Sixteen months at the gold diggings

by Daniel B. Woods

Resolved, 3d. That we will attend his funeral to-morrow, at twelve o’clock, M.

Resolved, 4th. That this company will defray the expenses of his funeral.

Resolved, 5th. That a copy of these resolutions be sent to the family of the deceased; and that an invitation to attend the funeral be extended to the neighboring companies.

Daniel B. Woods, Secretary.

Hart’s Bar, Oct. 21, 1849.

Several were dangerously ill at the time of Mr. Ridout’s death, and, soon after, our worthy president was at once prostrated by a similar attack. For many hours we watched over him, endeavoring to cheer and comfort him. At the last, he came to the conclusion that he must die. Sending for me, he made me promise to visit his family on Red River, and be the bearer to them of the sad intelligence; also of many messages, which he delivered with the fortitude of a Christian philosopher; but once, when speaking of his wife, his voice was choked, and the strong man turned aside his head to weep. To my earnest entreaty that he would postpone the subject till he was better—indeed, my own feelings were so much overcome, that I feared I should lose control of myself in his presence—he replied that he must finish, and then his mind would be at rest. He feared not to die, but he would have desired to be at home, if it had been the will of God; but he could not complain. He gave me, for his family, his journal, a few articles of value, and his bag of gold. His tent, clothing, tools, &c., he gave to his servant, old Allen, to whom he had promised his freedom when he should leave the country, and to whom he requested me to give free papers in the event of his death. He told me, in conclusion, where he wished to be buried, and the mode of his burial. Hearing that my valued friend, Dr. Candee, of Park Place, New York, was in the neighborhood, I sent to him, urgently requesting him to visit Dr. Hotchkiss. To my great relief, he was soon at his side, and his prescriptions were blessed to his recovery.

These cases of sickness very much hastened the breaking up of our mining operations for the season. Many of the company left for the mountains, to be ready for the winter diggings.

Nov. 9th. This is my last day at the mines. We removed our cradles this morning to the portion of the channel from which we had taken out the largest amount of gold, hoping that we might find the vein again. There were favorable indications close under the centre wall; but the vein dipped below the wall, and we worked on, at every step undermining it, and still led on by the hope of reaching one of those rare deposits in which thousands are found. We were more encouraged in this idea by learning, on good evidence, that from one small spot near us, in the same channel, one miner, the last year, took $17,000. Why might not we strike it also? Every appearance encouraged us, when we were aroused by a sudden and loud call from one of the directors, who had discovered two leaks in the dam, a few feet apart. In an instant we all rushed, with our spades and barrows of dirt, to the breaches, which each moment gaped wider, and presented a more hopeless appearance. All our efforts would have been vain, and the dam swept away, but for the aid of another company near us. There was no more work, however, to be done that day, every thing being under the water. That was the last of my gold-digging.

Nov. 10th. For the last time, I have just climbed the mountain above Hart’s Bar. On looking back, below me is spread out the narrow, winding valley, between its two mountains, widening at that point into an extensive bar, through which, on account of the many dams, canals, and other obstructions, the tortured river seems to have infinite difficulty in forcing its way. There is also the collection of tents, and the miners engaged in cooking, and collected in small groups about their camp-fires, for it is a cool morning. There stand the wrecks of our aqueduct and canal; the bare half channel of the river, and the surface of the bar scarred and pitted over. There is the scene of my labors for long months. There is my own arbor, and its last fire still smoking; and there our place of worship; and lower down is where our company meetings were held. And there are the graves of our lost companions. But I must break from these scenes of disappointment and sadness—of broken hopes and broken hearts—and, invoking the blessing of a kind and gracious Father in heaven upon myself and those left behind, direct my steps to San Francisco.

On the road, where before there were only tents or rude arbors, are now some frame buildings. And it was cause of surprise to see the great number of wagons and mule-trains, heavily laden for the mines. Where were to be found consumers for all this? Then came the news-man, with almost a mule-load of New York Heralds. I had come alone, and entirely unarmed, and it was a source of amusement to me to meet the emigrants on their way to the mines, completely armed. A mile out from Stockton, I met a Frenchman, armed with a double hunting-gun, pistols, dirk, &c., who came up to me, looking carefully on this side and on that, and inquired anxiously, “Is there any danger about the bear?” He seemed surprised when I told him I had come down from the mines alone and unarmed; that on my way across the plain I had seen a few elk and deer, and immense herds of antelope.