Mountains and Molehills

Or Recollections from a Burnt Journal

Frank Marryat

• Publisher: Skyhorse
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9781628737356
• eBook ISBN: 9781629140896
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: 19th Century History
• Index: History

After a tragic fire in San Francisco destroyed many of his possessions, including his journals, Frank Marryat rewrote, from memory, much of what he had documented during his time in California in the middle of the gold craze of 1850. This historical treasure, originally published in 1855, the year that the author died of complications from yellow fever, recreates for readers the frenzy that drew thousands of miners and prospectors to California in their rush to find gold. Empathetic readers will feel the fear of yellow fever as this harrowing Englishman crosses Panama to reach California. However, not only will readers be exposed to Marryat's own struggles to run a hotel and mine for gold, but they will also read about hardships emigrants had to overcome, the different types of mining in California, and the differences between miners from around the world, including French miners, Chinese miners, and English miners. Chapters include: The Old Crab-Catcher
Coyote Hunting
Joe Bellow
Field of Gold
Transport Machinery to the Mine
The Fireman of San Francisco
And much more!Skyhorse Publishing, along with our Arcade, Good Books, Sports Publishing, and Yucca imprints, is proud to publish a broad range of biographies, autobiographies, and memoirs. Our list includes biographies on well-known historical figures like Benjamin Franklin, Nelson Mandela, and Alexander Graham Bell, as well as villains from history, such as Heinrich Himmler, John Wayne Gacy, and O. J. Simpson. We have also published survivor stories of World War II, memoirs about overcoming adversity, first-hand tales of adventure, and much more. While not every title we publish becomes a New York Times bestseller or a national bestseller, we are committed to books on subjects that are sometimes overlooked and to authors whose work might not otherwise find a home.

MOUNTAINS AND MOLEHILLS;

OR,

RECOLLECTIONS OF A BURNT JOURNAL.

CHAPTER I.

CHAGRES RIVER—CURIOSITY—ISTHMUS OF PANAMA—WASHINGTON HOTEL—ANTS—A NATIVE OF VIRGINIA—GOLD TRAIN—ROBBERY—PANAMA BELLS—AN EMIGRANT SHIP—AN AFFECTING PREACHER—SAN FRANCISCO.

April, 1850.

AT eight, A.M., Chagres was reported in sight, and as we neared the land, it presented an appearance far from inviting.

The American steamer, “Cherokee,” ran into the anchorage with us, and immediately disgorged five hundred American citizens in red and blue shirts.

I landed with as much expedition as possible, and commenced at once to bargain for a canoe to take me up the river. This I at last effected at an exorbitant price, and on the express condition that we should not start until sunset. A few months back the native Indians of this place considered themselves amply repaid with a few dollars for a week’s work, but since the Californian emigration has lined their pockets with American eagles, they have assumed American independence: and now the civilised traveller, instead of kicking the naked aborigine into his canoe, or out of it as his humour prompts, has to bargain with a “padrone,” as he calls himself, dressed in a coloured muslin shirt and a Panama hat, with a large cigar in his still larger mouth; and has not only to pay him his price, but has to wait his leisure and convenience.

The town of Chagres deserves notice, inasmuch as it is the birthplace of a malignant fever, that became excessively popular among the Californian emigrants, many of whom have acknowledged the superiority of this malady by giving up the ghost, a very few hours after landing. Most towns are famous for some particular manufacture, and it is the fashion for visitors to carry away a specimen of the handicraft; so it is with Chagres. It is composed of about fifty huts, each of which raises its head from the midst of its own private malaria, occasioned by the heaps of filth and offal, which putrefying under the rays of a vertical sun, choke up the very doorway.

On the thresholds of the doors, in the huts themselves,—fish, bullock’s heads, hides, and carrion, are strewed all in a state of decomposition; whilst in the rear is the jungle, and a lake of stagnant water, with a delicate bordering of greasy blue mud. As I had with me my man Barnes and three large blood-hounds, I hired a boat of extra size capable of containing us all, together with the baggage, this being preferable to making a swifter passage with two smaller canoes and running the risk of separation. At about three we started, the “Cherokees” in boats containing from ten to a dozen each. All was noise and excitement,—cries for lost baggage, adieus, cheers, a parting strain on a cornet-a-piston, a round dozen at least of different tongues, each in its owner’s own peculiar fashion murdering Spanish, a few discharges from rifles and revolvers, rendered the scene ludicrous, and had the good effect of sending us on the first step of a toilsome journey in a good humour. So up the river we went, and as Chagres disappeared behind us, we rejoiced in a purer air. There is an absence of variety in the scenery of the Chagres river, as throughout its whole length the banks are lined to the water’s edge with vegetation. But the rich bright green at all times charms the beholder, and the eye does not become wearied with the thick masses of luxuriant foliage, for they are ever blended in grace and harmony, now towering in the air in bold relief against the sky, now drooping in graceful festoons from the bank, kissing their own reflections in the stream beneath.

Every growing thing clings to and embraces its neighbour most lovingly; here is a bunch of tangled parasites that bind a palm tree by a thousand bands to a majestic teak, and having shown their power, as it were, the parasites ascend the topmost branch of the teak, and devote the rest of their existence to embellishing with rich festoons of their bright red flowers, the pair they have thus united.

The teak, which is here a very bald tree, is much improved by the addition of these parasites, which give him quite a juvenile appearance, and form, in fact, a kind of wig, to hide the infirmities of age. Here is a dead and well bleached sycamore tree, half thrown across the river, but still holding to the bank by its sinewy roots; and at its extremity is an ants’ nest, about the size of a beehive, and along the trunk and branches green leaves are seen to move about at a prodigious rate, under which ants are discovered on inspection.

Immediately under the ants’ nest are some glorious water-lilies, and close to these, by way of contrast, floats an alligator who has been dead some time, and hasn’t kept well, and on the top of him sit two black cormorants, which having, evidently, over-eaten themselves, are shot on the spot and die lazily. So we ascend the river; ahead, astern, on every side are canoes; here, surmounting a pyramid of luggage, is a party of western men in red shirts and jack boots, questioning everybody with the curiosity peculiar to their race. Presently it is my turn.—

“Whar bound to, stranger?”

“California.”

“Come along! Whar d’ye head from?”

“England.”

“Come along! Whar did yer get them dogs?”

“No whar,” I had a mind to reply, but at this stage I relapsed into dogged silence, well knowing that there are some lanes which have no turning, and among these is a western man’s curiosity. The padrone of my canoe, who steered the boat, had brought his wife with him, and she sat with us in the stern sheets, laughing, chattering, and smoking a cigar.

I could find no heart to object to this increase of our live freight, and indeed so far benefitted by her presence as to be able to practise Spanish, and before we arrived at the anchorage I had relieved her of the false impressions she laboured under, that my dogs were “tigers,” and that some cherry brandy I produced was poison. At night, having reached a small village on the river, out jumped the lady, who scrambled up the bank followed by the boatmen, and I scrambled after them as fast as I could, to ascertain the meaning of this sudden desertion; but quick as I was, by the time I reached the huts that constituted the “pueblo,” I found my padrone already seated as banker at a well-lighted monte table, surrounded by an anxious crowd of boatmen, natives, and American passengers, his pretty wife looking over his shoulder watching the game.

The short time he took to change his profession was very characteristic of the gambling habits of these Central Americans.

I slept in the canoe, and at daylight the boatmen returned, having made a night of it. The monte banker had been lucky, he informed me, and had left his wife behind, to which I was ungallantly indifferent. Another day on the river, and another night spent at a hut, and on the third morning we arrived at Gorgona, from whence we had to take mules to Panama.

The bargaining for mules at Gorgona was in every respect similar to the canoe transaction at Chagres; and after passing a day in the sun, and accomplishing in the evening what might, but for the vacillation of the natives, have been done at once, we started for Panama in company with the baggage, Barnes walking from choice with the dogs. With our mules in a string we plunged at once into a narrow rocky path in the forest, where palm trees and creepers shut the light out overhead; —splashing through gurgling muddy streams, that concealed loose and treacherous stones—stumbling over fallen trees that lay across our road—burying ourselves to the mules’ girths in filthy swamps, where on either side dead and putrid mules were lying—amidst lightning, thunder, and incessant rain, we went at a foot pace on the road to Panama. The thunderstorm changed the twilight of our covered path to darkness, and one of my mules missing his footing on the red greasy clay, falls down under his heavy load. When he gets up he has to be unpacked amidst the curses of the muleteer, and packed again, and thus losing half an hour in the pelting storm, file after file passes us, until, ready once more to start, we find ourselves the last upon the road. At Gorgona a flaming advertisement had informed us that half way on the road to Panama the “Washington Hotel” would accommodate travellers with “forty beds.” Anxious to secure a resting-place for my own party, I left the luggage train under the charge of Barnes, and pressed forward on the bridle road.

At nightfall I reached the “Washington Hotel,” a log hut perched on the top of a partially cleared hill; an immense amount of fluttering calico proclaimed that meals could be procured, but a glance at the interior was sufficient to destroy all appetite. Round it, and stretching for yards, there were mules, drivers, and passengers, clustered and clamorous as bees without a hive. To my surprise the crowd consisted for the most part of homeward bound Californians—emigrants from the land of promise, who had two days before arrived at Panama in a steamer. Some were returning rich in gold dust and scales, but the greater part were far poorer than when first they started to realise their golden dreams.

And these latter were as drunken and as reckless a set of villains as one could see anywhere. Stamped with vice and intemperance, without baggage or money, they were fit for robbery and murder to any extent; many of them I doubt not were used to it, and had found it convenient to leave a country where Judge Lynch strings up such fellows rather quicker than they like sometimes. They foretold with a savage joy the miseries and disappointment that awaited all who landed there, forgetting that there travelled on the same road with them those who had in a very short space of time secured to themselves a competency by the exercise of industry, patience, and temperance. The Yankee owner of the Washington was “realising some,” judging from the prices he charged, and that every eatable had been consumed long before my arrival. The “forty beds” respecting which we had met so many advertisements on the road, consisted of frames of wood five feet long, over which were simply stretched pieces of much soiled canvas—they were in three tiers, and altogether occupied about the same space as would two fourposters—they were all occupied.

Wet with the thunderstorm, I took up my station on a dead tree near the door, and as night closed in and the moon rose, awaited the arrival of my man and dogs with impatience. Hours passed, and I felt convinced at last that fatigue had compelled Barnes to pass the night at a rancheria I had seen a few miles back. Rising to stretch my limbs, I became instantly aware of a succession of sharp stings in every part of my body; these became aggravated as I stamped and shook myself. In sitting on the dead tree I had invaded the territory of a nest of ants of enormous size—larger than earwigs; they bit hard, and had sufficiently punished my intrusion before I managed to get rid of them. During the night file upon file of mules arrived from Panama. These were unloaded and turned adrift to seek their supper where they could; and travellers, muleteers, and luggage were spread in every direction round a large fire that had been lit in the early part of the evening. Deserting my inhospitable tree, I found myself comfortable enough among a heap of pack saddles, buried in which I slept till morning. With the first streak of day everything was moving, luggage was replaced on kicking mules; the sallow, wayworn, unwashed tenants of the “Washington,” with what baggage they had on their backs, started for Gorgona on foot. The morning oath came out fresh and racy from the lips of these disappointed gentlemen; nor could the bright and glorious sun reflect any beauty from their sunken bloodshot eyes; when they disappeared in the winding road leading to Gorgona, it was quite a comfort to me to reflect that we were not about to honour the same country with our presence. In less than an hour I found myself alone at the half-way house; the crowd had dispersed on either road, but as yet my baggage had not arrived. When it did come up at last we were all very hungry, but as there was nothing left eatable at the “Washington,” we started for Panama without breaking our fast.

Through a tortuous path, which had been burrowed through the forest, we stumbled on at the rate of a mile and a half an hour; at times the space between the rocks on either side is too narrow to allow the mules to pass; in these instances all our efforts are directed to the mule that is jammed; heaven knows how we get her clear—several shouts, some kicking, a plunge or two, a crash, and, the mule being free, proceeds on her path, whilst you stop to pick up the lid of your trunk, which has been ground off against the rock, as also the few trifles that tumble out from time to time in consequence. And shortly afterwards we meet more travellers homeward bound, some on foot, with a stout buckthorn stick and bundle, and others on mules, with shouldered rifles. Each one, as I passed, asked me what state I was from, and if I came in the “Cherokee” steamer. I had been questioned so much after this manner at the “Washington” that I began to think that to belong to a state and to arrive in the “Cherokee” would save me much trouble in answering questions, for my reply in the negative invariably led to the direct query of Where did I come from? So along the road I surrendered myself invariably as a “Cherokee” passenger and a native of Virginia, and was allowed to pass on in peace. At last the country becomes more open, huts appear occasionally, and the worst part of the journey is well over. Still the human tide flows on to Gorgona, for another California steamer has arrived at Panama; and now we meet some California patients carried in hammocks slung upon men’s shoulders, travelling painfully towards a home that some of them will not live to see. Trains of unladen mules are going down to meet the emigration, some with cargoes of provisions for the Washington Hotel perhaps.

Pass on filth, squalor, and poverty, and make way as you should for wealth, for here, with tinkling bells and gay caparisons, comes a train of mules laden with gold—pure gold from Peru; as each mule bears his massive bars uncovered, glittering beneath the cordage which secures them to the saddle, you can touch the metal as they pass. Twenty of these file by as we draw on one side, and after them, guarding so much wealth, are half a dozen armed natives with rusty muskets slung lazily on their backs; but behind them, on an ambling jennet, is a well “got up” Don, with muslin shirt and polished jack-boots, richly-mounted pistols in his holsters, and massive silver spurs on his heels, smoking his cigarette with as much pomposity as if the gold belonged to him, and he had plenty more at home. This gentleman, however, is in reality a clerk in an English house at Panama, and when he returns to that city, after shipping the gold on board the English steamer, and getting a receipt, he will change this picturesque costume for a plaid shooting-coat and continuations, and be a Don no longer. As the gold train passed, I thought, in contrast to its insecurity, of the villains I had parted from in the morning, all of whom were armed. Then followed a train much larger than the first, and just as little guarded, carrying silver. For years these specie trains have travelled in this unguarded state unmolested, not from the primitive honesty of the natives, for a greater set of villains never existed, but from the simple difficulty of turning a BAR of gold to any account when once it has been taken into the jungle. Since the time of which I am writing many attempts have been made to rob the gold trains, but, when pursuit has been active, the bars have invariably been discovered in the jungle a short distance from the scene of the robbery.

The country became more open as we approached Panama, and when the town appeared in the distance, we had no shelter from the sun, and the dogs, panting and footsore, dragged on very slowly. Here I found a man by the roadside attacked with fever, shivering with ague, and helpless. He was going to Gorgona, but as he had no mule, he wished to return to Panama. I hoisted him on to mine, and we proceeded; he was very ill, wandered in his speech, and shook like a leaf; and before we got into Panama, he died from exhaustion. As I did not know what to do with him, I planted him by the road-side, and on my arrival at the town, I informed the authorities, and I presume they buried him. Weary and sunburnt, we arrived at the gates of the town, outside of which we found a large American encampment, in the midst of which we pitched our tent. Every bed in the town had long before been pre-engaged, and these cribs, after the fashion of the “Washington,” were packed from fifty to a hundred in a room. We slept comfortably that night under one of Edgington’s tents, the baggage inside, and the dogs picquetted round us.

Since Panama has become the half-way resting-place of Californian emigration, the old ruin has assumed quite a lively aspect. Never were modern improvements so suddenly and so effectually applied to a dilapidated relic of former grandeur as here. The streets present a vista of enormous sign-boards, and American flags droop from every house.

The main street is composed almost entirely of hotels, eating-houses, and “hells.” The old ruined houses have been patched up with whitewash and paint, and nothing remains unaltered but the cathedral. This building is in what I believe is called the “early Spanish style,” which in the Colonies is more remarkable for the tenacity with which mud bricks hold together, than for any architectural advantages. The principal features in connection with these ancient churches are the brass bells they contain, many of which are of handsome design; and these bells are forced on the notice of the visitor to Panama, inasmuch as being now all cracked, they emit a sound like that of a concert of tin-pots and saucepans. At the corner of every street is a little turretted tower, from the top of which a small boy commences at sunrise to batter one of these discordant instruments, whilst from the belfries of the cathedral there issues a peal, to which, comparatively speaking, the din of a boiler manufactory is a treat. If those bells fail to bring the people to church, at all events they allow them no peace out of it. The streets are crowded day and night, for there are several thousand emigrants, waiting a passage to California. Most of these people are of the lower class, and are not prepossessing under their present aspect; and many of them, having exhausted their means in the expenses of their detention, are leading a precarious life, which neither improves their manners or their personal appearance. Long gaunt fellows, armed to the teeth, line the streets on either side, or lounge about the drinking bars and gambling saloons; and among these there is quarrelling and stabbing, and probably murder, before the night is out. The more peaceably disposed are encamped outside the town, and avoid these ruffians as they would the plague; but the end of this, to the evil-disposed, is delirium tremens, fever, and a dog’s burial. With a good tent and canteen, an abundant market close at hand, and plenty of books, the time passed pleasantly enough, until I had arranged for my conveyance to California, which I shortly succeeded in doing, in a small English barque.

It is nothing new to say that the Central Americans arc an inert race, and that the inhabitants of New Grenada, of Spanish blood, seem to assimilate in habits with the famous military garrison of Port Mahon, the members of which were too lazy to eat;—for these people are too indolent to make money when it can be done with great rapidity and very little trouble, consequently, the advantages of the Californian emigration are entirely reaped by foreigners. Not a permanent improvement has been added to the town, and if this route was abandoned altogether, the city would be little the richer for the millions of dollars that have been left there during the last few years. The sole exception, almost, is that of a native firm, which has amass...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Preface
• Contents
• List of Woodcuts
• Chapter I
• Chapter II
• Chapter III
• Chapter IV
• Chapter V
• Chapter VI
• Chapter VII
• Chapter VIII
• Chapter IX
• Chapter X
• Chapter XI
• Chapter XII
• Chapter XIII
• Chapter XIV
• Chapter XV
• Chapter XVI
• Chapter XVII
• Chapter XVIII
• Chapter XIX
• Chapter XX
• Chapter XXI
• Chapter XXII
• Chapter XXIII
• Chapter XXIV
• Appendix