 | The luck of Roaring Camp, and other sketches |  |
THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP.
THERE was commotion in Roaring Camp. It
could not have been a fight, for in 1850 that
was not novel enough to have called together the
entire settlement. The ditches and claims were
not only deserted, but “Tuttle's grocery” had contributed
its gamblers, who, it will be remembered,
calmly continued their game the day that French
Pete and Kanaka Joe shot each other to death over
the bar in the front room. The whole camp was
collected before a rude cabin on the outer edge of
the clearing. Conversation was carried on in a low
tone, but the name of a woman was frequently
repeated. It was a name familiar enough in the
camp, — “Cherokee Sal.”
Perhaps the less said of her the better. She
was a coarse, and, it is to be feared, a very sinful
woman. But at that time she was the only woman
in Roaring Camp, and was just then lying in
sore extremity, when she most needed the ministration
of her own sex. Dissolute, abandoned,
and irreclaimable, she was yet suffering a martyrdom
hard enough to bear even when veiled by
her loneliness. The primal curse had come to
her in that original isolation which must have
made the punishment of the first transgression
so dreadful. It was, perhaps, part of the expiation
of her sin, that, at a moment when she most
lacked her sex's intuitive tenderness and care, she
met only the half-contemptuous faces of her masculine
associates. Yet a few of the spectators
were, I think, touched by her sufferings. Sandy
Tipton thought it was “rough on Sal,” and, in the
contemplation of her condition, for a moment rose
superior to the fact that he had an ace and two
bowers in his sleeve.
It will be seen, also, that the situation was novel.
Deaths were by no means uncommon in Roaring
Camp, but a birth was a new thing. People had
been dismissed the camp effectively, finally, and
with no possibility of return; but this was the first
time that anybody had been introduced ab initio.
Hence the excitement.
“You go in there, Stumpy,” said a prominent
citizen known as “Kentuck,” addressing one of
the loungers. “Go in there, and see what you kin
do. You 've had experience in them things.”
Perhaps there was a fitness in the selection.
Stumpy, in other climes, had been the putative
head of two families; in fact, it was owing to some
legal informality in these proceedings that Roaring
company. The crowd approved the choice, and
Stumpy was wise enough to bow to the majority.
The door closed on the extempore surgeon and
midwife, and Roaring Camp sat down outside,
smoked its pipe, and awaited the issue.
The assemblage numbered about a hundred men.
One or two of these were actual fugitives from
justice, some were criminal, and all were reckless.
Physically, they exhibited no indication of their
past lives and character. The greatest scamp had
a Raphael face, with a profusion of blond hair;
Oakhurst, a gambler, had the melancholy air and
intellectual abstraction of a Hamlet; the coolest
and most courageous man was scarcely over five
feet in height, with a soft voice and an embarrassed,
timid manner. The term “roughs” applied to
them was a distinction rather than a definition.
Perhaps in the minor details of fingers, toes, ears,
etc., the camp may have been deficient, but these
slight omissions did not detract from their aggregate
force. The strongest man had but three
fingers on his right hand; the best shot had but
one eye.
Such was the physical aspect of the men that
were dispersed around the cabin. The camp lay
in a triangular valley, between two hills and a
river. The only outlet was a steep trail over the
summit of a hill that faced the cabin, now illuminated
might have seen it from the rude bunk whereon
she lay, — seen it winding like a silver thread
until it was lost in the stars above.
A fire of withered pine-boughs added sociability
to the gathering. By degrees the natural levity
of Roaring Camp returned. Bets were freely offered
and taken regarding the result. Three to five that
“Sal would get through with it”; even, that the
child would survive; side bets as to the sex and
complexion of the coming stranger. In the midst
of an excited discussion an exclamation came
from those nearest the door, and the camp stopped
to listen. Above the swaying and moaning of the
pines, the swift rush of the river, and the crackling
of the fire, rose a sharp, querulous cry, — a cry
unlike anything heard before in the camp. The
pines stopped moaning, the river ceased to rush,
and the fire to crackle. It seemed as if Nature
had stopped to listen too.
The camp rose to its feet as one man! It was
proposed to explode a barrel of gunpowder, but, in
consideration of the situation of the mother, better
counsels prevailed, and only a few revolvers
were discharged; for, whether owing to the rude
surgery of the camp, or some other reason, Cherokee
Sal was sinking fast. Within an hour she had
climbed, as it were, that rugged road that led to
the stars, and so passed out of Roaring Camp, its
disturbed them much, except in speculation
as to the fate of the child. “Can he live
now?” was asked of Stumpy. The answer was
doubtful. The only other being of Cherokee Sal's
sex and maternal condition in the settlement was
an ass. There was some conjecture as to fitness,
but the experiment was tried. It was less problematical
than the ancient treatment of Romulus
and Remus, and apparently as successful.
When these details were completed, which exhausted
another hour, the door was opened, and the
anxious crowd of men who had already formed
themselves into a queue, entered in single file.
Beside the low bunk or shelf, on which the figure
of the mother was starkly outlined below the
blankets stood a pine table. On this a candle-box
was placed, and within it, swathed in staring red
flannel, lay the last arrival at Roaring Camp. Beside
the candle-box was placed a hat. Its use was
soon indicated. “Gentlemen,” said Stumpy, with
a singular mixture of authority and ex officio complacency,
— “Gentlemen will please pass in at the
front door, round the table, and out at the back
door. Them as wishes to contribute anything toward
the orphan will find a hat handy.” The first
man entered with his hat on; he uncovered, however,
as he looked about him, and so, unconsciously,
set an example to the next. In such communities
procession filed in, comments were audible, — criticisms
addressed, perhaps, rather to Stumpy, in
the character of showman, — “Is that him?”
“mighty small specimen”; “has n't mor'n got the
color”; “ain't bigger nor a derringer.” The contributions
were as characteristic: A silver tobacco-box;
a doubloon; a navy revolver, silver mounted;
a gold specimen; a very beautifully embroidered
lady's handkerchief (from Oakhurst the gambler);
a diamond breastpin; a diamond ring (suggested
by the pin, with the remark from the giver that he
“saw that pin and went two diamonds better”);
a slung shot; a Bible (contributor not detected);
a golden spur; a silver teaspoon (the initials, I regret
to say, were not the giver's); a pair of surgeon's
shears; a lancet; a Bank of England note
for £ 5; and about $ 200 in loose gold and silver
coin. During these proceedings Stumpy maintained
a silence as impassive as the dead on his left, a
gravity as inscrutable as that of the newly born on
his right. Only one incident occurred to break
the monotony of the curious procession. As Kentuck
bent over the candle-box half curiously, the
child turned, and, in a spasm of pain, caught at
his groping finger, and held it fast for a moment.
Kentuck looked foolish and embarrassed. Something
like a blush tried to assert itself in his
weather-beaten cheek. “The d—d little cuss!”
more tenderness and care than he might have been
deemed capable of showing. He held that finger
a little apart from its fellows as he went out, and
examined it curiously. The examination provoked
the same original remark in regard to the child.
In fact, he seemed to enjoy repeating it. “He
rastled with my finger,” he remarked to Tipton,
holding up the member, “the d—d little cuss!”
It was four o'clock before the camp sought repose.
A light burnt in the cabin where the
watchers sat, for Stumpy did not go to bed that
night. Nor did Kentuck. He drank quite freely,
and related with great gusto his experience, invariably
ending with his characteristic condemnation
of the new-comer. It seemed to relieve him of
any unjust implication of sentiment, and Kentuck
had the weaknesses of the nobler sex. When
everybody else had gone to bed, he walked down
to the river, and whistled reflectingly. Then he
walked up the gulch, past the cabin, still whistling
with demonstrative unconcern. At a large red-wood
tree he paused and retraced his steps, and
again passed the cabin. Half-way down to the
river's bank he again paused, and then returned
and knocked at the door. It was opened by
Stumpy. “How goes it?” said Kentuck, looking
past Stumpy toward the candle-box. “All serene,”
replied Stumpy. “Anything up?” “Nothing.”
Stumpy still holding the door. Then Kentuck
had recourse to his finger, which he held up to
Stumpy. “Rastled with it, — the d—d little cuss,”
he said, and retired.
The next day Cherokee Sal had such rude sepulture
as Roaring Camp afforded. After her
body had been committed to the hillside, there
was a formal meeting of the camp to discuss what
should be done with her infant. A resolution to
adopt it was unanimous and enthusiastic. But an
animated discussion in regard to the manner and
feasibility of providing for its wants at once sprung
up. It was remarkable that the argument partook
of none of those fierce personalities with which
discussions were usually conducted at Roaring
Camp. Tipton proposed that they should send the
child to Red Dog, — a distance of forty miles, —
where female attention could be procured. But
the unlucky suggestion met with fierce and unanimous
opposition. It was evident that no plan
which entailed parting from their new acquisition
would for a moment be entertained. “Besides,”
said Tom Ryder, “them fellows at Red Dog would
swap it, and ring in somebody else on us.” A disbelief
in the honesty of other camps prevailed at
Roaring Camp as in other places.
The introduction of a female nurse in the camp
also met with objection. It was argued that no
Camp as her home, and the speaker urged
that “they did n't want any more of the other
kind.” This unkind allusion to the defunct mother,
harsh as it may seem, was the first spasm of
propriety, — the first symptom of the camp's regeneration.
Stumpy advanced nothing. Perhaps
he felt a certain delicacy in interfering with the
selection of a possible successor in office. But
when questioned, he averred stoutly that he and
“Jinny” — the mammal before alluded to — could
manage to rear the child. There was something
original, independent, and heroic about the plan
that pleased the camp. Stumpy was retained.
Certain articles were sent for to Sacramento.
“Mind,” said the treasurer, as he pressed a bag of
gold-dust into the expressman's hand, “the best
that can be got, — lace, you know, and filigree-work
and frills, — d—m the cost!”
Strange to say, the child thrived. Perhaps the
invigorating climate of the mountain camp was
compensation for material deficiencies. Nature
took the foundling to her broader breast. In that
rare atmosphere of the Sierra foot-hills, — that air
pungent with balsamic odor, that ethereal cordial
at once bracing and exhilarating, — he may have
found food and nourishment, or a subtle chemistry
that transmuted asses' milk to lime and phosphorus.
Stumpy inclined to the belief that it was the
would say, “has been father and mother to him!
Don't you,” he would add, apostrophizing the helpless
bundle before him, “never go back on us.”
By the time he was a month old, the necessity
of giving him a name became apparent. He had
generally been known as “the Kid,” “Stumpy's
boy,” “the Cayote” (an allusion to his vocal
powers), and even by Kentuck's endearing diminutive
of “the d—d little cuss.” But these
were felt to be vague and unsatisfactory, and were
at last dismissed under another influence. Gamblers
and adventurers are generally superstitious,
and Oakhurst one day declared that the baby had
brought “the luck” to Roaring Camp. It was
certain that of late they had been successful.
“Luck” was the name agreed upon, with the prefix
of Tommy for greater convenience. No allusion
was made to the mother, and the father was
unknown. “It 's better,” said the philosophical
Oakhurst, “to take a fresh deal all round. Call
him Luck, and start him fair.” A day was accordingly
set apart for the christening. What was
meant by this ceremony the reader may imagine,
who has already gathered some idea of the reckless
irreverence of Roaring Camp. The master of
ceremonies was one “Boston,” a noted wag, and
the occasion seemed to promise the greatest facetiousness.
This ingenious satirist had spent two
with pointed local allusions. The choir was
properly trained, and Sandy Tipton was to stand
godfather. But after the procession had marched
to the grove with music and banners, and the child
had been deposited before a mock altar, Stumpy
stepped before the expectant crowd. “It ain't my
style to spoil fun, boys,” said the little man, stoutly,
eying the faces around him, “but it strikes me
that this thing ain't exactly on the squar. It 's
playing it pretty low down on this yer baby to ring
in fun on him that he ain't going to understand.
And ef there 's going to be any godfathers round,
I 'd like to see who 's got any better rights than
me.” A silence followed Stumpy's speech. To
the credit of all humorists be it said, that the first
man to acknowledge its justice was the satirist,
thus stopped of his fun. “But,” said Stumpy,
quickly, following up his advantage, “we 're here
for a christening, and we 'll have it. I proclaim
you Thomas Luck, according to the laws of the
United States and the State of California, so help
me God.” It was the first time that the name of
the Deity had been uttered otherwise than profanely
in the camp. The form of christening was
perhaps even more ludicrous than the satirist had
conceived; but, strangely enough, nobody saw it
and nobody laughed. “Tommy” was christened
as seriously as he would have been under a Christian
fashion.
And so the work of regeneration began in Roaring
Camp. Almost imperceptibly a change came
over the settlement. The cabin assigned to “Tommy
Luck” — or “The Luck,” as he was more
frequently called — first showed signs of improvement.
It was kept scrupulously clean and whitewashed.
Then it was boarded, clothed, and papered.
The rosewood cradle — packed eighty miles by
mule — had, in Stumpy's way of putting it, “sorter
killed the rest of the furniture.” So the rehabilitation
of the cabin became a necessity. The men
who were in the habit of lounging in at Stumpy's
to see “how The Luck got on” seemed to appreciate
the change, and, in self-defence, the rival establishment
of “Tuttle's grocery” bestirred itself,
and imported a carpet and mirrors. The reflections
of the latter on the appearance of Roaring Camp
tended to produce stricter habits of personal cleanliness.
Again, Stumpy imposed a kind of quarantine
upon those who aspired to the honor and
privilege of holding “The Luck.” It was a cruel
mortification to Kentuck — who, in the carelessness
of a large nature and the habits of frontier
life, had begun to regard all garments as a second
cuticle, which, like a snake's, only sloughed off
through decay — to be debarred this privilege
from certain prudential reasons. Yet such was the
appeared regularly every afternoon in a clean shirt,
and face still shining from his ablutions. Nor
were moral and social sanitary laws neglected.
“Tommy,” who was supposed to spend his whole
existence in a persistent attempt to repose, must
not be disturbed by noise. The shouting and yelling
which had gained the camp its infelicitous
title were not permitted within hearing distance
of Stumpy's. The men conversed in whispers, or
smoked with Indian gravity. Profanity was tacitly
given up in these sacred precincts, and throughout
the camp a popular form of expletive, known as
“D—n the luck!” and “Curse the luck!” was
abandoned, as having a new personal bearing. Vocal
music was not interdicted, being supposed to
have a soothing, tranquillizing quality, and one
song, sung by “Man-o'-War Jack,” an English
sailor, from her Majesty's Australian colonies,
was quite popular as a lullaby. It was a lugubrious
recital of the exploits of “the Arethusa,
Seventy-four,” in a muffled minor, ending with a
prolonged dying fall at the burden of each verse,
“On b-o-o-o-ard of the Arethusa.” It was a fine
sight to see Jack holding The Luck, rocking from
side to side as if with the motion of a ship, and
crooning forth this naval ditty. Either through
the peculiar rocking of Jack or the length of his
song, — it contained ninety stanzas, and was continued
end, — the lullaby generally had the desired effect.
At such times the men would lie at full length
under the trees, in the soft summer twilight, smoking
their pipes and drinking in the melodious
utterances. An indistinct idea that this was pastoral
happiness pervaded the camp. “This 'ere
kind o' think,” said the Cockney Simmons, meditatively
reclining on his elbow, “is 'evingly.” It
reminded him of Greenwich.
On the long summer days The Luck was usually
carried to the gulch, from whence the golden store
of Roaring Camp was taken. There, on a blanket
spread over pine-boughs, he would lie while the
men were working in the ditches below. Latterly,
there was a rude attempt to decorate this bower
with flowers and sweet-smelling shrubs, and generally
some one would bring him a cluster of wild
honeysuckles, azaleas, or the painted blossoms of
Las Mariposas. The men had suddenly awakened
to the fact that there were beauty and significance
in these trifles, which they had so long trodden
carelessly beneath their feet. A flake of glittering
mica, a fragment of variegated quartz, a
bright pebble from the bed of the creek, became
beautiful to eyes thus cleared and strengthened,
and were invariably put aside for “The Luck.” It
was wonderful how many treasures the woods and
hillsides yielded that “would do for Tommy.” Surrounded
fairy-land had before, it is to be hoped that Tommy
was content. He appeared to be securely happy
albeit there was an infantine gravity about him
a contemplative light in his round gray eyes
that sometimes worried Stumpy. He was always
tractable and quiet, and it is recorded that once,
having crept beyond his “corral,” — a hedge of
tessellated pine-boughs, which surrounded his bed,
— he dropped over the bank on his head in the
soft earth, and remained with his mottled legs in
the air in that position for at least five minutes
with unflinching gravity. He was extricated without
a murmur. I hesitate to record the many
other instances of his sagacity, which rest, unfortunately,
upon the statements of prejudiced friends.
Some of them were not without a tinge of superstition.
“I crep' up the bank just now,” said Kentuck
one day, in a breathless state of excitement,
“and dern my skin if he was n't a talking to a jay-bird
as was a sittin' on his lap. There they was,
just as free and sociable as anything you please,
a jawin' at each other just like two cherry-bums.”
Howbeit, whether creeping over the pine-boughs
or lying lazily on his back blinking at the leaves
above him, to him the birds sang, the squirrels
chattered, and the flowers bloomed. Nature was
his nurse and playfellow. For him she would let
slip between the leaves golden shafts of sunlight
wandering breezes to visit him with the balm of
bay and resinous gums; to him the tall red-woods
nodded familiarly and sleepily, the bumble-bees
buzzed, and the rooks cawed a slumbrous accompaniment.
Such was the golden summer of Roaring Camp.
They were “flush times,” — and the Luck was with
them. The claims had yielded enormously. The
camp was jealous of its privileges and looked suspiciously
on strangers. No encouragement was
given to immigration, and, to make their seclusion
more perfect, the land on either side of the mountain
wall that surrounded the camp they duly preempted.
This, and a reputation for singular proficiency
with the revolver, kept the reserve of
Roaring Camp inviolate. The expressman — their
only connecting link with the surrounding world
— sometimes told wonderful stories of the camp.
He would say, “They 've a street up there in
`Roaring,' that would lay over any street in Red
Dog. They 've got vines and flowers round their
houses, and they wash themselves twice a day.
But they 're mighty rough on strangers, and they
worship an Ingin baby.”
With the prosperity of the camp came a desire
for further improvement. It was proposed to build
a hotel in the following spring, and to invite one
or two decent families to reside there for the sake
companionship. The sacrifice that this concession
to the sex cost these men, who were
fiercely sceptical in regard to its general virtue
and usefulness, can only be accounted for by their
affection for Tommy. A few still held out. But
the resolve could not be carried into effect for three
months, and the minority meekly yielded in the
hope that something might turn up to prevent it.
And it did.
The winter of 1851 will long be remembered in
the foot-hills. The snow lay deep on the Sierras,
and every mountain creek became a river, and
every river a lake. Each gorge and gulch was
transformed into a tumultuous watercourse that
descended the hillsides, tearing down giant trees
and scattering its drift and débris along the
plain. Red Dog had been twice under water, and
Roaring Camp had been forewarned. “Water put
the gold into them gulches,” said Stumpy. “It 's
been here once and will be here again!” And that
night the North Fork suddenly leaped over its
banks, and swept up the triangular valley of Roaring
Camp.
In the confusion of rushing water, crushing trees,
and crackling timber, and the darkness which
seemed to flow with the water and blot out the fair
valley, but little could be done to collect the scattered
camp. When the morning broke, the cabin of
up the gulch they found the body of its unlucky
owner; but the pride, the hope, the joy, the
Luck, of Roaring Camp had disappeared. They
were returning with sad hearts, when a shout from
the bank recalled them.
It was a relief-boat from down the river. They
had picked up, they said, a man and an infant,
nearly exhausted, about two miles below. Did
anybody know them, and did they belong here?
It needed but a glance to show them Kentuck
lying there, cruelly crushed and bruised, but still
holding the Luck of Roaring Camp in his arms.
As they bent over the strangely assorted pair, they
saw that the child was cold and pulseless. “He
is dead,” said one. Kentuck opened his eyes.
“Dead?” he repeated feebly. “Yes, my man, and
you are dying too.” A smile lit the eyes of the
expiring Kentuck. “Dying,” he repeated, “he 's a
taking me with him, — tell the boys I 've got the
Luck with me now”; and the strong man, clinging
to the frail babe as a drowning man is said to
cling to a straw, drifted away into the shadowy
river that flows forever to the unknown sea.
| The luck of Roaring Camp, and other sketches | |