Chapter VII: Part 7

I saw it was no use to attempt keeping him either quiet or silent. It only excited him all the more; and would, perhaps, do more harm to him than letting him have his way--which I at length did. He proceeded to inform me of all the particulars of the affair. His account slightly differed from that given me by the doctor, who had doubtless heard a one-sided statement, from the friends of the bully.

"I don't know whether I've been sarved right or not," said Stormy, after concluding his account. "I sartinly called the man some ugly names; and every one about here is likely to say that it was right for him to teach me manners. But why did he stab me with a knife? My legs were staggering drunk; and he might have thrashed me without that!"

On hearing Stormy's statement, I became inspired with a feeling of fell indignation against the scoundrel, who had acted in such a cowardly manner: a determination, that my old comrade should be avenged.

I knew it would be idle to go before a magistrate, for the purpose of getting the bully punished, for the two men had come to blows, _before_ the knife had been used.

The affair would be looked upon as an affray--in which either, or both, had the right to use whatever weapons they pleased--and Stormy would be thought deserving of his fate, for not protecting himself in a more efficient manner!

I knew that he was drunk; and that even if sober he would not have used a deadly weapon in a bar-room row; but although I knew this, others would tell me, that my friend's being drunk was not the fault of the man who had stabbed him; and that if he had not chosen to defend himself according to custom, he must bear the consequences.

Impelled by my excited feelings, I left Stormy in the care of a miner who had come in to see him; and stepped over to the tavern, where the horrible deed had taken place.

About forty people were in the bar-room when I entered. Some were seated around a table where "Monte" was being dealt, while others were standing at the bar, noisily swilling their drinks.

Without making remark to any one, I listened for a few minutes to the conversation. As the affair had occurred only that afternoon, I knew that they would be talking about it in the bar-room--as in reality they were. Several men were speaking on the subject, though not disputing. There was not much difference of opinion among them. They all seemed to regard the occurrence, as I expected they would, in the same light.

Two men had got into a quarrel, and then come to blows. One had stabbed the other--in California an everyday occurrence of trifling interest. That was all the bar-room loungers were disposed to make of it.

I differed in opinion with them; and told them, in plain terms, that the fight they were talking about had not been a fair one, that the man who had stabbed the other had committed a crime but little less than murder.

A dozen were anxious to argue with me. How could I expect a man to be called hard names in a public room without his resenting it?

"But why did the man use a knife?" I asked. "Could the insult not have been resented without that?"

I was told that men had no business to fight at all, if they could avoid it; but when they did, each had a right to be in earnest, and do all the harm he could to the other.

I was also admonished that I had better not let "Red Ned" hear me talk as I was doing, or I might probably get served as bad as the sailor, who had offended him that same day.

I thus learnt, for the first time, that the man who had wounded Stormy was "Red Ned," and from what I had heard of this ruffian already, I was not the less determined that Stormy should be avenged.

I knew, moreover, that if "Red Ned" was to receive punishment, it would have to be inflicted by myself.

He was not in the tavern at the time; or, perhaps, he might have received it on the instant.

I returned to Stormy; and passed that night by his side.

He was in great pain most part of the night. The distress of my mind at the poor fellow's sufferings, determined me to seek "Red Ned" the next morning; and, as Stormy would have said, "teach him manners."

When the day broke, the wounded man was in less pain, and able to converse--though not without some difficulty.

"Rowley," said he, "we must attend to business, before it be too late. I know I shan't live through another night, and must make up my reckoning to-day. I've got about one hundred and eighty ounces; and it's all yours, my boy. I don't know that I have a relation in the world; and there is no one to whom I care to leave anything but yourself. I can die happy now, because I know that the little I leave will belong to you. Had this happened before our meeting in Sonora, my greatest sorrow at going aloft would have been, to think some stranger would spend what I have worked hard to make, while my little Rowley might be rolling hungry round the world."

At Stormy's request, the landlord of the lodging was called in; and commanded to produce the bag of gold which the sailor had placed in his keeping.

At this the man, apparently an honest fellow, went out of the room; and soon returned with the treasure, which, in the presence of the landlord and a miner who had come in, its owner formally presented to me. It was a bequest rather than a present--the act of a dying man.

"Take it, Rowley," said he, "and put it with your own. It was got in an honest manner, and let it be spent in a sensible one. Go to Liverpool, marry the girl you told me of; and have a home and family in your old age. I fancy, after all, that must be the way to be happy: for being without home and friends I know isn't. Ah! it was that as made me live the wretched roaming life, I've done."

The exertion of talking had made Stormy worse. I saw that he began to breathe with difficulty; and seemed to suffer a great deal of pain. So great was his agony, that it was almost equal agony for me to stand by his side; and I stole out, leaving him with the surgeon--who had meanwhile arrived--and the miner before mentioned.

I stole out _upon an errand_.

Volume Two, Chapter VII.

MY COMRADE AVENGED.

Perhaps ere this my errand may have been conjectured. If not I shall disclose it. I left the bedside of Stormy to seek Red Ned.

I went direct to the tavern--knowing that the bully frequented the place, and that if not there, some one could probably tell me where he might be found.

As I entered the bar-room, a tall, slender man, with red hair, was talking, in a loud voice, to a knot of others collected in front of the bar.

"Let him dare tell me that it was murder," said the red-haired man, "and I'll serve him in the same way I did the other. Murder indeed! Why, there was a dozen men by, who can prove that I listened for ten minutes to the man insulting and abusing me in the most beastly manner. Could flesh and blood stand it any longer? What is a man worth who'll not protect his character? Whoever says I acted unfair is a liar; and had better keep his cheek to himself."

As soon as I heard the speaker's voice, and had a fair look at him, I recognised him as an old acquaintance.

It was Edward Adkins, first mate and afterwards captain of the ship "Lenore"--the man who had discharged me in New Orleans after the death of Captain Hyland--the man who had accused me of ingratitude and theft! Yes, it was Adkins, my old enemy.

I knew that _he_ was a coward of the most contemptible kind, and a bully as well.

What I had witnessed of his conduct on the Lenore, during many years' service with him, had fully convinced me of this. A thorough tyrant over the crew, while cringing in the presence of Captain Hyland--who was often compelled to restrain him, from practising his petty spite upon those under his command. It did not need that last interview I had had with him in Liverpool--in the house of Mrs Hyland--to strengthen my belief that Edward Adkins was a despicable poltroon.

In answer to the question he had put: "What's a man worth who'll not protect his character?" I walked up to him and said:--"You have no character to protect, and none to lose. You are a cowardly ruffian. You purposely started a quarrel with an inoffensive man; and drew your knife upon him when you knew he was helpless with drink."

"Hell and damnation! Are you talking to me?" inquired Adkins, turning sharply round, his face red with rage.

But his features suddenly changed to an expression that told me he wished himself anywhere else, than in the presence of the man to whom he had addressed the profane speech.

"Yes! I'm talking to you," said I, "and I wish all present to listen to what I say. You are a cowardly wretch, and worse. You have taken the life of a harmless, innocent man, unable to protect himself. You, to talk of resenting an insult, and protecting your character--your character indeed!"

Had we two been alone, it is possible that Adkins would not have thought himself called upon to reply to what I had said; but we were in the presence of two score of men, in whose hearing he had just boasted--how he would serve the man who had been slandering him. That man was myself.

"Now!" I cried impatient for action, "you hear what I've said! You hear it, all of you?"

The bully had been brought to bay.

"Gentlemen!" said he, addressing the crowd who had gathered around, "what am I to do? I was driven yesterday to an act I now regret; and here is another man forcing me into a quarrel in the same way. Take my advice," said he, turning to me, "and leave the house, before my blood gets up."

"There is not the least danger of your blood getting up," said I; "your heart's gone down into your heels. If I was so drunk, as to be just able to keep my legs, no doubt you would have the courage to attack me. You haven't got it now."

The greatest coward in the world can be driven to an exhibition of courage--whether sham or real; and Adkins, seeing that he could no longer in California lay claim to the title of a _dangerous man_, without doing something to deserve it, cried out--

"Damnation! if you want it, you shall have it!"

As the words passed from his lips, I saw him stoop suddenly--at the same time jerking his foot upward from the floor. I divined his intention, which was to draw his bowie out of his boot; and while his leg was still raised, and before he could fairly lay hold of the knife, I dealt him a blow that sent him sprawling upon the floor. The knife flew out of his hand; and, before he could regain his feet, I stepped between him and the place where it was lying.

I have neglected to tell the reader, that I could no longer with propriety be called "The _little_ Rolling Stone," though Stormy still continued to address me occasionally by that appellation. At the time of this--my last encounter with Adkins--I was six feet _without_ my boots; and was strong and active in proportion. I have called it my _last_ encounter with this ruffian--it was so. Before he was in a position to attack me a second time, I drew my own knife from its sheath; and threw it on the floor alongside his. I did this, to show that I scorned to take any advantage of an unarmed man--as my cowardly opponent had done with poor Stormy Jack. I did not at the moment think of the wrongs Adkins had done to myself--of my imprisonment in a common gaol--of the falsehoods he had told to Mrs Hyland--of his attempt to win Lenore. I thought only of poor Stormy.

Adkins again rushed on me; and was again knocked down. This time he showed a disposition for remaining on the floor--in the hopes that some of his friends might come between us, and declare the fight to be over; but I kicked him, until he again got up, and once more closed with me.

I met the third attack, by picking him up in my arms--until his heels were high in the air, and then I allowed him to fall down again on the crown of his head. He never rose after that fall--his neck was broken.

Before I left the room, every man in it came up and shook hands with me--as they did so, telling me that I had done a good thing.

Volume Two, Chapter VIII.

STORMY TRANQUIL AT LAST.

When I returned to Stormy he was worse; and I saw that he had not much longer to live. He was not in so much pain as when I left him; but it was evident he was sinking rapidly.

"Stormy," said I, "what would you wish me to do to the man, who has brought you to this?"

"Nothing," he answered; "he's a bad man--but let him go. Promise me that you will not try to teach him manners--let the Lord do it for us."

"All right, comrade," said I, "your wishes shall be obeyed: for I cannot harm him now. He has gone."

"I'm glad of that," said the dying man, "for it shows that he knew himself to be in the wrong. By his running away, others will know it too; and will not say that I desarved what I've got."

"But he has _not_ run away," said I, "he is dead. I went to the house, where you met him yesterday. I found him there. Before I came out, he died."

Stormy's expressive features were lit up with a peculiar smile.

It was evident that he comprehended the full import of my ambiguous speech, though he made no comment, further than what gave me to understand, that his object, in making me promise not to harm Red Ned, was only from fear that I might get the worst of it. I could tell, however, by the expression upon his features, that he was rather pleased I had not left to the Lord the work of teaching manners to his murderer.

I remained by the bedside of my dying comrade--painfully awaiting the departure of his spirit. My vigil was not a protracted one. He died early in the afternoon of that same day, on which his murder had been avenged.

There was no inquest held, either upon his body, or that of his assassin. Perhaps the latter might have been brought to trial, but for the judgment that had already fallen upon him. This being deemed just by all the respectable people in the place, there were no farther steps taken in the matter, than that of burying the bodies of the two men--who had thus fallen a sacrifice to the play of unfortunate passions.

I have seen many gold-diggers undergo interment, by being simply rolled up in their blankets, and thrust under ground without any ceremony whatever, all this, too, only an hour or two after the breath had departed from their bodies. Such, no doubt, would have been the manner in which the body of Stormy Jack would have been disposed of, had there not been by him in his last hour a friend, who had been acquainted with him long, and respected him much.

I could not permit his remains to be thus rudely interred. I had a good coffin made to contain them; and gave the old sailor the most respectable burial I had ever seen among the miners of California.

Poor Stormy! Often, when thinking of him, I am reminded of how much the destiny of an individual may be influenced by circumstances.

Stormy Jack was naturally a man of powerful intellect. He possessed generosity, courage, a love of justice, and truth--in short, all the requisites that constitute a noble character. But his intellect had remained wholly uncultivated; and circumstances had conducted him to a calling, where his good qualities were but little required, and less appreciated. Had he been brought up and educated to fill some higher station in society, history might have carried his name--which to me was unknown--far down into posterity. In the proportion that Nature had been liberal to him, Fortune had been unkind; and he died, as he had lived, only Stormy Jack--unknown to, and uncared for, by the world he might have adorned.

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After having performed the last sad obsequies over his body, I recalled the advice he had given me, along with his gold, to return to Lenore.

I resolved to follow a counsel so consonant with my own desires. I found no difficulty in disposing of my mining shares; and this done, I made arrangements for travelling by the stage conveyance then running between Sonora and Stockton.

Before leaving the Stanislaus, I paid a visit to the young couple, who had been entrusted with the care of Leary's child.

My object in going to see them was to learn, if possible, something more of that gentleman's doings in Australia.

It was true, they had said, that they were unacquainted with him there; but there were several questions I wished to ask them--by which I hoped to learn something concerning my mother, and whether she had followed Leary to the colonies.

I found the guardians of the child still living where I had seen them, on the day the murderer was executed. The orphan was no longer in their keeping. They had sent it to its grandparents in Sydney, in charge of a merchant--who had left California for the Australian colonies some weeks before.

Though I obtained from the man and his wife all the information they were capable of giving, I learnt but little of what I desired to know. They thought it likely, that in San Francisco, I might hear more about the subject of my enquiries. They knew a man named Wilson--who had come from Sydney in the same ship with them; and who was now keeping a public-house in San Francisco. Wilson, they believed, had been well acquainted with Mathews--for this was the name which Leary had assumed in the colonies.

Such was the scant information I succeeded in obtaining from the friends of the late Mrs Leary; and with only this to guide me, I commenced my journey for the capital of California.

Volume Two, Chapter IX.

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 X.

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 XI.

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.

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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 XII.

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.