Volume Two—Chapter Nine.
A Rough Ride.
The stage, by which I travelled from Sonora to Stockton, was nothing more than a large open waggon, drawn by four Mexican horses.
We started at six o’clock in the morning, on a journey of eighty-four miles. This we should have to perform before four o’clock in the afternoon of the same day—in order to catch the steamer, which, at that hour, was to start from Stockton for San Francisco.
Notwithstanding that the road over most of the route was in reality no road at all, but an execrable path, we made the eighty-four miles within the time prescribed: for the stage arrived at Stockton more than twenty minutes before the time appointed for the sailing of the steamer!
In spite of this rapidity of transit, I did not at all enjoy the journey between Sonora and Stockton. I was all the time under an impression that my life was in imminent danger; and, as I was at last on my way to Lenore, I did not wish to be killed by the overturning of a Californian stage coach—behind four half-wild horses, going at the top of their speed.
Sometimes we would be rushing down a steep hill, when, to keep the horses out of the way of the waggon they were drawing, the driver would stand up on his box, and fling the “silk” at them with all the energy he could command. On such occasions there would be moments when not a wheel could be seen touching the ground; and not unfrequently the vehicle would bound through the air, to a distance equalling its own length!
We were fortunate enough to reach Stockton, without breaking either the wheels of the waggon, or the bones of any of the passengers, which to me at the time seemed something miraculous.
I do not relish describing scenes of a sanguinary character; but, to give the reader some idea of the state of society in California, at the time I write of, I shall mention a circumstance that transpired during my twenty minutes’ sojourn in Stockton—while waiting for the starting of the steamer.
Just as we were getting out of the stage waggon, several pistol-shots were heard, close to the spot where we had stopped. They had been fired inside the gambling room of a public-house, on the opposite side of the street; and several men were seen rushing out of the house, apparently to escape the chances of being hit by a stray bullet.
As soon as the firing had ceased, the retreating tide turned back again; and re-entered the house—along with a crowd of others, who had been idling outside.
I walked over; and went in with the rest. On entering the large saloon, in which the shots had been fired, I saw two men lying stretched upon separate tables—each attended by a surgeon, who was examining his wounds.
I could see that both were badly—in fact mortally—wounded; and yet each was cursing the other with the most horrible imprecations I had ever heard!
One of the surgeons, addressing himself to the man upon whom he was attending, said:—
“Do not talk in that profane manner. You had better turn your thoughts to something else: you have not many hours to live.”
Neither this rebuke, nor the unpleasant information conveyed by it, seemed to produce the slightest effect on the wretch to whom it was addressed. Instead of becoming silent, he poured forth a fresh storm of blasphemy; and continued cursing all the time I remained within hearing.
I was told that the two men had quarrelled about a horse, that one of them first fired at the other, who fell instantly to the shot; and that the latter, while lying on the floor, had returned the fire of the assailant, sending three bullets into his body.
I heard afterwards that the shots had proved fatal to both. The man who had fired the first shot died that same night—the other surviving the sanguinary encounter only a few hours longer.
I had no desire to linger among the spectators of that tragical tableau; and I was but too glad to find a cue for escaping from it: in the tolling of the steam-boat bell, as it summoned the passengers aboard.
A few minutes after, and we were gliding down the San Joaquin—en route for the Golden City.
The San Joaquin is emphatically a crooked river. It appeared to me that in going down it, we passed Mount Diablo at least seven times. Vessels, that we had already met, could be soon after seen directly ahead of us, while those appearing astern would in a few minutes after, encounter us in the channel of the stream!
A “Down-easter,” who chanced to be aboard, made the characteristic observation:—that “the river was so crooked, a bird could not fly across it: as it would be certain to alight on the side from which it had started!”
Crooked as was the San Joaquin it conducted us to the capital of California—which we reached at a late hour of the night.
So impatient was I to obtain the information, which had brought me to San Francisco, that on the instant of my arrival I went in search of the tavern, kept by Mr Wilson.
I succeeded in finding it, though not without some difficulty. It was a dirty house in a dirty street—the resort of all the worthless characters that could have been collected from the low neighbourhood around it, chiefly runaway convicts, and gay women, from Sydney. It was just such a hostelrie, as I might have expected to be managed by a quondam companion of Mr Leary.
Mr Wilson was at “home,” I was at once ushered into his presence; and, after a very informal introduction, I commenced making him acquainted with my business.
I asked him, if, while at Sydney, he had the pleasure of being acquainted with a man named Mathews.
“Mathews! Let me see!” said he, scratching his head, and pretending to be buried in a profound reflection; “I’ve certainly heard that name, somewhere,” he continued, “and, perhaps, if you were to tell me what you want, I might be able to remember all about it.”
I could perceive that my only chance of learning anything from Mr Wilson was to accede to his proposal, which I did. I told him, that a man named Mathews had been hung a few weeks before on the Stanislaus, that it was for the murder of a young girl, with whom he had eloped from Australia; and that I had reason to believe, that the man had left a wife behind him in Sydney. I had heard that he, Mr Wilson, had known Mathews; and could perhaps tell me, if such had been the case.
“If it was the Mathews I once knew something about,” said the tavern-keeper, after listening to my explanation, “he could not have left any money, or property, behind him: he hadn’t a red cent to leave.”
“I didn’t say that he had,” I answered. “It is not for that I make the inquiry.”
“No!” said the tavern-keeper, feigning surprise. “Then what can be your object, in wanting to know whether he left a wife in Sydney?”
“Because that wife, if there be one, is my mother.”
This answer was satisfactory; and Mr Wilson, after healing it, became communicative.
He had no objections to acknowledge acquaintance with a man who had been hung—after my having admitted that man’s wife to be my mother; and, freely confessed, without any further circumlocution, that he had been intimate with a man named Mathews, who had eloped from Sydney with a shopkeeper’s daughter. He supposed it must be the same, that I claimed as my stepfather.
Wilson’s Mathews had arrived in Sydney several years before. About a year after his arrival he was followed by his wife from Dublin—with whom he had lived for a few weeks, and then deserted her.
Wilson had seen this woman; and from the description he gave me of her, I had no doubt that she was my mother.
The tavern-keeper had never heard of her, after she had been deserted by Mathews, nor could he answer any question: as to whether she had brought my children to the colony. He had never heard of her children.
This was the sum and substance of the information I obtained from Mr Wilson.
My mother, then, had actually emigrated to Australia; and there, to her misfortune, no doubt, had once more discovered the ruffian who had ruined her.
Where was she now? Where were her children? My brother William, and my little sister Martha, of whom I was once so fond and proud?
“I must visit Australia,” thought I, “before going back to England. Until I have recovered my relatives I am not worthy to stand in the presence of Lenore!”