We continued our progress up the river, occasionally stopping and amusing ourselves by firing the woods on either side, and watching the broad flames as they spread and crackled through the underbrush. On the night of the 30th, we hauled up at the rancho of Schwartz—an old German, of whom Bryant speaks as a man who has forgotten his own language, and never acquired any other. He is certainly the most curious specimen of humanity it was ever my lot to witness. He emigrated to California some ten years since, and obtained a grant of six leagues of land, extending up and down the Sacramento River; and in the progress of time he will probably be one of the richest land-holders of California. He has built upon the bank of the river a little hut of tule, resembling a miserable Indian wigwam; and there he lives, a “manifest destiny” man, with “masterly inactivity” awaiting the march of civilization, and anticipating at some future day the sale of his lands for a princely fortune—a hope in which he will probably not be disappointed. His language is a mixture of his old mother German, English, Spanish, French, and Indian; and it would require an apter linguist than it was ever my good fortune to meet with, to comprehend his “lingua.”
I underwent an operation at Schwartz’s rancho, that sealed my full connexion and communion with the region to which I was travelling. It was no less than an impromptu baptism in the golden waters of the Sacramento. We had built a fire on shore, and having purchased from Schwartz a few pounds of beef at gold-digger’s price, i.e. one dollar per pound, had eaten our supper, when I started for the launch, which lay about ten yards from the shore, to get my blankets. The only conveyance was an old log canoe of Schwartz’s; and seating myself in it, in company with one of my companions and an Indian boy he had brought with him, we pushed off. The Indian was seated in the canoe’s bow, and was frightened by the oscillating motion given to it, when it was first pushed off from the shore. To balance the roll upon one side, he leaned to the other, and finding a corresponding motion in that direction, he reversed his position, and leaning too far, upset the canoe, and all three of us. I, with a heavy overcoat on, and my rifle in hand, tumbled into about fifteen feet of water. I dropped the rifle as though it were boiling lead, and made the best of my way to the shore. We all arrived safely on terra firma, and going on board alone in the canoe, I changed my clothing. Telling old Schwartz that I must encroach upon his hospitality, and drinking about a pint of some coloured New England rum, which he assured me was “de tres best clasa de brandy,” I stretched my blankets on the mud floor of his wigwam, and awoke in the morning in as good health and spirits as though nothing had happened. I engaged the services of a Kanaka, who was on board, to dive for my rifle; and after he had brought it up, we got under way, and after sleeping another night on the banks of the Sacramento, reached the “Embarcadero,” now Sacramento City, on the evening of November 2d. The river here is about eight hundred feet wide.
The beautiful plain on which is now located the thriving and populous city of Sacramento, was, when I first landed there, untenanted. There was not a house upon it, the only place of business being an old store-ship laid up upon its bank. Where now, after a lapse of only one year, a flourishing city with a population of twelve thousand stands, I pitched my tent on the edge of a broad prairie.
To complete the party with which we intended going to the mines, we were obliged to wait at the Embarcadero for three of our disbanded soldiers, who had left the Pueblo de los Angeles about the time we did, and were coming by land through the Tularè valley, as we required their horses to pack the provisions we had brought with us.
We pitched our tent, cooked our provisions, and anxiously waited the arrival of the men, a prey to the greatest excitement,—continually hearing as we did, the most extravagant stories from the mining region. The intense heat of the summer solstice had given way to autumn’s cooling breezes, and parties were daily arriving at and leaving the Embarcadero; the former with their pockets well lined with gold dust, and the latter with high hopes and beating hearts.
CHAPTER II.
Arrival of our Party—The Mountaineer—A “prospecting” Expedition—The Start—California Skies in November—A Drenching—Go-ahead Higgins—“Camp Beautiful”—John the Irishman—The Indian’s Grave—A “rock” Speech—The Return—Herd of Antelope—Johnson’s Rancho—Acorn Gathering—Indian Squaws—Novel Costume—The Rancheria—Pule-u-le—A Bear Fight.
On the 7th of November our party arrived,—their horses, of which they brought five, jaded with the travel in the mountains; and it was not until the 16th that we were able to make a start. Being, of course, entirely ignorant of the best locality to which to proceed, and being all young, strong, and enthusiastic, we determined to strike out a new path, and go on an exploring expedition in the mountains, in the hope that fortune would throw in our way the biggest of all lumps, and that we might possibly find the fountain head of El Dorado, where, gushing in a rich and golden lava from the heart of the great Sierra, a stream of molten gold should appear before our enraptured eyes.
Fortune, or rather misfortune, favoured us in this project. We were visited one evening in camp by a man, who informed us that he had recently been on a “prospecting” expedition with a party of three others, and that after nearly reaching, as he thought, the fountain head of gold, the party was attacked by Indians, and all, with the exception of himself, killed. The “prospect,” he told us, was most favourable, and learning from him the direction of the mountains in which he had been, with two pack-horses lightly laden with hard bread and dried beef, six of us started on the evening of November 16th on our Quixotic expedition, leaving one with the remainder of our provisions and the tent at the Embarcadero.
We crossed the Rio de los Americanos about a mile above Sutter’s Fort, and, encamping upon its opposite bank, started on the morning of the 17th. The sky promised a heavy rain storm; nothing daunted, however, we pushed on in the direction of the Bear River settlements, and about noon the sky’s predictions were most fully realized. The rain fell in big drops, and soon broke upon us in torrents. The wind blew a hurricane, and we were in the apparent centre of an open prairie, with a row of sheltering trees about four miles distant, mockingly beckoning us to seek protection beneath their thick and wide-spreading branches.