“A bit too technical for me,” said Bill. “What are blankets?”
“I’m not much on mining, but here, blankets are just what they sound like. They are covered with quicksilver to which the gold particles become attached. Later the quicksilver is washed from the blankets, and the gold taken from it by some process I don’t know about. I may have missed a few details—probably have. I’ve only worked on the dredges three days.”
“Then we aren’t all gold-miners?”
“Oh, no. Slaves do all the work of the camp. At present, some of the strongest of us are extending this road farther along the lagoon. But we’ve arrived—stop talking now, for it means the whip, during working hours.”
The line halted opposite the dredges moored to the bank, and a certain number of the slave gang were ordered aboard. Axes were passed out to others, who went on board flat-boats and poled out toward the young growths of the cypress islands.
Bill hoped that he would be one of this number, for, with an axe in his hands, many things might be possible. Instead, when his part of the line moved up to where the head overseer was issuing directions, the man pointed to a stack of iron wheelbarrows. After taking an empty barrow apiece, the two friends trundled them in a long line of barrow men down a planked incline to the muck heap formed by the gold dredges. Men with shovels were already stationed here and Bill found that with the impetus of the guards’ whips behind them, each man had his barrow filled with mud and rubble in less than no time.
As soon as his own was filled he trundled it up another series of planks to the roadway. Along this the continuous stream of sweating barrow-pushers led him to the end of the road. Here, under the direction of overseers, the loads were dumped into the virgin swamp. It looked to Bill as though the black water would swallow up all the mud they could carry and more, but before many trips had been completed, he could plainly make out the progress of the roadbed.
Soon the labor became a back-breaking, seemingly endless grind. Never once was the weary, sweating crew given a chance to rest. At the slightest lagging, the overseer’s wirebound lash descended upon the defenseless back of the transgressor. Loads were heavy and the strain on little-used muscles was terrific, especially on the stretch of planking from the incline up to the road. Before an hour had passed, Bill ached in every limb. Blisters quickly formed on his perspiring hands; he felt dizzy and sick.
All at once a red hot iron seared him across the back and shoulders, and with a yell of pain Bill sprang forward. From behind him came the guard’s warning:
“Snap into it, y’ lazy hound—or I’ll cut your liver out!”