Gold Rush Girl Read online

  That pleased me.

  But now that I had resumed my female garb, I was confronted with another problem. As I learned, there were no separate accommodations for females.

  The ship’s chaplain, who was migrating to California, was traveling with his wife. No doubt because of his calling, they had their own tiny cabin beneath the rear deck. As for the two other wives on board, one with a little boy, they simply shared bunks with their respective spouses. As for other girls my age, there were none.

  I will be the first to admit that this was a circumstance to which I had given no thought. Further, no complaint could be made to the ship’s captain because, to begin with, I had no business being on board. And, as I have said, my father and I were not going to draw attention to my dishonest presence.

  However, considering how passengers were lodged on that tween deck, my being there proved no great difficulty. Jacob and I shared a shelf — head to toe, toe to head. Father — with a gallantry I had not expected — took his sleep on the deck planking, with no softening save some blankets. We slept in our regular clothing.

  But the ship’s owners, seeking to maximize profits by the flood of passengers seeking gold in California, had booked far more people than the shelf-beds they had hastily constructed to accommodate them. Thus people were truly aswarm, on their berths, on the deck, in every nook, cranny, and corner of the ship, wherever they could sleep, sit, or stand. Since the little light that existed on the tween deck came from a few lantern lights, one had the impression of a dark, crowded church, with barely a clear vision as to who was next to you.

  Nor did it smell good, being stenchy and close. Though all were required to clean their spaces, it remained a filthy place. Hardly a wonder, then, that when the weather was bright, fair, and mild — and even when it was not — many a passenger (including me) spent their days on the main deck breathing the unsullied sea air.

  When I needed to change my clothes, the chaplain’s wife was kind enough to provide me — and the two other women — moments of privacy in her cabin.

  However thrumming the departure of a great ship might be and the undeniable adventure of being a stowaway, the seven-month voyage of the Stephanie K. which followed was, I fear, tenfold tedious. The truth is, our voyage was disappointingly dull to the extreme. If I were to describe it in full detail, you would put these pages down and never return. Would you enjoy reading:

  FEBRUARY 20: Sailed six knots.

  FEBRUARY 21: Sailed seven knots. Spied ship on the distant horizon.

  FEBRUARY 22: Sailed three knots. Saw nothing but waves. They were much the same.

  I trust you will agree that it is wise that I don’t share every moment of my voyage with you.

  But you should know some details.

  The ship: The decks never stayed level or still but continually shifted, so that the timbers (like old people’s bones) forever groaned and creaked.

  Food: It was grim. Salted meats, hard biscuits, beans, and bad-tasting water. Eating times at the two long common tables on the tween deck were raucous, with displays of truly appalling manners.

  Passengers: Endlessly impatient, constantly complaining about crowded conditions and our slow speed, criticizing the captain no matter what he did, forever arguing amongst themselves about matters mostly minor.

  Some things were unusual: I received fourteen offers of marriage. When the first came — from a tall gentleman with an enormous mustache — I was shocked. When the second proposal came — from a dandy with the smell of rose perfume suffusing the air — I was puzzled. By the fourteenth proposal, I could only laugh. Naturally I refused them all.

  I didn’t tell Father of these offers. I did tell Jacob, and I do believe it began to alter his vision of me. It is one thing to have an older sister. It is quite another to have a married sister. It was as if only then did he realize our lives would be different. But then, I think boys think far less about the future than girls.

  Regarding amusements, whenever I saw someone reading a book, particularly a multivolume novel — which was more often than you might expect — I made bold to inquire if, when they were done, I might borrow it. Thus I read fine new publications such as Oliver Twist, Wuthering Heights, and Vanity Fair, books different one from the other, but good and happily long. I extended the time of reading by sharing them aloud with Jacob.

  In fact, almost all my time was spent in Jacob’s company. But then, I hold that the more one loves another — as Jacob and I do — the less reason there is for talk. Silence is a form of tranquility. Beware companions who require talk. Being together should be enough.

  So it was that for many a long hour and days Jacob and I leaned against the bulwark rail and did little more than gaze upon the endless gray-blue sea. At night, I read him books by lantern light until we slept.

  To be sure, during the voyage there were moments of interest. Most exhilarating was when it seemed as if the ship were in peril, such as when we passed through what the sailors called the williwaws, the roiling, savage, wintry tempests at the southernmost point of South America. One’s life, I decided, is enhanced when embracing danger.

  How cold was it when we went around the Horn? Ice crusted the rigging and coated the rails and had to be broken off with mallets. Why, the captain’s beard froze so that he had to lean over a heated stove to thaw it out.

  Winding our way through those tempestuous channels, it took four men to control the steering. The ship bowled and dipped so, that with no sides on the shelf berths, people rolled out as they slept. One man broke his arm. Many became sick.

  Cape Horn, the forlorn bit of land which marked the southernmost spot of South America, rose (I was informed) to twelve hundred feet, and was snow covered.

  The captain’s skill brought us out into the Pacific Ocean, and we headed north, where the seas gradually became calm and the sun grew warm.

  The cities, at which we paused — Rio de Janeiro (Brazil), Callao (Peru) — to take on fresh food and water, were fascinating to see. Quite exotic. But only I seemed interested. The truth is there was little concern upon the Stephanie K. for anything other than San Francisco and gold. If anticipation were riches, we would already have been the wealthiest ship at sea.

  I admit I too spent much time imagining what lay before me: I thought of San Francisco as a city of prodigious beauty set upon a picturesque bay (so it had been described), a metropolis full of riches and elegant things, altogether serene with strong, handsome — and dare I say it — wealthy people. It was oft called El Dorado, recalling that mythical city of fabulous wealth. This is to say, I populated the city with every bit of my wistful imagination.

  As for where the easy gold might be found, I envisioned a stately forest, with wide, earthy paths bordered with glittery nuggets of gold, which I gathered like dropped ripe apples. Quickly our family life would be endowed with fabulous riches like those in the finest fairy tales.

  But, as we were coming up the west coast of Mexico — drawing ever nearer to our goal of California — things began to change for me yet again in a major way.

  FATHER SAT JACOB AND ME DOWN NEAR OUR berths on the tween deck. We were hardly alone: many passengers were sleeping or sitting about us playing cards, reading, or talking. As the ship rolled and pitched, the whale-oil lamps that dangled from the ceiling swung like clock bobs, causing shadows to leap about us like agile acrobats.

  “I have learned some things of great importance,” Father began. “As you know, we are approaching San Francisco. I have been talking with some of the men who will be going to the mines. Everybody agrees upon some things.

  “The first thing: the gold will not be found in San Francisco. One must go some eighty or more miles along the bay to what are called the diggings. Obviously I must go there.

  “The second: Tory, it will be unwise for you to go to these diggings with me. The conditions there, I’ve been reliably informed, are not at all suitable for a girl. I thought I’d easily find us a house there. I have learned su
ch homes do not even exist.

  “Also, people insist that it would be just as big a mistake to leave you, Tory, alone in San Francisco. Therefore, Jacob shall stay with you. While I go to reap my share of gold, you two must stay behind in the town, together.”

  “Left behind?” cried Jacob.

  I too protested. “But these men you’ve talked to have never been to San Francisco or the mines. How could they know what the conditions are?”

  “I assure you,” said Father, “they know much more than you. And may I remind you, dear Victoria, that you were not invited to come. You chose,” he said in a lowered voice, “to make your way upon this ship on your own. I trust that the same strength of character will guide you in San Francisco.

  “Beyond all else, I feel it’s my obligation to gather wealth before Mother comes. She deserves that. And I intend to prove myself to Aunt Lavinia.”

  “But —”

  “I am your father” was his closing argument. “You are my daughter. Therefore, you shall do as I say.”

  “Dear Father —”

  “Of course,” he continued with barely a pause, “I’m informed that San Francisco is a fine, modern city. Before I go to the mines, I promise you I’ll find a suitable house and provide sufficient funds so you may take care of it. I shall hire a servant. I’ll enroll Jacob in a good school. Don’t forget, I have every expectation that Mother will arrive not long after we get there. You’ll need to be there to welcome her. The truth is, her health may require it. The three of you can wait in perfect leisure for me to come back with my fortune. Then we shall have what we once had — and more.”

  Father adamantly refused to listen to any objections from Jacob or me. In other words, while he went to gather his gold, Jacob and I must remain in San Francisco, alone.

  How did I feel about this proposal? When first I heard it, I went to the main deck and, with Mother’s red shawl around me, stared angrily out at the sea. But the more thought I gave to Father’s decision, the more my temper shifted from vexation to consent to delight. Belatedly, I realized, I was being given the opportunity to prove how truly independent I was. I would live in total freedom. I could not ask for more.

  Once I embraced this unexpected independence, I was full of eager anticipation. For the first time in my life, I would — excepting Jacob — live alone.

  As for taking care of my brother, I thought nothing of it. We remained as close as siblings could be. We would have no conflicts. School must take up most of Jacob’s time. I assumed we would have a servant to attend to his needs. While that happened, I intended to live free, far freer than in Providence. Let me further confess: I began to think how wonderful our new wealth would be. In other words, I could hardly wait to arrive. We had only to reach San Francisco for my full liberation to take place.

  We continued to sail up the Mexican coast — as we were informed, for we could not see it — drawing ever closer to the city of San Francisco. Alas, the trade winds were such that we had to go far north and west, as if heading for the Sandwich Islands, then tack about so as to sail south and east.

  Just as we reached our long-anticipated goal — it was August 1849, and we had been at sea for six months — we were again thwarted. A thick fog obscured the California coast. While our captain insisted we were close to the narrow entry known as the Golden Gate, which would lead us into San Francisco Bay and the fabled city, that passage was not easily located. The captain likened his task to threading a needle. To proceed without precision, he announced, was extremely dangerous. What’s more, the flow of tide in and out through this Golden Gate was famously fierce. We might, he warned us, be wrecked.

  To be sure, the captain took pains to tell us that those within the bay were no doubt just as frustrated about getting out since the fog inside was probably just as dense there.

  It was all wonderfully emotive. Shadowy fog. Hidden vistas. Possible wreckage. The true exhilaration of travel. All we lacked were pirates.

  In any case, we were forced to sail back and forward, north and then south, for five days, trying to avoid, on one side, the rocky off-coast Farallon Islands, while we tried to find, on the other side, the Golden Gate, the way into the great San Francisco Bay, and the fabulous fields of gold.

  As you might expect, after such a lengthy voyage, my anticipation was high. Jacob and I stood (with many other impatient passengers) upon the deck and stared out day after day, hour by hour, into the wet and swirling ashen air. I, for one, found the thick fog to be wonderfully haunting. What wonders was it concealing? Oh, the sweet suspense.

  Yes, it was frustrating. Still, is there not something sublime in frustration when you know that joy must arrive shortly? It is like a coming birthday; you know a present will be given to you, but you can’t bring the date forward.

  “There! There!” someone would call as the fog lifted momentarily. Brown and green promontories appeared. A log upon the sea. A leafy branch. Then, oh, the sighs of dismay from all when, next moment, everything became lost to view and the miasma reclaimed the world.

  At last, however, the haze melted. A lovely buttery sun revealed itself on high. The sky was blue. Midst enormous excitement and the highest expectations, we sailed through the Golden Gate, with its jagged and steep cliffs to either side. How awe-inspiring.

  Next, the celebrated San Francisco Bay unfolded before us like a fan of paradise. The inland sea was truly immense, big enough to hold all the navies of the world. Waters sparkling as if alive. Pods of dolphins cavorted about our bow. Overhead, pelicans barked and gulls squawked their welcome.

  We sailed by a high hill, and what appeared to be a small, uninhabited, and rather spectral-looking island, where there were no dwellings, only countless birds.

  Then for the first time, there before me, I beheld the celebrated city of San Francisco.

  What I saw stunned me.

  PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND — THE ONLY CITY I knew — was a large, old metropolis, set upon a graceful tree-crested hill with a multitude of fine wood, brick, and stone homes. Dignified office blocks and a busy port with many wharves were part of its commercial center.

  By way of contrast, San Francisco was set amidst steep, scrubby hills the color of dead straw, with dusty, sandy dunes and little shrubbery. Its former name was Yerba Buena, Spanish for “good herb.” But those minty-tasting bushes were, for the most part, gone, replaced by stunted shrubs and a muddle of low, wretched, lopsided buildings. These pathetic structures came right down to the water as if they had slid off the hills into a great jumblement. I observed but one small wharf, plus a few others being constructed. What a dismal, quilt-without-color vista!

  Though we approached a landing cove, perhaps a mile wide, our ship was required to anchor many yards from shore because the waters were so shallow. I could see, and worse, smell, broad flats of obnoxious mud. Even more remarkable, within the cove, as though stuck in that mud, were great numbers of ships. They appeared altogether abandoned: a fleet of ghostlike vessels.

  But before I could make sense of what I was seeing, our noble captain, after six months of sailing, cried out, “Stand clear. Let go anchor!”

  What followed was something close to a riot, while almost two hundred passengers, so long confined, in near pandemonium, clamored to get off. It was as if people believed fist-size gold nuggets lay upon the nearby beach, and all were determined, nay, desperate, to claim their share. What’s more, not only did the passengers rush to disembark, but the entire crew — captain included — also left. They too, some with their sea chests on their shoulders, were in quest of gold.

  One hears the expression “rats abandoning a sinking ship.” Though we were not sinking and I did not see any rats leaving, we were, nonetheless, left behind. It seemed that no one wished to have anything more to do with the steadfast Stephanie K. The promised gold upon the land was the only desire.

  Yet none of the passengers could walk off. They had to be carried ashore by a flotilla of large rowboats called lighters.
Multi-oared, these boats rushed out to meet us and poked about our hull like so many nursing piglets. Furthermore, the men who rowed these lighters implored our custom and asked — nay, demanded — whether we had goods to sell. Then, to be carried to shore, these same rowers — better to call them thieves — insisted upon payment of three or five dollars. It was but our first experience of the extraordinary cost of living in San Francisco.

  Though Father managed to disembark, he told Jacob and me to remain on board while he went ashore to find and rent a fine house in which we might live.

  “Be patient,” he said. “I want to make sure we have a graceful home.”

  It did not take long before our ship was mostly emptied of people: no crew or officers remaining and almost no passengers. The Stephanie K.’s sails hung limp, her deck littered with discarded things, from boots to barrels. Jacob and I could have taken possession of the ship and sailed her to China if we’d had the skills. Having no such talent, there was little for us to do but to stare at this strange place called San Francisco.

  I was looking at a city — as I would later learn — made of prefabricated wood-frame houses with cloth (or paper) walls, lopsided packing boxes converted into homes, a few brick and adobe houses, plus flimsy wood houses from China. There were even peculiar iron houses from New York. Proper buildings were rare. No elegant squares.

  Nothing I observed of the city appeared attractive. San Francisco seemed to consist, mostly, of a multitude of sailcloth tents of different colors. Tents. Thousands of them. I was reminded of a large revival meeting camp. Yet I knew perfectly well it was gold the inhabitants were seeking here, not God. Truth to tell, I saw not one church spire. I would learn later than even our ship’s chaplain and his wife had set off for the gold mines.

  No, I observed not a hint of the extraordinary fabled wealth. The worst of Providence seemed vastly more refined than the best of San Francisco. The word style could hardly be used here — surely not by me. The land of glittering gold revealed itself as mostly rich in rubbish.