 | The luck of Roaring Camp, and other sketches |  |
TENNESSEE'S PARTNER.
I DO not think that we ever knew his real
name. Our ignorance of it certainly never
gave us any social inconvenience, for at Sandy Bar
in 1854 most men were christened anew. Sometimes
these appellatives were derived from some
distinctiveness of dress, as in the case of “Dungaree
Jack”; or from some peculiarity of habit, as
shown in “Saleratus Bill,” so called from an undue
proportion of that chemical in his daily bread; or
from some unlucky slip, as exhibited in “The Iron
Pirate,” a mild, inoffensive man, who earned that
baleful title by his unfortunate mispronunciation
of the term “iron pyrites.” Perhaps this may
have been the beginning of a rude heraldry; but
I am constrained to think that it was because a
man's real name in that day rested solely upon
his own unsupported statement. “Call yourself
Clifford, do you?” said Boston, addressing a timid
new-comer with infinite scorn; “hell is full of
such Cliffords!” He then introduced the unfortunate
man, whose name happened to be really Clifford,
as “Jay-bird Charley,” — an unhallowed inspiration
of the moment, that clung to him ever after.
But to return to Tennessee's Partner, whom we
never knew by any other than this relative title;
that he had ever existed as a separate and distinct
individuality we only learned later. It seems that
in 1853 he left Poker Flat to go to San Francisco,
ostensibly to procure a wife. He never got any
farther than Stockton. At that place he was attracted
by a young person who waited upon the
table at the hotel where he took his meals. One
morning he said something to her which caused her
to smile not unkindly, to somewhat coquettishly
break a plate of toast over his upturned, serious,
simple face, and to retreat to the kitchen. He followed
her, and emerged a few moments later, covered
with more toast and victory. That day week
they were married by a Justice of the Peace, and
returned to Poker Flat. I am aware that something
more might be made of this episode, but I prefer
to tell it as it was current at Sandy Bar, — in the
gulches and bar-rooms, — where all sentiment was
modified by a strong sense of humor.
Of their married felicity but little is known,
perhaps for the reason that Tennessee, then living
with his partner, one day took occasion to say
something to the bride on his own account, at
which, it is said, she smiled not unkindly and
chastely retreated, — this time as far as Marysville,
where Tennessee followed her, and where they
went to housekeeping without the aid of a Justice
his wife simply and seriously, as was his fashion.
But to everybody's surprise, when Tennessee one
day returned from Marysville, without his partner's
wife, — she having smiled and retreated with somebody
else, — Tennessee's Partner was the first man
to shake his hand and greet him with affection.
The boys who had gathered in the cañon to see
the shooting were naturally indignant. Their indignation
might have found vent in sarcasm but
for a certain look in Tennessee's Partner's eye that
indicated a lack of humorous appreciation. In
fact, he was a grave man, with a steady application
to practical detail which was unpleasant in a
difficulty.
Meanwhile a popular feeling against Tennessee
had grown up on the Bar. He was known to be a
gambler; he was suspected to be a thief. In
these suspicions Tennessee's Partner was equally
compromised; his continued intimacy with Tennessee
after the affair above quoted could only be
accounted for on the hypothesis of a copartnership
of crime. At last Tennessee's guilt became flagrant.
One day he overtook a stranger on his way
to Red Dog. The stranger afterward related that
Tennessee beguiled the time with interesting anecdote
and reminiscence, but illogically concluded
the interview in the following words: “And now,
young man, I 'll trouble you for your knife, your
might get you into trouble at Red Dog, and your
money 's a temptation to the evilly disposed. I
think you said your address was San Francisco. I
shall endeavor to call.” It may be stated here
that Tennessee had a fine flow of humor, which
no business preoccupation could wholly subdue.
This exploit was his last. Red Dog and Sandy
Bar made common cause against the highwayman.
Tennessee was hunted in very much the same fashion
as his prototype, the grizzly. As the toils closed
around him, he made a desperate dash through the
Bar, emptying his revolver at the crowd before the
Arcade Saloon, and so on up Grizzly Cañon; but
at its farther extremity he was stopped by a small
man on a gray horse. The men looked at each
other a moment in silence. Both were fearless,
both self-possessed and independent; and both
types of a civilization that in the seventeenth
century would have been called heroic, but, in the
nineteenth, simply “reckless.” “What have you
got there? — I call,” said Tennessee, quietly. “Two
bowers and an ace,” said the stranger, as quietly,
showing two revolvers and a bowie-knife. “That
takes me,” returned Tennessee; and with this
gamblers' epigram, he threw away his useless pistol,
and rode back with his captor.
It was a warm night. The cool breeze which
behind the chaparral-crested mountain was that
evening withheld from Sandy Bar. The little
cañon was stifling with heated resinous odors, and
the decaying drift-wood on the Bar sent forth faint,
sickening exhalations. The feverishness of day,
and its fierce passions, still filled the camp. Lights
moved restlessly along the bank of the river, striking
no answering reflection from its tawny current.
Against the blackness of the pines the windows
of the old loft above the express-office stood out
staringly bright; and through their curtainless
panes the loungers below could see the forms of
those who were even then deciding the fate of
Tennessee. And above all this, etched on the
dark firmament, rose the Sierra, remote and passionless,
crowned with remoter passionless stars.
The trial of Tennessee was conducted as fairly
as was consistent with a judge and jury who felt
themselves to some extent obliged to justify, in
their verdict, the previous irregularities of arrest
and indictment. The law of Sandy Bar was implacable,
but not vengeful. The excitement and
personal feeling of the chase were over; with Tennessee
safe in their hands they were ready to listen
patiently to any defence, which they were already
satisfied was insufficient. There being no doubt
in their own minds, they were willing to give the
prisoner the benefit of any that might exist. Secure
on general principles, they indulged him with more
latitude of defence than his reckless hardihood
seemed to ask. The Judge appeared to be more
anxious than the prisoner, who, otherwise unconcerned,
evidently took a grim pleasure in the responsibility
he had created. “I don't take any
hand in this yer game,” had been his invariable,
but good-humored reply to all questions. The
Judge — who was also his captor — for a moment
vaguely regretted that he had not shot him “on
sight,” that morning, but presently dismissed this
human weakness as unworthy of the judicial mind.
Nevertheless, when there was a tap at the door,
and it was said that Tennessee's Partner was
there on behalf of the prisoner, he was admitted at
once without question. Perhaps the younger members
of the jury, to whom the proceedings were
becoming irksomely thoughtful, hailed him as a
relief.
For he was not, certainly, an imposing figure.
Short and stout, with a square face, sunburned
into a preternatural redness, clad in a loose duck
“jumper,” and trousers streaked and splashed
with red soil, his aspect under any circumstances
would have been quaint, and was now even ridiculous.
As he stooped to deposit at his feet a heavy
carpet-bag he was carrying, it became obvious,
from partially developed legends and inscriptions,
patched had been originally intended for a less
ambitious covering. Yet he advanced with great
gravity, and after having shaken the hand of each
person in the room with labored cordiality, he
wiped his serious, perplexed face on a red bandanna
handkerchief, a shade lighter than his complexion,
laid his powerful hand upon the table to steady
himself, and thus addressed the Judge:—
“I was passin' by,” he began, by way of apology,
“and I thought I 'd just step in and see how things
was gittin' on with Tennessee thar, — my pardner.
It 's a hot night. I disremember any sich weather
before on the Bar.”
He paused a moment, but nobody volunteering
any other meteorological recollection, he again had
recourse to his pocket-handkerchief, and for some
moments mopped his face diligently.
“Have you anything to say in behalf of the
prisoner?” said the Judge, finally.
“Thet 's it,” said Tennessee's Partner, in a tone
of relief. “I come yar as Tennessee's pardner, —
knowing him nigh on four year, off and on, wet
and dry, in luck and out o' luck. His ways ain't
allers my ways, but thar ain't any p'ints in that
young man, thar ain't any liveliness as he 's been up
to, as I don't know. And you sez to me, sez you, —
confidential-like, and between man and man, — sez
you, `Do you know anything in his behalf?' and I
man and man, — `What should a man know of his
pardner?' ”
“Is this all you have to say?” asked the Judge,
impatiently, feeling, perhaps, that a dangerous
sympathy of humor was beginning to humanize
the Court.
“Thet 's so,” continued Tennessee's Partner.
“It ain't for me to say anything agin' him. And
now, what 's the case? Here 's Tennessee wants
money, wants it bad, and does n't like to ask it of
his old pardner. Well, what does Tennessee do?
He lays for a stranger, and he fetches that stranger.
And you lays for him, and you fetches him; and
the honors is easy. And I put it to you, bein' a
far-minded man, and to you, gentlemen, all, as
far-minded men, ef this is n't so.”
“Prisoner,” said the Judge, interrupting, “have
you any questions to ask this man?”
“No! no!” continued Tennessee's Partner,
hastily. “I play this yer hand alone. To come
down to the bed-rock, it 's just this: Tennessee,
thar, has played it pretty rough and expensive-like
on a stranger, and on this yer camp. And
now, what 's the fair thing? Some would say
more; some would say less. Here 's seventeen
hundred dollars in coarse gold and a watch, — it 's
about all my pile, — and call it square!” And
before a hand could be raised to prevent him, he
the table.
For a moment his life was in jeopardy. One or
two men sprang to their feet, several hands groped
for hidden weapons, and a suggestion to “throw
him from the window” was only overridden by a
gesture from the Judge. Tennessee laughed. And
apparently oblivious of the excitement, Tennessee's
Partner improved the opportunity to mop his
face again with his handkerchief.
When order was restored, and the man was
made to understand, by the use of forcible figures
and rhetoric, that Tennessee's offence could not be
condoned by money, his face took a more serious
and sanguinary hue, and those who were nearest
to him noticed that his rough hand trembled
slightly on the table. He hesitated a moment as
he slowly returned the gold to the carpet-bag, as
if he had not yet entirely caught the elevated
sense of justice which swayed the tribunal, and
was perplexed with the belief that he had not
offered enough. Then he turned to the Judge,
and saying, “This yer is a lone hand, played alone,
and without my pardner,” he bowed to the jury
and was about to withdraw, when the Judge called
him back. “If you have anything to say to Tennessee,
you had better say it now.” For the first
time that evening the eyes of the prisoner and his
strange advocate met. Tennessee smiled, showed
held out his hand. Tennessee's Partner took it in
his own, and saying, “I just dropped in as I was
passin' to see how things was gettin' on,” let the
hand passively fall, and adding that “it was a
warm night,” again mopped his face with his handkerchief,
and without another word withdrew.
The two men never again met each other alive.
For the unparalleled insult of a bribe offered to
Judge Lynch — who, whether bigoted, weak, or
narrow, was at least incorruptible — firmly fixed
in the mind of that mythical personage any wavering
determination of Tennessee's fate; and at the
break of day he was marched, closely guarded, to
meet it at the top of Marley's Hill.
How he met it, how cool he was, how he refused
to say anything, how perfect were the arrangements
of the committee, were all duly reported,
with the addition of a warning moral and example
to all future evil-doers, in the Red Dog Clarion,
by its editor, who was present, and to whose
vigorous English I cheerfully refer the reader.
But the beauty of that midsummer morning, the
blessed amity of earth and air and sky, the
awakened life of the free woods and hills, the
joyous renewal and promise of Nature, and above
all, the infinite Serenity that thrilled through each,
was not reported, as not being a part of the social
lesson. And yet, when the weak and foolish deed
had passed out of the misshapen
thing that dangled between earth and sky, the
birds sang, the flowers bloomed, the sun shone,
as cheerily as before; and possibly the Red Dog
Clarion was right.
Tennessee's Partner was not in the group that
surrounded the ominous tree. But as they turned
to disperse attention was drawn to the singular
appearance of a motionless donkey-cart halted at
the side of the road. As they approached, they at
once recognized the venerable “Jenny” and the
two-wheeled cart as the property of Tennessee's
Partner, — used by him in carrying dirt from his
claim; and a few paces distant the owner of the
equipage himself, sitting under a buckeye-tree,
wiping the perspiration from his glowing face. In
answer to an inquiry, he said he had come for
the body of the “diseased,” “if it was all the
same to the committee.” He did n't wish to
“hurry anything”; he could “wait.” He was not
working that day; and when the gentlemen were
done with the “diseased,” he would take him.
“Ef thar is any present,” he added, in his simple,
serious way, “as would care to jine in the fun'l,
they kin come.” Perhaps it was from a sense of
humor, which I have already intimated was a
feature of Sandy Bar, — perhaps it was from something
even better than that; but two thirds of
the loungers accepted the invitation at once.
It was noon when the body of Tennessee was
delivered into the hands of his partner. As the
cart drew up to the fatal tree, we noticed that it
contained a rough, oblong box, — apparently made
from a section of sluicing, — and half filled with
bark and the tassels of pine. The cart was further
decorated with slips of willow, and made
fragrant with buckeye-blossoms. When the body
was deposited in the box, Tennessee's Partner drew
over it a piece of tarred canvas, and gravely
mounting the narrow seat in front, with his feet
upon the shafts, urged the little donkey forward.
The equipage moved slowly on, at that decorous
pace which was habitual with “Jenny” even under
less solemn circumstances. The men — half
curiously, half jestingly, but all good-humoredly
— strolled along beside the cart; some in advance,
some a little in the rear of the homely catafalque.
But, whether from the narrowing of the road or
some present sense of decorum, as the cart passed
on, the company fell to the rear in couples, keeping
step, and otherwise assuming the external show
of a formal procession. Jack Folinsbee, who had
at the outset played a funeral march in dumb
show upon an imaginary trombone, desisted, from
a lack of sympathy and appreciation, — not having,
perhaps, your true humorist's capacity to be
content with the enjoyment of his own fun.
The way led through Grizzly Cañon, — by this
The redwoods, burying their moccasoned feet in
the red soil, stood in Indian-file along the track,
trailing an uncouth benediction from their bending
boughs upon the passing bier. A hare, surprised
into helpless inactivity, sat upright and pulsating
in the ferns by the roadside, as the cortége went
by. Squirrels hastened to gain a secure outlook
from higher boughs; and the blue-jays, spreading
their wings, fluttered before them like outriders,
until the outskirts of Sandy Bar were reached,
and the solitary cabin of Tennessee's Partner.
Viewed under more favorable circumstances, it
would not have been a cheerful place. The unpicturesque
site, the rude and unlovely outlines,
the unsavory details, which distinguish the nest-building
of the California miner, were all here,
with the dreariness of decay superadded. A few
paces from the cabin there was a rough enclosure,
which, in the brief days of Tennessee's Partner's
matrimonial felicity, had been used as a garden,
but was now overgrown with fern. As we approached
it we were surprised to find that what
we had taken for a recent attempt at cultivation
was the broken soil about an open grave.
The cart was halted before the enclosure; and
rejecting the offers of assistance with the same air
of simple self-reliance he had displayed throughout,
Tennessee's Partner lifted the rough coffin on
shallow grave. He then nailed down the board
which served as a lid; and mounting the little
mound of earth beside it, took off his hat, and
slowly mopped his face with his handkerchief.
This the crowd felt was a preliminary to speech;
and they disposed themselves variously on stumps
and boulders, and sat expectant.
“When a man,” began Tennessee's Partner,
slowly, “has been running free all day, what 's the
natural thing for him to do? Why, to come
home. And if he ain't in a condition to go home,
what can his best friend do? Why, bring him
home! And here 's Tennessee has been running
free, and we brings him home from his wandering.”
He paused, and picked up a fragment of
quartz, rubbed it thoughtfully on his sleeve, and
went on: “It ain't the first time that I 've packed
him on my back, as you see'd me now. It ain't
the first time that I brought him to this yer cabin
when he could n't help himself; it ain't the first
time that I and `Jinny' have waited for him on
you hill, and picked him up and so fetched him
home, when he could n't speak, and did n't know
me. And now that it 's the last time, why — ” he
paused, and rubbed the quartz gently on his sleeve
— “you see it 's sort of rough on his pardner.
And now, gentlemen,” he added, abruptly, picking
up his long-handled shovel, “the fun'l 's over;
your trouble.”
Resisting any proffers of assistance, he began to
fill in the grave, turning his back upon the crowd,
that after a few moments' hesitation gradually
withdrew. As they crossed the little ridge that
hid Sandy Bar from view, some, looking back,
thought they could see Tennessee's Partner, his
work done, sitting upon the grave, his shovel between
his knees, and his face buried in his red
bandanna handkerchief. But it was argued by
others that you could n't tell his face from his
handkerchief at that distance; and this point remained
undecided.
In the reaction that followed the feverish excitement
of that day, Tennessee's Partner was not
forgotten. A secret investigation had cleared him
of any complicity in Tennessee's guilt, and left
only a suspicion of his general sanity. Sandy Bar
made a point of calling on him, and proffering
various uncouth, but well-meant kindnesses. But
from that day his rude health and great strength
seemed visibly to decline; and when the rainy
season fairly set in, and the tiny grass-blades were
beginning to peep from the rocky mound above
Tennessee's grave, he took to his bed.
One night, when the pines beside the cabin
were swaying in the storm, and trailing their
rush of the swollen river were heard below, Tennessee's
Partner lifted his head from the pillow,
saying, “It is time to go for Tennessee; I must
put `Jinny' in the cart”; and would have risen
from his bed but for the restraint of his attendant.
Struggling, he still pursued his singular fancy:
“There, now, steady, `Jinny,' — steady, old girl.
How dark it is! Look out for the ruts, — and look
out for him, too, old gal. Sometimes, you know,
when he 's blind drunk, he drops down right in the
trail. Keep on straight up to the pine on the top
of the hill. Thar — I told you so! — thar he is,
— coming this way, too, — all by himself, sober,
and his face a-shining. Tennessee! Pardner!”
And so they met.
| The luck of Roaring Camp, and other sketches | |