Читать книгу Digging for Gold: Adventures in California - Robert Michael Ballantyne - Страница 3

When next morning arrived, Joe Graddy, true to his word, appeared with the first—if not of the “flood-tide,” at least of the morning sun, and Frank told him that, on the previous evening, he had made arrangements to go to the diggings in company with a party that was to start the following day; that he had already made purchases of the few things which they would require on the journey, and that the only thing remaining to be done was to pack up.

“Now, Joe, you must go at once to the principal guide and make arrangements with him as to that brandy and tea on which you expect to found your future fortunes. I told him to expect a visit from you early in the day.”

“Wotiver you do, do it at once,” said Joe, putting on his straw hat with an energetic slap. “That’s one of my mottos. I’ll go an’ carry it into practice.”

The following day saw Frank and his man set forth with a party of about thirty men, all of whom were clad in blue or red flannel shirts, straw hats, big boots, and other rough garments; with rifles on their shoulders, and bowie-knives and pistols in their belts. These were men of various nations; Californians, Chinamen, Malays, Americans, Scotch, and English, and many of them looked not only rough but savage. In truth, they were as diverse in their characters as in their appearance, some of them being men who had evidently moved in good society, while others were as evidently of the lowest—probably the convict—class. They had all, however, been thrown together by the force of a common interest. All were bound for the gold-mines, and it was necessary that they should travel in company for mutual protection and assistance.

There were two guides, who had charge of ten pack-mules loaded with provisions for the storekeepers at some remote diggings. These guides were stern, powerful, bronzed fellows, who had to make their way among rough men in difficult circumstances, and they seemed to be quite prepared to do so, being fearless, resolute, and armed to the teeth.

Joe Graddy had obtained permission, on promise of payment, to place his little fortune on the backs of the mules, so that he and Frank had nothing to carry save their weapons and blankets, besides a tin cup each at their girdles, and a water-bag.

“Come, I like this sort of thing,” said one of the party, an Englishman, when the order was given to start. “If it is all like this it will be uncommonly jolly.”

“I guess it ain’t all like this, stranger,” said one of the Americans with a good-humoured grin.

One of the guides laughed, and the other ejaculated “humph!” as they set forward.

There was indeed some ground for the remark of the Englishman, for the country through which they passed was most beautiful, and the weather delicious. Their track lay over an undulating region of park-like land covered with short grass; clumps of bushes were scattered here and there about the plain, and high above these towered some magnificent specimens of the oak, sycamore, and Californian cypress, while in the extreme distance rose the ranges of the “golden” mountains—the Sierra Nevada—in the midst of which lay the treasures of which they were in search.

All the members of the party were on foot, and, being fresh, full of hope, and eager to reach their destination. They chatted gaily as they marched over the prairie.

On the way the good-humoured American seemed to take a fancy to Frank, with whom he had a great deal of animated conversation. After asking our hero every possible question in regard to himself and intentions, he told him that he was Yankee,—a piece of superfluous information, by the way;—that his name was Jeffson, that he was a store-keeper at one of the farthest off diggings, that the chief part of the loading of one of the mules belonged to him, and that he was driving a considerable business in gold-dust without the trouble of digging for it.

Towards evening they came to a very small hole in the plain, which was dignified with the name of a well. Here they stopped to replenish their water-casks.

“Take as much as you can carry, men,” said the principal guide, “we’ve a long march to the next well, over sandy ground, and sometimes there ain’t much water in it.”

They all followed this advice with the exception of one man, a coarse savage-looking fellow, with a huge black beard and matted locks, who called himself Bradling, though there was ground for doubting whether that was the name by which he had been at first known in the world. This man pulled out an enormous brandy-flask, and with a scoffing laugh said:—

“This is the water for me, mister guide, pure and unmixed, there’s nothin’ like it.”

He nodded as he spoke, and put the flask to his lips, while the guide, who made no rejoinder, eyed him with a grave, stern expression of countenance.

That night they all encamped under the shade of a small clump of trees, kindled several large fires, and, heartily glad to be relieved of their back-burdens, sat down to enjoy supper. After it was over pipes were smoked and stories told, until it was time to retire to rest. Then each man lay down under his blanket, the sky being his canopy, and the howling of the wolves his lullaby.

It seemed to each sleeper, when awakened next morning, that he had only just closed his eyes, so sound had been his repose, and there was a great deal of violent yawning, stretching, grumbling, and winking before the whole party was finally aroused and ready to set forth. However, they got under way at last, and early in the forenoon came to the edge of a sandy plain, which appeared to be interminable, with scarcely a blade of grass on it. Here they halted for a few minutes.

“How wide is the plain, guide?” inquired Frank.

“Forty miles,” replied the man, “and there’s not a drop of water to be had till the end of the first twenty. We’ll get there about sundown, and replenish our kegs, if it’s not all gone dry. Let me warn you, however, to use the water you have sparingly.”

“Do we encamp at the end o’ the first twenty?” asked Jeffson.

“Yes, you’ll find it a long enough day’s march.”

No one made any reply, but by their looks they appeared to think nothing of a twenty-mile walk. They found, however, that such a distance, traversed over loose sand ankle-deep, and under a burning sun, was not what any of them had been accustomed to.

On entering the plain they observed that the heat had opened cracks and fissures in the earth, which omitted a fiery heat. At intervals pyramids of sand arose, which were borne with great velocity through the air, sometimes appearing in the shape of columns sixty feet high, which moved majestically over the plain. Ere long some of these clouds of sand enveloped them, and they were accompanied by hot winds, which seemed to shrivel up, not only the skin, but the very vitals of the travellers. The pores of their skin closed, producing feverish heat in the blood and terrible thirst, while their eyes became inflamed by the dazzling glare of the sun on the white sand.

Of course most of the party applied pretty frequently to their water-kegs and bottles. Even Bradling gave up his brandy, and was content to refresh himself with the little of the pure element which chanced to remain in his formerly despised, but now cherished, water-bottle. The guides carried skins of water for themselves and the mules, but these they opened very seldom, knowing full well the torments that would ensue if they should run short before getting across the scorching desert.

Thus they went on hour after hour, becoming more and more oppressed at every step. The improvident among them drank up the precious water too fast, and towards evening began to sigh for relief, and to regard with longing eyes the supplies of their more self-denying companions. They consoled themselves, however, to some extent, with thoughts of the deep draughts they hoped to obtain at night.

Our hero and Joe were among those who reserved their supplies.

As night approached the thirst of the travellers increased to a terrible extent, insomuch that they appeared to forget their fatigue, and hurried forward at a smart pace, in the eager hope of coming to the promised water-hole. Great, therefore, was their dismay when the guides told them that it was impossible to reach the place that night, that the mules were too much knocked up, but that they would get to it early on the following day.

They said little, however, seeming to be too much depressed to express their disappointment in words, but their haggard looks were fearfully eloquent. Some of those who had wasted their supplies earnestly implored their more prudent comrades to give them a little, a “very little,” of the precious element, and two or three were generous enough to give away a few drops of the little that still remained to them.

The place where they had halted was without a scrap of vegetation, and as there was no wood wherewith to kindle a fire, they were compelled to encamp without one. To most of the travellers, however, this was a matter of little importance, because they were too much exhausted to eat. Those who had water drank a mouthful sparingly, and then lay down to sleep. Those who had none also lay down in gloomy silence. They did not even indulge in the usual solace of a pipe, for fear of adding to the burning thirst with which they were consumed.

At day-break they were aroused by the guides, and rose with alacrity, feeling a little refreshed, and being anxious to push on to the water-hole, but when the sun rose and sent its dazzling rays over the dreary waste, giving promise of another dreadful day, their spirits sank again. Seeing this the principal guide encouraged them by saying that the water-hole was not more than three miles distant.

Onward they pushed with renewed energy and hope. At last they reached the place, and found that the hole was dry!

With consternation depicted on their haggard countenances the men looked at the guide.

“Dig, men, dig,” he said, with a troubled look on his bronzed face, “there may be a little below the surface.”

They did dig with shovels, spades, knives, sticks, hands, anything, and they dug as never men did for gold. All the gold in California would they have given at that time for a cupful of cold water, but all the gold in the world could not have purchased one drop from the parched sand. Never was despair more awfully pictured on men’s faces as they gazed at one another after finding that their efforts were unavailing. Their case was truly pitiable, and they turned to the guide as if they expected commiseration; but the case had become too desperate for him to think of others. In a stern, hard voice he cried—

“Onwards, men! onwards! The nearest stream is forty miles off. None of those who have water can spare a drop, and death lies in delay. Every man for himself now. Onward, men, for your lives!”

Saying this he applied the whip to the poor mules, which, with glazed eyes and hanging ears, snorted with agony, and dropped down frequently as they went along, but a sharp thrust of the goad forced them to rise again and stumble forward.

“God help the poor wretches,” murmured Joe Graddy to Frank as they staggered along side by side. “Is our supply nearly out—could we not give them a drop?”

Frank stopped suddenly, and, with desperate energy, seized the keg which hung over his shoulder, and shook it close to the ear of his companion.

“Listen,” he said, “can we afford to spare any with forty miles of the desert before us? It is our life! we must guard it.”

Graddy shook his head, and, admitting that the thing was out of the question, went silently forward. It was all that Frank himself could do to refrain from drinking the little that remained, for his very vitals seemed on fire. Indeed, in this respect, he suffered more than some of his companions, for while those of them who had not charge of the water-kegs and bottles experienced the pain of suffering and hopeless longing, he himself had the additional misery of having to resist temptation, for at any moment he could have obtained temporary relief by gratifying his desires at the expense of his companions.

Overpowered with heat, and burnt up with thirst, those without water to moisten their parched lips and throats could scarcely keep pace with the guide. By degrees they threw away their possessions—their blankets, their clothes,—until the plain behind was strewn with them.

“Don’t go so fast,” groaned one.

“Won’t ye halt a while?” said another uttering a curse—then, suddenly changing his tone, he implored them to halt.

“We cannot halt. It is death to halt,” said the guide, in a tone so resolute and callous that those who were enfeebled lost heart altogether, and began to lag behind.

At that time the man Bradling, who had become nearly mad with drinking brandy, ran in succession to each of those who had water, and offered all that he possessed of the former for one mouthful of the latter. His flushed face, glassy eyes, and haggard air, told how terrible was his extremity; but although some might have felt a touch of commiseration not one was moved to relieve him. The law of self-preservation had turned the hearts of all to stone. Yet not quite to stone, for there were one or two among them who, although nothing would induce them to give a single drop to a comrade, were content to do with less in order that they might relieve a friend!

One man in his desperation attempted to lick the bodies of the mules, hoping to obtain relief from the exudations of their skins, but the dust on them rendered this unavailing.

Suddenly Bradling darted at the water-skin hanging by the side of the guide’s mule, and swore he would have it or die.

“You’ll die, then,” observed the guide quietly, cocking a pistol and presenting it at his head.

Bradling hesitated and looked at the man. There was a cold stony stare, without the least excitement, in his look, which convinced him that his attempt, if continued, would end in certain death. He fell back at once with a deep groan.

Onward they pressed, hour after hour, until, in many of them, exhausted nature began to give way. They became slightly delirious, and, finding that they could not keep up with the party, a few determined, if left behind, to keep together. Among the number was Bradling, and terrible were the imprecations which he hurled after the more fortunate as they parted. It seemed cruel; but to remain with them would have done no good, while it would have sacrificed more lives. Bradling seemed to regard Frank as his chief enemy, for he shouted his name as he was moving off, praying God to send down the bitterest curses on his head.

A sudden impulse moved the heart of Frank. He turned back, poured about half a wine-glassful of water into a tin can and gave it to the unfortunate man, who seized and drained it greedily, licking the rim of the can and gazing into it, to see that not a drop had escaped him, with an eagerness of manner that was very painful to behold.

“God bless you,” he said to Frank with a deep sigh.

“Do you think,” said Frank earnestly, “that God will curse and bless at your bidding?”

“I don’t know, and don’t care,” replied the man, “but I say God bless you. Go away and be content with that.”

Frank had already lost too much time. He turned and hastened after the others as fast as possible.

“They won’t last long,” said the guide harshly, as he came up. “The wolves or the redskins will soon finish them. You were a fool to waste your water on them.”