Volume Two—Chapter Eight.
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.
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.