NOTES BY FLOOD AND FIELD
PART I--IN THE FIELD
It was near the close of an October day that I began to be disagreeablyconscious of the Sacramento Valley. I had been riding since sunrise, andmy course through the depressing monotony of the long level landscapeaffected me more like a dull dyspeptic dream than a business journey,performed under that sincerest of natural phenomena--a California sky.The recurring stretches of brown and baked fields, the gaping fissuresin the dusty trail, the hard outline of the distant hills, and theherds of slowly moving cattle, seemed like features of some glitteringstereoscopic picture that never changed. Active exercise might haveremoved this feeling, but my horse by some subtle instinct had longsince given up all ambitious effort, and had lapsed into a dogged trot.
It was autumn, but not the season suggested to the Atlantic reader underthat title. The sharply defined boundaries of the wet and dry seasonswere prefigured in the clear outlines of the distant hills. In the dryatmosphere the decay of vegetation was too rapid for the slow hecticwhich overtakes an Eastern landscape, or else Nature was too practicalfor such thin disguises. She merely turned the Hippocratic face to thespectator, with the old diagnosis of Death in her sharp, contractedfeatures.
In the contemplation of such a prospect there was little to excite anybut a morbid fancy. There were no clouds in the flinty blue heavens, andthe setting of the sun was accompanied with as little ostentation as wasconsistent with the dryly practical atmosphere. Darkness soon followed,with a rising wind, which increased as the shadows deepened on theplain. The fringe of alder by the watercourse began to loom up as Iurged my horse forward. A half-hour's active spurring brought me to acorral, and a little beyond a house, so low and broad it seemed at firstsight to be half-buried in the earth.
My second impression was that it had grown out of the soil, like somemonstrous vegetable, its dreary proportions were so in keeping with thevast prospect. There were no recesses along its roughly boarded wallsfor vagrant and unprofitable shadows to lurk in the daily sunshine. Noprojection for the wind by night to grow musical over, to wail, whistle,or whisper to; only a long wooden shelf containing a chilly-lookingtin basin and a bar of soap. Its uncurtained windows were red with thesinking sun, as though bloodshot and inflamed from a too-long unliddedexistence. The tracks of cattle led to its front door, firmly closedagainst the rattling wind.
To avoid being confounded with this familiar element, I walked to therear of the house, which was connected with a smaller building by aslight platform. A grizzled, hard-faced old man was standing there, andmet my salutation with a look of inquiry, and, without speaking, ledthe way to the principal room. As I entered, four young men who werereclining by the fire slightly altered their attitudes of perfectrepose, but beyond that betrayed neither curiosity nor interest. A houndstarted from a dark corner with a growl, but was immediately kicked bythe old man into obscurity, and silenced again. I can't tell why, but Iinstantly received the impression that for a long time the group by thefire had not uttered a word or moved a muscle. Taking a seat, I brieflystated my business.
Was a United States surveyor. Had come on account of the Espiritu SantoRancho. Wanted to correct the exterior boundaries of township lines, soas to connect with the near exteriors of private grants. There had beensome intervention to the old survey by a Mr. Tryan who had preemptedadjacent--"settled land warrants," interrupted the old man. "Ah, yes!Land warrants--and then this was Mr. Tryan?"
I had spoken mechanically, for I was preoccupied in connecting otherpublic lines with private surveys as I looked in his face. It wascertainly a hard face, and reminded me of the singular effect ofthat mining operation known as "ground sluicing"; the harder lines ofunderlying character were exposed, and what were once plastic curves andsoft outlines were obliterated by some powerful agency.
There was a dryness in his voice not unlike the prevailing atmosphereof the valley, as he launched into an EX PARTE statement of the contest,with a fluency, which, like the wind without, showed frequent andunrestrained expression. He told me--what I had already learned--thatthe boundary line of the old Spanish grant was a creek, described in theloose phraseology of the DESENO as beginning in the VALDA or skirtof the hill, its precise location long the subject of litigation.I listened and answered with little interest, for my mind was stilldistracted by the wind which swept violently by the house, as well asby his odd face, which was again reflected in the resemblance that thesilent group by the fire bore toward him. He was still talking, and thewind was yet blowing, when my confused attention was aroused by a remarkaddressed to the recumbent figures.
"Now, then, which on ye'll see the stranger up the creek to Altascar's,tomorrow?"
There was a general movement of opposition in the group, but no decidedanswer.
"Kin you go, Kerg?"
"Who's to look up stock in Strarberry perar-ie?"
This seemed to imply a negative, and the old man turned to anotherhopeful, who was pulling the fur from a mangy bearskin on which he waslying, with an expression as though it were somebody's hair.
"Well, Tom, wot's to hinder you from goin'?"
"Mam's goin' to Brown's store at sunup, and I s'pose I've got to packher and the baby agin."
I think the expression of scorn this unfortunate youth exhibited forthe filial duty into which he had been evidently beguiled was one of thefinest things I had ever seen.
"Wise?"
Wise deigned no verbal reply, but figuratively thrust a worn and patchedboot into the discourse. The old man flushed quickly.
"I told ye to get Brown to give you a pair the last time you war downthe river."
"Said he wouldn't without'en order. Said it was like pulling gum teethto get the money from you even then."
There was a grim smile at this local hit at the old man's parsimony,and Wise, who was clearly the privileged wit of the family, sank back inhonorable retirement.
"Well, Joe, ef your boots are new, and you aren't pestered with wimminand children, p'r'aps you'll go," said Tryan, with a nervous twitching,intended for a smile, about a mouth not remarkably mirthful.
Tom lifted a pair of bushy eyebrows, and said shortly:
"Got no saddle."
"Wot's gone of your saddle?"
"Kerg, there"--indicating his brother with a look such as Cain mighthave worn at the sacrifice.
"You lie!" returned Kerg, cheerfully.
Tryan sprang to his feet, seizing the chair, flourishing it around hishead and gazing furiously in the hard young faces which fearlessly methis own. But it was only for a moment; his arm soon dropped by his side,and a look of hopeless fatality crossed his face. He allowed me to takethe chair from his hand, and I was trying to pacify him by the assurancethat I required no guide when the irrepressible Wise again lifted hisvoice:
"Theer's George comin'! why don't ye ask him? He'll go and introduce youto Don Fernandy's darter, too, ef you ain't pertickler."
The laugh which followed this joke, which evidently had some domesticallusion (the general tendency of rural pleasantry), was followed by alight step on the platform, and the young man entered. Seeing a strangerpresent, he stopped and colored, made a shy salute and colored again,and then, drawing a box from the corner, sat down, his hands claspedlightly together and his very handsome bright blue eyes turned franklyon mine.
Perhaps I was in a condition to receive the romantic impression he madeupon me, and I took it upon myself to ask his company as guide, and hecheerfully assented. But some domestic duty called him presently away.
The fire gleamed brightly on the hearth, and, no longer resisting theprevailing influence, I silently watched the spurting flame, listeningto the wind which continually shook the tenement. Besides the one chairwhich had acquired a new importance in my eyes, I presently discovereda crazy table in one corner, with an ink bottle and pen; the latterin that greasy state of decomposition peculiar to country taverns andfarmhouses. A goodly array of rifles and double-barreled guns stockedthe corner; half a do
zen saddles and blankets lay near, with a mildflavor of the horse about them. Some deer and bear skins completed theinventory. As I sat there, with the silent group around me, the shadowygloom within and the dominant wind without, I found it difficult tobelieve I had ever known a different existence. My profession had oftenled me to wilder scenes, but rarely among those whose unrestrainedhabits and easy unconsciousness made me feel so lonely and uncomfortableI shrank closer to myself, not without grave doubts--which I think occurnaturally to people in like situations--that this was the general ruleof humanity and I was a solitary and somewhat gratuitous exception. Itwas a relief when a laconic announcement of supper by a weak-eyed girlcaused a general movement in the family. We walked across the darkplatform, which led to another low-ceiled room. Its entire length wasoccupied by a table, at the farther end of which a weak-eyed woman wasalready taking her repast as she at the same time gave nourishment toa weak-eyed baby. As the formalities of introduction had been dispensedwith, and as she took no notice of me, I was enabled to slip into a seatwithout discomposing or interrupting her. Tryan extemporized a grace,and the attention of the family became absorbed in bacon, potatoes, anddried apples.
The meal was a sincere one. Gentle gurglings at the upper end of thetable often betrayed the presence of the "wellspring of pleasure." Theconversation generally referred to the labors of the day, and comparingnotes as to the whereabouts of missing stock. Yet the supper was such avast improvement upon the previous intellectual feast that when a chanceallusion of mine to the business of my visit brought out the elderTryan, the interest grew quite exciting. I remember he inveighedbitterly against the system of ranch-holding by the "greasers," as hewas pleased to term the native Californians. As the same ideas havebeen sometimes advanced under more pretentious circumstances they may beworthy of record.
"Look at 'em holdin' the finest grazin' land that ever lay outer doors.Whar's the papers for it? Was it grants? Mighty fine grants--most of 'emmade arter the 'Merrikans got possession. More fools the 'Merrikans forlettin' 'em hold 'em. Wat paid for 'em? 'Merrikan and blood money.
"Didn't they oughter have suthin' out of their native country? Wotfor? Did they ever improve? Got a lot of yaller-skinned diggers, notso sensible as niggers to look arter stock, and they a sittin' homeand smokin'. With their gold and silver candlesticks, and missions, andcrucifixens, priests and graven idols, and sich? Them sort things wurentallowed in Mizzoori."
At the mention of improvements, I involuntarily lifted my eyes, andmet the half laughing, half embarrassed look of George. The act did notescape detection, and I had at once the satisfaction of seeing that therest of the family had formed an offensive alliance against us.
"It was agin Nater, and agin God," added Tryan. "God never intendedgold in the rocks to be made into heathen candlesticks and crucifixens.That's why he sent 'Merrikans here. Nater never intended such a climatefor lazy lopers. She never gin six months' sunshine to be slept andsmoked away."
How long he continued and with what further illustration I could notsay, for I took an early opportunity to escape to the sitting-room. Iwas soon followed by George, who called me to an open door leading to asmaller room, and pointed to a bed.
"You'd better sleep there tonight," he said; "you'll be morecomfortable, and I'll call you early."
I thanked him, and would have asked him several questions which werethen troubling me, but he shyly slipped to the door and vanished.
A shadow seemed to fall on the room when he had gone. The "boys"returned, one by one, and shuffled to their old places. A larger log wasthrown on the fire, and the huge chimney glowed like a furnace, but itdid not seem to melt or subdue a single line of the hard faces that itlit. In half an hour later, the furs which had served as chairs byday undertook the nightly office of mattresses, and each received itsowner's full-length figure. Mr. Tryan had not returned, and I missedGeorge. I sat there until, wakeful and nervous, I saw the fire fall andshadows mount the wall. There was no sound but the rushing of thewind and the snoring of the sleepers. At last, feeling the placeinsupportable, I seized my hat and opening the door, ran out brisklyinto the night.
The acceleration of my torpid pulse in the keen fight with the wind,whose violence was almost equal to that of a tornado, and the familiarfaces of the bright stars above me, I felt as a blessed relief. I rannot knowing whither, and when I halted, the square outline of the housewas lost in the alder bushes. An uninterrupted plain stretched beforeme, like a vast sea beaten flat by the force of the gale. As I kept on Inoticed a slight elevation toward the horizon, and presently my progresswas impeded by the ascent of an Indian mound. It struck me forcibly asresembling an island in the sea. Its height gave me a better view ofthe expanding plain. But even here I found no rest. The ridiculousinterpretation Tryan had given the climate was somehow sung in my ears,and echoed in my throbbing pulse as, guided by the star, I sought thehouse again.
But I felt fresher and more natural as I stepped upon the platform. Thedoor of the lower building was open, and the old man was sitting besidethe table, thumbing the leaves of a Bible with a look in his face asthough he were hunting up prophecies against the "Greaser." I turned toenter, but my attention was attracted by a blanketed figure lyingbeside the house, on the platform. The broad chest heaving with healthyslumber, and the open, honest face were familiar. It was George, who hadgiven up his bed to the stranger among his people. I was about to wakehim, but he lay so peaceful and quiet, I felt awed and hushed. And Iwent to bed with a pleasant impression of his handsome face and tranquilfigure soothing me to sleep.
I was awakened the next morning from a sense of lulled repose andgrateful silence by the cheery voice of George, who stood beside my bed,ostentatiously twirling a riata, as if to recall the duties of theday to my sleep-bewildered eyes. I looked around me. The wind had beenmagically laid, and the sun shone warmly through the windows. A dashof cold water, with an extra chill on from the tin basin, helped tobrighten me. It was still early, but the family had already breakfastedand dispersed, and a wagon winding far in the distance showed that theunfortunate Tom had already "packed" his relatives away. I felt morecheerful--there are few troubles Youth cannot distance with the start ofa good night's rest. After a substantial breakfast, prepared by George,in a few moments we were mounted and dashing down the plain.
We followed the line of alder that defined the creek, now dry and bakedwith summer's heat, but which in winter, George told me, overflowed itsbanks. I still retain a vivid impression of that morning's ride, thefar-off mountains, like silhouettes, against the steel-blue sky, thecrisp dry air, and the expanding track before me, animated often bythe well-knit figure of George Tryan, musical with jingling spurs andpicturesque with flying riata. He rode powerful native roan, wild-eyed,untiring in stride and unbroken in nature. Alas! the curves of beautywere concealed by the cumbrous MACHILLAS of the Spanish saddle, whichlevels all equine distinctions. The single rein lay loosely on the cruelbit that can gripe, and if need be, crush the jaw it controls.
Again the illimitable freedom of the valley rises before me, as weagain bear down into sunlit space. Can this be "Chu Chu," staid andrespectable filly of American pedigree--Chu Chu, forgetful of plankroads and cobblestones, wild with excitement, twinkling her small whitefeet beneath me? George laughs out of a cloud of dust. "Give her herhead; don't you see she likes it?" and Chu Chu seems to like it, andwhether bitten by native tarantula into native barbarism or emulous ofthe roan, "blood" asserts itself, and in a moment the peaceful servitudeof years is beaten out in the music of her clattering hoofs. The creekwidens to a deep gully. We dive into it and up on the opposite side,carrying a moving cloud of impalpable powder with us. Cattle arescattered over the plain, grazing quietly or banded together in vastrestless herds. George makes a wide, indefinite sweep with the riata, asif to include them all in his vaquero's loop, and says, "Ours!"
"About how many, George?"
"Don't know."
"How many?"
"'Well, p'r'aps three
thousand head," says George, reflecting. "We don'tknow, takes five men to look 'em up and keep run."
"What are they worth?"
"About thirty dollars a head."
I make a rapid calculation, and look my astonishment at the laughingGeorge. Perhaps a recollection of the domestic economy of the Tryanhousehold is expressed in that look, for George averts his eye and says,apologetically:
"I've tried to get the old man to sell and build, but you know he saysit ain't no use to settle down, just yet. We must keep movin'. In fact,he built the shanty for that purpose, lest titles should fall through,and we'd have to get up and move stakes further down."
Suddenly his quick eye detects some unusual sight in a herd we arepassing, and with an exclamation he puts his roan into the center ofthe mass. I follow, or rather Chu Chu darts after the roan, and in a fewmoments we are in the midst of apparently inextricable horns and hoofs."TORO!" shouts George, with vaquero enthusiasm, and the band opens away for the swinging riata. I can feel their steaming breaths, and theirspume is cast on Chu Chu's quivering flank.
Wild, devilish-looking beasts are they; not such shapes as Jove mighthave chosen to woo a goddess, nor such as peacefully range the downs ofDevon, but lean and hungry Cassius-like bovines, economically got up tomeet the exigencies of a six months' rainless climate, and accustomed towrestle with the distracting wind and the blinding dust.
"That's not our brand," says George; "they're strange stock," and hepoints to what my scientific eye recognizes as the astrological sign ofVenus deeply seared in the brown flanks of the bull he is chasing. Butthe herd are closing round us with low mutterings, and George has againrecourse to the authoritative "TORO," and with swinging riata dividesthe "bossy bucklers" on either side. When we are free, and breathingsomewhat more easily, I venture to ask George if they ever attackanyone.
"Never horsemen--sometimes footmen. Not through rage, you know, butcuriosity. They think a man and his horse are one, and if they meet achap afoot, they run him down and trample him under hoof, in thepursuit of knowledge. But," adds George, "here's the lower bench of thefoothills, and here's Altascar's corral, and that White building you seeyonder is the casa."
A whitewashed wall enclosed a court containing another adobe building,baked with the solar beams of many summers. Leaving our horses in thecharge of a few peons in the courtyard, who were basking lazily in thesun, we entered a low doorway, where a deep shadow and an agreeablecoolness fell upon us, as sudden and grateful as a plunge in cool water,from its contrast with the external glare and heat. In the center of alow-ceiled apartment sat an old man with a black-silk handkerchief tiedabout his head, the few gray hairs that escaped from its folds relievinghis gamboge-colored face. The odor of CIGARRITOS was as incense added tothe cathedral gloom of the building.
As Senor Altascar rose with well-bred gravity to receive us, Georgeadvanced with such a heightened color, and such a blending of tendernessand respect in his manner, that I was touched to the heart by so muchdevotion in the careless youth. In fact, my eyes were still dazzled bythe effect of the outer sunshine, and at first I did not see the whiteteeth and black eyes of Pepita, who slipped into the corridor as weentered.
It was no pleasant matter to disclose particulars of business whichwould deprive the old senor of the greater part of that land we hadjust ridden over, and I did it with great embarrassment. But he listenedcalmly--not a muscle of his dark face stirring--and the smoke curlingplacidly from his lips showed his regular respiration. When I hadfinished, he offered quietly to accompany us to the line of demarcation.George had meanwhile disappeared, but a suspicious conversation inbroken Spanish and English, in the corridor, betrayed his vicinity.When he returned again, a little absent-minded, the old man, by farthe coolest and most self-possessed of the party, extinguished hisblack-silk cap beneath that stiff, uncomely sombrero which all nativeCalifornians affect. A serape thrown over his shoulders hinted that hewas waiting. Horses are always ready saddled in Spanish ranchos, and inhalf an hour from the time of our arrival we were again "loping" in thestaring sunlight.
But not as cheerfully as before. George and myself were weighed down byrestraint, and Altascar was gravely quiet. To break the silence, and byway of a consolatory essay, I hinted to him that there might be furtherintervention or appeal, but the proffered oil and wine were returnedwith a careless shrug of the shoulders and a sententious "QUEBUENO?--Your courts are always just."
The Indian mound of the previous night's discovery was a bearingmonument of the new line, and there we halted. We were surprised to findthe old man Tryan waiting us. For the first time during our interviewthe old Spaniard seemed moved, and the blood rose in his yellow cheek. Iwas anxious to close the scene, and pointed out the corner boundaries asclearly as my recollection served.
"The deputies will be here tomorrow to run the lines from this initialpoint, and there will be no further trouble, I believe, gentlemen."
Senor Altascar had dismounted and was gathering a few tufts of driedgrass in his hands. George and I exchanged glances. He presently arosefrom his stooping posture, and advancing to within a few paces of JosephTryan, said, in a voice broken with passion:
"And I, Fernando Jesus Maria Altascar, put you in possession of my landin the fashion of my country."
He threw a sod to each of the cardinal points.
"I don't know your courts, your judges, or your CORREGIDORES. Take theLLANO!--and take this with it. May the drought seize your cattle tilltheir tongues hang down as long as those of your lying lawyers! May itbe the curse and torment of your old age, as you and yours have made itof mine!"
We stepped between the principal actors in this scene, which only thepassion of Altascar made tragical, but Tryan, with a humility but illconcealing his triumph, interrupted:
"Let him curse on. He'll find 'em coming home to him sooner than thecattle he has lost through his sloth and pride. The Lord is on the sideof the just, as well as agin all slanderers and revilers."
Altascar but half guessed the meaning of the Missourian, yetsufficiently to drive from his mind all but the extravagant power of hisnative invective.
"Stealer of the Sacrament! Open not!--open not, I say, your lying, Judaslips to me! Ah! half-breed, with the soul of a coyote!--car-r-r-ramba!"
With his passion reverberating among the consonants like distantthunder, he laid his hand upon the mane of his horse as though it hadbeen the gray locks of his adversary, swung himself into the saddle andgalloped away.
George turned to me:
"Will you go back with us tonight?"
I thought of the cheerless walls, the silent figures by the fire, andthe roaring wind, and hesitated.
"Well then, goodby."
"Goodby, George."
Another wring of the hands, and we parted. I had not ridden far when Iturned and looked back. The wind had risen early that afternoon, and wasalready sweeping across the plain. A cloud of dust traveled before it,and a picturesque figure occasionally emerging therefrom was my lastindistinct impression of George Tryan.
PART II--IN THE FLOOD
Three months after the survey of the Espiritu Santo Rancho, I was againin the valley of the Sacramento. But a general and terrible visitationhad erased the memory of that event as completely as I supposed it hadobliterated the boundary monuments I had planted. The great flood of1861-62 was at its height when, obeying some indefinite yearning, I tookmy carpetbag and embarked for the inundated valley.
There was nothing to be seen from the bright cabin windows of theGOLDEN CITY but night deepening over the water. The only sound was thepattering rain, and that had grown monotonous for the past two weeks,and did not disturb the national gravity of my countrymen as theysilently sat around the cabin stove. Some on errands of relief tofriends and relatives wore anxious faces, and conversed soberly onthe one absorbing topic. Others, like myself, attracted by curiositylistened eagerly to newer details. But with that human disposition toseize upon any circumstance that might give chance event the
exaggeratedimportance of instinct, I was half-conscious of something more thancuriosity as an impelling motive.
The dripping of rain, the low gurgle of water, and a leaden sky greetedus the next morning as we lay beside the half-submerged levee ofSacramento. Here, however, the novelty of boats to convey us to thehotels was an appeal that was irresistible. I resigned myself to adripping rubber-cased mariner called "Joe," and, wrapping myself in ashining cloak of the like material, about as suggestive of warmth ascourt plaster might have been, took my seat in the stern sheets of hisboat. It was no slight inward struggle to part from the steamer that tomost of the passengers was the only visible connecting link betweenus and the dry and habitable earth, but we pulled away and entered thecity, stemming a rapid current as we shot the levee.
We glided up the long level of K Street--once a cheerful, busythoroughfare, now distressing in its silent desolation. The turbid waterwhich seemed to meet the horizon edge before us flowed at right anglesin sluggish rivers through the streets. Nature had revenged herself onthe local taste by disarraying the regular rectangles by huddling houseson street corners, where they presented abrupt gables to the current, orby capsizing them in compact ruin. Crafts of all kinds were gliding inand out of low-arched doorways. The water was over the top of thefences surrounding well-kept gardens, in the first stories of hotelsand private dwellings, trailing its slime on velvet carpets as well asroughly boarded floors. And a silence quite as suggestive as thevisible desolation was in the voiceless streets that no longer echoedto carriage wheel or footfall. The low ripple of water, the occasionalsplash of oars, or the warning cry of boatmen were the few signs of lifeand habitation.
With such scenes before my eyes and such sounds in my ears, as I lielazily in the boat, is mingled the song of my gondolier who sings tothe music of his oars. It is not quite as romantic as his brother ofthe Lido might improvise, but my Yankee "Giuseppe" has the advantage ofearnestness and energy, and gives a graphic description of the terrorsof the past week and of noble deeds of self-sacrifice and devotion,occasionally pointing out a balcony from which some California Biancaor Laura had been snatched, half-clothed and famished. Giuseppe isotherwise peculiar, and refuses the proffered fare, for--am I not acitizen of San Francisco, which was first to respond to the sufferingcry of Sacramento? and is not he, Giuseppe, a member of the HowardSociety? No! Giuseppe is poor, but cannot take my money. Still, if Imust spend it, there is the Howard Society, and the women and childrenwithout food and clothes at the Agricultural Hall.
I thank the generous gondolier, and we go to the Hall--a dismal, bleakplace, ghastly with the memories of last year's opulence and plenty,and here Giuseppe's fare is swelled by the stranger's mite. But hereGiuseppe tells me of the "Relief Boat" which leaves for the floodeddistrict in the interior, and here, profiting by the lesson he hastaught me, I make the resolve to turn my curiosity to the account ofothers, and am accepted of those who go forth to succor and help theafflicted. Giuseppe takes charge of my carpetbag, and does not part fromme until I stand on the slippery deck of "Relief Boat No. 3."
An hour later I am in the pilothouse, looking down upon what was oncethe channel of a peaceful river. But its banks are only defined bytossing tufts of willow washed by the long swell that breaks over avast inland sea. Stretches of "tule" land fertilized by its once regularchannel and dotted by flourishing ranchos are now cleanly erased. Thecultivated profile of the old landscape had faded. Dotted lines insymmetrical perspective mark orchards that are buried and chilled in theturbid flood. The roofs of a few farmhouses are visible, and here andthere the smoke curling from chimneys of half-submerged tenements showsan undaunted life within. Cattle and sheep are gathered on Indian moundswaiting the fate of their companions whose carcasses drift by us, orswing in eddies with the wrecks of barns and outhouses. Wagons arestranded everywhere where the tide could carry them. As I wipe themoistened glass, I see nothing but water, pattering on the deck from thelowering clouds, dashing against the window, dripping from the willows,hissing by the wheels, everywhere washing, coiling, sapping, hurrying inrapids, or swelling at last into deeper and vaster lakes, awful in theirsuggestive quiet and concealment.
As day fades into night the monotony of this strange prospect growsoppressive. I seek the engine room, and in the company of some of thefew half-drowned sufferers we have already picked up from temporaryrafts, I forget the general aspect of desolation in their individualmisery. Later we meet the San Francisco packet, and transfer a numberof our passengers. From them we learn how inward-bound vessels reportto have struck the well-defined channel of the Sacramento, fifty milesbeyond the bar. There is a voluntary contribution taken among thegenerous travelers for the use of our afflicted, and we part companywith a hearty "Godspeed" on either side. But our signal lights are notfar distant before a familiar sound comes back to us--an indomitableYankee cheer--which scatters the gloom.
Our course is altered, and we are steaming over the obliterated banksfar in the interior. Once or twice black objects loom up near us--thewrecks of houses floating by. There is a slight rift in the sky towardthe north, and a few bearing stars to guide us over the waste. As wepenetrate into shallower water, it is deemed advisable to divide ourparty into smaller boats, and diverge over the submerged prairie. Iborrow a peacoat of one of the crew, and in that practical disguiseam doubtfully permitted to pass into one of the boats. We give waynortherly. It is quite dark yet, although the rift of cloud has widened.
It must have been about three o'clock, and we were lying upon our oarsin an eddy formed by a clump of cottonwood, and the light of the steameris a solitary, bright star in the distance, when the silence is brokenby the "bow oar":
"Light ahead."
All eyes are turned in that direction. In a few seconds a twinklinglight appears, shines steadily, and again disappears as if by theshifting position of some black object apparently drifting close uponus.
"Stern, all; a steamer!"
"Hold hard there! Steamer be damned!" is the reply of the coxswain."It's a house, and a big one too."
It is a big one, looming in the starlight like a huge fragment of thedarkness. The light comes from a single candle, which shines through awindow as the great shape swings by. Some recollection is drifting backto me with it as I listen with beating heart.
"There's someone in it, by heavens! Give way, boys--lay her alongside.Handsomely, now! The door's fastened; try the window; no! here'sanother!"
In another moment we are trampling in the water which washes the floorto the depth of several inches. It is a large room, at the farther endof which an old man is sitting wrapped in a blanket, holding a candle inone hand, and apparently absorbed in the book he holds with the other. Ispring toward him with an exclamation:
"Joseph Tryan!"
He does not move. We gather closer to him, and I lay my hand gently onhis shoulder, and say:
"Look up, old man, look up! Your wife and children, where are they? Theboys--George! Are they here? are they safe?"
He raises his head slowly, and turns his eyes to mine, and weinvoluntarily recoil before his look. It is a calm and quiet glance,free from fear, anger, or pain; but it somehow sends the blood curdlingthrough our veins. He bowed his head over his book again, taking nofurther notice of us. The men look at me compassionately, and hold theirpeace. I make one more effort:
"Joseph Tryan, don't you know me? the surveyor who surveyed yourranch--the Espiritu Santo? Look up, old man!"
He shuddered and wrapped himself closer in his blanket. Presently herepeated to himself "The surveyor who surveyed your ranch--EspirituSanto" over and over again, as though it were a lesson he was trying tofix in his memory.
I was turning sadly to the boatmen when he suddenly caught me fearfullyby the hand and said:
"Hush!"
We were silent.
"Listen!" He puts his arm around my neck and whispers in my ear, "I'm aMOVING OFF!"
"Moving off?"
"Hush! Don't speak so loud. Moving off. Ah!
wot's that? Don't youhear?--there! listen!"
We listen, and hear the water gurgle and click beneath the floor.
"It's them wot he sent!--Old Altascar sent. They've been here all night.I heard 'em first in the creek, when they came to tell the old man tomove farther off. They came nearer and nearer. They whispered under thedoor, and I saw their eyes on the step--their cruel, hard eyes. Ah, whydon't they quit?"
I tell the men to search the room and see if they can find any furthertraces of the family, while Tryan resumes his old attitude. It is somuch like the figure I remember on the breezy night that a superstitiousfeeling is fast overcoming me. When they have returned, I tell thembriefly what I know of him, and the old man murmurs again:
"Why don't they quit, then? They have the stock--all gone--gone, gonefor the hides and hoofs," and he groans bitterly.
"There are other boats below us. The shanty cannot have drifted far, andperhaps the family are safe by this time," says the coxswain, hopefully.
We lift the old man up, for he is quite helpless, and carry him tothe boat. He is still grasping the Bible in his right hand, though itsstrengthening grace is blank to his vacant eye, and he cowers in thestern as we pull slowly to the steamer while a pale gleam in the skyshows the coming day.
I was weary with excitement, and when we reached the steamer, and I hadseen Joseph Tryan comfortably bestowed, I wrapped myself in a blanketnear the boiler and presently fell asleep. But even then the figure ofthe old man often started before me, and a sense of uneasiness aboutGeorge made a strong undercurrent to my drifting dreams. I was awakenedat about eight o'clock in the morning by the engineer, who told me oneof the old man's sons had been picked up and was now on board.
"Is it George Tryan?" I ask quickly.
"Don't know; but he's a sweet one, whoever he is," adds the engineer,with a smile at some luscious remembrance. "You'll find him for'ard."
I hurry to the bow of the boat, and find, not George, but theirrepressible Wise, sitting on a coil of rope, a little dirtier andrather more dilapidated than I can remember having seen him.
He is examining, with apparent admiration, some rough, dry clothesthat have been put out for his disposal. I cannot help thinking thatcircumstances have somewhat exalted his usual cheerfulness. He puts meat my ease by at once addressing me:
"These are high old times, ain't they? I say, what do you reckon'sbecome o' them thar bound'ry moniments you stuck? Ah!"
The pause which succeeds this outburst is the effect of a spasm ofadmiration at a pair of high boots, which, by great exertion, he has atlast pulled on his feet.
"So you've picked up the ole man in the shanty, clean crazy? He musthave been soft to have stuck there instead o' leavin' with the oldwoman. Didn't know me from Adam; took me for George!"
At this affecting instance of paternal forgetfulness, Wise wasevidently divided between amusement and chagrin. I took advantage of thecontending emotions to ask about George.
"Don't know whar he is! If he'd tended stock instead of running aboutthe prairie, packin' off wimmin and children, he might have savedsuthin. He lost every hoof and hide, I'll bet a cooky! Say you," to apassing boatman, "when are you goin' to give us some grub? I'm hungry'nough to skin and eat a hoss. Reckon I'll turn butcher when things isdried up, and save hides, horns, and taller."
I could not but admire this indomitable energy, which under softerclimatic influences might have borne such goodly fruit.
"Have you any idea what you'll do, Wise?" I ask.
"Thar ain't much to do now," says the practical young man. "I'll have tolay over a spell, I reckon, till things comes straight. The land ain'tworth much now, and won't be, I dessay, for some time. Wonder whar theole man'll drive stakes next."
"I meant as to your father and George, Wise."
"Oh, the old man and I'll go on to 'Miles's,' whar Tom packed the oldwoman and babies last week. George'll turn up somewhar atween this andAltascar's ef he ain't thar now."
I ask how the Altascars have suffered.
"Well, I reckon he ain't lost much in stock. I shouldn't wonder ifGeorge helped him drive 'em up the foothills. And his casa's builttoo high. Oh, thar ain't any water thar, you bet. Ah," says Wise, withreflective admiration, "those greasers ain't the darned fools peoplethinks 'em. I'll bet thar ain't one swamped out in all 'er Californy."But the appearance of "grub" cut this rhapsody short.
"I shall keep on a little farther," I say, "and try to find George."
Wise stared a moment at this eccentricity until a new light dawned uponhim.
"I don't think you'll save much. What's the percentage--workin' onshares, eh!"
I answer that I am only curious, which I feel lessens his opinion of me,and with a sadder feeling than his assurance of George's safety mightwarrant, I walked away.
From others whom we picked up from time to time we heard of George'sself-sacrificing devotion, with the praises of the many he had helpedand rescued. But I did not feel disposed to return until I had seenhim, and soon prepared myself to take a boat to the lower VALDA of thefoothills, and visit Altascar. I soon perfected my arrangements, badefarewell to Wise, and took a last look at the old man, who was sittingby the furnace fires quite passive and composed. Then our boat headswung round, pulled by sturdy and willing hands.
It was again raining, and a disagreeable wind had risen. Our course laynearly west, and we soon knew by the strong current that we were in thecreek of the Espiritu Santo. From time to time the wrecks of barnswere seen, and we passed many half-submerged willows hung with farmingimplements.
We emerge at last into a broad silent sea. It is the "LLANO DE ESPIRITUSANTO." As the wind whistles by me, piling the shallower fresh waterinto mimic waves, I go back, in fancy, to the long ride of Octoberover that boundless plain, and recall the sharp outlines of the distanthills, which are now lost in the lowering clouds. The men are rowingsilently, and I find my mind, released from its tension, growingbenumbed and depressed as then. The water, too, is getting more shallowas we leave the banks of the creek, and with my hand dipped listlesslyover the thwarts, I detect the tops of chimisal, which shows the tideto have somewhat fallen. There is a black mound, bearing to the north ofthe line of alder, making an adverse current, which, as we sweep to theright to avoid, I recognize. We pull close alongside and I call to themen to stop.
There was a stake driven near its summit with the initials, "L. E. S.I." Tied halfway down was a curiously worked riata. It was George's. Ithad been cut with some sharp instrument, and the loose gravelly soil ofthe mound was deeply dented with horses' hoofs. The stake was coveredwith horsehairs. It was a record, but no clue.
The wind had grown more violent as we still fought our way forward,resting and rowing by turns, and oftener "poling" the shallower surface,but the old VALDA, or bench, is still distant. My recollection of theold survey enables me to guess the relative position of the meanderingsof the creek, and an occasional simple professional experiment todetermine the distance gives my crew the fullest faith in my ability.Night overtakes us in our impeded progress. Our condition looks moredangerous than it really is, but I urge the men, many of whom are stillnew in this mode of navigation, to greater exertion by assurance ofperfect safety and speedy relief ahead. We go on in this way until abouteight o'clock, and ground by the willows. We have a muddy walk for a fewhundred yards before we strike a dry trail, and simultaneously the whitewalls of Altascar's appear like a snowbank before us. Lights are movingin the courtyard; but otherwise the old tomblike repose characterizesthe building.
One of the peons recognized me as I entered the court, and Altascar metme on the corridor.
I was too weak to do more than beg his hospitality for the men who haddragged wearily with me. He looked at my hand, which still unconsciouslyheld the broken riata. I began, wearily, to tell him about George andmy fears, but with a gentler courtesy than was even his wont, he gravelylaid his hand on my shoulder.
"POCO A POCO, senor--not now. You are tired, you have hunger, you have
cold. Necessary it is you should have peace."
He took us into a small room and poured out some French cognac, which hegave to the men that had accompanied me. They drank and threw themselvesbefore the fire in the larger room. The repose of the building wasintensified that night, and I even fancied that the footsteps on thecorridor were lighter and softer. The old Spaniard's habitual gravitywas deeper; we might have been shut out from the world as well asthe whistling storm, behind those ancient walls with their time-worninheritor.
Before I could repeat my inquiry he retired. In a few minutes twosmoking dishes of CHUPA with coffee were placed before us, and my menate ravenously. I drank the coffee, but my excitement and weariness keptdown the instincts of hunger.
I was sitting sadly by the fire when he reentered.
"You have eat?"
I said, "Yes," to please him.
"BUENO, eat when you can--food and appetite are not always."
He said this with that Sancho-like simplicity with which most of hiscountrymen utter a proverb, as though it were an experience rather thana legend, and, taking the riata from the floor, held it almost tenderlybefore him.
"It was made by me, senor."
"I kept it as a clue to him, Don Altascar," I said. "If I could findhim--"
"He is here."
"Here! and"--but I could not say "well!" I understood the gravity ofthe old man's face, the hushed footfalls, the tomblike repose of thebuilding, in an electric flash of consciousness; I held the clue to thebroken riata at last. Altascar took my hand, and we crossed the corridorto a somber apartment. A few tall candles were burning in sconces beforethe window.
In an alcove there was a deep bed with its counterpane, pillows, andsheets heavily edged with lace, in all that splendid luxury which thehumblest of these strange people lavish upon this single item of theirhousehold. I stepped beside it and saw George lying, as I had seen himonce before, peacefully at rest. But a greater sacrifice than that hehad known was here, and his generous heart was stilled forever.
"He was honest and brave," said the old man, and turned away. Therewas another figure in the room; a heavy shawl drawn over her gracefuloutline, and her long black hair hiding the hands that buried herdowncast face. I did not seem to notice her, and, retiring presently,left the loving and loved together.
When we were again beside the crackling fire, in the shifting shadowsof the great chamber, Altascar told me how he had that morning met thehorse of George Tryan swimming on the prairie; how that, farther on, hefound him lying, quite cold and dead, with no marks or bruises on hisperson; that he had probably become exhausted in fording the creek, andthat he had as probably reached the mound only to die for want of thathelp he had so freely given to others; that, as a last act, he had freedhis horse. These incidents were corroborated by many who collectedin the great chamber that evening--women and children--most of themsuccored through the devoted energies of him who lay cold and lifelessabove.
He was buried in the Indian mound--the single spot of strange perennialgreenness which the poor aborigines had raised above the dusty plain. Alittle slab of sandstone with the initials "G. T." is his monument,and one of the bearings of the initial corner of the new survey of the"Espiritu Santo Rancho."