Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Three.
The Callao Gold Fever.
There could not well have been a more uninteresting voyage, than the one we made to Callao. There was about one hundred and fifty passengers on board—most of them young and wild adventurers.
The master of the vessel had the good sense not to attempt the game of starving us. Had he done so, it would have obtained for him an unpleasant popularity. We had no ground for complaint on the score of food.
The principal amusement on board the ship was that of gambling; but it was carried on in a quiet manner; and we had no rows leading to any serious disaster. We had no particular excitement of any kind; and for this reason I have pronounced the voyage uninteresting. For all that, it was not an unpleasant one. I have no hesitation in asserting, that, with the same number of diggers of the pure Australian type, that long voyage, before its termination, would have resembled a “hell aboard ship.”
When we at length reached Callao, it was simply to find ourselves laughed at for leaving Victoria! We had left behind us a land of gold; and made a long sea voyage to discover that we had been “gulled.”
No one appeared to be at all disappointed. Every one was heard to say, “It’s just as I expected!” I may have said so myself—I don’t remember whether I did or not—but I admit now, that I thought myself “some” deceived; and I believe that each of my fellow-passengers felt something like myself: and that was, strongly inclined to kill either himself—or some one else—for having been so damnably duped.
To have heard most of them talk, you could scarce have believed, that there had been any disappointment! Many alleged that they had been dissatisfied with the colonies; and had only come to Peru to see that celebrated country—which they had long desired to do!
Some of them claimed, that they had only left the gold fields of Victoria on a sea voyage—in order to recruit their strength; and that they intended to return, and pursue the avocation of gold-digging with greater energy than ever!
Most of the Americans declared, that, they were on their way home across the Isthmus of Panama!
No one would acknowledge, that he had been made a fool of. Each, according to his own showing, had come to Callao for some wise purpose, which he was anxious to explain to the rest—notwithstanding the obvious difficulty of obtaining credence for his story.
About half of those, who were the victims of this gold-digging delusion, became also victims to the fevers of Peru. Some proceeded up the coast to California; others did go home by the Isthmus of Panama; while a few, and only a few, returned to Australia.
In Callao I parted with my friend Edmund Lea, who was one of those who took the Panama route, on his way back to the United States.
He was returning to a happy home, where he would meet those—and there were many of them—who would rejoice at his return.
There was no such home for me. I was alone in the world—a Rolling Stone—with no one to love—no one who cared for me—and no place, except the spot under my feet, that I could call home.
Lea was a young man who won the esteem of all with whom he came in contact—at least, all whose respect was of any value.
I parted from him with much regret. Before bidding adieu, we made arrangements to correspond with each other; and I have heard from him several times since. He is now, or ought to be, living in Lowell, in the State of Massachusets.
In the first ship “up” for Melbourne, I engaged a passage—resolved upon returning to the gold fields of Victoria.
The vessel had arrived from Melbourne only three weeks before—freighted with a full cargo of deluded diggers; and the captain was now about to extract from them some more of their money, by taking them back!
On board there was one young man, who had come to Peru as a passenger. He had not the money to take him back; and, being a seaman, he had joined the ship as one of her crew. We sailed late in the afternoon, and were some time getting out of the harbour. About ten o’clock at night this young man was at the wheel, where he was spoken to by the captain in a very harsh, unpleasant tone. It was said that the skipper was intoxicated; and that he not only spoke in the manner described, but struck the young sailor without the slightest cause or provocation. The exact truth will perhaps never be told. The night was very dark; and all that was certainly known is: that the sailor drew his knife, plunged it into the captain’s body; and then jumped overboard into the sea!
As the captain had evidently received a mortal wound, the ship was put about; and brought back to her anchorage within the harbour. The captain was carried below; and for three or four hours he did nothing but swear, and threaten to kill the sailor who had stabbed him. His senses had forsaken him; and it was impossible to make him understand, that the young man had leaped overboard, and was in all probability at that moment fifty fathoms under the sea.
The captain had a wife and two children aboard; and what with the noise made by them, and his own wild ravings, not a soul, either among crew or passengers, slept during that night. By six o’clock in the morning, the wounded man had ceased to live.
Three days after, another captain was sent aboard by the agents; and we again set sail for Melbourne.
Nothing was heard of the sailor previous to our leaving the port or ever afterwards. At the time he jumped overboard lights were to be seen, shining on many vessels in the harbour; and some believed that he might have reached either a ship, or the shore. There was not much probability of his having been saved. Both ships and shore were too distant for him to have swum to either. In all likelihood he preceded the captain, into that unknown world from which there is no return.
Very few, either of the passengers or crew, blamed the young sailor for what he had done. The captain had the reputation of being a “bully;” and his having commenced practising his tyranny so early on the voyage—and especially on the man at the wheel, who, while there, should have remained unmolested—gave evidence that had he continued to command the ship, our passage across the Pacific might have proved of a character anything but “peaceful.”
The skipper, who succeeded him, was a man of a different disposition. He soon became a favourite with all on board; and we had both a quick and pleasant passage to Melbourne—where we arrived without any further accident or obstruction.
When setting foot for the second time on Australian soil, I found the city of Melbourne greatly changed—I am happy to say—for the better.
An attempt was being made at keeping the streets clean. Old buildings had been taken down; and new ones erected in their stead. The citizens, too, were better dressed; and looked, as well as acted, more like human beings.
At the public-houses customers were served with food fitting to eat; and were also treated with some show of civility. The number of people who formerly seemed to think, that a public-house keeper held a higher social position than the governor himself, had become greatly diminished. They were now in a decided minority.
Men were no longer afraid, during night hours, to trust themselves alone in the streets; and they did not, as formerly, issue in armed bands from the public-houses to protect themselves from being robbed, while going to their homes, or repairing to places of amusement.
Men found lying drunk in the gutters were now in some danger of being placed upon a stretcher, and taken away by the police.
The convict element was greatly upon the decrease; and the profane language, imported from the slums of London, was not so disgustingly universal.
I have hurried through the narrative of my voyages from Melbourne to Callao, and back, for two reasons. First, because nothing very interesting occurred to me during either; and secondly, because I feel somewhat ashamed at having been so ridiculously deluded; and have therefore no desire to dwell upon the details of that ill-starred expedition.