“I bet it’s not as bad as we imagine,” I heard my own voice say, as though I knew anything about it.
“I bet you’re right,” several voices agreed. Folks chewing tobacco often appear ruminative and wise. You chew, shift your quid, lean forward and spit, and feel like a philosopher. We had ourselves convinced we were in no danger at all.
The truth was, we were terrified to think that this disease might catch up with us. No man dared to whisper the three-syllable curse.
Cholera.
There was no known defense against it, and no cure. Whole villages succumbed to it, all around the world, and ships arrived in port, their crews devastated.
I said a special prayer for the shot man, and for the others, too.
Including Ben and me.
CHAPTER 7
Flocks of raucous parrots broke from the trees overhead as we made our way along the trail. Dr. Merrill rode beside his patient, putting out a steadying arm when Aaron Sweetland tried to sit up in the back of the wagon.
Isom Gill walked alongside, offering encouragement. “We’re all coming back rich, Aaron,” he said.
It was proper for Isom Gill to show concern for Aaron, and the company was more forgiving now. Men began to share anecdotes from back home, accidents with firearms and farming equipment that had proven less than fatal.
The medication gave Aaron the spirit to sing in a weak voice, a pretty hymn about walking with Jesus.
The jungle began to grow sparse, and we began to pass the simple cane-hut buildings of farmers and the broad thick fields of sugarcane. Children playing in sandy streams watched us as we passed, their mothers and older sisters protected from the sun by white shawls.
The adults, loading bunches of bananas into oxcarts, driving scrawny mules, did little to acknowledge our passage, but I waved to a little boy as naked as a toothpick, and he pointed at us and uttered something in Spanish. A pretty dark-eyed woman, in a sweeping, blue-fringed mantle, came forward to take the little boy’s hand, no doubt thinking we were marauders, and a sure threat to the countryside.
I shifted the tobacco in my mouth and tipped my hat, and the woman lowered her eyes and gave the gentlest of smiles. One glance back at Ben, to see if he had observed this civility, made me realize once again how rough we all looked. My friend, who could name the great scientists of history, from Aristotle to Newton, looked like the lowest sort of character, his features shadowed by his broad hat, his youthful chin in need of a razor.
But he stopped to speak to the woman in the blue mantle, tipping his hat and wishing her a good day.
She studied him with a sidelong glance, in no hurry to respond at once, but in no hurry to depart, either.
Ben added, “We’re cabelleros, bound for California.”
The young woman broke into a smile at this, and said something in return, a half-mocking, half-welcoming statement in Spanish.
Not to be outdone, Ben tried out a little more Spanish of his own, something he must have worked up from the phrase book I had seen him studying on board the ship.
He uttered an entire sentence in the language, and she was talking right back.
The mules and jungle-weary travelers plodded past us on the trail. “Are you coming along, Ben,” I said with a degree of exasperation, “or are you going to talk this woman to death?”
We had walked on a good distance before Ben remarked, “Willie, I believe that young senorita took a sort of passing liking to me.”
“If there wasn’t a real woman around,” I said, “you’d talk to a statue, or a picture on a wall.”
“Is it possible,” queried Ben with his usual good humor, “that you envy me my charms?”
I would not have used such lofty phrasing. It was true, however, that I was more than a little jealous of my friend’s way with womenfolk.
“Not at all,” I lied.
“Not even a little?” Ben asked.
I am agreeable enough to look at, I have been told, with russet hair and eyes the color of well water. But when I gaze into a mirror I see someone staring right back, unsure of his own worth. A powerful shyness makes me feel speechless around some ladies. Elizabeth was the only young woman I’d ever known who took the trouble to confide in me. I could close my eyes and see her face.
Aaron Sweetland sat up as we came within the outlying district of Panama City. The early-afternoon sun glowed on red-tiled roofs, and vines climbed tall, crumbling walls. Cows lowed, goats skittered, and scrawny mules traversed narrow cobbled streets.
“By God, fellows,” said Aaron Sweetland, his voice weak but joyful, “I believe we’re near Panama City!”
CHAPTER 8
The town’s jungle approach was defended by an ancient wall. A rusting cannon gaped out over the jungle vista, shrouded by bright green vines.
Dwelling shacks and booths selling food sprawled toward the outlying fields, well beyond the decaying fortifications. Parrots on perches called out greetings in Spanish as we approached, and shopkeepers held up tall displays festooned with samples of their wares, everything from soap to shoes. Church bells echoed all around.
A sweet smell thickened the air, tobacco leaf and molasses, with an undercurrent of manure. The scent of burning sugarcane drifted across the plazas. Bins displayed gleaming mounds of citrus fruits, lemons and small, perfectly round oranges. Iron-studded doors and rust-grilled windows protected some of the stately buildings from our curious eyes. Stalls were decorated with fluttering, bright ribbons, sausages and bright bottles of colored liquors. Nearly every citizen we beheld was smoking tobacco, the lace-shawled ladies holding small, dark cigars, the men drawing on cheroots.
Colonel Legrand announced that our trunks and equipment would be taken to the Uncle Sam Hotel.
I was sorry to take leave of the old soldier, and I said so.
“You’ll forget all about me and this pitiful jungle,” he said with a laugh. “You’re off to see the elephant.”
That was the way people referred to the California adventure. Newspapers would recount that a newly formed company was “Off to See the Elephant,” and the few just returned from San Francisco would hang “I’ve Seen the Elephant!” from a window. Whether you found riches or not, no one wanted to miss out on the world-shaking experience of the rush for the precious metal.
The Tioga Company paused at the three-story building with black balconies that, judging by the flag hanging unmoving in the hot humid noon, served as the American consulate. Coins were counted out, and Dr. Merrill pocketed them, thanking Aaron Sweetland’s companions, and then Aaron began to complain as his associates tried to help him up the steps to the consulate.
“You’re not going to ship me home!” he cried.
No one could respond to that, as if the entire company had been discovered committing a crime of deception.
Then friendly voices reasoned with him, one man saying that there was no shame in arranging passage back to New York because of two grievous wounds, either one of which would have slain a buffalo.
“Dr. Merrill,” cried Aaron Sweetland, “tell them I’m fit to sail for California.”
Our medical friend put a thoughtful finger to his lips, and, for the moment, made no further remark.
Mr. Sweetland bellowed, with surprising strength for a stricken man, “Mr. Gill, I want you to help me.”
“Of course I will,” said Mr. Gill, stepping forward, hat in hand. “If the company will allow me, I’ll do everything in my power to see you all the way to the goldfields.”
I had never heard a statement put so well.
“That won’t be necessary,” said one of the Tioga Company, but not unkindly.
“There is, I think most of you will agree,” said Dr. Merrill, “a certain justice to Mr. Gill’s offer.”
The Tioga Company ultimately accepted the doctor’s view. Doctors, like clergymen, were an upright authority.
Dr. Merrill reminded the two of us that we could by no means be certain that the ship would be waiting
for us, so we scurried through the streets, along with many of our companions, anxiously hoping our plans would remain intact.
The afternoon was hot, but a sea breeze stirred the leaves of the palm trees shading the fountains. Everywhere the eye fell some parasitic vine was overgrowing a wall or monument. Even the tallest Moorish tower was succumbing to the insidious claws of creeping, flowering plants. The town had been stirring on our arrival, but the sultry plazas were nearly empty now. The only men on the street now were Americans, spitting and smoking, hurrying through the bright afternoon sun.
The harbor was grander than I had expected, with long stone breakwaters and sailing ships, most of them three-masted barks, rigging hanging empty and slack in the heavy sun. I wished Elizabeth had been there to see the deep, beautiful blue of the water. A sign at the dock announced the fact that the Pacific Mail steamship California would depart at nine o’clock the following morning.
We were hungry, and thirsty, too, but we had to be certain. To our relief, the steamship herself was actually moored at the wharf.
A ship of greater character would be hard to imagine. She had three masts, with tightly furled sails, but her power was expected to be supplied by the steam-driven wheel along her side. The first steamship to enter San Francisco Bay, the California had begun plying the western waters only eight months earlier, but there were continual problems that delayed travelers. Her crew had deserted for three months during early summer, everyone but the cook and the captain heading off to join the stampede for fortune.
There were many other ships that ferried gold seekers, but this one was the most famous. Crates of provisions, wooden boxes stained with seepage, were being hoisted into her interior. We all walked reverently up and down the wharf in the ship’s shadow, and Ben said she was the finest ship he had ever seen.
A seaman suspended in a sling touched black paint on scars along the ship’s railing, the result, Dr. Merrill suggested, of a minor collision with another vessel. The ship’s man looked at us and paused, his paintbrush in his hand. I waved, and the mariner gave a salute with his brush.
I approached a ticket agent leaning on the counter of a whitewashed wooden booth. He was smoking a short black clay pipe, and reading a worn, leather-bound Bible. A nameplate at his elbow gave his name, T. T. Rowe. I asked if there was any record of my good friend Ezra Nevin passing through this port.
“Son, how on earth would I tell this individual,” inquired Mr. Rowe, slowly raising his eyes from the scriptures, “from every other eager traveler?”
CHAPTER 9
He shook his head after I had described Ezra, down to his silver belt buckle.
He gave me a sympathetic smile, keeping a forefinger on the page he was reading—Proverbs 10—and speaking around the stem of his pipe, he said, “You’ll catch up with your friend, son—don’t worry.”
“I wonder if I will,” I said doubtfully.
“We ship great bags of mail to San Francisco,” said the ticket agent. “Bags filled to bursting with letters from home, addressed to ‘Johnny So-and-So, along the Sacramento or the Yuba Rivers,’ or ‘Jacob Howdy, Somewhere in the Goldfields.’” He concluded rhetorically, “And do you know what happens to these precious letters?”
“Tell us,” I must have said. Or perhaps my manner spoke for me.
“It might take weeks, but most of the letters find their due recipient.” He leaned forward, and each word was emphasized by a feather of smoke from the bowl of his pipe. “You could die up there in the Sierra,” he said, like a man delivering good news. “But you most assuredly won’t get lost.”
“If you would let us take a look at your list of passengers,” Ben suggested, “we’d be grateful.”
I offered Mr. Rowe the remains of a twist of chewing tobacco, a parting gift from Colonel Legrand. He accepted it, took the pipe from his mouth, and stuffed the entire wad into his mouth. He took his time placing the chew squarely in his cheek. Then he took a large book, wide and scored with faint blue lines, and set it on the counter before him.
They were all there, written in a fine clerk’s hand, rows of names penned in brown ink. It did not take him long to put a finger on E. Nevin. “Ah, that spirited young fellow,” said Mr. Rowe.” He gave me a dollar for arranging help with his trunk.”
He thought for a while, working the tobacco quid around in his cheek. He spat into the brass urn at his feet, a wide-mouthed spittoon soiled with expectoration and cigar ash. “Unless I’m mistaken, I do believe some other man was asking after this very gentleman,” he said. “Not long afterward. A big man, with a couple of hard-looking companions.”
Ben tugged at my arm, with an apologetic pat of his stomach.
I knew how he felt—I had never felt so famished in my life. And I gave no further thought to the ticket agent’s news, I was so distracted by my hunger.
A handsome building across the square, shaded by trees, its confines protected by tall, moss-darkened walls, was surmounted by a tall limestone statue I took to be an image of Jesus’ mother. Nuns came and went from the iron-worked front door of this convent, and I felt the beautiful strangeness of the place, with the scent of flowers, spices, and verdure in the air, settle in on me.
The doctor stopped by a nearby hotel that served as a hospital, a graceful building with a cloak of flowering vines along one wall. While Dr. Merrill checked on the disposition of his two fever-wracked patients, Ben and I sat beside a fountain that played water gently over its mossy interior.
The town sported a number of large black birds, elegant in flight, and as we admired the sight of them, a whiskery man in stained canvas trousers made his way unsteadily toward us.
“You’re too late!” he said.
I could smell the rum at three paces.
“If you’re not there in California already,” he continued, “you might as well turn around and slog your way home.”
“Are they running out of gold?” asked Ben.
And I felt an inner current of anxiety, too. All the gleaming treasure would be gone.
“No,” said the stranger, his red beard tangled, his shirtfront missing buttons. “They brought out nuggets as big as your fist, and men are still getting rich.”
I was surprised at how relieved I felt at this news.
The first trace of the valuable California lode had been found in January 1848. In December of that year, the newspapers had trumpeted President Polk’s announcement that the gold was real, that it was plentiful, and that, in effect, it was there for the taking. American money was nearly always in the form of gold or silver coin. Banknotes, issued by local institutions, were less popular, and few businesspeople liked accepting notes from a distant city. There was no national paper money, and this meant that the precious metal being shoveled from the Sierra foothills was pure, instantaneous wealth.
“But the only people really raking in the riches,” continued the drunken American, “are the men selling spirits, and the whores.”
Dr. Merrill came toward us across the plaza, walking in his quick, distinctive way, his medical bag in his hand.
“And doctors!” said the unsteady American. “Doctors and gamblers will fill their pockets with the stuff.”
The stranger looked away with a sigh. Then he turned back, fixing first Ben and then me with his bloodshot eye, including the doctor with a final, particularly urgent glance. Dr. Merrill seemed to grow even leaner and more quiet under this examination. “Surely I’ve done you no offense,” said Dr. Merrill quietly.
The ragged stranger gave an unsteady bow. “I am known to my friends and colleagues as Jacob Rushworth, of Lynn, Massachusetts. Not six months ago I ate off bone china and drank India tea. Euclid and plane geometry were my playing field. I was a schoolmaster.”
Indeed, I was embarrassed at the first estimate I had taken of this poor soul. Now I could discern in this ragged, sweat-bleached figure the outlines of former dignity.
“And you’ll be master of a school again,” I suggested.
Our new friend gave a weary laugh at our attempts at consolation. He leaned close, like a man telling a secret. “I have ten dollars’ worth of gold dust in my pocket,” he confided. “And the people back home expect me to come back rich.”
In an age when any laboring man could make a dollar a day, this was a disappointing amount.
Jacob Rushworth lowered his voice, and sobriety began to creep across him, his face assuming the contemplative look of a man drunk only on regret. “But to make matters worse, in Sacramento City,” he said, “they have more than gold fever—they suffer from a plague.”
Dr. Merrill had set down his medical bag. Now he folded his arms.
“I saw a room full of dead men,” said Jacob Rushworth, growing more sure that he had our full attention, “stretched out in rows. Rendered lifeless—by disease.”
“It’s easy for rumors to have a life of their own,” said Dr. Merrill dismissively, but unable to fully disguise the concern in his voice.
“I saw it strike doctors, too,” said the schoolmaster. “One day they’d be stepping along as lively as you. The next morning, they’d be stretched out stiff on the floor, thieves stealing the nuggets from their pockets.”
Not bothering to hide his impatience, Dr. Merrill probed for a moment in his pocket, and pressed a gold eagle dollar into the former teacher’s hand.
“Every one of you,” croaked the schoolmaster as we left him behind, “will look death in the eye.”
CHAPTER 10
The shop’s proprietor was a tall, brown-skinned man in a broad leather belt and tight-fitting yellow pants, a dashing figure. He gave a nod to Ben and me, and a bow to Dr. Merrill, who, in his expensive silk waistcoat, managed to look every inch the gentleman.
The proprietor’s English was heavily accented. It was like hearing one’s familiar language through a rippling atmosphere, the sounds both distorted and beautified. He suggested a drink he called chichi, the fresh juice of the sugarcane, followed by a dish of the fish he had personally purchased from the fishing fleet. He enumerated the varieties of sea fish on his fingers. “We have mackerel, gentlemen, and we have both bonitos and shrimp.”
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