Sixteen months at the gold diggings

by Daniel B. Woods

During one evening of Easter, soon after we had arrived at the meson, some one came rushing in, informing us that the guerillas had surrounded us. Seizing our arms, we hastened to the court, where all was confusion. There were thirty robbers outside the walls. They said that they were government soldiers, and loudly demanded admittance, asserting that they came from the alcalde. The proprietor told them they were ladrones, and refused to admit them. They left soon after, threatening to return. The alcalde came in much alarmed, and told us that they were robbers; that the troops of government never traveled during Easter, and if they did they were bound to report themselves to him. We mutually pledged ourselves, in case of an attack during the night upon the town or upon our quarters, to aid the citizens or they us, as the case might be. We made our preparations for defense, and slept with our arms at our sides. Nothing more was heard of the robbers. In the vicinity of Tocotes we crossed over a remarkable mountain. For several hours we were ascending by zigzag paths, each turn bringing us higher among the clouds. When we had reached the summit point, we were several thousand feet above many of our companions and all the mules, a distance of more than two miles by the road, but in a direct line not more than one quarter of a mile, for we could distinctly hear the loud talking of the company and the shouts of the mule-drivers. We looked over the edge of the precipice, and watched our companions as they wound their way slowly up. The view was very grand, though it produced a painful giddiness. Soon after ascending this mountain, our way led us through the crater of an old volcano. There were the pumice-stone, the scoria, and the charred and blackened rocks, as though they had but just issued, boiling and bursting, from the bowels of the earth. We could imagine that we smelt the sulphurous vapor and felt the volcanic heat arising from the pent-up fires below, so fresh did the whole field of desolation and ruin appear. And our imaginations were carried back to the fearfully terrific scenes which had been enacted here. The descent from the table-land down to the shores of the Pacific is abrupt and steep. On the 12th of April we reached San Blas, a dull and unhealthy sea-port. At this place, our company, which had hung together in fragments, was dissolved. Men alone are not social beings; and the numerous attempts to bind them together in California gold-mining associations are as vain as the attempt to make a rope of sand.

After some delay in making our preparations, we embarked at San Blas on the 12th of April, in the San Blasiña, a schooner of twenty-three tons—being thirty-six feet long and twelve wide—for San Francisco. In this miserable, unseaworthy craft, thirty-eight of us took passage. It was represented to us that the Pacific was so quiet that it would be safe to go up in open boats. Alas for our error! Yet it was only too common. In some instances, emigrants, in their extreme anxiety to proceed on their way, have embarked in whale boats at Panama, hoping to reach San Francisco. Our voyage to Mazatlan was most disagreeable. We were so cramped for room on deck, the hold being filled with bananas, that three of us slept in a canoe hewed from a log, which was made secure on deck. The portion of it which I occupied was two and a half feet long and three and a half wide. There I slept for eight nights. On the 20th of April we reached Mazatlan, after having been put upon an allowance of water, and the last day having no water at all. This is an important sea-port and a fine city. Though it possesses no public buildings of note, many of the dwelling houses are spacious and pleasant. Its fine bathing-ground forms its principal attraction. A small and inferior chapel is the only place of worship, while the amphitheatre for the bull-fights is a spacious inclosure, capable of accommodating many hundred persons. This “Plaza de los Toros,” as it is called, is an amphitheatre covering about one quarter of an acre. Around this the seats are arranged in tiers. On one side are the pens for the bulls, on the other the elevated seat of the manager, fancifully decorated. Large show-bills state the number and qualifications of the various animals, brute and human, to be brought forward, and invite all who are so disposed to be present. The Sabbath is generally the day selected for the spectacle, and on the morning of that day a procession of the valiant and brave, already equipped for the encounter, and accompanied by martial music, parade the streets. During the pauses in the music, a crier, in a loud voice, boasts the victories they expect to achieve. Many of the spectators are females. Nothing but unmingled disgust and loathing can be excited by the scene. It is a disgraceful and cowardly butchery, in which the poor animal has not even one chance of defense or escape.

A great number of Americans were waiting at this place for opportunities to go to San Francisco. Many of them had exhausted their means, and were engaging in various employments to raise money to take them through.

There are about seven millions of inhabitants in Mexico. The rich class are very wealthy, own most of the land in the country, and live in palaces in the cities. They are few in number. Among them may be classed a portion of the priests. The poor class constitute the great majority, seldom owning any property, and the larger proportion being abjectly poor.

We took our departure from Mazatlan on May 4th, having spent two weeks in litigation respecting the schooner, which resulted in favor of the passengers, and made us, the first time in our lives, ship-owners. The whole had been an unfortunate operation, and we had already paid more for our passage than the schooner was worth. The owners had lost the money which had been advanced to them, and were unable to comply with the terms of the contract, by putting the schooner in sailing order in Mazatlan. Papers were accordingly made out, giving us undisputed possession of twenty-three tons burden of shipping. Our captain, a very old man, had not been to sea for twenty years before this memorable voyage. I shall presently have to relate an account of the adroit manner in which he upset a boat-load of us to pass half an hour among the sharks and waves before we could get to land. Our mate was a Frenchman, and the only skillful sailor among us. He knew that we were proceeding on a wrong course, and as it was mutiny to put the vessel on a right course by daylight, as soon as it was dark enough he would put the “ship about,” so that what we lost in the day we gained in the night. The rest of the crew were sailors drafted from the passengers. We were again short of water, and having been unable to procure a supply along the coast, we anchored off San José, a small town near the cape. The captain requested me to accompany him on shore. The waves ran very high, and it was dangerous to attempt a landing, unless under the guidance of one who understood “surfing a boat.” After every third wave which breaks upon the shore, there is a lull, short indeed, but of sufficient length to permit a boat which follows instantaneously upon it to get beyond the reach of the first wave of the next series. The only method is to row nearly to the line where the waves show a long white crest before they break upon the shore, and then to rest upon the oars. As soon as the third wave has passed, the rowers must urge the boat promptly and vigorously in. If this one rule is neglected, the “swamping” of the boat must inevitably be the result. The captain explained this so accurately that we could not doubt his skill. We had four stout rowers, breathlessly awaiting the signal upon the brink of the breakers. But, unfortunately, the signal came between the second and third waves. We were a hundred yards from the landing. Suddenly we heard the warning roar, like the low tone of the distant thunder. I looked behind, and the wave was moving toward us like an impending wall, six feet above the boat. Suddenly it broke, showing the white crest rapidly extending itself along as far as the eye could reach. Its first approach tossed the boat, like a straw, on one side, and instantly the whole wave came toppling down upon us, burying the boat and three of those who were in it beneath the rushing tides. I had risen from my seat, and the wave struck me many feet toward the shore, crushing my hat over my face and eyes, so that some moments and several waves passed over me before I could again see. When I was able to look around me, the captain and one of my companions were swimming for land. The others were clinging to the keel of the boat, after having been buried beneath it till they were nearly strangled. Those who were swimming were soon on shore, the captain so completely exhausted that he sank down into the water, and was dragged back to the dry sand. In half an hour all were safe on the beach, grateful for so remarkable a deliverance. Our danger was greatly increased by the fact that the place was infested with sharks. The next day, as we were walking along the shore, two fish darted out of the water, and were instantly followed by two large sharks, which pursued them high upon the beach. We made several attempts to double the cape and proceed on our way, but were driven back each time by heavy head winds. In our third attempt we were becalmed, and spent the most of the day in rowing our schooner along, which we did at the rate of three miles an hour. After we had turned in, and were sleeping upon some water and provision casks in the hold, made level by laying down sticks of wood and boards between them, a severe gale sprang up, and drove us at a fearful rate from our course. The sails were rent, and flapped wildly in the wind. No one but the mate dared to approach them. He was at the helm, which he lashed down while he drew in and furled the refractory sails. Our danger was great, and during the long hours of that night there was little sleep among us. Eight, each unknown to the others, formed a resolution, that if we lived to reach the land, we would never again risk our lives in the San Blasiña. Near the close of the next day, we anchored in a narrow roadstead off the cape. The mate and many of the passengers went on shore, which was half a mile distant, taking the torn sails to be mended. The boat was also hauled up on the beach, and turned over to be caulked. It was near night of the following day, and we were all scattered over the beach and in the village, when alarm guns from the schooner arrested our attention. To our surprise, the vessel had changed her position, having dragged her only anchor. She was already nearly two miles distant, those on board having lost much time in ineffectual attempts to bring her back to anchorage. By the time the mate and a crew daring enough to venture out could be found, she was almost at sea, and already pitching about over the waves. Soon a dark, cloudy night obscured the schooner and the boat alike from our view. We kindled a large beacon-fire on the beach, and, wrapping ourselves in our blankets, anxiously awaited the return of our companions. In the morning the schooner was safely moored near the shore.

At this place our ship’s company was divided, a part being determined to proceed on their journey by sea, while another part intended to walk up to San Francisco, a distance of twelve hundred miles, over a barren country, and uninhabited except by Indians. Of these latter, a portion started by an almost imperceptible path, which led them toward the Atlantic coast, while the remaining four of us expected to proceed up the gulf coast. As we ascended the hills behind the village, we caught a last look of the schooner, already out some distance at sea. When we reached San José, to our joy we found the Scottish barque Collooney, Capt. Livingston, for San Francisco, anchored there, having put in for water. We were received on board, and on May 25th weighed anchor and were again on our way. The Collooney was from Panama, having on board two hundred passengers, with accommodations for twenty. At the time for meals, two assistant stewards, mounted upon the long boat near the two galleys, called over the names of the passengers belonging to their divisions. As his name was called, each one walked up if it was calm, and reeled up if it was rough, to the galleys, and received in a tin plate and dipper his allowance. It was a tedious voyage of thirty-five days from the cape to San Francisco. On several Sundays I was invited to preach upon the quarter-deck. On these occasions we were sometimes favored with original hymns from the pen of T. G. Spear, of Philadelphia, who was a passenger on board. I shall give a part of one of these as very appropriate.

“Our path is on the mighty deep,
But God is with us there,
To guard us in the night, asleep,
And in the noonday’s glare.

Our barque, a speck beneath the sky,
His hand conveys along;
He makes the winds around her fly,
Be gentle or be strong.

Here let us pause, and praise, and pray,
And seek that boon sublime,
That opens up a brighter day,
And smooths the storms of time.”

Much of the time was passed in vexatious calms. We were such a picture as Coleridge had in his mind when he wrote,