VII.
THE RETURN TRIP TO PANAMA.
1849.
The difference in cost of passage between cabin and steerage from San Francisco to Panama was $100. We clubbed together, and bought some private stores and took steerage tickets. The vessel made but one call on the trip—at Acapulco about half way, where we remained one day and all went ashore. Acapulco is by nature a paradise, a beautiful little harbor, perfectly land locked, the land rising quite rapidly from the white sandy beach, for 40 or 50 rods, then descending on the opposite side through a magnificent grove of orange and other trees down to a beautiful stream of clear sparkling water about twice the size of the Ouleout. Here we all enjoyed the luxury of a swim in the clear water. I cannot remember when I enjoyed a day’s outing as upon that occasion.
During my rambles through the city of Acapulco I came across a pathological curiosity. I have ever regretted loosing its measurements which I took at the time. It was a hydrocephalous child which, judging from its physical developments, was two or three years of age; the face had an infant’s appearance while the cranium or skull was distended to the size I am confident of half a barrel. I took its measure anterior—posteriorly and laterally over the crown, put the paper in my pocket where it disappeared with my clothes mysteriously as I will explain farther on.
We raised anchor and sailed from Acapulco about dark the following evening, and being in a hot climate everybody lay on their blankets out on deck whenever they could. I lay down on the boiler deck about in the centre of the boat, the deck being occupied by sleeping men all around me. Some time in the night I awoke with a feeling of extreme fright, having the impression that the passengers charged me with having committed a crime so heinous that they were about to mob me. Knowing I was innocent of any offence, I lay some minutes endeavoring to convince myself that it was a delusion of my own mind, but the more I cogitated over it the more my fears were aroused, until as a final resort to save myself, I sprang up and jumped down to the main deck, some ten or twelve feet, and hid in the water closet forward of the wheelhouse.
From that time for nine days all is a blank to my mind, although I shall ever retain the impression, which proved incorrect, that I left the closet and on reaching the deck met Henry Wright who was among the passengers and is now living in Walton, a man whom all our older people will remember as having formerly lived here[114] universally respected and recognized as a man of unimpeachable integrity. My reasons for thus speaking in complimentary terms will soon be apparent.
My impression was that I had told Mr. Wright my gold dust bags were in the water closet, and requested him to take care of them. Fortunately for friend Wright and myself the traditional honesty of the sailor was our salvation from an unpleasant situation. My old friend Norton informed me after I had passed the crisis and recovered consciousness, that the morning after my attack, he found me alone in the cabin with a pair of blankets over my shoulders and no other clothing, not even a shirt, on. He asked me what was the matter and I replied “Nothing.” “But where is your clothing?” I replied, “I came aboard without any.” “Where is your money, he asked?” and my reply was “Mr. Wright has it.”
After getting me in bed and calling the ship surgeon, he looked up Mr. Wright, saying, “I suppose you will take good care of his money.” “I have no knowledge of his money,” Mr. Wright answered, “I have not seen it.” Norton said: “Halsey just told me he informed you where it was and asked you to take care of it.” “It is a mistake. I have not seen Halsey and know nothing whatever of his money.”
During the day the mate of the vessel gave out notice that one of the sailors while in the performance of his duties had found some bags of gold, which the owner could have by proving ownership. Norton, familiar with these bags, was able to obtain them, thus freeing Mr. Wright from the charge I should have entertained—that he had my money—had the sailor been a dishonest man and kept the gold.
The morning of the tenth day from the day of my attack of sickness the steamer cast anchor in Panama bay. The rattle of the chain as the anchor was run out aroused me to consciousness. I can never forget the feelings with which I looked around, bewildered and amazed, unable to account for my condition and surroundings, unable to lift a finger even. I could only appeal to the good angel—Norton—who was standing over me, for an explanation. I was carefully swung into a hammock over the side of the vessel and thence into a small boat and got ashore. Then they placed me upon the sand outside the wall of the city where I lay for an hour or more, until Norton could go into the town and secure a room at the American Hotel. I was there two weeks, hovering between life and death until I secured a physician from New Orleans, who with his family, was on his way to the new Eldorado and was stopping at Panama to recuperate his purse, which had been depleted.