Gold Seekers of '49. Edwin L. Sabin
sack, too," said Charley, exhibiting it.
"You've been out there?"
"No, sir. I got this in St. Louis."
"Let's see." And the man fingered it. "It's old-timer—been used plenty. Some dust sticking to it, too. Huh."
"Is there lots of gold out there?" asked Charley.
"Gold?" repeated the man; and laughed. "I found fifteen hundred dollars in two days, first thing; then I didn't find any for a month. But I cleaned up $10,000, and I'm going back after more. It's all luck, now; but after the surface has been scraped off, then it will be skill. Does your father know anything about mining?"
"No, sir. He's a soldier. He was with General Scott."
"That won't cut much figure," said the man, quickly. "Soldiers and sailors and lawyers and doctors and farmers and trappers and even Indians are all grubbing together—and none of us knows a blamed thing except that gold is soft and yellow and will pass for currency—sixteen dollars an ounce. But good luck to you. Going across the Isthmus, I reckon?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's the easier way. Well, if I see you out there and can help you along any way, you can count on me. But it's a country where every tub stands on its own bottom, and no man's any better than any other man."
So saying, he threw his rifle into the hollow of his arm and paced away, into the cabin. Charley gazed after him, and reflected that although they might have an enemy with them, they also had made a friend.
"If he was with Carson and Frémont, he's all right," declared Mr. Adams, when Charley related the conversation. "But we'll be beholden to nobody, as long as we can help ourselves. We two bunkies can paddle our own canoe, can't we?"
The Robert Burns continued on, down to New Orleans. The long-nosed man kept to the cabin, mainly, where a number of rough passengers spent their time drinking and gambling. The Frémont man was about the quietest of all the passengers, mingling little, talking little. He exchanged a few civil words with Mr. Adams, and kindly greeted Charley, when they were near one another. That was all.
Charley thought rather the more of him, that he was not the blustering, boasting kind, even though he had blazed the long trail across to California, with Frémont and Carson. He evidently was a man of deeds, not words.
New Orleans was reached in the afternoon—and a fine big city it looked to be, as the Robert Burns whistled hoarsely and swung for the levee. However, the Forty-niners aboard her had not much thought for the looks of the city; their minds were more upon whether the Georgia had arrived, and how soon they could get aboard her, for the Isthmus and California gold fields.
In the excitement of bustling ashore Charley forgot all about the long-nosed man, who disappeared with the other scattering passengers.
"Where's the dock of the Isthmus steamers?" queried Mr. Adams, of a lounger, as he and Charley landed, the roll of bedding on Mr. Adams's shoulder.
"Eet is still down the river, m'sieur," answered the man—who was a young French creole. "M'sieur would better ride than walk."
"All right. Thank you," and Mr. Adams hailed an odd carriage, drawn by one horse between a of long curved shafts. They piled in.
"To the Isthmus dock," ordered Mr. Adams.
"You want to catch the Georgia?" asked the driver,
"We do."
"She's about coming in. They're looking for her."
"Will I have time to get our tickets?"
"Plenty. She'll lie over till morning."
"All right. Go ahead."
From New Orleans to San Francisco, 1849.
The Charley Adams party started from St. Louis. The majority of the people took ship at New York, and their boats picked up more passengers at New Orleans
The driver flung out his lash, and away they whirled, down a rough street, along the river.
The dock bore a large sign, which said: "Steamers for the Isthmus and California." There was an enormous pile of baggage and a crowd of people, of all kinds, waiting. But the Georgia had not come in yet. Mr. Adams left Charley there to watch their baggage and was driven away in haste to get their tickets.
Suddenly a cry arose: "There she comes! That's she!" Down the broad river—never so broad as here—welled a cloud of black smoke, and a big steamer surged into view. What a big thing she was! She could carry two or three Robert Burnses. She was a side-wheeler, of course, but her paddle boxes stood as high as houses. Across her pilot house was a gilt sign reading "Georgia"—and on her paddle box, as she swung around, appeared another "Georgia," in large black letters.
Charley gazed in dismay, for every inch of her seemed occupied by passengers. The upper deck and middle deck and lower deck appeared full of figures, with heads craning to gaze.
"That's the boat," quoth a voice at Charley's elbow. He turned and found the Frémont man by his side, leaning on his long rifle. "Do you like her looks?"
"How are we to get on?" answered Charley. "Why, she's full already, isn't she?"
The Frémont man nodded, and smiled.
"I expect she is. She's built to carry 500 and they'll put 1500 on her. 'T isn't right—but it's the way they're doing, so as to make money. We'll be lucky to find sleeping space on deck, and get enough to eat. But everything goes, in the rush to California. If you think these Atlantic steamers are big boats, you ought to see the steamers on the other side."
"Are they better?"
"Considerably. The Pacific Mail Company runs them. They are better and better managed; but those boats'll be packed, too. All we can do is to make the best of it, after we've paid our money."
"Are you going on the Georgia?" hopefully asked Charley.
The Frémont man nodded.
"I'll go if I can find a six-foot space to lie down on—and I reckon I will."
The Georgia docked. A number of passengers hustled off, and then began the rush aboard. How the gold seekers shoved and scrambled and fought! The gangway was a mass of shoulders and hats and blanket rolls.
"Coming on?" invited the Frémont man, to Charley.
Charley hesitated. He was impatient, but he didn't know——
"I'm waiting for my father," he explained.
"We'd better find our places while we can, and have one ready for him," prompted the Frémont man.
He picked up the bed rolls, and hurried ahead, Charley at his heels. At the rail an official glanced at his ticket, and waved him to the upper deck. Charley followed. The ticket gave first-class cabin privileges, but what did these amount to, when 1500 passengers were being crowded upon a 500-passenger boat? Even standing room seemed to be valuable.
They pushed along through the mass of passengers and friends and relatives, who acted, some of them, too dazed and confused to move aside, and mounted the stairs leading to the upper decks. When they emerged into the open air, the Frémont man paused uncertainly, puffing, to survey the outlook.
"There's no chance for a berth, I suppose, is there?" he asked, of a clerk, passing.
The clerk scanned him impudently.
"No, sir. Every berth was taken before we left New York."
"Then