CHAPTER XVIII.

START FOR SAN FRANCISCO--A JOURNEY--FLOOD--MARYSVILLE--THE PLAINS UNDER WATER--“DROWNED OUT” SQUATTERS--SACRAMENTO--SAILING IN THE STREETS--DEAD RATS--SAN FRANCISCO--CHANGES SINCE THE YEAR BEFORE--FINE WEATHER--THE CLIMATE.

I had occasion to return to San Francisco at this time, and the journey was about the most unpleasant I ever performed. The roads had been getting worse all the time, and were quite impassable for stages or waggons. The mail was brought up by express messengers, but other communication there was none. The nearest route to San Francisco--that by Sacramento--was perfectly impracticable, and the only way to get down there was by Marysville, situated about fifty miles off, at the junction of the Yuba and Feather rivers.

I set out one afternoon with a friend who was also going down, and who knew the way, which was rather an advantage, as the trails were hidden under three or four feet of snow. We occasionally, however, got the benefit of a narrow path, trodden down by other travellers; and though we only made twelve miles that day, we in that distance gradually emerged from the snow, and got down into the regions of mud and slush and rain. We stayed the night at a road-side house, where we found twenty or thirty miners starved out of their own camps, and in the morning we resumed our journey in a steady pour of rain. The mud was more than ankle-deep, but was so well diluted with water that it did not cause much inconvenience in walking, while at the foot of every little hollow was a stream to be waded waist-high; for we were now out of the mining regions, and crossing the rolling country between the mountains and the plains, where the water did not run off so quickly.

When we reached the only large stream on our route, we found that the bridge, which had been the usual means of crossing, had been carried away, and the banks on either side were overflowed to a considerable distance. A pine-tree had been felled across when the waters were lower, but they now flowed two or three feet over the top of it--the only sign that it was there being the branches sticking up, and marking its course across the river.

It was not very pleasant to have to cross such a swollen stream on such a very visionary bridge, but there was no help for it; so, cutting sticks wherewith to feel for a footing under water, we waded out till we reached the original bank of the stream, where we had to take to the pine log, and travel it as best we could with the assistance of the branches, the water rushing past nearly up to our waists. We had fifty or sixty feet to go in this way, but the farther end of the log rose nearly to the surface of the water, and landed us on an island, from which we had to pass to dry land through a thicket of bushes under four feet of water.

Towards evening we arrived at a ranch, about twenty miles from Marysville, which we made the end of our day’s journey. We were saturated with rain and mud, but dry clothes were not to be had; so we were obliged to pass another night under hydropathic treatment, the natural consequence of which was, that in the morning we were stiff and sore all over. However, after walking a short distance, we got rid of this sensation--receiving a fresh ducking from the rain, which continued to fall as heavily as ever.

The plains, which we had now reached, were almost entirely under water, and at every depression in the surface of the ground a slough had to be waded of corresponding depth--sometimes over the waist. The road was only in some places discernible, and we kept to it chiefly by steering for the houses, to be seen at intervals of a few miles.

About six miles from Marysville we crossed the Yuba, which was here a large rapid river a hundred yards wide. We were ferried over in a little skiff, and had to pull up the river nearly half a mile, so as to fetch the landing on the other side. I was not sorry to reach _terra firma_ again, such as it was, for the boat was a flat-bottomed, straight-sided little thing, about the size and shape of a coffin, and was quite unsuitable for such work. The waves were running so high that it was with the utmost difficulty we escaped being swamped, and all the swimming that could have been done in such a current would not have done any one much good.

From this point to Marysville the country was still more flooded. We passed several teams, which, in a vain endeavour to get up to the mountains with supplies, were hopelessly stuck in the mud at the bottom of the hollows, with only the rim of the wheels appearing above water.

Marysville is a city of some importance: being situated at the head of navigation, it is the depôt and starting-point for the extensive district of mining country lying north and east of it. It is well laid out in wide streets, containing numbers of large brick and wooden buildings, and the ground it stands upon is ten or twelve feet above the usual level of the river. But when we waded up to it, we found the portion of the town nearest the river completely flooded, the water being nearly up to the first floor of the houses, while the people were going about in boats. In the streets farther back, however, it was not so bad; one could get along without having to go much over the ankles. The appearance of the place, as seen through the heavy rain, was far from cheering. The first idea which occurred to me on beholding it was that of rheumatism, and the second fever and ague; but I was glad to find myself here, nevertheless, if only to experience once more the sensation of having on dry clothes.

I learned that several men had been drowned on different parts of the plains in attempting to cross some of the immense pools or sloughs such as we had passed on our way; while cattle and horses were drowned in numbers, and were dying of starvation on insulated spots, from which there was no escape.

I saw plenty of this, however, the next day in going down by the steamboat to Sacramento. The distance is fifty or sixty miles through the plains all the way, but they had now more the appearance of a vast inland sea.

It would have been difficult to keep to the channel of the river, had it not been for the trees appearing on each side, and the numbers of squatters’ shanties generally built on a spot where the bank was high and showed itself above water, though in many cases nothing but the roof of the cabin could be seen.

On the tops of the cabins and sheds, on piles of firewood, or up in the trees, were fowls calmly waiting their doom; while pigs, cows, and horses were all huddled up together, knee-deep in water, on any little rising-ground which offered standing-room, dying by inches from inanition. The squatters themselves were busy removing in boats whatever property they could, and at those cabins whose occupants were not yet completely drowned out, a boat was made fast alongside as a means of escape for the poor devils, who, as the steamer went past, looked out of the door the very pictures of woe and dismay. We saw two men sitting resolutely on the top of their cabin, the water almost up to their feet; a boat was made fast to the chimney, to be used when the worst came to the worst, but they were apparently determined to see it out if possible. They looked intensely miserable, though they would not own it, for they gave us a very feigned and uncheery hurrah as we steamed past.

The loss sustained by these settlers was very great. The inconvenience of being for a time floated off the face of the earth in a small boat was bad enough of itself; but to have the greater part of their worldly possessions floating around them, in the shape of the corpses of what had been their live stock, must have rather tended to damp their spirits. However, Californians are proof against all such reverses,--they are like India-rubber, the more severely they are cast down, the higher they rise afterwards.

It was hardly possible to conceive what an amount of rain and snow must have fallen to lay such a vast extent of country under water; and though the weather was now improving, the rain being not so constant, or so heavy, it would still be some time before the waters could subside, as the snow which had fallen in the mountains had yet to find its way down, and would serve to keep up the flood.

Sacramento City was in as wretched a plight as a city can well be in.

The only dry land to be seen was the top of the levee built along the bank of the river in front of the town; all the rest was water, out of which rose the houses, or at least the upper parts of them. The streets were all so many canals crowded with boats and barges carrying on the customary traffic; watermen plied for hire in the streets instead of cabs, and independent gentlemen poled themselves about on rafts, or on extemporised boats made of empty boxes. In one part of the town, where the water was not deep enough for general navigation, a very curious style of conveyance was in use. Pairs of horses were harnessed to large flat-bottomed boats, and numbers of these vehicles, carrying passengers or goods, were to be seen cruising about, now dashing through a foot or two of mud which the horses made to fly in all directions as they floundered through it, now grounding and bumping over some very dry spot, and again sailing gracefully along the top of the water, so deep as nearly to cover the horses’ backs.

The water in the river was some feet higher than that in the town, and it was fortunate that the levee did not give way, or the loss of life would have been very great. As it was, some few men had been drowned in the streets. The destruction of property, and the pecuniary loss to the inhabitants, were of course enormous, but they had been flooded once or twice before, besides having several times had their city burned down, and were consequently quite used to such disasters; in fact, Sacramento suffered more from fire and flood together than any city in the State, without, however, apparently retarding the growing prosperity of the people.

I arrived in Sacramento too late for the steamer for San Francisco, and so had the pleasure of passing a night there, but I cannot say I experienced any personal inconvenience from the watery condition of the town.

It seemed to cause very little interruption to the usual order of things in hotels, theatres, and other public places; there was a good deal of anxiety as to the security of the levee, in which was the only safety of the city; but in the mean time the ordinary course of pleasure and business was unchanged, except in the substitution of boats for wheeled vehicles; and the great source of consolation and congratulation to the sufferers from the flood, and to the population generally, was in endeavouring to compute how many millions of rats would be drowned.

On arriving in San Francisco the change was very great--it was like entering a totally different country. In place of cold and rain and snow, flooded towns, and no dry land, or snowed-up towns in the mountains with no food, here was a clear bright sky, and a warm sun shining down upon a city where everything looked bright and gay. It was nearly a year since I had left San Francisco, and in the mean time the greater part of it had been burned down and rebuilt. The appearance of most of the principal streets was completely altered; large brick stores had taken the place of wooden buildings; and so rapidly had the city extended itself into the bay, that the principal business was now conducted on wide streets of solid brick and stone warehouses, where a year before had been fifteen or twenty feet of water. All, excepting the more unfrequented streets, were planked, and had good stone or plank side-walks, so that there was but little mud notwithstanding the heavy rains which had fallen. In the upper part of the town, however, where the streets were still in their original condition, the amount of mud was quite inconceivable. Some places were almost impassable, and carts might be seen almost submerged, which half-a-dozen horses were vainly trying to extricate.

The climate of San Francisco has the peculiarity of being milder in winter than in summer. Winter is by far the most pleasant season of the year. It is certainly the rainy season, but it only rains occasionally, and when it does it is not cold. The ordinary winter weather is soft, mild, subdued sunshine, not unlike the Indian summer of North America. The San Francisco summer, however, is the most disagreeable and trying season one can be subjected to. In the morning and forenoon it is generally beautifully bright and warm: one feels inclined to dress as one would in the tropics; but this cannot be done with safety, for one has to be prepared for the sudden change in temperature which occurs nearly every day towards the afternoon, when there blows in off the sea a cold biting wind, chilling the very marrow in one’s bones. The cold is doubly felt after the heat of the fore part of the day, and to some constitutions such extreme variations of temperature within the twenty-four hours are no doubt very injurious, especially as the wind not unfrequently brings a damp fog along with it.

The climate is nevertheless generally considered salubrious, and is thought by some people to be one of the finest in the world. For my own part, I much prefer the summer weather of the mines, where the sky is always bright, and the warm temperature of the day becomes only comparatively cool at night, while the atmosphere is so dry, that the heat, however intense, is never oppressive, and so clear that everything within the range of vision is as clearly and distinctly seen as if one were looking upon a flat surface, and could equally examine each separate part of it, so satisfactory and so minute in detail is the view of the most distant objects.

Considering the very frequent use of pistols in San Francisco, it is a most providential circumstance that the climate is in a high degree favourable for the cure of gunshot wounds. These in general heal very rapidly, and many miraculous recoveries have taken place, effected by nature and the climate, after the surgeons, experienced as they are in that branch of practice, had exhausted their skill upon the patient.