AS the train started off, our thoughts reverted to those left behind. There were two, private William Tooker, and Doc. O’Malley. Tooker was absent from camp on a furlough, and was expected to return the following day; while the doctor, in response to a call for medical assistance, had been sent that morning to the guard stationed at the American river bridge.
Concerning Tooker, we felt sorry at the thought of the disappointment and suffering our absence would cause him; for who would care for William now? It pained us to think that he would be ordered about by rude and thoughtless officers, and made to do that which is so distasteful to his gentle nature—work. We anticipated the effect that our departure would have upon O’Malley. As the train rushed over the bridge and past the station where the guard was posted, we saw him sitting listlessly upon a camp-stool, dreaming his life away, and living, perhaps, only in the hopes that the night was drawing nigh, when once again he would be united to his dear comrades. But, alas! So perfect was his listlessness that even the rattling of the train over the bridge failed to produce the slightest signs of life. He sat, like a lifeless mass; and it was only when our cries of “O’Malley, O’Malley, good-bye; we’re off to Truckee!” echoed through the air, that he sprang to his feet and gazed around in a bewildered manner, as if doubtful what he heard or saw was real or fanciful. His face “grew sad by fits, by starts—was wild.” Then, realizing only that he was being left behind, he started after the train at his topmost speed, crying, frantically: “Stop that train! Sto—p!” The last thing the company saw of O’Malley, on its upward journey, was a small, indistinct figure, waving its arms madly, as if it were trying to fly.
Tooker came back the next day and joined O’Malley in his grief and lamentations. They tried to console each other, not by making the best of a bad job, but by cursing and denouncing every one for miles around. Tooker couldn’t see why the Colonel wouldn’t send him up to Truckee to join his company, and took every opportunity of arguing with those he came in contact with, why he should be sent, and how foolish it was to keep him at Sacramento. He convinced every one, to his own satisfaction, that such was the case. O’Malley made life unbearable at the hospital, refusing to do any thing but nurse his own grief.
These two unhappy mortals met one day on the deserted and tentless street of the company, and, with clasped hands and bowed heads, silently contemplated the deserted spot, and, as they thought of their dear comrades far away, great tears rolled down their cheeks. “Billy,” sobbed Doc., “we’re the only ones left.” Then they threw their arms around each other, and with their heads resting on each other’s shoulders, their whole frames vibrating with convulsive sobs, stood for hours. It was while in one of these attitudes that Dr. Galwey came along, and, with his Kodak, took the picture which adorns the head of the chapter.
During our ride to Truckee, a guard was kept continually on the platform of the cars, with orders to drop off at each stop and prevent any one from interfering with the air-brakes. A guard also rode on the engine. We found, as we proceeded, that each bridge and trestle was guarded by United States soldiers, and it was then that the nature of the work intended for us became apparent.
As we advanced into the Sierras, we were entranced with the beautiful scenery that surrounded us. Nature was in all its summer glory—not a cloud in the sky to diminish the radiance of the sun. On all sides the mighty and everlasting mountains reared themselves, height upon height, until their snow-topped summits seemed to join the earth and sky; and far beyond we caught glimpses of glistening, snow-clad tops, which looked like the foaming crests of mighty waves. Deep in the wooded canyons, seen through a maze of green, streams, like silver threads, pursued their tortuous and winding course.
The mighty effects of water caused in hydraulic mining were everywhere discernible, huge mountains having been worked away to get at the gold. The water used for this purpose was carried to the miner through miles of sluices. These sluices now, on account of the cessation of hydraulic mining, are neglected. Where they bridge a gully the water leaks out and falls in rainbow-tinted sheets into the depths below.
We arrived at Blue Canyon, where we had supper, about dusk. Here a great number of the “boys” were taken in by their curiosity to see the red bat (brick-bat) that this mountain town has on public exhibition.
Night brought with it a glorious moon and the snowsheds. Oh! how we did anathematize those snowsheds! What panorama of mountain, vale, and lake, bathed in moonlight, their rough boards shut out from our view! The little glimpses caught here and there at breaks in the sheds were only an aggravation.
Shortly before our arrival at Truckee, Major Burdick stepped into the car and made a little speech, the substance of which was as follows: He said he had been given to understand that the situation in Truckee had assumed a very serious aspect; that he would expect us to meet this condition bravely and with becoming gravity, and, by showing a serious and determined front to the strikers, impress them with the fact that we meant business. Furthermore, we would be under the eye of Col. Gunther of the regular army; and he hoped that, by our soldierly conduct, we would favorably impress the colonel with the worth of the National Guard in general and the First Regiment in particular.