We had heard vague rumors of serious trouble in the valleys of the Sacramento and San Joaquin, and, as the Tuolumne had risen to a point hitherto unheard of, the oldest settlers became somewhat uneasy.
Fearing lest the Tuolumne—which was fast becoming a raging torrent—might eventually become impassable, I saw that “Mrs. Jim,” as I used to call her, was well supplied with necessaries. I knew that the water rise would be of short duration—for so tradition had it—hence I was not uneasy about my interesting charges.
The river had finally risen to a point nearly two feet beyond the highest water mark ever known; it then began to subside and we felt much easier—the end was apparently in sight. But we deceived ourselves most thoroughly.
The people of Jacksonville, congratulating themselves on the beginning of the end of the greatest freshet in their experience, retired one night to sleep in fancied security, only to be rudely awakened the following morning by the surging of the waters of the Tuolumne against the very beds on which they slept. The water was seeking its revenge—a revenge that was soon to be fully accomplished.
Within twenty-four hours there was but one safe point in the entire town—the high ground upon which stood the Tuolumne House. Practically every other building in town, save one, was washed away. One sturdy miner upon whom fortune had smiled, had built himself a pretty little cottage, which he determined to save. He passed a cable through a door and a window at the corner of the house, and guyed it to a huge tree upon a hill opposite. The cottage swung about at the end of the rope until the waters subsided, when the triumphant miner anchored it in a new location, this time on higher ground—the original site of his home having gently slipped into the river. But Nelson was an exception; his brother miners were not so fortunate.
The hotel was full to overflowing and tents were at a premium. Mining was a forgotten industry. The chief occupation of the citizens was counting noses to see who was missing, and fishing up such articles of value as they could from amid the debris of the flood. For entertainment they counted the buildings and studied the wreckage that the waters brought down from the towns and camps higher up the valley. An occasional corpse was seen floating along among the flotsam and jetsam carried past by the raging river—a ghastly reminder of the seriousness of the situation.
Almost directly opposite the Tuolumne House was a dam in the river. There were times during the dry season when the Tuolumne was so low that one could walk across via this dam. Now, however, it was a veritable Niagara. It was interesting, as well as harrowing, to watch the destruction of the buildings as they toppled over the brink and broke up. Occasionally a house, larger than the rest, would lodge at the dam for some time before going over. At one point quite a mass of debris had collected and bade fair to remain indefinitely blocked up against a projecting part of the dam.
Just beyond the further end of the dam I could see Toppy’s little cabin, gleaming white and clearly cut against the dark green background of the hillside whereon it stood, far out of the way of all possible danger from the rising waters.
A group of our citizens was standing on safe ground near the hotel, quietly discussing the apparently hopeless misery and total destruction that had befallen our industrious little town, when our attention was attracted by a house, larger than any we had yet seen, which came drifting rapidly down the stream in full view.
As the house came nearer, Dixie called out—“By G—d, boys! thar’s a man in the winder!”