Crusoe's Island: A Ramble in the Footsteps of Alexander Selkirk

"What d'ye say, Cap?"

Now I claim to be under no legal obligation to state what I said or did on that occasion; but this much I am willing to avow, that upon resuming our journey there was a glorious sense of freedom and independence in our adventurous mode of life. The fresh air, odorous with the scent of pine forests and wild flowers; the craggy rocks overhung with the grape and the morning-glory; the merry shouts of the Mexican vaqueros, mingled with the wild dashing of the river down the cañon on our right; the free exercise of every muscle; the consciousness of exemption from all farther restraints of office, were absolutely inspiring. I think a lyrical poem would not have exceeded my powers on that occasion. Every faculty seemed invigorated to the highest pitch of perfection. Hang the dignity of office! A murrain upon party politicians and inspector generals! To the bottomless pit with all vouchers, abstracts, and accounts current! I scorn that meagre and brainless style of the heads of the Executive Departments, "Sir, – Your services are no longer – " What dunce could not write a more copious letter than that? Who would be a slave when all nature calls upon him in trumpet tones to be free? Who would sell his birthright for a mess of pottage when he could lead the life of an honest miner – earn his bread by the sweat of his brow – breathe the fresh air of heaven without stint or limit? And of all miners in the world, who would not be a Washoe miner? Beyond question, this was a condition of mind to be envied and admired; and, notwithstanding the two pair of heavy blankets on my back, and a stiff pair of boots on my feet that galled my ankles most grievously, I really felt lighter and brighter than for years past. Nor did it seem surprising to me then that so many restless men should abandon the haunts of civilization, and seek variety and freedom in the wilderness of rugged mountains comprising the mining districts of the Sierra Nevada. The life of the miner is one of labor, peril, and exposure; but it possesses the fascinating element of liberty, and the promise of unlimited reward. In the midst of privations, amounting, at times, to the verge of starvation, what glowing visions fill the mind of the toiling adventurer! Richer in anticipation than the richest of his fellow-beings, he builds golden palaces, and scatters them over the world with a princely hand. He may not be a man of imagination; but in the secret depths of his soul there is a latent hope that some day or other he will strike a "lead," and who knows but it may be a solid mountain of gold, spangled with diamonds?

The road from Placerville to Strawberry Flat is for the most part graded, and no doubt is a very good road in summer; but it would be a violation of conscience to recommend it in the month of April. The melting of the accumulated snows of the past winter had partially washed it away, and what remained was deeply furrowed by the innumerable streams that sought an outlet in the ravines. In many places it seemed absolutely impracticable for wheeled vehicles; but it is an article of faith with California teamsters that wherever a horse can go a wagon can follow. There were some exceptions to this rule, however, for the road was literally lined with broken-down stages, wagons, and carts, presenting every variety of aspect, from the general smash-up to the ordinary capsize. Wheels had taken rectangular cuts to the bottom; broken tongues projected from the mud; loads of dry-goods and whisky-barrels lay wallowing in the general wreck of matter; stout beams cut from the road-side were scattered here and there, having served in vain efforts to extricate the wagons from the oozy mire. Occasionally these patches of bad road extended for miles, and here the scenes were stirring in the highest degree. Whole trains of pack-mules struggled frantically to make the transit from one dry point to another; "burros," heavily laden, were frequently buried up to the neck, and had to be hauled out by main force. Now and then an enterprising mule would emerge from the mud, and, by attempting to keep the edge of the road, lose his foothold, and go rolling to the bottom of the cañon, pack and all. Amid the confusion worse confounded, the cries and maledictions of the vaqueros were perfectly overwhelming; but when the mules stuck fast in the mud, and it became necessary to unpack them, then it was that the vaqueros shone out most luminously. They shouted, swore, beat the mules, kicked them, pulled them, pushed them, swore again; and when all these resources failed, tore their hair, and resorted to prayer and meditation. (Opposite is a faint attempt at the vaquero sliding-scale.)

It will doubtless be a consolation to some of these unhappy vaqueros to know that such of their mules as they failed to extricate from the mud during the winter may, during the approaching summer, find their way out through the cracks. Should any future traveler be overtaken by thirst, and see a pair of ears growing out of the road, he will be safe in digging there, for underneath stands a mule, and on the back of that mule is a barrel of whisky.

Owing to repeated stoppages on the way, night overtook us at a place called "Dirty Mike's." Here we found a ruinously dilapidated frame shanty, the bar, of course, being the main feature. Next to the bar was the public bedroom, in which there was every accommodation except beds, bedding, chairs, tables, and washstands; that is to say, there was a piece of looking-glass nailed against the window-frame, and the general comb and tooth-brush hanging by strings from a neighboring post.

A very good supper of pork and beans, fried potatoes, and coffee, was served up for us on very dirty plates, by Mike's cook; and after doing it ample justice, we turned in on our blankets and slept soundly till morning. It was much in favor of our landlord that he charged us only double the customary price. I would cheerfully give him a recommendation if he would only wash his face and his plates once or twice a week.

The ascent of the mountains is gradual and continuous the entire distance to Strawberry. After the first day's journey there is but little variety in the scenery. On the right, a fork of the American River plunges down through a winding cañon, its force and volume augmented at short intervals by numerous smaller streams that cross the road, and by others from the opposite side. Thick forests of pine loom up on each side, their tops obscuring the sky. A few patches of snow lay along our route on the first day, but on the second snow was visible on both sides of the cañon.

The succession of scenes along the road afforded us constant entertainment. In every gulch and ravine a tavern was in process of erection. Scarcely a foot of ground upon which man or beast could find a foothold was exempt from a claim. There were even bars with liquors, offering a tempting place of refreshment to the weary traveler where no vestige of a house was yet perceptible. Board and lodging signs over tents not more than ten feet square were as common as blackberries in June; and on no part of the road was there the least chance of suffering from the want of whisky, dry-goods, or cigars.

An almost continuous string of Washoeites stretched "like a great snake dragging its slow length along" as far as the eye could reach. In the course of this day's tramp we passed parties of every description and color: Irishmen, wheeling their blankets, provisions, and mining implements on wheel-barrows; American, French, and German foot-passengers, leading heavily-laden horses, or carrying their packs on their backs, and their picks and shovels slung across their shoulders; Mexicans, driving long trains of pack-mules, and swearing fearfully, as usual, to keep them in order; dapper-looking gentlemen, apparently from San Francisco, mounted on fancy horses; women, in men's clothes, mounted on mules or "burros;" Pike County specimens, seated on piles of furniture and goods in great lumbering wagons; whisky-peddlers, with their bar-fixtures and whisky on mule-back, stopping now and then to quench the thirst of the toiling multitude; organ-grinders, carrying their organs; drovers, riding, raving, and tearing away frantically through the brush after droves of self-willed cattle designed for the shambles; in short, every imaginable class, and every possible species of industry, was represented in this moving pageant. It was a striking and impressive spectacle to see, in full competition with youth and strength, the most pitiable specimens of age and decay – white-haired old men, gasping for breath as they dragged their palsied limbs after them in the exciting race of avarice; cripples and hunchbacks; even sick men from their beds – all stark mad for silver.

But the tide was not setting entirely in the direction of Carson Valley. A counter-current opposed our progress in the shape of saddle-trains without riders, long lines of pack-mules laden with silver ore, scattering parties of weather-beaten and foot-sore pedestrians, bearing their hard experience in their faces, and solitary stragglers, of all ages and degrees, mounted on skeleton horses, or toiling wearily homeward on foot – some merry, some sad, some eagerly intent on farther speculation, but all bearing the unmistakable impress of Washoe.

Among the latter, a lank, leathery-looking fellow, doubtless from the land of wooden nutmegs, was shambling along through the mud, talking to himself apparently for want of more congenial fellowship. I was about to pass him, when he arrested my attention:

"Look here, stranger!"

I looked.

"You're bound for Washoe, I reckon?"

I was bound for Washoe.

"What line of business be you goin' into there?"

Was not quite certain, but thought it would be the agency line.

"Ho! the agency line – stage-agent, maybe? Burche's line, I guess?"

That was not it exactly; but no matter. Perhaps I could do something for him in Washoe.

"Nothing, stranger, except to keep dark. Do you know the price of grindstones in Placerville?"

I didn't know the price of grindstones in Placerville, but supposed they might be cheap, as there were plenty there.

"That's my hand exactly!" said my friend, with an inward chuckle of satisfaction. I expressed some curiosity to know in what respect the matter of grindstones suited his hand so well, when, looking cautiously around, he drew near, and informed me confidentially that he had struck a "good thing" in Washoe. He had only been there a month, and had made a considerable pile. There was a dreadful scarcity of grindstones there, and, seeing that miners, carpenters, and mechanics of all sorts were hard up for something to sharpen their tools on, he had secured the only grindstone that could be had, which was pretty well used up when he got it. But he rigged it up ship-shape and Bristol fashion, and set up a grinding business, which brought him in from twenty to thirty dollars a day, till nothing was left of the stone. Now he was bound to Placerville in search of a good one, with which he intended to return immediately. I wished him luck and proceeded on my way, wondering what would turn up next.

It was not long before I was stopped by another enterprising personage; but this was altogether a different style of man. There was something brisk and spruce in his appearance, in spite of a shirt far gone in rags and a shock of hair that had long been a stranger to the scissors. What region of country he came from it was impossible to say. I think he was a cosmopolite, and belonged to the world generally.

"Say, Colonel!" – this was his style of address – "on the way to Washoe?"

"Yes."

"Excuse me: I have a little list of claims here, Colonel, which I would like to show you;" and he pulled from his shirt-pocket a greasy package of papers, which he dexterously unfolded. "Guess you're from San Francisco, Colonel? Here is – let me see —

200 feet in the Pine Nut,

300 feet in the Grizzly Ledge,

150 feet in the Gouge Eye,

125 feet in the Wild-Cat,

100 feet in the Root-Hog-or-Die,

50 feet in the Bobtail Horse,

25 feet in the Hell Roaring;

and many others, Colonel, in the best leads. Now the fact is, d'ye see, I'm a little hard up, and want to make a raise. I'll sell all, or a part, at a considerable sacrifice for a small amount of ready cash."

"How much do you want?"

"Why, if I could raise twenty dollars or so, it would answer my present purpose; I'll sell you twenty feet in any of these claims for that amount. Every foot of them is worth a thousand dollars; but, d'ye see, they're not yet developed."

Circumstances forced me to decline this offer, much to the disgust of the enterprising speculator in claims, who assured me I might go farther and fare worse; but somehow the names did not strike me as attractive in a mineral point of view.

I had by this time lost the run of all my comrades, and was obliged to pursue my journey alone. Three had gone ahead, and the other was nearly used up. The day had opened fairly, but now there were indications of bad weather. It was quite dark when I reached a small shanty about four miles from Strawberry. Here I halted till my remaining comrade came up. The proprietor of the shanty was going into the tavern business, and was engaged in building a large clapboard house. His men were all at supper, and in reply to our application for lodgings, he told us we might sleep in the calf-pen if we liked, but there was no room in the house. He could give us something to eat after his workmen were done supper, but not before. He had brandy and gin, but no tea to spare. On the whole, he thought we had better go on to Strawberry.

Now this was encouraging. It was already pattering down rain, and the calf-pen to which he directed us was knee-deep in mud and manure, without roof or shelter of any kind. Even the unfortunate progeny of the old cow, which ran bellowing around the fence, in motherly solicitude for her offspring, shivered with cold, and made piteous appeals to this hard-hearted man. I finally bribed him, by means of a gold dollar, to let us have a small piece of bread and a few swallows of tea. Thus refreshed, we resumed our journey.

Four miles more of slush and snow, up hill nearly all the way, across rickety bridges, over roaring cataracts, slippery rocks, stumps, and brush, through acres of black oozy mire, and so dark a bat could scarcely recognize his own father! It was a walk to be remembered. The man in the shanty, if he possess a spark of humanity, will, I trust, feel bitterly mortified when he reads this article. He caused me some gloomy reflections upon human nature, which have been a constant source of repentance ever since. But consider the provocation. The rain poured down heavily, mingled with a cutting sleet; a doleful wind came moaning through the pines; our blankets were wet through, and not a stitch upon our backs left dry; even my spare shirt was soaking the strength out of the plug of tobacco so carefully stowed away in its folds, and my paints were giving it what aid they could in the way of color.

Well, there is an end to all misery upon earth, and so there was to this day's walk. A light at length glimmered through the pines, first faint and flickering, then a full blaze, then half a dozen brilliant lights, which proved to be camp-fires under the trees, and soon we stood in front of a large and substantial log house. This was the famous "Strawberry," known throughout the length and breadth of the land as the best stopping-place on the route to Washoe, and the last station before crossing the summit of the Sierra Nevada. The winter road for wheel-vehicles here ended; and, indeed, it may be said to have ended some distance below, for the last twelve miles of the road seemed utterly impracticable for wagons. At least, most of those I saw were fast in the mud, and likely to remain there till the beginning of summer. Dark and rainy as it was, there were crowds scattered around the house, as if they had some secret and positive enjoyment in the contemplation of the weather. Edging our way through, we found the bar-room packed as closely as it could be without bursting out some of the walls; and of all the motley gangs that ever happened together within a space of twenty feet, this certainly was the most extraordinary and the most motley. Dilapidated gentlemen with slouched hats and big boots, Jew peddlers dripping wet, red-shirted miners, teamsters, vaqueros, packers, and traders, swearing horribly at nothing; some drinking at the bar, some warming themselves before a tremendous log fire that sent up a reeking steam from the conglomerated mass of wet and muddy clothes, to say nothing of the boots and socks that lay simmering near the coals. A few bare and sore footed outcasts crouched down in the corners, trying to catch a nap, and here and there a returned Washoeite, describing in graphic language, garnished with oaths, the wonders and beauties of Virginia City. But chiefly remarkable in the crowd was the regiment of light infantry, pressed in double file against the dining-room door, awaiting the fourth or fifth charge at the table.

At the first tinkle of the bell the door was burst open with a tremendous crash, and for a moment no battle-scene in Waterloo, no charge at Resaca de la Palma or the heights of Chapultepec, no Crimean avalanche of troops dealing death and destruction around them, could have equaled the terrific onslaught of the gallant troops of Strawberry. The whole house actually tottered and trembled at the concussion, as if shaken by an earthquake. Long before the main body had assaulted the table the din of arms was heard above the general uproar; the deafening clatter of plates, knives, and forks, and the dreadful battle-cry of "Waiter! waiter! Pork and beans! Coffee, waiter! Beefsteak! Sausages! Potatoes! Ham and eggs – quick, waiter, for God's sake!" It was a scene of destruction and carnage long to be remembered. I had never before witnessed a battle, but I now understood how men could become maddened by the smell of blood. When the table was vacated it presented a shocking scene of desolation. Whole dishes were swept of their contents; coffee-pots were discharged to the dregs; knives, forks, plates, and spoons lay in a confused mass among the bones and mutilated remnants of the dead; chunks of bread and hot biscuit were scattered broadcast, and mince-pies were gored into fragments; tea-cups and saucers were capsized; and the waiters, hot, red, and steamy, were panting and swearing after their superhuman labors.

Half an hour more and the battle-field was again cleared for action. This was the sixth assault committed during the evening; but it was none the less terrible on that account. Inspired by hunger, I joined the army of invaders this time, and by gigantic efforts of strength maintained an honorable position in the ranks. As the bell sounded, we broke! I fixed my eye on a chair, rushed through the struggling mass, threw out my hands frantically to seize it, but, alas! it was already captured. A dark-visaged man, who looked as if he carried concealed weapons on his person, was seated in it, shouting hoarsely the battle-cry of "Pork and beans! Waiter! Coffee, waiter!" Up and down the table it was one gulping mass, jaws distended, arms stretched out, knives, forks, and even the bare hands plunged into the enemy. Not a spot was vacant. I venture to assert that from the commencement of the assault till the capture and complete investment of the fortifications did not exceed five seconds. The storming of the Malakoff and the fall of Sebastopol could no longer claim a place in history.

At length fortune favored the brave. I got a seat at the next onslaught, and took ample satisfaction for the delay by devouring such a meal as none but a hardy Washoeite could be expected to digest. Pork and beans, cabbage, beef-steak, sausages, pies, tarts, coffee and tea, eggs, etc. – these were only a few of the luxuries furnished by the enterprising proprietor of the "Strawberry." May every blessing attend that great benefactor of mankind! I say it in all sincerity; he is a great and good man, a Websterian innkeeper, for he thoroughly understands the constitution. I would give honorable mention to his name if I knew it; but it matters not; his house so far surpasses the Metropolitan or the St. Nicholas that there is no comparison in the relish with which the food is devoured. In respect to sleeping accommodations there may be some difference in their favor. I was too late to secure a bed in the general bedroom up stairs, where two hundred and fifty tired wayfarers were already snoring in double-shotted bunks 2 × 6; but the landlord was a man of inexhaustible resources. A private whisper in his ear made him a friend forever. He nodded sagaciously, and led me into a small parlor about 15 × 20, in which he gave my company of five what he called a "lay-out," that is to say, a lay-out on the floor, with our own blankets for beds and covering. This was a special favor, and I would have cherished it in my memory for years had not a suspicion been aroused in my mind before the lapse of half an hour that there were others in the confidence of mine host. Scarcely had I entered upon the first nap when somebody undertook to walk upon me, commencing on my head and ending on the pit of my stomach. I grasped him firmly by the leg. He apologized at once in the most abject manner; and well for him he did, for it was enough to incense any man to be suddenly roused up in that manner. The intruder, I discovered, was a Jew peddler. He offered me a cigar, which I smoked in token of amity; and in the mean time he turned in alongside and smoked another. When daylight broke I cast around me to see what every body was doing to create such a general commotion. I perceived that there were about forty sleepers, all getting up. Boots strongly scented with feet, and stockings of every possible degree of odor, were lying loose in all directions; blankets, packs, old clothes, and ragged shirts, and I don't know what all – a palpable violation of the landlord's implied compact. True, he had not agreed to furnish a single bed for five, but he never hinted that he was going to put forty men, of all sorts and sizes, in the same general "lay-out," as he was pleased to style it, and that only large enough for half the number. Once, in Minnesota, I slept in a bed with eight, and gave considerable offense to my landlord when I remonstrated against his putting in a ninth. He said he liked to see a man "accommodating" – a reflection upon my good-nature which I considered wholly unwarranted by the circumstances. But this was even a stronger case.

The Jew peddler had not undressed, and, not to judge him harshly, I don't think he ever did undress. He was soon up, and left, as I suppose, while I was dressing. With him departed my stockings. They were not very fine – perhaps, considering the muddy road, not very clean; but they were all I had, and were valuable beyond gold or silver in this foot-weary land. I never saw them more. What aggravated the offense, when I came to review it seriously, was, that I remembered having seen him draw just such a pair over his boots, as a protection against the snow, without the remotest suspicion of the great wrong he was doing me.

We shall meet this Stocking-thief again.

CHAPTER III.

ACROSS THE MOUNTAINS

Upon taking an observation from the front door at Strawberry, we were rather startled to find that the whole place was covered with snow to the depth of two or three feet. The pack trains had given up all hope of getting over the mountain. It was snowing hard, and the appearance of the weather was dark and threatening. To be housed up here with three or four hundred men, and the additional numbers that might be expected before night, was not a pleasant prospect; but to be caught in a snow-storm on the summit, where so many had perished during the past winter, was worse still. Upon reviewing the chances I resolved to start, and if the storm continued I thought there would be no difficulty in finding the way back. It was eight miles of a continuous and precipitous ascent to the summit, and three miles from that point to the Lake House in Lake Valley, where the accommodations were said to be the worst on the whole trail.

A few miles from Strawberry one of the party gave out in consequence of sore feet; the other two pushed on, despite the storm which now raged fearfully, but had not proceeded far when they were forced to turn back. I was loth to leave my disabled friend, and returned with him to Strawberry, where we had a repetition of nearly all that has already been described, only a little intensified in consequence of increased numbers. The others of our party stopped somewhere on the road, and I did not meet them again until next afternoon at Woodford's, on the other side of the mountain.