Death Valley in \'49 by William Lewis Manly

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After some delay I concluded to write to my parents in Michigan and give
them a long letter with something of a history of my travels, and to
refresh my memory I got out my memorandum I had kept through all my
journey.

As my letter was liable to be quite lengthy I bought a quantity of
foolscap paper and begun. I took my diary as my guide, and filled out
the ideas suggested in it so they would understand them. I soon ran
through with my paper and bought more, and kept on writing. The weather
was cold and stormy, and I found it the best occupation I could have to
prevent my being lonesome; so I worked away, day after day, for about a
month, and I was really quite tired of this sort of work before I had
all the facts recorded which I found noted down in my diary. My notes
began in March, 1849, in Wisconsin, and ended in February, 1852, on my
return to Mineral Point. I found, as the result of my elaboration, over
three hundred pages of closely written foolscap paper, and I felt very
much relieved when it was done. By the aid of my notes I could very
easily remember everything that had taken place during my absence, and
it was recorded in regular form, with day and date, not an incident of
any importance left out, and every word as true as gospel. I had neither
exaggerated nor detracted from any event so far as I could recollect.

I now loaned Mr. Hall, with whom I lived, six hundred dollars to enable
him to cross the plains to California and try to make his fortune. To
secure this I took a mortgage on his eighty-acre farm, and he set out to
make the journey. I had another eighty acres of land near here which I
bought at government price before going to California, but I could not
now sell it for what it cost me. When I went away I had left my chest
and contents with my friend Samuel Zollinger, and he had kept it safely,
so I now made him my lawful agent. I placed my narrative and some other
papers in the chest and gave the key into his charge, while I went
north, across the Wisconsin River, to visit my old hunting and trapping
friend, Robert McCloud. Here I made a very pleasant visit of perhaps a
week, and the common prospects of the country were freely talked over.
It seemed to us as if the good times were still far off; every day was
like Sunday so far as anything going on; no money in circulation, many
places abandoned, and, like myself, many had gone to California to seek
gold instead of lead. (The mines at Mineral Point are mostly of lead,
with some copper.)

Looking at matters in this light it did not need a great deal of
McCloud's persuasion to induce me to go back with him to California, all
the more so as my little pile seemed to look smaller every day, while
three or four years ago it would have seemed quite large. Deciding to
go, I wrote to Mr. Zollinger to send the account I had written to my
parents in Michigan, reading it first himself, and admonishing him not
to lend it. I also wrote to my parents telling them what they might look
for in the mails, and cautioning them never to have it printed, for the
writing was so ungrammatical and the spelling so incorrect that it would
be no credit to me.

I afterward learned that in time they received the bundle of paper and
read it through and through, and circulated it around the neighborhood
till it was badly worn, and laid it away for future perusal when their
minds should incline that way. But the farm house soon after took fire
and burned, my labor going up in smoke.

When the news of this reached me I resolved to try to forget all the
trials, troubles and hardships I had gone through, and which I had
almost lived over again as I wrote them down, and I said to myself that
I would not talk about them more than I could help, the sooner to have
them vanish, and never write them down again, but a few years ago an
accident befell me so that I could not work, and I back-slid from my
determination when I was persuaded so earnestly by many friends to write
the account which appeared a few years ago in the Santa Clara Valley now
the Pacific Tree and Vine, edited by H.A. Brainard, at San Jose,
California. The diary was lost, and from memory alone the facts have
been rehearsed, and it is but fair to tell the reader that the hardest
and worst of it has never been told nor will it ever be.

CHAPTER XVI.

McCloud and I now took his skiff, and for two days floated down the
Wisconsin River till we reached the Mississippi, boarded the first
steamboat we could hail, and let our own little craft adrift. In due
time we reached St. Louis and boarded another steamer for New Orleans.

At a wood-yard, about dark, a lot of negroes, little and big, came on
board to sell brooms. The boat's clerk seemed to know negro character
pretty well, so he got out his violin and played for them. For a while
the young colored gentry listened in silence, but pretty soon he struck
a tune that suited them, and they began to dance in their own wild
style.

In seven days from St. Louis we landed in New Orleans, and found the
government steamer, Falcon, advertised to sail in two days. We went
together to one of the slave warehouses. Outside and in all was neat end
clean, and any day you could see men, women and children standing under
the shed as a sign of what they had within, and the painted signs "For
Sale" displayed conspicuously. We were very civilly treated, and invited
to examine the goods offered for sale. There were those of all ages and
all colors, for some were nearly white and some intensely black, with
all the shades between. All were to be sold, separately, or in families,
or in groups as buyers might desire. All were made to keep themselves
clean and neatly dressed, and to behave well, with a smile to all the
visitors whether they felt like smiling or not. Some seemed really
anxious to get a good master, and when a kind, pleasant looking man came
along they would do their utmost to be agreeable to him and inquire if
he did not want to buy them. We talked it over some between ourselves,
and when we thought of the market and the human chattels for sale there,
McCloud spoke up and said:--"I am almost persuaded to be an
abolitionist."

I now went on board the steamer Falcon, in command of a government
officer, to try to learn something about the family of Capt. Culverwell
who perished alone in Death Valley. He told me he had once belonged to
the Navy and had his life insured, and as I was an important witness for
his family I wanted to learn where they lived. The Captain looked over a
list of officers, but Culverwell's name was not there. I then wrote a
letter to Washington stating the facts of his death, and my own address
in Sacramento, California. I also stated that I would assist the widow
if I could, but I never received an answer.

We soon started down the river, having on board about one hundred
passengers, men going to work on the Panama Railroad. At Chagres we
found a small stern wheeled river steamer and took passage on it for
Gorgona, as far as the steamer could well go up the river. While going
up we met a similar boat coming down, and being near a short bend they
crashed together, breaking down our guards severely, but fortunately
with no damage to our wheel. A few miles above this a dark passing cloud
gave us rain in streams, and we had to drift in near shore to wait for
the storm to pass. I never before saw water fall so fast, and yet in
half an hour the sun was out and burning hot.

Before we reached Gorgona we got acquainted with a man named John Briggs
from Wisconsin, and Lyman Ross from Rhode Island, and concluded to
travel in company. Our fare thus far was ten dollars, and two horses to
Panama for which we paid twelve dollars each. We now rode and walked
turn about, and when we inquired about the road we were told that being
once in it we could not possibly get out except at the other end, and
would need no guide, and at the end of a very disagreeable day's work we
reached the big gate at Panama and entered the ancient city.

We waited but little here before taking the steamer Southerner, bound
for San Francisco. Three days after we sailed away one of our passengers
went overboard, a corpse, and three or four more died and were buried
alongside before we reached Acapulco.

Here we took on water and coal and were soon at sea again. McCloud soon
had to take his place in the sick ward, and I attended him most of the
time, but was not allowed to give him anything without a permit from the
doctor, and the long delays between the administrations of medicine made
the sickness hard to endure. The sick could see the dead sewed up in
blankets with a bucket of coal for a weight; then resting on a plank
with sailors on each side, the mate would read the brief services
appropriate to a burial at sea, the plank was tilted, and the lifeless
body slid down into the depths. Such scenes were no benefit to the
suffering, for each might think his turn was next, when a bright hope
and prospect would be better for his recovery.

One forenoon the fire gong rang out sharply, and all was in confusion,
supposing the ship to be on fire, but nothing could be seen but a dense
fog, except as a gentle wind lifted it a little and there, dead ahead,
was a rocky island, against which it seemed we must dash to destruction,
for there was no beach and very little chance for any one to be saved.
Ten minutes more in this direction and we were lost, but the officers
quickly changed the course, and we passed the pile of rocks scarcely a
rifle shot away. Whose fault it was, this danger so miraculously
avoided, we did not know, the captain's or the imperfect chart, and
opinions were freely given both ways.

About those days the air felt cooler the fog less dense, and the foggy
rain-bows we had seen so much when the sun tried to shine, were scarce,
while a more northern wind created a coolness that made sick folks feel
refreshed and hopeful. It gave me a chance to cheer up my sick friend
who was still in bed, and tell him it would continue to be cooler as we
went.

On the Fourth of July the officers produced the ship's full supply of
flags, and the sailors climbed high and low, fastening them to every
rope till we had a very gay Independence day appearance. In this gay
dress we steamed into San Diego harbor to leave the mail for a few
soldiers stationed there, and get their letters in return.

I could see no town in San Diego, but a beautiful harbor, and some poor
looking mustard wigwams some way off seemed to contain the good people
of that place.

A boat with a small crew pulled out and came alongside to get the mail
and deliver theirs, and then we turned to sea again. The country all
around this beautiful little harbor looked mountainous and extremely
barren, and no one wanted to go on shore.

About dark we had made sufficient offing and turned northward, plowing
through large fields of kelp. The next morning the forward watch
announced land ahead, which could dimly be seen as the fog rose. The
officers rushed on deck and could see not far ahead a sandy beach, and a
moment more showed that we were headed directly for it, and that it was
not more than a quarter of a mile away. Quickly the helmsman was given
orders to steer almost west instead of the north course he had been
following. He was asked why he kept on his north course when he saw
danger ahead, and answered:--"It is my business to steer according to
orders, even if the ship goes ashore, and I can not change course unless
ordered to." The Captain now examined his chart and decided he was in
San Pedro harbor, off Los Angeles.

The sun came out bright and clear a little later, and I got McCloud out
of his bed and gave him a seat at the ship's side where he could see the
green grassy hills near the beach, and larger hills and mountains
farther back. We could see cattle feeding in the nearest pastures, and
the whole scene was a pleasant one; and as we sat on the eastern side of
the ship and snuffed the cool breeze which came from the north, we
thought we were comparatively happy people, and hoped that, if no
accident befell, we would soon be at the end of our voyage.

On the seventh day of July, 1851, we entered the Golden Gate, this being
my second arrival in California. On our trip from Panama seven or more
had died and been buried at sea, but the remainder of us were quite safe
and sound. We found the heart of the city still smoking, for a fire had
broken out on July fourth and burned extensively, and these broad,
blackened ruins were the result. Some said the work had been done by the
Sidney "ducks" and their numerous helpers, who were really the rulers of
the city. The place now looked much worse than it did when I left in
November before. These Sidney "ducks" were English convicts from
Australia, and other thieves and robbers joined them as agreeable
companion, making a large class that seemed to glory in destruction and
a chance for booty.

I walked around over the hills where I could see the burned district and
the destruction of so much valuable property, and when I thought the
civil law was not strong enough to govern, it seemed to me it would be a
good place for such men as the Helms brothers of Georgetown to come down
and do a little hanging business, for they could here find plenty to do,
and they could carry out their plan of letting no guilty man escape.

About four o'clock one afternoon we went aboard the Sacramento steamer,
Antelope, paying our passage with half an ounce apiece, and were soon on
our way past the islands and up the bay. When we were beyond Benicia,
where the river banks were close, McCloud sat watching the shore, and
remarked that the boat ran like a greyhound, and it seemed to him, beat
the old ocean steamer pretty bad.

He seemed to be nearly well again, and complimented me as the best
doctor he ever saw. Since he had been sick I had paid him all the
attention I could, and he gave me all the praise I deserved, now that he
was getting to feel himself again.

At Sacramento we changed to another boat bound for Marysville, which
place we reached without special incident. Here we invested in a
four-ounce donkey, that is, we paid four ounces of gold for him, just an
ounce apiece for four of us--W.L. Manley, Robert McCloud, Lyman Ross and
John Briggs. We piled our blankets in a pack upon the gentle, four-ounce
donkey, and added a little tea and coffee, dried beef and bread, then
started for the Yuba River, ourselves on foot. We crossed the river at
Park's Bar, then went up the ridge by way of Nigger Tent, came down to
the river again at Goodyear Bar, then up the stream to Downieville. This
town was named after John Downie, a worthless drunkard. I remember that
he once reformed, but again back-slid and died a drunkard's death.

We found this a lively mining town about sixty miles above Marysville,
on the north fork of the Yuba River, and only reached by a pack trail,
but everything was flush here, even four aces. The location was a
veritable Hole-in-the-Ground, for the mountains around were very high,
and some of them wore their caps of snow all summer, particularly those
on the east. The gold dust we found here was coarser than it was where I
worked before, down south on the Merced River. Before I came to
California I always supposed that gold dust was really dust, and about
as fine as flour.

We went up the North Fork about a mile or two above town and camped on
Wisconsin Flat to begin our mining operations. Our luck was poor at
first, and all except myself were out of money, and more or less in debt
to me. We made expenses, however, and a little more, and as soon as Mr.
Ross got his small debt paid he said he was discouraged mining, and with
blankets on his shoulders started up the trail towards Galloway's ranch,
on the summit south of town. Mr. Ross said the work was too hard for
him, for he was not strong enough to handle pick and shovel, and he
believed he could go down to Sacramento and make more by his wits than
he could here. I went with him to town and saw him start off with a fair
load on his back, and watched him as he toiled up the steep mountain
trail for about two miles, when he went out of sight.

The rest of us kept on mining. Our luck was not very good, but we
persevered, for there was nothing to be gained by fainting by the way. I
went into an old abandoned shaft about ten feet deep and found the
bottom filled with a big quartz boulder, and as I had been a lead miner
in Wisconsin, I began drifting, and soon found bed rock, when I picked
up a piece of pure gold that weighed four ounces. This was what I called
a pretty big find, and not exactly what I called gold dust. It was quite
a surprise to me, for the gravel on the bed rock was only about three or
four inches thick.

We kept on drifting for some time, sometimes making good wages, and on
the whole so satisfactory that we concluded to stay. We now located some
claims back in the flat where the ground would be thirty feet deep, and
would have to be drifted. These we managed to hold until winter, and in
the meantime we worked along the river and could make something all the
time.

We put in a flume between two falls on the Middle Fork, but made only
wages, and I got my arm nearly broken, and had to work with one hand for
nearly a month.

One afternoon I went crevicing up the river, and found a crevice at the
water's edge about half an inch wide, and the next day we worked it out
getting forty ounces, and many of the pieces were about an inch long and
as large around as a pipe-stem.

Winter was now near by, and we set to work to build a cabin and lay in a
stock of grub, which cost quite a good deal, for the self-raising flour
which we bought was worth twenty cents a pound, and all kinds of hog
meat fifty cents, with other supplies in proportion. Our new claims now
paid very well. Snow came down to the depth of about four feet around
our cabin, but as our work was under ground, we had a comfortable place
all winter.

In the spring McCloud and I went to Sacramento and sold our chunks of
gold (it was all very coarse) to Page, Bacon & Co. who were themselves
surprised at the coarseness of the whole lot. When our savings were
weighed up we found we had made half an ounce a day, clear of all
expenses, for the entire year.

We now took a little run down to San Francisco, also to Santa Clara
where we staid a night or two with Mr. McCloud's friend, Mr. Otterson,
and then went back to our claims again. In taking care of our money we
had to be our own bankers, and the usual way was to put the slugs we
received for pay into a gallon pickle jar, and bury this in some place
known only to our particular selves, and these vaults we considered
perfectly safe. The slugs were fifty dollar pieces, coined for
convenience, and were eight-sided, heavy pieces. In the western counties
the people called them "Adobies," but among the miners they were
universally known as "Slugs."

The winter proved a little lonesome, the miners mostly staid at home and
worked. During the year we had been here I had not seen a respectable
woman in this mining country. There were few females here, and they were
said to be of very doubtful character. As a general thing people were
very patient with their wickedness, but not always.

Twice only in the history of California were women made the victims of
mob violence, once at Los Angeles and once at Downieville. The affair at
the last-named place occurred in 1851, and the victim was a pretty
little Spanish woman named Juanita. She and her husband, like many
another couple at that time, kept a monte game for the delectation of
the miners who had more money than sense, but beyond this fact
absolutely nothing was said against her character.

There was an English miner named Cannon living in town, who was very
popular among a large number of gamblers and others. He got drunk one
night and about midnight went to the house occupied by the Spanish woman
and her husband and kicked the door down. Early the following morning he
told his comrades that he was going to apologize to the woman for what
he had done. He went alone to the house, and, while talking with the
husband and wife, the woman suddenly drew a knife and stabbed Cannon to
the heart. What had been said that provoked the deed was never known,
further than that Juanita claimed she had been grossly insulted.

She was given a mock trial, but the facts of the case were not brought
out, as the men who were with Cannon were too drunk to remember what had
happened the previous night. It was a foregone conclusion that the poor
woman was to be hanged, and the leaders of the mob would brook no
interference. A physician examined Juanita and announced to the mob that
she was in a condition that demanded the highest sympathy of every man,
but he was forced to flee from town to save his life. A prominent
citizen made an appeal for mercy, but he was driven down the main street
and across the river by a mob with drawn revolvers, and with threats of
instant death. The well-known John B. Weller was in town at the time,
and was asked to reason with the mob, but refused to do so.

The execution was promptly carried out. A plank was put across the
supports of the bridge over the Yuba, and a rope fastened to a beam
overhead. Juanita went calmly to her death. She wore a Panama hat, and
after mounting the platform she removed it, tossed it to a friend in the
crowd, whose nickname was "Oregon," with the remark, "Adios amigo." Then
she adjusted the noose to her own neck, raising her long, loose tresses
carefully in order to fix the rope firmly in its place, and then, with a
smile and wave of her hand to the bloodthirsty crowd present, she
stepped calmly from the plank into eternity. Singular enough, her body
rests side by side, in the cemetery on the hill, with that of the man
whose life she had taken.

On Sundays Downieville was full of men, none very old, and none very
young, but almost every one of middle age. Nearly every man was coarsely
dressed, with beard unshaved and many with long hair, but on any
occasion of excitement it was not at all strange to see the coarsest,
roughest looking one of all the party mount a stump and deliver as
eloquent an address as one could wish to hear. On Sunday it was not at
all unusual for some preacher to address the moving crowd, while a few
feet behind him would be a saloon in full blast, and drinking, gambling,
swearing and vulgar language could be plainly seen and heard at the same
time, and this class of people seemed to respect the Sunday preacher
very little. The big saloon was owned by John Craycroft, formerly a mate
on a Mississippi River steamboat, who gained most of his money by
marrying a Spanish woman and making her a silent partner.

One enterprising man who was anxious to make money easily, took a notion
to try his luck in trade, so, as rats and mice were troublesome in shops
and stores, he went down to the valley and brought up a cargo of cats
which he disposed of at prices varying from fifty to one hundred dollars
each, according to the buyer's fancy.

During the summer Kelley the fiddler came up in the mines to make a
raise, and Craycroft made him a pulpit about ten feet above the floor in
his saloon, having him to play nights and Sundays at twenty dollars per
day. He was a big uneducated Irishman, who could neither read nor write,
but he played and sang and talked the rich Irish brogue, all of which
brought many customers to the bar. In the saloon could be seen all sorts
of people dealing different games, and some were said to be preachers.
Kelley staid here as long as he could live on his salary, and left town
much in debt, for whiskey and cards got all his money.

One of the grocers kept out a sign, "CHEAP JOHN, THE PACKER," and kept a
mule to deliver goods, which no other merchant did, and in this way
gained many friends, and many now may praise the enterprise of Cheap
John, the Packer. Prices were pretty high in those days. Sharpening
picks cost fifty cents, a drink of whiskey one dollar, and all kinds of
pork, fifty cents per pound. You could get meals at the McNutty house
for one dollar. The faro and monte banks absorbed so much of the small
change that on one occasion I had to pay five dollars for a two dollar
pair of pants in order to get a fifty dollar slug changed.

No white shirts were worn by honest men, and if any man appeared in such
a garment he was at once set down as a gambler, and with very little
chance of a mistake. One Langdon had the only express office, and
brought letters and packages from Sacramento. I paid one dollar simply
to get my name on his letter list, and when a letter came I had to pay
one dollar for bringing it up, as there was no Post Office at
Downieville.

Newspapers were eagerly sought for, such was the hunger for reading. The
Western folks bought the St. Louis papers, while Eastern people found
the New York Tribune a favorite. One dollar each for such papers was the
regular price. It may seem strange, but aside from the news we got from
an occasional newspaper, I did not hear a word from the East during the
two years I remained on Yuba river. Our evenings were spent in playing
cards for amusement, for no reading could be got. The snow between
Marysville and Downieville was deep and impassable in winter, but we
could work our drifting claims very comfortably, having laid in a stock
of provisions early in the season, before snowfall. The nights seemed
tediously long and lonesome, for when the snow was deep no one came to
visit us, and we could go nowhere, being completely hemmed in. All the
miners who did not have claims they could work underground, went down
below the winter snow-line to find work, and when the snow went off came
back again and took possession of the old claims they had left.

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