CHAPTER XXI.

While in California, I had charge, for a while, of a little girl, whose mother had died just as the steamer upon which she was on board neared the wharf at San Francisco. The father, mother, and two children were on board the ill-fated Independence, which was wrecked, and then burnt, on the coast of Old California.

When she commenced burning, the father hoped to save his family from the flames by swimming with them to the shore. Being an expert swimmer, he thought that, by taking one at a time, he might succeed in bringing them all to the land. He suspended his wife over the ship’s side farthest from the flames, wrapped the babe of ten months in a shawl, and consigned it to the care of a passenger until his return, took the little girl of four years in his arms, lowered himself into the water, and commenced swimming for the shore. He clasped her little arms about his neck, told her to hold on, shut her eyes and mouth, and she would soon be on the land, and then he would return for mother and the baby.

Long before they reached the land, she was senseless. In the meantime, the flames were increasing with such rapidity that it behooved the father to hasten back, in order to save his wife from the devouring element. He left the little girl senseless upon the beach, dove into the foaming surf, and was several times borne back to the shore before he could get beyond it. As he neared the burning wreck, the flames burst out afresh, forcing the frightened passengers to leap into the angry waters. The gentleman who held the babe threw it into the ocean to save himself. In its descent, the shawl became detached from it, and the child fell into the water a short distance from the mother, but beyond her reach. In one of its little hands it held a toy; and, as it was borne off on the top of a receding wave, its little plump arms were raised, and the mother saw the white, dimpled hand firmly grasping the toy. She could look no longer. Her babe was hastening on to swell the angel-band in the courts of the blessed!

When her husband reached her, the flames were close around; her dress had even been scorched. With her he started back to the shore. But very few could have breasted the angry waters as he did; but he was impelled by a motive which seemed to lend strength to his well-nigh exhausted frame. He reached the shore with his wife. Some one had found the little girl senseless, and had succeeded in restoring her to consciousness. The body of the infant was afterwards washed ashore, with the toy grasped in its hand. They made its little grave on the lonely beach, and placed it therein.

For three or four days these shipwrecked passengers remained upon the beach, their only nourishment being molasses and vinegar. They were then taken on board a vessel, and carried to San Francisco.

The mother, weakened by exposure, and suffering from a hurt which she received in her side while being suspended from the ship, breathed her last just as she was nearing their destined port.

Little Rosa (her name was Rosa Taylor) often told me the sad story in her artless, baby way. How impressive was her manner, when, seated in a little chair by my side, her dimpled face upturned, her large, dark, mournful eyes raised to mine, her rosy lips parted, to tell of the dreadful shipwreck; of the baby brother being drowned; of her being so hungry and cold on the beach; of her dear mother dying, and clasping her so closely in her arms, when she said, “Be a good girl, Rosa, and love your father; for he is all the one left to love you.” Then the dying mother said, “Raise me up, and let me look upon the land once more.” Then she lay back, and died.

Rosa staid with me three months, while her father was at the mines. Then he came, and took her away to Oregon.

I must not forget to mention the delights of stage-coaching in California. In the first place, the coaches are built of the strongest materials to be obtained, and are sufficiently large to carry from twenty to thirty persons. They are drawn by six large, beautiful horses. In the dry season, when the rivers are low, large boats do not run to Marysville, and most of the travel is effected by stages. I once rode to Sacramento and back in one of those six-horse coaches, when the passengers, inside and out, numbered twenty-eight. The thermometer stood at 110 deg., and the dust was so dense as to almost suffocate one. We were all obliged to _unpack_ ourselves, and walk over all the bridges on the way; and then, so frail were these structures, that they trembled and swayed as the empty coach was being drawn over.

By the time you arrive at the end of your journey, your eyes, nose, and mouth are filled with dust, as well as your clothes. One day’s ride ruins the clothes; but, if a person is blessed with a strong constitution, he may possibly survive several consecutive days’ riding in those crowded coaches. The roads between Marysville and Sacramento are very level, it being a vast plain the whole way.

Journeying through the mountainous sections of the country in coaches, is perfectly awful. The passengers are obliged to alight, and push behind the vehicle, to assist the horses up every hill, and, when they arrive at the summit, chain the wheels, all get in, and ride to the base of the next mountain, in danger every moment of being overturned, and having their necks broken. For thus working their passages they have to pay exorbitant fares.

One night, about eleven o’clock, a lady came into the hotel, looking more dead than alive. She was leading a little girl, of about seven years of age, who was in the same plight as the mother. They were both covered with bruises, scratches, and blood, with their garments soiled and torn. They were coming from Bidwell’s Bar, a place about forty miles above Marysville, in a stage-coach, in which were nine Chinamen. The coach was all closed, as it was rather cool in the mountains in the evening. All at once, they found themselves turning somersets. The coach was overturned down a steep bank.

All the Chinamen, with their long cues reaching to their heels, were rolling and tumbling about in the most ungraceful manner imaginable. They were vociferating at the top of their voices in a language which, if spoken calmly, and with the greatest mellifluence, is harsh and disagreeable in the extreme. “And,” said she, “such a horrid din of voices as rang in my ears, it was scarcely possible to conceive of; which, together with the fright, was almost sufficient to deprive me of reason.” The driver was seriously hurt, and so were some of the horses; but the inside passengers escaped without having any limbs broken, but their cues were awfully disarranged.

In the dry season, there were as many as a dozen coaches which left Marysville every morning, and as many would arrive every evening. Generally, they were all loaded to their utmost capacity.

In California, two-thirds of the population seem to be constantly travelling (in search of new and rich diggins, I suppose). It was quite amusing to listen to the rigmarole which each driver had over, as they reined in their horses in front of the different hotels. The names of the different localities along their routes, which they would sometimes work into laughable doggerel, the cracking of their whips, and the jokes cracked upon one another, were quite diverting.

At the time I was in Marysville, it was not safe to walk around in the suburbs of the town, in a dark evening, unless armed. Late one evening, as myself and husband were riding into town, we distinctly heard the click of a revolver, and two reports followed in quick succession. The balls whizzed past our ears, giving us no very agreeable sensation, I assure you. There was no moon, but it was starlight. Whether we were taken for people for whom some one was lying in wait, with the view of plunder or murder, or for what those shots were fired, ever remained a mystery to us. At any rate, it gave us such a fright, I never was caught out there again after dark.

There was one house in Marysville which had been in process of erection four years, and was not then completed. It was owned by a wealthy Spaniard, originally from South America. I went, one day, to view this curious structure. Under it were two regular dungeons, with heavy iron doors, which could be doubly locked and barred. People conjectured they were made for the purpose of holding his treasures, of which he was reputed to possess hoards. The whole building was the most massive, curious, complicated piece of architecture I ever beheld; and such an air of mystery and gloom as pervaded the whole place! It was impossible to elucidate the feelings one was sure to have, as they traversed those dismal-looking rooms. The sight of so much solid masonry seemed generative of the darkest designs. In one room were two very large, deep wells. Some of the floors were constructed of stone. The grounds were to be inclosed by a high wall. There were complicated wings, and high, gloomy-looking turrets, projecting in every direction from the main building. After being completed, it will present more the appearance of a prison than a private residence.

Now, I will relate one hen story; not about a renowned Shanghai, but a genuine, old-fashioned, yellow hen. Hens at that time, in California, were among the things to be coveted: the meanest specimens were sold at five dollars apiece. Some of the Spanish population kept quite a number of fowl. A lady told me she wanted to purchase a male hen; that an old Spaniard came to her house one day, who, she knew, had fowl to sell. _She_ could not speak Spanish; neither could he English. She was very much perplexed how to make him know that she wanted a crower. She used every Spanish word she could think of with no success at all. Finally, she sprang up in a chair, flapped her arms, and crowed with all her might. That crow enlightened the Spaniard more than all her Spanish vocabulary had done.

When I lived in the canvas shanty, a partition of cloth ran across the centre of the building. On one side of the partition stood my bed, and on the other my brother’s. An outer door opened into this room. One day, an old yellow hen walked in very unceremoniously, hopped upon the bed, and prepared to lay. Soon she jumped off, and left an egg. She conducted the whole affair with the greatest secrecy, not even indulging in that greatest luxury of all, cackling. Of course, I fed her, very glad indeed of her egg, as they were fifty cents apiece. The next day, she came again, and left another; and so she kept on, until she had laid twelve; when she evinced symptoms of a desire to sit upon the nest. My brother took her eggs, carried them out to a ranch, and exchanged them for those that would be sure to hatch. He then placed them in a half barrel in the corner of the room, and set the hen upon them. In due time she brought out twelve little chicks. When they were about a month old, I sold them for a dollar apiece. She then laid another litter of eggs, and was as successful in raising another brood of chickens. Then, as we were going to leave the shanty, I sold her, chickens and all, for twenty dollars.

After I had been living at the Tremont some time, I went to my room one day, and there, on the window-seat, was perched the identical old hen that I had sold. My window was open, and she had flown in. She appeared delighted to see me, and evinced her delight by singing quite merrily. She seemed determined to room with me, and I allowed her to remain until I could go and find the one to whom I sold her. He had moved, and was not to be found. Of course, the hen was mine again; but, situated as I now was, I could not accommodate her with a room in the house, and for which she seemed to have a decided predilection. I therefore placed her to board out on a ranch. She continued to lay eggs and raise chickens, until I realized, from the sale of them, forty-five dollars. I then sold her again for five dollars, as she was getting rather old. In one week after I sold her, she died, from _grief, I suppose, at being sold_. From that old yellow hen I made quite a _pile_, as they say in California.