Book: California 1849 1913
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L.H. Woolley >> California 1849 1913
California
1849-1913
Trip Across the Plains.
The year 1849 has a peculiarly thrilling sensation to the California
Pioneer, not realized by those who came at a later date. My purpose in
recording some of my recollections of early days is not for publication
nor aggrandizement, but that it may be deposited in the archives of my
descendants, that I was one of those adventurers who left the Green
Mountains of Vermont to cross the plains to California, the El Dorado -
the Land of Gold.
In starting out I went to Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Cincinnati,
St. Louis and Independence, Missouri. Here I joined the first mule train
of Turner, Allen & Co.'s Pioneer Line. It consisted of forty wagons, one
hundred and fifty mules, and about one hundred and fifty passengers. We
left the frontier on the fourteenth of May 1849, and here is where our
hardships commenced. Many of us had never known what it was to "camp
out" and do our own cooking. Some of the mules were wild and unbroken,
sometimes inside the traces, sometimes outside; sometimes down,
sometimes up; sometimes one end forward and sometimes the other; but
after a week or two they got sobered down so as to do very well.
Our first campfire at night was on the Little Blue River, a few miles
from Independence; it was after dark when we came to a halt, and it was
my friend Gross' turn to cook, while the rest brought him wood and water
and made a fire for him by the side of a large stump. I knew he was a
fractious man, so I climbed into one of the wagons where I could see how
he got along. The first thing that attracted my attention was the coffee
pot upside down, next away went the bacon out of the pan into the fire.
By this time he was getting warm inside as well as outside, and I could
hear some small "cuss words"; next he looked into the Dutch oven, and
saw that his dough had turned to charcoal. I got down into the wagon out
of sight, and peeked through a crack; he grew furious, danced around the
fire, and the air was full of big words. Finally we got a little coffee
and some cakes and bacon, then I undertook to do a little sleeping but
it was no go. Thus ended my first night on the Plains.
In the morning we started on our journey to travel over a level
untimbered, uninhabited country for nearly four hundred miles, without
anything of especial interest occurring save cholera, from which there
was terrible suffering. We lost about seventy-five of our number before
we reached Fort Laramie, seven hundred miles from Missouri.
There was a Dutchman in my mess by the name of Lamalfa, who understood
but little of English. We had dubbed him "Macaroni" for having brought a
lot of the stuff with him and on our second night out it came his turn
to stand guard. He was detailed to the inner guard and instructed as to
his duties. On the relief of the outer sentinel and his return to camp,
Lamalfa issued the challenge which was to repeat three times "Who comes
there?" and in case of no response to fire, and as the outer sentinel
came upon him he called out "Who comes there three times" and fired;
fortunately he was a poor shot and no harm was done.
It seems that "Macaroni" was not aware of there being an outer guard.
When near Fort Childs, four hundred miles out, all the passengers left
the wagons, except the drivers, and walked on in advance, leaving the
wagons light (they were canvas covered). There came up one of those
terrible hailstorms, common in that country, which pelted the mules with
such severity as to cause them to take fright and run away, breaking
loose from the wagons which were taken by the storm in another
direction, first wheels up, then top, until the latter was all in rags;
then they stopped. When we came into camp at night they looked sorry
enough and you would have thought they had just come out of a fierce
fight.
We pursued our journey along the south bank of the Platte until we
reached Fort Laramie, capturing some antelopes and occasionally a
buffalo. Up to this time we had had a great deal of sickness in camp. I
remember one poor fellow (his name I have forgotten), we called him
Chihuahua Bob; he was a jovial, good natured fellow and drove one of the
eight-mule baggage wagons. I enquired about him one morning and was told
that he had died during the night of cholera, and had been left in his
shallow grave.
We met some returning emigrants that morning who had become discouraged
and were going back to their old homes This made me think of home and
friends, the domestic happy fireside, and all that I had left behind,
"but," said I to myself, "this won't do, I am too far out now; pluck is
the word and I'm not going back on it."
Early next morning we were once more upon our long journey, slowly
traveling towards the far, far West.
The first place of interest that presented itself to our view was a
narrow passage for the river between two perpendicular rocky banks,
which were about one hundred feet high and looked as though a man could
jump from one to the other at the top. This was called the "Devil's
Gate." Above and below was the broad prairie.
At intervals along the Platte were villages of prairie dogs, who were
about the size of large grey squirrels, but more chunky' of a brownish
hue, with a head somewhat resembling a bulldog. They are sometimes eaten
by the Indians and mountaineers. Their earth houses are all about two
feet deep; are made in the form of a cone; are entered by a hole in the
top, which descends vertically some two or more feet and then takes an
oblique course, and connects with others in every direction. These towns
or villages sometimes cover several hundred acres and it is very
dangerous riding over them on horseback.
We will now pass to another interesting object called "Chimney Rock"
which is not altogether unlike Bunker Hill Monument. It stands by itself
on the surrounding level country, with a conical base of about one
hundred and fifty feet in diameter and seventy-five feet high where the
nearly square part of the column commences, which is about fifty feet
on each of the four sides. It is of sandstone and certainly a very
singular natural formation. Altogether it is about two hundred feet
high. I will mention here that the banks of the Platte are low, that the
bed is of quicksand, that the river is very shallow and that it is never
clear. One of our company attempted to ford it on foot. When about
two-thirds over, in water up to his waist, he halted, being in doubt as
to whether he should proceed or return. While hesitating between two
opinions his feet had worked down into the quicksand and became so
imbedded that he could not extricate them. Realizing his perilous
position he at once gave the Masonic Grand hailing sign of distress and
in a moment there were several men in the water on their way to his
relief. They reached him in time and brought him safely into camp.
About this time there was considerable dissatisfaction manifested in
camp on account of the slow progress we were making. Some left the train
and went on by themselves, others realized the necessity of holding to
together to the last in order to protect themselves as well as to care
for those among us who were sick. The peculiar characteristics of the
party at this time seemed to be recklessness and indifference to the
situation, but the better judgment finally prevailed and we went on in
harmony.
The next three hundred miles were devoid of any especial interest. This
brings us to the summit of the Rocky Mountains (at South Pass) which
divides the rivers of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, and ends their
course thousands of miles apart. Here are the ever snow-capped peaks of
the Wind River Mountains looming up on the north. They are conical in
form and their base is about one thousand feet above the plain that
extends south. This brings us to the nineteenth day of July, 1849. On
the night of this day water froze to the thickness of one-fourth of an
inch in our buckets. The following day we commenced descending the
western slope, which was very rapid and rough. The twenty-first brought
us to Green River which was swollen and appeared to be a great barrier.
Here, for the first time, we brought our pontoons into use and swam the
mules, so that after two days of hard work we were all safely landed on
the west bank. We are now at the base of the Rocky Mountains on the
west, passing from one small valley to another, until we reached a bend
in the Bear River. Here let us pause for a moment and study the wonders
of nature.
First, the ground all around is covered with sulphur; here, a spring of
cold soda water; there, a spring of hot soda water; fourth, an oblong
hole about four by six inches in the rocky bank, from which spouts hot
soda water, like the spouting of a whale. It is called "Steamboat
Spring." It recedes and spouts about once in two minutes. All of these
are within a hundred steps of each other.
Now, our canteens, and every available vessel is to be filled with
water, for use in crossing forty-five miles of lava bed, where there is
neither water nor grass to be found and must be accomplished by
traveling day and night. This was called "Subletts' Cutoff," leaving
Salt Lake to the south of us, and brings us to the base of the mountains
at the source of the Humboldt River.
On the west side, in crossing over, we encountered a place in a gorge of
the mountain called "Slippery Ford," now called the "Devil's Half-Acre."
It was a smooth inclined surface of the rock and it was impossible for
the mules to keep their footing. We had great difficulty in getting over
it.
Now we are at the headwaters of the Humboldt River, along which we
traveled for three hundred miles, over an alkali and sandy soil until we
came to a place where it disappeared. This was called the "Sink of the
Humboldt." This valley is twenty miles wide by about three hundred long.
During this part of our journey there was nothing of interest to note.
The water of this river is strongly impregnated with alkali.
About forty miles in a southerly direction from the sink of the Humboldt
(now called the Lake) is old "Ragtown" on the banks of the Carson River,
not far from Fort Churchill. In traveling from one river to the other
there was no water for man or beast. When we were about half way we
found a well that was as salt as the ocean. We reached this well
sometime in the night of the first day and our mules were completely
fagged out, so we left the wagons, turned the mules loose, and drove
them through to the Carson, arriving there on the night of the second
day. Here was good grass and fine water, and bathing was appreciated to
its fullest extent.
We remained for several days to let our animals recruit, as well as
ourselves, then we went back and got the wagons. We traveled westward
through Carson Valley until we entered the Six Mile Canon, the roughest
piece of road that we found between Missouri and California. There were
great boulders from the size of a barrel to that of a stage coach,
promiscuously piled in the bed of this tributary to the Carson, and over
which we were obliged to haul our wagons. It took us two days to make
the six miles.
Arrival In California.
Now we see Silver Lake, at the base of the Sierra Nevadas on the east
side; our advance to the summit was not as difficult as we anticipated.
Having arrived at this point we are at the source of the south fork of
the American River and at the summit of the Sierra Nevadas. We now
commenced the descent on a tributary of this river.
After a day or two of travel we arrived at a place called Weaverville,
on the tenth day of September, 1849. This place consisted of one log
cabin with numerous tents on either side. Here was my first mining, but
being weary and worn out, I was unable to wield the pick and shovel, and
so I left in a few days for Sacramento where I undertook to make a
little money by painting, but it was a failure, both as to workmanship
and as to financial gain. However, by this time I had gained some
strength and left for Beal's Bar at the junction of the north and south
forks of the American River. Here I mined through the winter with some
success.
In the spring of 1850 thirty of us formed a company for the purpose of
turning the south fork through a canal into the north fork, thereby
draining about a thousand yards of the river bed. Just as we had
completed the dam and turned the water into the canal, the river rose
and away went our dam and our summer's work with it.
Winter coming on now nothing could be done until spring, so I left for
San Francisco where I had heard of the death of a friend at Burns' old
diggings on the Merced River, about seventy-five miles from Stockton,
and knowing that his life was insured in favor of his wife I went there
and secured the necessary proof of his death so that his widow got the
insurance. There was considerable hardship in this little trip of about
one week. On my return, and when within about thirty miles of Stockton,
I camped for the night at Knight's Ferry, picketed my pony out, obtained
the privilege of spreading my blankets on the ground in a tent and was
soon in a sound sleep, out of which I was awakened at about two o'clock
in the morning by feeling things considerably damp around me (for it had
been raining). I put out my hand and found I was lying in about three
inches of water. I was not long getting out of it, rolled up my
blankets, saddled my pony and left for Stockton. Here I arrived at about
nine o'clock, sold the pony, and was ready to leave at four o'clock for
San Francisco. While waiting here (Stockton) I became acquainted with a
Kentucky hunter who told me the story of his experiences of the day
previous. He said:
"I came to the place where you stayed last night, yesterday morning, and
was told that there were a number of bears in the neighborhood, and that
no one dared to hunt them. I remarked that that was my business, and I
would take a hand at it; I strapped on my revolvers and knife,
shouldered my Kentucky rifle and started out. I had not gone more than
half a mile, when I discovered one of the animals I was in search of,
and away my bullet sped striking him in the hip. I made for a tree and
he made for me! I won the race by stopping on the topmost branch, while
he howled at the base; while reloading my rifle I heard an answer to his
wailing for me or for his companion - it didn't matter which. Very soon
a second cry came from another direction, and still one more from the
third point of the compass. By this time one had reached the tree and I
fired killing him. Hastily reloading, I was just in time to fire as the
second one responded to the first one's howl; he fell dead; then the
third arrived and shared the same fate. Having allowed the first one to
live as a decoy, his turn came last; then I descended and looked over my
work - four full-grown bears lay dead at my feet."
To corroborate this statement I will say that I saw one of them on the
hooks in front of a butcher shop in Stockton, and the other three went
to San Francisco on the same boat that I did. I met the hunter on the
street about a week later and he told me that he realized seven hundred
dollars for his bears. I do not make the statement as a bear story, but
as a bare fact.
Life In the Mines.
The preceding pages were written about twenty years ago, and only
covered about one and one-half years after leaving the Green Mountains
of old Vermont. Since which time, I have experienced nearly all of the
vicissitudes of the State to the present time (1913). I will now attempt
to give an account of my stewardship from that time on. I date my
arrival in the State, Weaverville, about three miles below Hangtown (now
Placerville), September 10th, 1849. This was where I did my first
mining, which was not, much of a success, on account of my weak
condition caused by my having the so-called "land scurvy," brought on
from a want of vegetable food, and I left for Sacramento City where I
remained for a week or two and then left and went to Grass Valley. There
I made a little money, and went to Sacramento City and bought two wagon
loads of goods, went back to Grass Valley and started a hotel, ran it a
few weeks, and the first thing I knew I was "busted."
It is now in the winter of '49 and '50 and I went to Sacramento again,
and from Sacramento to Beal's Bar on the North Fork of the American
River at the junction of the North and South Forks. By this time I had
gained my strength so that I was more like myself, and I bought a
rocker, pick, shovel and pan and went into the gulches for gold. I had
fairly good luck until spring. By this time I had laid by a few hundred
dollars, and I joined a company of thirty to turn the South Fork of the
American River into the North Fork, by so doing we expected to drain
about one-fourth of a mile of the bed of the South Fork. The banks of
the river were rich and everything went to show that the bed of the
river was very rich, and we went to work with great hopes of a big
harvest of gold. The first thing we did was to build a dam, and dig a
canal, which we accomplished in about four months. About this time snow
and rain came on in the mountains, raised the water in the river and
washed away part of our dam. It was now too late to build again that
season.
Now you see the hopes and disappointments of the miner. While we were at
work on the canal we had occasion to blast some boulders that were in
our way. We had a blacksmith to sharpen the picks and drills who had a
portable forge on the point of land between the two rivers. When we were
ready to blast the rock we gave him timely warning, he paid no heed, the
blast went off, and a portion of a boulder weighing about 500 pounds
went directly for his forge and within about six inches of his legs and
went on over into the North Fork. The man turned about and hollered to
the boys in the canal "I surrender."
About this time the river had risen to such an extent that it was
thought advisable to suspend operations until the next spring. This was
a dividing of the roads, and each member had to look out for himself. I
went to Mokelumne Hill, staked out some claims and went to work to sink
a shaft through the lava to bedrock. The lava on the surface is very
hard, but grows softer as you go down. While I was thus banging away
with my pick and not making much headway, there came along a Mr.
Ferguson from San Francisco, on a mule. He stopped and looked at me a
minute and then said, "Young man, how deep do you expect to go before
you reach bedrock?" I said, "About 65 or 75 feet." "Well," said he,
"by --- you have got more pluck than any man I ever saw." He went on
and so did I, and I have not seen him since. It took me about two weeks
to get so that I could not throw the dirt to the surface, then I had to
make a windlass, get a tub and rope, and hire a man to help me at eight
dollars a day, and 50 cents a point for sharpening picks. These things
completed and in operation, I was able to make two or three feet per day,
and we finally reached the bedrock at a depth of 97 feet. The last two
feet in the bottom of the shaft I saved for washing, and had to haul it
about one mile to water. I washed it out and realized 3 1/2 ounces of very
coarse gold. Now we were on the bedrock and the next thing to do was to
start three drifts in as many directions. This called for two more men
to work the drifts, and a man with his team to haul the dirt to the
water, while I stood at the windless and watched both ends. This went on
for one week. When I washed out my dirt, paid off my help and other
expenses, I had two dollars and a half for myself.
About this time I was feeling a little blue and I gave directions for
each man in the drifts to start drifts to the left at the end of each
drift. This was done, and we went on for another week as before, and
this time I came out about one hundred dollars ahead. About this time a
couple of miners came along and offered me thirteen hundred dollars for
my claim, and I sold it, took the dust and went to Sacramento and sent
it to my father in Vermont. That paid up for all the money that I had
borrowed, and made things quite easy at home.
Now, I am mining again with cradle, pick, shovel and pan in gulches, on
the flats, in the river and on the banks, with miner's luck, up and
down, most of the time down. However, "pluck" was always the watchword
with me. I floated some of the time in water, some of the time in the
air, some of the time on dry land, it did not make much difference with
me at that time where I was. I was at home wherever night overtook me.
But finally I got tired of that and began to look about and think of
home and "the girl I left behind me."
Home Again. Married. Return to California.
In the spring of '52 I left San Francisco on the steamer "Independence"
via the "Nicaragua route" for New York, arrived there in course of a
month, and took train for Boston, where I found my father from Vermont
with a carload of horses. This was clover for me. We remained there a
week or ten days, then left for home. The "girl I left behind" was a
Vermont lady but was visiting a sister in Cincinnati, Ohio. In the
spring of 1853 I went on to Ohio to see the "girl I left behind me," and
married the "girl I had left behind me." We then went to Vermont, where
we remained until the year of 1854. In the summer of this year I had the
second attack of the "California fever." I called in Dr. Hichman and he
diagnosed my case, and pronounced it fatal, and said there was no
medicine known to science that would help me, that I must go, so I took
the "girl I left behind me" and started for San Francisco.
Vigilance Committee of 1865.
On my return to San Francisco it did not take me long to discover that
the city was wide open to all sorts of crime from murder, to petty
theft. In a very short time I became interested in the Pacific Iron
Works, and paid very little attention to what else was going on around
me until the spring of '56. Here was a poise of the scales, corruption
and murder on one side, with honesty and good government on the other.
Which shall be the balance of power, the first or the last?
On May 14th, 1856, James King, editor of the "Evening Bulletin," was
shot by Jas. P. Casey on the corner of Washington and Montgomery
streets. He lingered along for a few days and died. This was too much
for the people and proved the entering wedge for a second vigilance
committee. During the first 36 hours after the shooting there were 2,600
names enrolled on the committee's books. Of that number, I am proud to
say, I was the 96th member, and the membership increased until it
amounted to over 7,000.
Shooting of Gen. Richardson.
I will first relate a crime that had happened the November previous
(November 17, 1855), in which Charles Cora had shot and killed General
William H. Richardson, United States Marshal for the Northern District
of California. These men had a quarrel on the evening of November 17th,
1855, between 6 and 7 o'clock, which resulted in the death of General
Richardson by being shot dead on the spot in front of Fox & O'Connor's
store on Clay street, between Montgomery and Leidesdorff streets, by
Cora. Shortly after this Cora was arrested and placed in custody of the
City Marshal. There was talk of lynching, but no resort was had to
violence. Mr. Samuel Brannan delivered an exciting speech, and
resolutions were declared to have the law enforced in this trial.
General Richardson was a brave and honorable man, and beloved by all. He
was about 33 years of age, a native of Washington, D. C., and married.
Cora was confined in the County jail. We will now leave this case in the
mind of the reader and take it up later on.
Shooting of James King, of William.
On May 14th, 1856, the city was thrown into a great excitement by an
attempt to assassinate James King, of William, editor of the "Evening
Bulletin," by James P. Casey, editor of the "Sunday Times." Both Casey
and King indulged in editorials of a nature that caused much personal
enmity, and in one of the issues of the "Bulletin" King reproduced
articles from the New York papers showing Casey up as having once been
sentenced to Sing Sing. Casey took offense at the articles, and about 5
o'clock in the afternoon, at the corner of Montgomery and Washington
streets, intercepted King who was on his way home, drew a revolver,
saying, "Draw and defend yourself," and shot him through the left breast
near the armpit. Mr. King exclaimed, "I am shot," and reeling, was
caught up and carried to the Pacific Express office on the corner Casey
was quickly locked up in the station house[1].
Immediately following the shooting large crowds filled the streets in
the neighborhood anxious to hang to the nearest lamp post the
perpetrator of the crime. Casey was immediately removed to the County
jail for safer keeping. Here crowds again congregated, demanding the
turning over to them of Casey and threatening violence if denied. Mayor
Van Ness and others addressed them in efforts to let the law take its
course but the crowd which had been swelled into a seething mass,
remonstrated, citing the shooting of Marshal Richardson, and demanding
Cora, his assassin, that he, too, might be hanged.