Chapter VI: Part 6

"Well, on becoming sure of this, I determined to find out the reason. I knew there must be something wrong; and I made up my mind to find out what it was--though it might lead to the breaking up of all my fine prospects. One day, when my ship was about to start on a new trip to Charleston, I settled scores with the captain, and left her. Ann was under the belief, that I had gone off in the vessel; but she was mistaken. I had stopped behind, to keep an eye on herself. A few months before, I had given her some money--to enable her to go into partnership with a widow, in keeping a little stationery and toy shop-- and she was now in that business. My scheme was to keep an eye on the shop; and see what was going on. I had not been very long playing spy, before I found out the lay of the land. A young fellow of a swellish appearance, used to pay visits to the shop, nearly every day of the week. He came in the evening; and Ann would go out with him to theatres and dancing places.

"I watched the fellow to his home, or to his lodgings--for he lived in a two-pair back; and from there I tracked him to his place of business. I found that he was what in London is called a `clerk.' He was a thing unworthy of Ann; but, of course, that being the case, he did not know it; and I could see from his vain looks that he thought sufficiently of himself--too much to marry Ann. From what I saw, I had no doubt that he was deceiving her.

"I scarce knew what to do: for there was no use in telling the girl that she was being deceived. She would not have believed me.

"If she had believed me, and given the puppy up, it would not have made much difference to me. My confidence in her was gone. I could have had it no more. She had acted ungrateful to me--by giving her preference to a conceited swell--who took her about to places of amusement, where men do not take young girls, whom they intend afterwards to marry. Ann had proved herself unworthy of a love like mine. I had toiled for her, and loved her, for nine long years; and this was the return.

"My good resolutions all forsook me--by the shock which her ingratitude gave me; and ever since that time, I've been only Stormy Jack, and nothing more. You know what he is." Stormy once more relapsed into silence, as if his story had been concluded. More deeply interested than ever, I desired to know more. In answer, to my request, he resumed his narrative.

"Well," continued he. "My next voyage was a long one. I made the trip to India, and was gone fourteen months; but on my return, at the end of that time, I had not forgotten Ann. I still loved her--although I knew that she could never be my wife. Even had she consented, my pride would not allow of my marrying her now.

"When I got back from India, I went to the little shop to enquire for her. She was no longer there. I found her in the work-house--the same from which she had been taken when a child. She was the mother of a child, seven months old; and had never been married. I determined to teach her manners. You may think it strange, Rowley, but I was now, more than ever, resolved she should love me. It would be some satisfaction for what I had suffered on her account. I knew my motive wasn't altogether as it ought to have been, but I could not help doing as I did.

"When paid the wages, owing me by the East Indiaman, I had about twenty-five pounds to the good; and, with this money, I took Ann out of the work-house, and placed her in a comfortable home. I acted, to all appearance, as kindly to her, and seemed as affectionate as I had ever been; and I even gave her more of my company than I had ever done before. When she came to contrast my conduct with that of the heartless villain who had ruined and deserted her, she could not help loving me. On her knees, and with tears in her eyes, she confessed her folly, and sorrow for the past; and prayed for me to forgive her.

"`Of course, I forgive you, Ann,' said I, `or I would not have returned to you.'

"`And will you love me as much as you once did?' she then asked.

"`Certainly I will.'

"`John,' she said, `you are the most noble-minded man in the world; and I only begin to know your real worth. Oh! what a fool I have been, not to have known it before! You are better than all other men on the earth!'

"Ann had got over the folly of her girlhood. The sorrows which she had suffered during the last few months, had taught her wisdom, and brought repentance; and she now believed, that such love as I had offered her was of some value.

"I visited her every day; and appeared to take such an interest in the welfare, both of herself and her child, that I, at length, became certain that she loved me. She could not have helped it, had she tried. Poor girl! she fancied she was going to be happy again; but she was mistaken.

"When my money was all spent, I prepared to take leave of her. Before going, I told her the truth, that I had loved her, ever since she was a child; and that I ever would; but that I could never make her my wife. After what had transpired, I could never be happy as her husband.

"`I shall never forget you, Ann,' said I. `Whenever I have a pound in my pocket, you are welcome to fifteen shillings of it; but _my_ happiness, for this world, you have entirely destroyed; and I can never marry you, as I once intended to do. You know the many years that I toiled for you; and was that not proof that I loved you dearly? All that I have done, I am willing to do again; but what I had hoped to do, is no longer possible. You have not proved worthy of my love, and can never be my wife.'

"As I said this, she was nearly distracted; and declared that she would never accept another shilling from me. She promised to do for me all that I had done for her: to work for me, and let me live in idleness. I had at last succeeded in winning her love.

"Perhaps I was wrong in having done so; but the manner in which I had been myself wronged, rendered me incapable of acting honest. I could not help taking this way to larn her a little manners. There was another I intended larning a lesson to, before I left London; but I determined to teach him in a very different way. It was the swell that had ruined Ann.

"I looked out for him; and found him in the street, on the way to his place of business. I laid one o' my flippers on his shoulder, to keep him from escaping, while I gave him his lesson with the other. I flattened his nose, nearly tore off one of his ears; and did him some other damage besides. The police pulled me off o' him; and I was taken away to the station, and next day brought before a magistrate.

"I only got two months for giving the conceited snob his lesson, which I didn't much regret, for I was just as well off in the gaol as anywhere else. My time or my liberty was worth nothing more to me. When again set free, I made another voyage to India, and got back in fourteen months.

"When I returned, Ann was dead. She had died in the same work-house, in which she was born.

"Since then, there has been no particular reason why I should behave myself; and I have been, as you see me, old Stormy Jack. I never again thought of getting married. I could only love but one; and that one it was not my fate to be spliced to. I suppose it was never intended I should get married. At all events, I don't mean to try. I made one girl miserable by not marrying her; and I might make another miserable if I did."

With this hypothetical reflection, Stormy concluded his sad story.

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END OF VOLUME ONE.

Volume Two, Chapter I.

A STRANGE SUMMONS FROM STORMY.

As already stated, I had left the northern diggings with the design of going to the Tuolumne river; and that on my way to the latter place I had met Guinane--who had induced me to relinquish my design, and stop awhile on the Stanislaus.

Now that Guinane was gone, and the claim in which we had been partners worked out, there was nothing to hinder me from carrying out my original intention; and I resolved, to leave the Stanislaus' diggings, and proceed onward to the Tuolumne.

Stormy Jack, who stayed behind, promised to join me, as soon as he should have worked out his claim on the Stanislaus--which he expected to do in about three weeks.

On reaching the Tuolumne, I proceeded to Jacksonville--a little mining village, where, after looking about a couple of days, I purchased two shares in a claim that lay upon the bank of the river.

Not liking the sort of work required to be done on this claim--which was wet--I employed men to work it for me. I could afford to do this: for, having toiled hard ever since my arrival in the diggings, and not having been either unsuccessful or extravagant, I had begun to believe that Lenore might yet be mine. The brighter this hope became, the more value did I set on my life; and was therefore careful not to endanger my health by working in a "wet claim."

Another change had taken place in my domestic arrangements. I no longer lived in a miner's tent, nor did I continue to act as my own cook and washer-woman. I was worth several hundred pounds; and began to have a better opinion of myself than ever before. So proud was I of possessing such a sum of money, that had I been in Liverpool at that time, I should not have hesitated to talk of love to Lenore.

The life of most gold-diggers is wretched beyond belief. The inconveniences and hardships they endure are but poorly repaid, by their freedom from the irksome regulations and restraints of more civilised life. I have seen miners eating bread that had been kneaded _in a hat_, and baked in the hot ashes of their camp fire! I have seen them suffering many hardships--even hunger itself--at the very time they were encumbered with ponderous bags of gold!

In the days when gold-digging was romantic and fashionable, I have seen learned lawyers, skilled physicians, and eloquent divines--who had been seduced by the charms of a miner's life--passing the Sabbath day at the washtub, or seated outside their tents, needle in hand, stitching the torn seams of their ragged and scanty clothing. I had myself been following this rude manner of life, ever since my arrival at the diggings; but it had now lost its charms, and after reaching the Tuolumne, I took up my residence in a French boarding-house.

My two shares in the claim I had purchased soon began to yield a rich return, so that I was able to purchase several more, and also employ more men in working them.

One day I received a visit from Stormy Jack, who had come over from the Stanislaus, as he said, "to take bearings before sailing out from Sonora."

He saw how comfortably I was living in Jacksonville; and that I was making money without much hard work.

"I'll come and live like you," said he, "for I am getting too rich myself to go on as I've been doing. I won't stand hard work any longer."

After spending the day with me, he returned to Sonora--with the intention of selling out his claims on the Stanislaus, and coming to reside at Jacksonville.

The day after he had gone away--which chanced to be Saturday--at a late hour of the evening, I received a letter from him. He had written it that morning, and sent it to me by a shopkeeper who chanced to be returning to Jacksonville. So badly was the letter written, that I was occupied all the rest of the evening deciphering it; but after spending much time, patience, and ingenuity upon the epistle, I arrived at a tolerable understanding of the intelligence it was intended to convey.

Stormy commenced by stating, that I must excuse all faults: for it was the first letter he had written for a period of more than thirty years. In fact, all correspondence of an epistolary kind on Stormy's part had been discontinued on the death of Ann!

I was then informed, in the old sailor's characteristic fashion, that a murder had just been committed on the Stani. A woman had been killed by her husband; and the husband had been summarily tried, and found guilty of the crime.

The next day, at noon, the miners were going to teach the murderer "manners," by hanging him to a tree. I was advised to come over, and be a spectator of the lesson--for the reason that Stormy believed we had both seen the guilty man before. Stormy was not sure about this. The murderer bore a name, that he had never heard me make use of; but a name was nothing. "I've a bit of a fancy in my head," wrote Stormy, "that I have seen the man many years ago; and that _you_ will know who he is-- though I can't be sartain. So come and see for yourself. I'll expect you to be at my tent, by eleven o'clock in the mornin'."

Who could the murderer be, that _I_ should know him? Could Stormy be mistaken? Had he been drinking; and this time become affected in the brain, instead of the legs?

I could hardly think it was drink. He would not have taken the trouble to write, his first epistle in thirty years, without some weighty reason.

I went to see the store-keeper who had brought the letter. From him I learnt that a murder _had_ been committed by a man from Sydney, and that the murderer was to be hung on the following day.

As I continued to reflect on the information I thus received, a horrid thought came into my mind. Could the murderer be Mr Leary? Could his victim have been my mother?

There was a time when this thought would have produced on me a different effect from what it did then, a time when, dark as might have been the night, such a suspicion would have caused me to spring to my feet and instantaneously take the road to Sonora.

It did not then. I now felt less interest in the mystery I had so long been endeavouring to solve. Time, with the experience it brought, had rendered me less impulsive, if not less firm in purpose. I could not, however, sleep upon the suspicion; and after passing a wretched night, I was up before the sun.

Sonora was about thirteen miles distant from the Tuolumne diggings. It would be a pleasant morning walk; and I determined to go afoot. The exercise would only give me an appetite--so that I should enjoy my breakfast after reaching the Stanislaus. I could take plenty of time on the way, and still be there by nine o'clock--two hours sooner Stormy expected me.

I started along the road--meditating as I walked onward, what course I should pursue, supposing the murderer should turn out to be Leary, and supposing the murdered woman to be my mother!

Mr Leary was the husband of my mother. He was my stepfather. Should I allow him to be hung?

Such thoughts coursed rapidly through my mind, as I proceeded along the solitary path. I could not check them, by the reflection that, after all, the man might _not_ be Mr Leary. Why I had thought of him at all, was because I could think of no other man that Stormy and I had both known before--at least, none who was likely to have committed a murder. But my correspondent might still be mistaken; and the condemned criminal be a stranger to both of us?

When I had walked about a mile along the main road to Sonora I left it-- knowing that I could make a shorter cut by a path, leading over the ridge that separates the valleys of the Stanislaus and Tuolumne.

I had got, as I supposed, about half-way to Sonora; and was passing near a chapperal thicket, when a large grizzly bear rushed out of the bushes, and advanced straight towards me.

Fortunately a large live oak tree was growing near, with limbs that extended horizontally. I had just time to climb up among the branches. A second more, and I should have been grasped by the claws of the grizzly. Unlike his congener the brown bear, the _grizzly_ cannot climb a tree, and knowing this I fancied myself safe.

Taking a seat on one of the limbs of the live oak, I proceeded to contemplate the interesting position in which I was placed. The bear had a brace of cubs playing in the chapperal near by. I could hear them sniffing and growling; and soon after got sight of them, engaged in their uncouth, bearish frolics. It would have been pleasant enough to watch these creatures; but the prospect of how I was to regain my liberty soon became the sole subject of my thoughts--by no means a pleasant one.

I saw that, the bear was not inclined to leave the tree, while her interesting family was so near. That seemed certain. The chance of any person passing, near that lonely place, was one against a hundred. The path was very little used, and only by an occasional pedestrian like myself.

To ensure the safety of her offspring, the bear might keep me up that tree until her cubs had arrived at the age of discretion, and be able to take care of themselves. Under the circumstances, I could not subsist so long.

Always having allowed myself to believe, that a civil tongue, a good bowie-knife, and the sense to mind my own business, were a much better protection than fire-arms, I seldom carried a revolver--as most people in California, at that time, were in the habit of doing. I now found need of the weapon, when I had it not.

I was not, however, wholly unprovided with what might console me in my dilemma: for I had some good cigars and a flask of brandy,--that happened to have been put into my pocket the night before. To aid me in calculating the chances of regaining my liberty, I took a pull at the flask, and then lighted a cigar.

Volume Two, Chapter II.

A GRIZZLY ON FIRE.

During all this time, the bear had been energetically trying to pull down, or eat up, the tree; and I only felt secure, when I saw that she had not the ability to do either.

But the business upon which I was bound to Sonora now came before my mind. It seemed to have become greatly magnified in importance, so much so, that I began to fancy, that all my hopes for the future depended on my finding Stormy Jack before twelve o'clock. Time was rapidly passing, without my making any progress towards the place of appointment.

"What shall I do?" was the thought that seemed to run like hot lead through my skull.

The excited state I was in hindered the enjoyment I usually have in smoking a good cigar; and the fire of the one I had lit soon became extinguished.

Imbued with the belief that smoking tranquillises an agitated mind, and brings it to a fitter state for contemplation, I relighted the cigar.

I knew from the implacable disposition of the grizzly bear, that the old she that besieged me was not likely to leave the tree so long as I was in it; and the length of my captivity would probably depend on which of us could longest resist the demands of hunger.

My cigars--unlike some that I have often been compelled to smoke--could not be used as _substitute for food_: since they were composed neither of turnip tops nor cabbage leaves.

The day was intensely hot; and I had grown thirsty--a sensation that brandy would not remove. The longer I kept my perch, the more my impatience pained me, indeed, life seemed not worth possessing, unless I met Stormy at the time he had appointed. I felt the terrible exigency; but could not think of a way to respond to it. There was every probability of the next day finding me no nearer Sonora, but much nearer death, than I was then. The agony of thirst--which the feverish anxiety caused by my forlorn condition each moment increased--would of itself make an end of me.

The idea of descending from the tree, and fighting the bear with my bowie-knife, was too absurd to be entertained for a moment. To do so would be to court instant death.

I have already stated that at the time of which I write, California was disgraced by such spectacles as combats between a grizzly bear and a bull.

I had witnessed three such exhibitions; and the manner in which I had seen one of the former knock down and lacerate a bull with a single blow of its paw, was enough to make me cautious about giving the old she an opportunity of exhibiting her prowess upon myself.

The remembrance of such scenes was enough to have made me surrender myself to positive despair. I had not, however, quite come to that.

A scheme for regaining my liberty at length suggested itself; and I believe it was through smoking the cigar that the happy idea occurred to me.

To the branch on which I was sitting was attached a tuft of a singular parasitive plant. It was a species of "Spanish moss," or "old man's beard," so called, from the resemblance of its long white filamentary leaves to the hairs of a venerable pair of whiskers.

The plant itself had long since perished, as I could tell from its withered appearance. Its long filaments hung from the limb, crisp and dry as curled horse-hair.

Reaching towards it, I collected a quantity of the thread-like leaves, and placed them, so that I could conveniently lay hands upon them when wanted.

My next move was to take out the stopper of my brandy flask--which done, I turned the flask upside down, and spilled nearly the whole of its contents upon the back of the bear. What was left I employed to give a slight moistening to the bunch of Spanish moss.

I now drew forth my lucifers--when, to my chagrin, I saw that there was but one match left in the box!

What if it should miss fire, or even if igniting, I should fail with it to light the dry leaves?

I trembled as I dwelt upon the possibility of a failure. Perhaps my life depended upon the striking of that one match? I felt the necessity of being careful. A slight shaking of the hand would frustrate my well-contrived scheme.

Cautiously did I draw the match over the steel filings on the box, too cautiously, for no crackling accompanied the friction.

I tried again; but this time, to my horror, I saw the little dump of phosphorus that should have blazed up, break from the end of the stick, and fall to the bottom of the tree!

I came very near falling myself, for the bright hope that had illumed my mind was now extinguished; and the darkness of despondency once more set over my soul.

Soon, however, a new idea came into my mind--restoring my hopes as suddenly as they had departed. There was fire in the stump of the cigar still sticking between my lips.

The match was yet in my hand; and I saw that there remained upon it a portion of the phosphoric compound.

I applied its point to the coal of the cigar; and had the gratification of beholding it blaze upwards.

I now kindled the Spanish moss, which, saturated with the brandy, soon became a blaze; and this strange torch I at once dropped on the back of the bear.

Just as I had expected, the brandy, with which I had wetted the shaggy coat of the bear, became instantly ignited into a whishing, spluttering flame, which seemed to envelope the whole body of the animal!

But I was not allowed to have a long look at the conflagration I had created: for the moment the bear felt the singeing effects of the blaze, she broke away from the bottom of the tree, and retreated over the nearest ridge, roaring as she went like a tropical hurricane!

Never before had I beheld a living creature under such an elevated inspiration of fear.

Her cries were soon answered by another grizzly, not far away; and I knew that no time was to be squandered in making my escape from the place.

I quickly descended from the tree; and the distance I got over, in the succeeding ten minutes, was probably greater than I had ever done before in twice the time.

Volume Two, Chapter III.

LYNCH VERSUS LEARY.

I reached Stormy's tent about ten o'clock; and found him waiting for me. I proposed proceeding at once towards the gaol where the condemned man was kept. I was more impatient than my companion--impatient to see whether I might identify the criminal.

"Come on!" said I, "we can talk and walk at the same time."

The old sailor followed me out of his tent, and then led the way without speaking.

"Storm along, Stormy," cried I, "Let me hear what you have to say."

"It's not much," replied he; "I'm afraid I've been making a fool of myself, and you too. I saw the man yesterday, who's going to be hung to-day. I fancied that he was the same as brought you aboard the `Hope' in Dublin Bay, when you first went to sea--he that you told me was your stepfather--and who you promised to larn manners if ever you should come back, and find he had been misbehaving himself. Now it may be all my own fancy. That was so many years ago that I mightn't remember; but I couldn't rest satisfied, without having you see him, for yourself."

I told Stormy that he had acted right; and that I hoped, and should be pleased, to find that he was mistaken.

Stormy's doubts had the effect of tranquillising me a little. I was now very hungry too; and at the first restaurant in our way, I went in, and ordered some breakfast, which was eaten with an appetite I hoped never to have again--a hope that was no doubt shared by the proprietor of the restaurant.

We then pursued our journey to the place where the prisoner was under guard.

The prison was merely a public-house--around which a crowd of people were beginning to assemble.

I wished to see the prisoner; but he was in an inside room, with the men who guarded him; and these were a little particular as to who was admitted into his presence. I had to wait, therefore, until he should be led out to execution.

On finding that I could not be allowed to see the murderer--and as I was anxious to learn something immediately--I determined on taking a look at his victim. It would be easy to do this: as the house where the dead woman was lying was not far distant, from that which contained her murderer.

Accompanied by Stormy, I walked over to the house; and we were admitted into the room where the corpse was lying. The face of the murdered woman was concealed under a white cloth; and while standing over the body, I was more strangely agitated than I had ever been before. Should I, on removing that slight shrouding of cotton, behold the inanimate features of my mother?

The suspense was agonisingly interesting. The covering was at length removed; and I breathed again. The body was not that of my mother; but of a young woman apparently about nineteen or twenty years of age. She had been a beautiful woman, and was still so--even in death!

Less tortured by my thoughts, I followed Stormy back to the public-house--around which the crowd had greatly increased: for it was now twelve o'clock, the hour appointed for the execution.

My heart beat audibly, as the criminal was led forth, surrounded by his guards and attendants.

Stormy was right. The murderer was Matthew Leary!

"What shall I do?" I inquired of Stormy, as we followed the criminal to the place of execution.

"You can do nothing," answered Stormy. "Let _them_ teach him manners. If you interfere, you'll be larnt some yourself."

There was truth in this. From the temper of the men, who had judged and condemned the murderer, it was evident I could do nothing to save him. Perhaps I did not contemplate trying.

The prisoner was led from the public-house he had been kept in since his condemnation, to a live oak tree, growing on the top of a high hill, about half a mile from the town. Under this tree was a grave, that had been freshly dug. The murderer, as he was conducted forward, must have seen the grave, and know it to be his final resting-place. For all that, he approached the tree without any apparent emotion!

"He is either a very good man, or a very bad one," said one by my side, "he is going to die game!"

A cart was drawn up under the live oak; and into it climbed four or five respectable-looking men--who appeared to be taking a prominent part in the proceedings.

One of them requested silence--a request which was immediately complied with--and the man who made it, then addressed the assembly, in, as near as I can remember, the following words:--

"Gentlemen! Before commencing to execute the painful duty, we have met to perform, I deem it necessary to give you a brief description of the circumstances, under which we are called upon to act. The prisoner before you--_John Mathews_,--has been tried by a jury of twelve men; and found guilty of the murder of his wife--or a woman living with him as such. He has been defended by able counsel; and the trial has been conducted with all the decorum and ceremony required by an occasion so solemn and important. It has appeared in evidence against the prisoner, that he was an habitual drunkard; and that his principal means for indulging, in his unfortunate habits of dissipation, were derived from his wife--who supported herself, the prisoner, and their child, by working as a washer-woman. There has been full evidence brought before the jury, that, on the day the murder was committed, the prisoner came home drunk, and asked the woman for money. She told him that she had but three dollars in the house; and that she wanted that to procure necessaries for her child--in fine, she refused to let him have it. The prisoner demanded the three dollars, and the woman still refused to give them up. After he had made a vain attempt to extort the money by threats, he went across the room, and procured a pistol, with which he unsuccessfully made an attempt to shoot her. Finding that the weapon was unloaded, he turned it in his hand, and struck the woman two heavy blows on the head with its butt. These blows were the cause of her death--which occurred two hours afterwards. The man who committed this crime is now before you. As I do not wish to prejudice the mind of any one, I have simply stated what was proved on the trial; and the question I now put is--what shall we do with him?"

The speaker finished by putting on his hat, which was as much as to say, that his part in the solemn ceremony was performed.

The firm, earnest voice, in which the address had been delivered, convinced me that the speaker, who had thus distinguished himself, was actuated neither by prejudice nor passion.

From the tenor of the speech he had delivered, I could tell that the criminal's fate, to a certain extent, still depended on a vote of the crowd; and in their decision I felt more interested, than even Mr Leary himself appeared to be!

Another of the men in the cart now took off his hat; and the murmuring noise once more subsided.

"Fellow citizens!" said this second speaker, "I am not here either to apologise for, or sanction the crime this man has committed. I know, as well as any man present, the necessity that exists in a land like this, or, rather, in the state of society in which we live, for the severe punishment of crime. All I ask of you is, to let this man be punished by the laws of the country. A system of government--of which you all approve--has lately been established among us; and arrangements have been made for the trial and punishment of criminals. Do not take the law into your own hands. People living in the civilised communities of Europe and our own country are crying `Shame! shame!' at many transactions, similar to this, which have occurred in California; and the same words will be uttered against the proceedings that are taking place here to-day. I am a magistrate; and have with me a constable. I will pledge my life that if you will allow us to remove the prisoner, he shall be brought before a jury and tried by the laws of our country. I trust that no good citizen will make any objection to our taking that course with him."

The magistrate then put on his hat--as a signal that _he_ had nothing more to say.

The murmur of the crowd rose higher; and there were heard many cries of dissent from what had been last said.

"He's had a fair trial--hang him!" exclaimed one.

"Hang him now, or he'll escape!" vociferated another.

There were also a few voices raised on the other side. "Give him up! Let the magistrate have him!" shouted these last.

A man now stood up in the cart; and called for a show of hands.

All in favour of delivering the prisoner into the custody of the law officers were requested to hold up their right hands.

About twenty arms were extended into the air!

A number of these belonged to men who had the appearance of being what in California were called "Sydney Ducks"--old convicts from New South Wales; but most of the hands raised were those of well-known gamblers-- all of whom have an instinctive horror of Justice Lynch.

Those who were in favour of the prisoner being hung, _then and there_, were next invited to hold up their right hands.

In an instant about three hundred arms were held aloft. All of them that I saw were terminated with strong, sinewy fists, stained only with toil, and belonging to miners--the most respectable portion of the population.

This silent, but emphatic, declaration was considered final. After it had been delivered, there commenced a scene of wild excitement.

I rushed through the crowd, towards the tree under which the criminal stood. As I came up to him, I saw that a rope had been, already noosed around his neck.

A man was climbing into the live oak--for the purpose of passing the rope over one of its branches.

"Stop!" I cried, "stop for one minute! Let me ask this man a question, before he dies."

Mr Leary turned towards me with a stare of surprise; and for the first time, since being brought upon the ground, did he appear to take any interest in what was passing!

"I am the Rolling Stone," I shouted to him, "Tell me, where is my mother?"

The murderer smiled, and such a smile! It was the same fiendish expression he had thrown at me, when I last saw him in the boat in Dublin Bay.

"Tell me where I can find my mother!" I again asked, nearly frantic with rage.

At this moment the slack end of the lazo, that had been passed over the branch and then slung back among the crowd, was instantly seized by a hundred hands. The condemned man seemed not to notice the movement, while, in answer to my question, the malignant expression upon his features became stronger and deeper.

"Away!" I cried, scarcely conscious of what I said or did, "Away with him!"

Those holding the rope sprang outward from the tree, and up rose Mr Leary.

A few faint kicks, and his body hung motionless from the limb of the live oak.

An empty sardine box was nailed to the tree, on which the murderer was hanging. Above it was pinned a piece of paper--on which were written the words, "For the orphan."

Many miners stepped up to the spot, opened their purses; and slipped a few dollars' worth of gold dust into the box.

Their example was followed by Stormy Jack; and from the quantity of yellow dust I saw him drop into the common receptacle, I could tell that his purse must have been three or four ounces lighter, when he came away from the tree!

Volume Two, Chapter IV.

THE ORPHAN.

Shortly after the termination of the melancholy drama, in which I had taken so prominent a part, Stormy Jack and I went to see the child--now left without either father or mother.

We found it in the keeping of a young married couple--who had lately arrived from Australia; and who had there been acquainted with its unfortunate mother.

They told us, that the murdered woman was the daughter of a respectable shopkeeper in Sydney, that she had run away with Mr Mathews--the name under which Leary had passed in Australia--and that her parents had been very unwilling she should have anything to do with him.

She was an only daughter; and had left behind a father and mother sorely grieved at her misconduct. Everybody that knew her had thought her behaviour most singular. They could not comprehend her infatuation in forsaking a good home and kind parents for such a man as Mathews--who, to say nothing of his dissipated habits, was at least twenty years older than herself.

Perhaps it was strange, though I had learnt enough to think otherwise. Experience had told me, that such occurrences are far from being uncommon, and that one might almost fancy, that scoundrels like Leary possess some peculiar charm for fascinating women--at least, those of the weaker kind.

The orphan was shown to us--a beautiful bright-eyed boy, about a year old; and bearing a marked resemblance to its mother.

"I shall take this child to its grandfather and grandmother in Sydney," said the young woman who had charge of it; "they will think all the world of it: for it is so like their lost daughter. May be it will do something to supply her place?"

From the manner in which the young couple were behaving towards the child, I saw that it would be safe in their keeping; and added my mite, to the fund already contributed for its support.

In hopes of learning whether my mother had ever reached Sydney, I asked them if they had been acquainted with Mathews there; or knew anything of his previous history. On this point they could give me no information. They had had no personal acquaintance with Mathews in Australia; and all that they knew or had ever heard of him was unfavourable to his character. In Sydney, as elsewhere, he had been known as a dissolute, intemperate man.

Before we left the house, three men came in--bringing with them the gold that had been for the orphan.

It was weighed in the presence of the young man and his wife, and the amount was fifty ounces--in value near two hundred pounds of English money. My own contribution increased it to a still greater sum. The married couple had some scruples about taking charge of the gold, although they had none in regard to encumbering themselves with the child!

"I will go with you to an Express Office," said the man to the deputation who brought the money, "and we will send it to Mr D--, in San Francisco. He is a wholesale merchant there, and came from Sydney. He is acquainted with the child's grandparents; and will forward the money to them. As for the child, I expect soon to return to Sydney myself--when I can take it along with me, and give it up to those who have the right to it."

This arrangement proving agreeable to all parties concerned, the gold was at once carried to the Express Office, and deposited there--with directions to forward it to Mr D--, the merchant.

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Having passed the remainder of the day in the company of Stormy Jack, I returned to my home on the Tuolumne, but little better informed about what I desired to know, than when I left it. I had seen Mr Leary for the last time; but I was as ignorant as ever of the fate of my relatives.

Leary was now gone out of the world, and could trouble my mother no more--wherever she might be. It was some satisfaction to be certain of that.

As I walked homeward my reflections were sufficiently unpleasant: I reproached myself with having too long neglected the duty on which I had started out--the search after my relations.

Nor was I without some regret, as I suffered my mind to dwell on the spectacle just past. The criminal was my stepfather. I had, though half unconsciously, given the word, that had launched his body from the scaffold, and his soul into eternity!

My regrets could not have been very deeply felt. They were checked by the reflection, that he could have given me some information concerning my mother, and that he had died apparently happy with the thought, that he had disappointed me by withholding it!

Mr Leary had been my mother's husband--my own stepfather--yet without shame I have recorded the fact, that he died an ignominious death. I am not responsible for his actions. I stand alone; and the man who may think any the less of me, for my unfortunate relationship with a murderer, is one whose good will I do not think worth having.

Volume Two, Chapter V.

STORMY'S LAST SPREE.

Shortly after my return to the Tuolumne, I was joined by Stormy Jack, who came to Jacksonville, as he had promised he would, with the determination to take the world a little easier.

Since his childhood Stormy had never spent a whole week in idleness--at least not at a single spell--and such a life he soon found, did not help him to that supreme happiness he had been anticipating from it.

In the little town of Jacksonville an idle man could only find amusement, in some place where strong drink was sold; and to be, day after day, continually called upon to resist the temptation to drink, was a trial too severe for Stormy's mental and physical constitution. Both had to yield. He got drunk frequently; and on several occasions so very drunk, as to be affected both in his head and legs at the same time!

He was himself somewhat surprised at finding himself so often in this condition of "double drunkenness,"--as he termed it. It was not often in his life he had been so. It was a serious affair; and he made some sort of a resolution that it should not occur again.

To avoid its recurrence, he saw that he must employ himself in some way; and he purchased a rifle, with the design of transforming himself into a hunter.

By following this profession he could combine business with amusement, as there were other hunters making a very good thing of it, by supplying the citizens of Jacksonville with venison and bear meat.

Stormy prosecuted his new calling for about three days. At the end of that time he had been taught three things. One was, that hunting was hard work--harder, if possible, than mining. Secondly, he discovered that the amusement of the chase was, after all, not so grand--especially when followed as a profession, or by a man of peculiar inclinations, altogether different to his own. Finally, Stormy arrived at the conclusion, that the business didn't pay.

The truth is, Stormy was no marksman; and could only hit a barn, by going inside, and closing the door before firing off his piece.

The calling of a hunter was not suited to the old "salt," nor was it of the kind he required, to keep him from backsliding into his bad habit. He therefore determined to give it up, and take to some other.

While deliberating on what was to be done, he again yielded to the old temptation; and got gloriously drunk.

Alas, for poor Stormy! It proved the last intoxication of his life!

The story of his death is too sad to be dismissed in a few words; and when heard, will doubtless be thought deserving of the "full and particular" account here given of it. I record the facts, in all the exactitude and minuteness, with which memory has supplied them to myself.

At that time there was staying in Jacksonville a man known by the name, or soubriquet, of "Red Ned." I had casually heard of the man, though I had not seen him, as he had only arrived in the place a few days before; and was stopping at one of the gambling taverns, with which that mining village was abundantly provided.

I had heard that Red Ned was a "dangerous man,"--a title of which he was no little vain; and, probably, ever since his arrival in the place, he had been looking for an opportunity of distinguishing himself by some deed of violence.

In my wanderings over the world I have encountered many of those men known as "bullies." Notwithstanding the infamy attached to the appellation, I have found some of them--perhaps unfortunately for themselves--endowed with genuine courage, while others were mere cowardly wretches--ever seeking to keep up their spurious reputation, by such opportunities as are offered in quarrelling with half-grown lads, and men under the influence of drink.

Such swaggerers may be met with in all parts of the world; but nowhere in such numbers, as in California--which for a country so thinly peopled, appears to be more than ordinarily afflicted with the propensity for "bullyism." At least, it was so, at the period of which I am writing.

At that time, a man, who was known to have killed three or four of his fellow-creatures, was looked upon with admiration by many, with fear by as many more, and with abhorrence by a very few indeed.

Quarrels in California, three times out of every four, terminated fatally for one or other of the combatants; and the survivor of several such sanguinary affairs was certain to obtain among his fellows a reputation of some kind--whether of good or evil--and for this, unhappily, the majority of mankind are but too eager to strive.

Where society exists in a state of half civilisation--such as was that of California fifteen years ago--it is not so strange that many should be met, who prefer having the reputation of a bully to having no reputation at all.

It was the unfortunate fate of my old comrade, to encounter one of these contemptible creatures--who combine the bully with the coward--in the person of Red Ned.

Stormy, after giving up the calling of the chase, had found himself once more afloat, and in search of some business that would be more suited to his tastes and abilities. While beating about, as already stated, he had once more given way to his unfortunate propensity for strong drink; and had got intoxicated both in his mind and his limbs.

While in this state, he had involved himself in a coffee-house quarrel with the man above mentioned; and who, no doubt, well understood the helpless condition of his adversary: for it was Red Ned himself who provoked the quarrel.

When unmolested by others, I never knew a man of a more harmless, inoffensive disposition than was the old sailor.

Even when under the influence of liquor, he never, to my knowledge, commenced a dispute; but when in that state, he was inclined to "teach manners" to any one who might interfere with him.

Red Ned had met Stormy in one of the gambling taverns, where the latter was carrying on his carouse; and perceiving that the old sailor was helplessly intoxicated, and moreover, that he was only a sailor--whom he could affront, without offending any of the company present--his bullying propensity would not permit him to let pass such a fine opportunity of gaining the distinction he coveted.

In Stormy's state of inebriety there was but little danger to be dreaded from any personal conflict with him, for although he was still able to keep his feet, his legs had reached a degree of drunkenness, that caused him occasionally to reel and stagger over the floor of the bar-room.

The ruffian, perfectly conscious of all this, made some slurring remark--intended to reflect upon Stormy's condition, and loud enough for the latter to hear it.

As might have been expected, the old sailor did not take the slur in good part; but in return poured forth his displeasure in his usual frank and energetic manner.

Stormy, when excited by drink, was somewhat extravagant in the use of vituperative language; and there can be no doubt that the bully was compelled to listen to some plain-speaking that he did not much relish.

He submitted to the storm for a while; and then rushing upon Stormy, he struck the old sailor a slap with his open hand.

Stormy, of course, returned the blow with closed fists, and then proceeded to defend himself, by throwing his body, as well as its intoxicated legs would allow him, into a boxing attitude.

But the bully had no intention to continue the fight in that cowardly fashion--as he would have called it; and drawing his bowie-knife out of his boot, he closed suddenly upon Stormy, and buried its blade in the old sailors side.

Of course this terminated the strife; and the wounded man was conveyed to his lodgings.

Volume Two, Chapter VI.

RED NED.

At the time that Stormy was teaching, or rather receiving, that terrible lesson of manners, I was not in the village. I had gone some two or three miles up the river, to look after my miners at their work.

A messenger brought me the news; and, in breathless haste, I hurried homewards.

On arriving at the house where Stormy lived, I found him stretched upon his bed--with a doctor bending over him.

"Rowley, my boy, it's all over with me," said he. "The doctor says so; and for the first time in my life I believe one."

"Stormy! Stormy! my friend, what has happened?" I asked, as across my soul swept a wave of anguish more painful than words can describe.

"Never mind any explanation now," interrupted the doctor, turning to me, and speaking in a low voice. "Do not excite your friend, by making him converse. You can learn the particulars of his misfortune from some one else."

The doctor was in the act of leaving; and, interpreting a sign he gave me, I followed him out. I was told by him, that Stormy had been stabbed, and that his wound would prove mortal. The man of medicine imparted some other details of the affair, which he had collected from the spectators who had witnessed it.

On parting from me, the surgeon gave me warning, that the wounded man might live two days--certainly not longer.

"He has received an injury," said he, "that must cause his death within that time. You can do nothing, beyond keeping him as quiet as possible."

After pronouncing this melancholy prognosis, the surgeon took his departure, with a promise to call again in the morning.

I returned to the bedside of my doomed comrade.

He would talk, in spite of all I could do, or say, to prevent him.

"I _will_ talk," said he, "and there's no use in your trying to stop me. I've not much longer to live; and why should I pretend to be dead, before I really am?"