenance of the old Dutch skipper.
He had not deserted us in our distress, as some had conjectured: and he did know the situation of the island, as was proved by his bringing the ship back to it.
At the time of his departure, he had not a friend amongst the passengers of the “Ceres.” There was not one on that occasion to speak a word in his favour. But now, as soon as he set foot on the island, he was hailed with three hearty cheers, and there was a struggle among the crowd who surrounded him: as to who should be the first to show their gratitude by a grasp of the hand!
Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.
A Hungry Passage.
The ship thus brought to our rescue was a New England whaler, that had been cruising about in pursuit of the sperm whale. The captain asked six hundred dollars for taking our whole community to New Zealand.
The demand was by no means extortionate. Indeed, it was a moderate sum—considering the trouble and expense he would have to incur: since he had already lost a good deal of time on his way to the island.
The voyage to New Zealand might occupy several weeks—during which time we would be consuming no small quantity of his stores.
But although this price was not too much for the Yankee skipper to ask, it was more than the Dutch skipper was able to pay: since the latter had not got the money.
The passengers were called upon to subscribe the amount. Most of them objected. They had paid a passage once, they said, and would not pay it over again.
To this the captain of the whaler made a very reasonable rejoinder. If there were just grounds for believing that the money could not be obtained, he would have to take us without it: for he could never leave so many men on so small an island, where they might perish for want of food and water. But as we did not claim to be out of funds, the fault would be our own if he departed without us, which he would certainly do, unless the passage-money was paid. He also gave us warning, that we might expect to put up with many inconveniences upon his ship. She was not a passenger-vessel, nor was he supplied with provisions for so many people.
It was clear that the six hundred dollars must be raised some way or other; and a movement was immediately set on foot to collect it.
Many of the passengers declared that they had no money. Some of them spoke the truth; but the difficulty was to learn who did, and who did not.
Amongst others, who solemnly declared that they had no money, was a ruffian, who had been selling tobacco at the rate of forty dollars per pound. This fact was communicated by the individual, who had repurchased, and paid so dearly, for his own weed.
The fellow was now emphatically informed, that unless he paid his share of the passage-money, he would be left behind upon the island.
This threat had the desired effect. He succeeded in finding the required cash; and after much wrangling, the sum of six hundred dollars was at length made up.
Next day we were taken aboard the whaler; and sailed away from the island in a direct course for the port of Auckland.
I never made a more disagreeable voyage than on board that whaler. There were several reasons that rendered the passage unpleasant. One was, that all on board were in an ill-conditioned frame of mind; and, consequently, had no relish for being either civil or sociable. The diggers had been detained several weeks—on their way to a land they were anxious to reach in the shortest possible time—and they now were to be landed at Auckland instead of Sydney. Another voyage would have to be made, before they could arrive at the gold fields of Australia—of which they had been hearing such attractive tales.
We were not even favoured with a fair breeze. On the contrary, the wind blew most of the way against us; and the ship had to make about three hundred miles, while carrying us only fifty in the right direction.
The whaler, moreover, was an old tub—good enough for her proper purpose, but ill adapted for carrying impatient passengers on their way to a new gold field.
She was kept as much into the wind as possible; but withal made so much lee-way, that her course was side-ways—in the same manner as a pig would go into a battle.
There were no accommodations either for sleeping, or eating the little food we were allowed; and we were compelled to rough it in the most literal sense of the phrase.
By the time we should have reached Auckland, we were not half the distance; and both the provisions and water of the ship were well nigh consumed.
Between seventy and eighty hungry and thirsty men—added to the original crew of the whaler—had made a greater destruction of his ship’s stores than the captain had calculated upon; and the third week, after leaving the island, we were put on an allowance of one quart of water per diem to each individual. Meat was no longer served out to us; and simple, though not very sweet, biscuits became our food. We were also allowed rice; but this, without garnishing, was still more insipid than the biscuits.
We thought it hard fare, and complained accordingly, although we had but little reason for doing so. We could only blame our fate, or our fortune; and so the captain of the whaler was accustomed to tell us.
“I warned you,” he would say, “that you might expect to have a hard time of it. I’m sure I did not advertise for you to take passage in my vessel, and you have no reason to complain. I do the best for you I can. You are growling about having to eat rice. Millions of people live on it for years, while working hard. You have only to live on it for a few days, and do nothing. I hope, for both our sakes, it won’t last long.”
It was just, because they were doing nothing that the grumblers were so loud in their complaints.
In justice to many of the passengers, I should state, that those who complained the most were the very men who had paid nothing towards remunerating the captain for his services. They were some of the worst characters aboard; and, without making any allowance for the circumstances under which we were placed, found fault with everything on the whaler. I believe, they did so for the simple reason that she was an American ship.
Luckily we reached Auckland at last, though not a day too soon: for by the time we sighted land the patience of the passengers with each other, and their temper towards the captain, were well nigh exhausted. Had we remained at sea a few hours longer, some strange scenes would have taken place on the whaler, which all aboard of her would not have survived to describe.
No doubt the Yankee captain saw us go over the side of his ship with much heart-felt satisfaction, though certainly this feeling was not all to himself. His late passengers, one and all, equally participated in it.
I saw but very little of Auckland, or rather of the country around it; but, from that little, I formed a very favourable opinion of its natural resources and abilities; and I believe that colony to be a good home for English emigrants.
Being myself a Rolling Stone, I did not regard it with the eyes of a settler; and therefore I might be doing injustice either to the colony itself, or to intending emigrants, by saying much about it.
Guided by recent experiences, there is one thing I can allege in favour of New Zealand as a colony, which, in my opinion, makes it superior to any other; that is, that a home can be there had farther away from London, than in any other colonial settlement with which I am acquainted.
From Auckland to reach any part of Australia required a further outlay of six pounds sterling.
The gold-diggers thought this rather hard—alleging that they had already paid their passage twice; but they were forced to submit to circumstances.
For myself, after remaining in Auckland a few days, I obtained a passage in a small vessel sailing for Sydney, which port we reached, after a short and pleasant run of nine days’ duration.
I had been exactly five months in getting from San Francisco to Sydney—a voyage that, under ordinary circumstances, might have been made in fifty days!
Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.
The Guardians of the Orphan.
I had at length reached the place where, in all probability, I should find my long-lost mother.
A few days might find me happy, with my relatives restored to me, and all of us on our way to Liverpool—where I should see Lenore!
I felt a very singular sort of pleasure, in the anticipation of an interview with my mother and sister. They would not know me: for I was but a boy, when I parted from them in Dublin. They would scarce believe that the fair-skinned, curly-haired, little “Rolling Stone,” could have become changed to a large bearded man—with a brow tanned by the South Sea gales, and the hot tropical beams of a Californian sun.
Before leaving San Francisco I had obtained the address of the grandparents of Mr Leary’s child; and also of several other people in Sydney—who would be likely to have known something of Leary himself residing there.
From some of these persons I hoped to obtain information, that would guide me in the search after my relatives.
Mr Davis—the father of the unfortunate girl who had eloped with Leary—was a respectable shopkeeper in the grocery line.
As there could be no great difficulty in finding his shop, I resolved to make my first call upon the grocer.
Notwithstanding my hatred to Leary, I felt some interest in the child he had helped to make an orphan. I wished to ascertain, whether it had been safely delivered into the charge of its grandparents—as also the gold, which the Californian miners had so liberally contributed towards its support.
The next day after landing in Sydney, I made my call upon Mr Davis.
I found his shop without any difficulty; and in it himself—an honest-looking man, apparently about fifty years of age.
His business appeared to be in a flourishing condition: for the establishment was a large one, and to all appearance well-stocked with the articles required in a retail grocery.
There were two young men behind the counter, besides Mr Davis himself, who, as I entered, was in the act of serving a customer.
On the old gentleman being told, that if he was not too much engaged, I should like a few minutes’ conversation with him, he handed the customer over to one of his assistants; and conducted me into a sitting-room that adjoined the shop.
After complying with his request to be seated, I told him, I had lately arrived from California, where I had heard of him, and that I had now called to see him, on a business to me of some importance. I added, that the communication I had to make might awaken some unpleasant thoughts; but that I deemed it better to make it, rather than run the risk of incurring his displeasure, by not communicating with him at all.
Mr Davis then civilly demanded to know the nature of my business, though from his tone I could tell, that he already half comprehended it.
“If I am not mistaken,” said I, “you have a child here, that has been sent you from California?”
“Yes,” answered he, “one was brought to me from there, about four months ago. I was told that it was my grandchild; and I received it as such.”
“And have you also received a sum of money, that was to have been intrusted to your care, for its benefit?” I asked.
“I have; and that was some proof to me that the child was really my grandchild.”
To this sage observation of the grocer, I replied, by making to him a full disclosure of my object in visiting Sydney; and that I had called on himself to learn, if possible, something concerning my own mother.
“You could not have come to a better place to obtain that information,” said he; “a woman calling herself Mrs Leary, and claiming to be the wife of the man who had been known here by the name of Mathews, calls here almost every day. If she be your mother, you will have no difficulty in finding her: she is a dress-maker, and my wife can tell you where she resides.”
My task had proved much easier than I had any reason to expect; and I was now only impatient to obtain the address; and hasten to embrace my long-lost mother.
“Do not be too fast,” said the cautious Mr Davis. “Wait until you have learnt something more. Let me ask you two or three questions. Do you know how the man Mathews died?”
“Yes: I saw him die.”
“Then you know for what reason he was put to death?”
“I do,” was my answer. “And you—?”
“I too—alas! too certainly,” rejoined Mr Davis in a sorrowful tone. “But stay!” he continued, “I have something more to say to you, before you see the woman who calls herself his wife, and whom you believe to be your mother. She does not know that Mathews is dead. I did not wish it to go abroad, that my daughter had been murdered, and that the man with whom she eloped had been hanged for the deed. Her running away with him was sorrow and shame enough, without our acquaintances knowing any more. They think that my daughter died in a natural way; and that the man Mathews, has merely sent the child back to us, that we might bring it up for him. The woman, you think is your mother, believes this also; and that Mathews is still alive, and will soon return. She seems to love him, more than she does her own life. I have informed you of this, so that you may know how to act. She comes here often to see the child—because her husband was its father. She is a strange woman: for she seems to love the little creature as though it was her own; and I have no doubt would willingly take sole charge of it on herself, were we to allow her.”
All this was strange information, and such as gave me exceeding pain. It was evident that my unfortunate mother had profited nothing by the experience of the past. She was as much infatuated with Leary as ever—notwithstanding that he had again deserted her, after she had made a voyage of sixteen thousand miles to rejoin him!
I saw Mrs Davis and the young Leary. It was an interesting child—a boy, and bore no resemblance to the father, that I could perceive. Had it done so, I should have hated it; and so did I declare myself in the presence of its grandmother. In reply to this avowal, the old lady informed me that Mrs Leary and I held a different opinion upon the point of the child’s resemblance: for she thought it a perfect image of its father, and that was the reason why she was so dotingly fond of it!
“Thank God!” said the grandmother, “that I myself think as you do. No. The child has no resemblance to its unworthy father. I am happy in thinking, that in every feature of its face it is like its mother—my own unfortunate child. I could not love it were it not for that; but now I don’t know what I should do without it. God has surely sent us this little creature, as some compensation for the loss we sustained by being deprived of our dear daughter!”
The grief of the bereaved mother could not be witnessed without pain; and leaving her with the child in her arms, I withdrew.
Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.
A Meeting with a Long-Lost Mother.
From Mrs Davis I had obtained my mother’s address; and I went at once in search of the place.
Passing along the street, to which I had been directed, I saw a small, but neat-looking shop, with the words “Mrs Leary, Milliner and Dress-Maker” painted over the door. I had journeyed far in search of my mother; I had just arrived from a long voyage—which it had taken three ships to enable me to complete. The weariness of spirit, and impatience caused by the delay, had been a source of much misery to me; but now that the object of my search was found—and there was nothing further to do than enter the house and greet my long-lost relatives—strange enough, I felt as if there was no more need for haste! Instead of at once stepping into the house, I passed nearly an hour in the street—pacing up and down it, altogether undetermined how to act.
During that hour my thoughts were busy, both with the past and future: for I knew that in the interview I was about to hold with my mother, topics must come into our conversation of a peculiar kind, and such as required the most serious reflection on my part, before making myself known to her.
Should I make her acquainted with the ignominious termination of Mr Leary’s career; and by that means endeavour to put an end to her strange infatuation for him? If what Mrs Davis had told me regarding her should turn out to be true, I almost felt as if I could no longer regard her as a mother. Indeed, when I reflected on her affection for such a wretch as Leary, I could not help some risings of regret, that I should have lost so much time, and endured so many hardships, in search of a relative who could be guilty of such incurable folly.
Notwithstanding the time spent in pacing through the street, I could determine on no definite course of action; and, at length, resolving to be guided by circumstances, I stepped up to the house, and knocked at the door.
It was opened by a young woman, about nineteen years of age.
I should not have known who she was, had I not expected to meet relatives; but the girl was beautiful, and just such as I should have expected to find my sister Martha. My thoughts had so often dwelt upon my little sister; that I had drawn in my mind an imaginary portrait of her. Her blue eyes and bright hair, as well as the cast of her countenance, and form of her features, had ever remained fresh and perfect in my memory. I had only to gaze on the young girl before me, refer to my mental picture of little Martha, remember that eleven years had passed since last I saw her, and be certain that I had found my sister.
I knew it was she; but I said nothing to make the recognition mutual. I simply asked for Mrs Leary.
I was invited in; and requested to take a seat.
The apartment, into which I was conducted, seemed to be used as a sitting-room as well as a shop; and from its general appearance I could tell that my mother and sister were not doing a very flourishing business. There was enough, however, to satisfy me, that they were earning their living in a respectable manner.
To prevent being misunderstood, I will state, that, by a respectable manner, I mean that they, to all appearance, were supporting themselves by honest industry; and in my opinion there can be no greater evidence, that they were living a life that should command respect.
The young girl, without a suspicion of the character of her visitor, left me to summon the person for whom I had made inquiry; and in a few minutes time, Mrs Leary herself entered from an adjoining room. I saw at a glance that she was the woman I remembered as mother!
The face appeared older and more careworn; but the features were the same, that had lived so long in my memory.
It would be impossible to describe the strange emotions that crowded into my soul on once more beholding my long-lost, unfortunate mother. I know not why I should have been so strongly affected. Some may argue that a weak intellect is easily excited by trifles. They may be correct; but there is another phenomenon. A great passion can never have existence in a little soul; and I know that at that moment, a storm of strong passions was raging within mine.
I tried to speak, but could not. Language was not made for the thoughts that at that moment stirred within me.
It was not until I had been twice asked by my mother, what was my business, that I perceived the necessity of saying something.
But what was I to say? Tell her that I was her son?
This was what common sense would have dictated; but, just at that crisis, I did not happen to have any sense of this quality about me. My thoughts were wandering from the days of childhood up to that hour; they were in as much confusion, as though my brains had been stirred about with a wooden spoon.
I contrived to stammer out something at last; and I believe the words were, “I have come to see you.”
“If that is your only business,” said my mother, “now that you have seen me, you may go again.”
How familiar was the sound of her voice! It seemed to have been echoing, for years, from wall to wall in the mansion of my memory.
I made no effort to avail myself of the permission she had so curtly granted; but continued gazing at the two—my eyes alternately turning from mother to daughter—in a manner that must have appeared rude enough.
“Do you hear me?” said the old lady. “If you have no business here, why don’t you go away?”
There was an energy in her tone that touched another chord of memory. “It is certainly my mother,” thought I, “and I am at home once more.”
My soul was overwhelmed with a thousand emotions—more strong than had ever stirred it before. I know not whether they were of pleasure or of pain: for I could not analyse them then, and have never felt them before or since.
My actions were involuntary: for my thoughts were too much occupied to guide them.
A sofa stood near; and, throwing myself upon it, I tried to realise the fact that eleven years had passed, since parting with my relatives a boy, and that I had met them again, and was a boy no longer!
“Martha!” cried my mother, “go and bring a policeman!”
The young girl had been gazing at me, long and earnestly. She continued her gaze, without heeding the command thus addressed to her.
“Mother,” rejoined she, after an interval, “we have seen this man before; I’m sure I have.”
“Did you not once live in Dublin, sir?” she asked, turning to me.
“Yes, I once lived there—when a boy,” I answered.
“Then I must be mistaken,” said she; “but I really thought I had seen you there.”
There was something so very absurd in this remark, that I could not help noticing it—even in my abstracted state of mind; and this very absurdity had the effect of awakening me from my reverie.
It then suddenly occurred to the young girl, that she had not been in Dublin since she was a child herself; and, at the time she left that city, a young man of my appearance could not have been much more than a boy.
“Perhaps, I am right after all?” said she. “I do believe that I’ve seen you in Dublin. Mother!” she added, turning to the old lady; “He knows who we are.”
Martha’s first remark—about having seen me in Dublin—brought upon me the earnest gaze of my mother. She had often told me that when a man I would look like my father; and perhaps my features awakened within her some recollections of the past.
She came up to me; and, speaking in a low, earnest voice, said: “Tell me who you are!”
I arose to my feet, trembling in every limb.
“Tell me who you are! What is your name?” she exclaimed—becoming nearly as much excited as myself.
I could no longer refrain from declaring myself; and I made answer:—
“I am the Rolling Stone.”
Had I been a small and weak man, I should have been crushed and suffocated by the embraces of my mother and sister—so demonstrative were they in their expressions of surprise and joy!
As soon as our excitement had, to some extent, subsided; and we were able to converse a rational manner, I inquired after my brother William.
“I left him apprenticed to a harness-maker in Liverpool,” answered my mother.
“But where is he now?” I asked; “that was long ago.”
My mother began to weep; and Martha made answer for her.
“William ran away from his master; and we have never heard of him since.”
I requested to be informed what efforts had been made to find him. I was then told that my mother had written two or three times to the harness-maker; and from him had learnt that he had used every exertion, to discover the whereabouts of his runaway apprentice, but without success.
It appeared that my mother never liked to hear any one speak of William: for she had some unpleasant regrets at having left him behind her in Liverpool.
I consoled her, by saying that I had plenty of money, that William should be advertised for, and found; and that we should all again live happily together—as we had in years long gone by.
In all my life I was never more happy than on that evening. The future was full of hope.
It was true that much had yet to be done before my purposes could be fully accomplished. But a man with nothing to do, cannot be contented. We must ever have something to attain, or life is not worth the having.
I had yet something to live for. I had still a task to perform that might require much time and toil. I had yet to win Lenore!