Gold Rush Girl Page 5

  Let it be admitted, when one has been foolish enough to believe a myth, one casts more anger upon the myth than upon the fool (oneself!) who believed it.

  “Are we really going to live here?” Jacob asked me, his voice full of disbelief.

  For once my natural enthusiasm was so dimmed, I could only manage to say, “I fear so.”

  It was six long hours before Father returned. He came back, as he had gone, in one of those lighters. During that time, the prospect that lay before us became worse. The empty vessels remained but the tide had receded, so the mudflats had become further uncovered. These flats were full of small channels, which looked like wet snakes. And the stink was extreme.

  “Come along,” Father called up to us. “I have arranged that our belongings will be brought later.”

  Jacob shouted down with renewed excitement, “Have you found us a home?”

  “I have.”

  “Is it bigger than we had on Sheldon Street? Shall I have a large bedroom of my own?”

  “You will see,” said Father, but I detected something in his voice that gave me unease.

  “What about food?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  We were rowed to shore. The boatman, an old, grizzled fellow, with long-fingered, blue-veined hands and a battered top hat on his head, rowed his way through the twisty channels, maneuvering among those lifeless ships I’d previously observed. These fully masted ships were huge, towering over our heads, pressed one upon another, as I might imagine a desperate naval battle but without so much as one cannon boom. Instead there was an altogether alarming lack of life.

  Puzzled, I stared up at the gigantic vessels: multimasted fighting ships, barques, merchant ships, schooners, and brigs. There appeared to be hundreds of them. Yet all appeared derelict.

  “Why are these ships here?” I asked the man who was rowing us.

  “Discarded,” he said with a shrug. “The crews have gone off to the gold fields.”

  “Just left the ships?” asked Jacob, eyes wide with wonder.

  “Nobody wants them,” said our rower. “Help yourself if you’d like.” He gave a gap-toothed grin and nodded at Jacob. “You can be captain.”

  Sure enough, I observed signs nailed to the hulls of a few ships that read FOR SALE or FREE.

  As we wended our way, the forsaken ships bumped and banged one against another, creaking, rattling, and groaning. Some of them had begun to be stripped and torn apart. Others lay half sunk. It was all as extraordinary as it was grotesque: a fleet of ghostly hulks. But if they were apparitions, they were of a singular sort, for they threw off a strong stench, rather like bad cheese mixed with brackish seawater.

  Jacob pinched his nose so hard, its tip went white. I could only think, I want nothing to do with this.

  Our rower, who must have seen the look of amazement on our faces, grinned and said, “Folks are calling these ships Rotten Row.”

  WE REACHED THE BEACH, DISEMBARKED, THEN walked across the sandy waterside. To do so we had to sidestep discarded carpetbags, crates, casks, and bales, plus sacks of what appeared to be spilled coffee and spoiled flour. Beyond that, we reached a wide mud path.

  “Montgomery Street,” Father announced.

  A street? Barely. Not one cobblestone, but merely dirt, reduced in many places to a muddy quagmire. In wonder, I reached down to touch the gummy sludge. This slubber was everywhere, two, and sometimes three feet deep. I, who was too often like a spouting dictionary, was reduced to muteness.

  As far as I could see, San Francisco did not have any real streets, nothing like Providence. Instead, lanes two feet wide wound among a hodgepodge of shops, eating houses, plus whatever people called home.

  There were gambling establishments everywhere I looked, a quantity sufficient to challenge my mathematical reckoning. Nor could I begin to count how many drinking places — saloons and doggeries — I observed. The air was heavy with whiffs — no, rather clouds — of whiskey vapor.

  As for my ears, they were filled with a constant clamor, sounds of squabbling voices, shouts, and sometimes disturbing screams.

  Many shops had signs telling what they sold, but in such a litany of languages, I could not begin to guess what they offered. I had the odd sensation that we had arrived not in a different country but in many different countries, all squashed together. In short, my senses — sight, hearing, and touch — were disordered. My primary state of mind, bepuzzlement.

  All the same, Jacob and I followed Father up a steep hill, which he chose to call Sacramento Street. In so doing, we were required to avoid broken tubs and chests as well as thrown-away goods and rubbish, including what appeared to be a discarded open iron safe. The lack of storage space, Father explained, required goods to be stored outside. Theft, he assured us — I cannot say how he knew — was rare.

  A few sections of the muck-covered streets had narrow wooden planks upon which to tread. When we stepped on such, they sank into the ooze, with a gross sucking sound.

  The street filth required me to hold up my skirts, which became grimy anyway. The sludge oozed between my toes, so that my shoes, I was sure, were ruined. In truth, walking proved so difficult, I resolved that when we got to our new house, my man’s boots must be used.

  To my further disgust, I saw a multitude of scurrying rats, gray, black, and white ones with disturbingly pink eyes. Seeing us, these creatures lifted their revolting bewhiskered snouts without fear and sniffed as we passed as if to say, “This is our place. What are you doing here?”

  Adding to this awfulness was a bothersome breeze, which coated all with dust, enough to thicken my hair. I could feel it happen, and resolved to wash it as soon as possible.

  To add to everything, the city truly stank.

  As we went on, we continually had to make our way through crowds that consisted of mostly men. It made me feel odd. What kind of world had I come to? Had women and girls been banished? Yes, the passengers on the Stephanie K. had been almost all males. But here was a city of men. And none appeared older than thirty years of age. I confess it gave me considerable unease.

  These men were not attractive. Each man different perhaps, but all had in common dirty, ill-kempt beards along with uncut hair that made them look like shabby porcupines. They also dressed much the same: broad-brimmed slouch hats, red or blue flannel shirts, and corduroy trousers tucked into heavy boots. What’s more, they carried either a Colt pistol or a bowie knife in their belts, sometimes both. It was as if the city were occupied by a bandit army. There were many others who dressed in somewhat different fashion — I supposed Mexicans and Chinese — and who spoke their own language.

  “Who are all these men?” I asked.

  “Miners,” murmured Father.

  Have I made myself clear? I was aghast by all I saw. Where, I wondered, was the spirit of gentle Saint Francis, from whom the city took its name? I confess my courage faltered. I could all but hear, “What would Aunt Lavinia say to this?”

  In haste, I scolded myself; I was in San Francisco, thousands of miles from Providence. This was the destiny my will had given me. There was no way I could go back. We would get to our new house, and I would hide away.

  Jacob, also struggling through the mud, called out, once, twice, three times, “Are we close?”

  Father said, “We need to reach California and Stockton Streets.”

  I was finding it hard to believe that there were any such streets when Father abruptly announced, “Here we are: home.”

  Baffled, Jacob and I looked around.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Where? What?”

  “Right in front of you,” said Father. “This tent.”

  A tent!

  The tent Father pointed to was made of what appeared to be old brown sailcloth, patched enough to have been a beggar’s cloak. Its roof was held up by a crooked wooden branch in the middle so that it was some five feet in height. Its walls were kept down by stakes. The inner floor — no more than eight feet by eigh
t feet — was naught but dirt. I was reminded of pictures I’d seen of Egyptian pyramids. It might have been as old.

  Yet Father had called it home.

  Jacob, his voice as full of shock as were my thoughts, asked, “Are we going to . . . live here?”

  “Until,” said Father, “I return from the gold fields and purchase something better. It cost only a hundred dollars.” He spoke with pride, as if he had made a great bargain.

  As I would learn, he had.

  Let it be said, there were many other tents to all sides of ours in which people were living.

  But not all. Right across from our tent, separated by nothing more than a muddy twenty-foot strip, was what appeared to be an eatery. It was, in fact, a huge wooden box propped up by a number of barrels. Over the open window — there was no door — written words proclaimed: SAN FRANCISCO CAFÉ RESTAURANT.

  Standing inside this odd structure, behind a wooden plank, was a man. Rather small, he had a leathery-dark face and black hair, along with a welcome smile.

  “Bienvenidos,” he called from across the way. “I am Señor Rosales, and I am glad to have you in nuestro barrio. We shall be amigos. Do you speak Spanish? No? ¡Qué triste! It shall be my personal pleasure to teach you.” When he spoke, he rolled his Rs so they rumbled softly, the most pleasing sound to touch my ears since arriving in San Francisco.

  Father stepped across the way, shook hands with the man, and introduced himself and us: “Mr. Randolph Blaisdell; my son, Master Jacob; my daughter, Miss Victoria.”

  “How wonderful,” cried the señor. “I have two children as well. But, señor,” he said, his voice suddenly filled with caution, “I must tell you: San Francisco is not a good place for niños. They are like corderos. Lambs. Not safe. You may be sure, there are lobos about. Wolves. May I offer you some desayuno — breakfast?”

  He was being so kind, warning us about the city, giving us lessons in Spanish, and offering breakfast all at once.

  “Thank you,” said Father. “But we need to move into our new home.”

  I was in fact quite hungry, but we retreated to that tent — our home.

  That home took little time to organize. Furnishings consisted of three beds — blankets over boards — and our baggage, which was soon delivered (at more high cost), plus a discarded biscuit box that Jacob found not far off in the muddy street. He dragged it in and set it down in the middle, where it served for a table.

  All too quickly then, the three of us were sitting in that tent, the front flaps down. The air was stultifying, the smell rather like a rank washcloth.

  At first no one spoke because — I suspect — we didn’t know what to say or do. It was as if we had traveled to X but had come to Y and weren’t sure how it happened. That’s to say, though we had traveled across the world, we knew not where we were and hardly knew what came next.

  The look on Jacob’s face was one of great perplexity. Now and again he reached out and touched the tent’s cloth wall, as if not believing it was real. Then he would look at Father, then at me, as if we might have something to say.

  We did not.

  Father, though he tried to hide it, seemed equally unsure of himself. More than once he consulted his pocket watch as if to suggest that he might have an appointment. Most assuredly he did not.

  As for me, I was mortified. I realized I had believed in larger-than-life dreams. I too — I acknowledge — had succumbed to gold fever. Restored to health, I could see that the reality was altogether bizarre.

  “Father,” I said at last, “I am filthy. How am I to wash? Where do we get water?”

  “It will need to be fetched. I shall have to purchase some buckets.”

  I looked about. “And will I have no privacy?” I said.

  “I shall put up a curtain wall.”

  (Next day Father secured a piece of old sail and strung it across one corner. So much for seclusion. Little that it was, I was thankful for it.)

  We continued to sit for a while in silence, each of us, in our own way, no doubt, trying to make sense of where we were.

  At length, I said, “Father, what shall happen to us?”

  Father pulled himself up, consulted his watch, and said, “I’ve told you many times: I’ll quickly make my fortune in gold and then . . .” He faltered.

  “And then . . . what?” I said.

  He went on to paint an airy picture of the future that seemed to be a replication of what we’d had in Providence, soon to be rebuilt in San Francisco.

  A sweep of anger went through me. “Dear Father,” I said, speaking, I fear, like a book heroine in excessive distress, “have we come so far, over such a long time, at such great expense and peril, cutting all ties with our past, only to make everything exactly what it was before? This world we’ve come to is . . . is different and new. But different in the most dreadful of ways.”

  I concluded by saying — nay, demanding — yet again, “What will become of us?”

  He was quiet for a moment and then he said, “I have an obligation to your mother to regain our fortunes.”

  I wanted to say (though did not), But what about us? When I realized that he had no answers, I felt a surge of anger. But as we sat there, my anger subsided. Because as I looked at Father, I understood that ire and resentment would do me little good. In its place came the realization that if Jacob and I were to survive, it would be me who needed to care for us. If ever there was a moment when Your will shall decide your destiny, this was it.

  But let it be said: It is one thing to be transported to a different place. It is quite another thing to be transported to a different way of being. Had I not wanted change? Well, then, vast change was now a necessity. But I had no idea how to make it happen.

  AS WE SOON DISCOVERED, HAVING A TENT HOME in San Francisco was like living atop an anthill that kept having more ants. Each day hundreds of new people arrived in San Francisco. During our first weeks in the city, two hundred more ships arrived and disgorged their passengers. The vessels were thus added to the fleet called Rotten Row. Daily, fifteen to thirty so-called homes were put up in the city, with people moving into them all but instantly. There were never enough new homes.

  Nor was there — while most indelicate, it must be said — any sanitation. Waste was disposed of upon the sandy hills or in the bay. The city stank. We used an earthenware chamber pot. I don’t wish to say more.

  At the beginning of the year — 1849 — the city contained less than two thousand citizens. By the time we arrived, there were something like fifteen thousand. Gold was the magnet for these souls. It reminded me of the saying “Where industry walks, greed gallops.”

  Many a newcomer barely came to shore but rushed off in search of gold down-bay to what they called the diggings. These people called themselves Argonauts, after those who sought the Golden Fleece in ancient Greece. To my mind, these California newcomers were being fleeced.

  I refused to be.

  I took it upon myself to purchase food, only to discover prices were extraordinarily high. For one egg, a dollar! A potato cost seventy-five cents. Water? A dollar a bucket. What’s more, as we quickly learned, there was no easy access to water. We had to fetch it, buy it, and then haul it back to our tent — uphill!

  All this meant that I soon came to understand that Father had insufficient money for our needs. That led to the further realization that I must secure some money, which is to say, I needed to find work.

  As you know, I had worked — discreet ladies’ work — in Providence. Would I, a girl, in San Francisco, even be able to find, and what’s more, be allowed to undertake, employment?

  As it happened, because so many men were at the diggings, laborers were scarce. That meant it turned out to be easy for me to secure some work. I may have been a tall and skinny girl, but I was strong and — most of all — willing to learn. I had done so before. As long as I could do the tasks required, nobody minded who I was.

  There was one major problem. My clothing — my girl’s
clothing: skirts, blouses, and bonnets — made it difficult to work, and they became constantly dirtied. Washing was, at best, a gross challenge, expensive, and endlessly time-consuming. No wonder so many San Francisco men were filthy. From the moment I put my foot on California soil, I too was soiled. Since I had been raised with one of Aunt Lavinia’s favorite maxims, “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” this was hard.

  I was forced to make the decision: I would have to dress in men’s garb. Being so clothed would make it easier to work, and easier to keep somewhat clean. Not truly clean: somewhat clean.

  I, therefore, purchased baggy corduroy trousers and flannel shirts at Howard & Mellus, a large dry-goods store by the cove. This clothing allowed me to get through deep mud while saving hours of washing chores. It had nothing to do with hiding who I was. It merely allowed me to labor.

  Another thing: during my first days in the city, when I walked about in my girl’s dress, many a miner approached and rudely asked me to marry him. You may be sure it wasn’t love that brought these proposals but, I realized, a desire to have a servant. My man’s costume put an end to such absurd insults.

  I also kept my hair in one long braid, taking my style from Chinese men.

  So it was that within a week of our arrival, I was pushing wheelbarrows through deep mud. I learned to row (about which more later) a borrowed rowboat to help unload newly arrived ships and bring luggage and passengers to land. It paid well, though it did give me (at first) hand blisters. I also helped carpenters or newcomers put up frame houses and cover them with canvas, cotton, or paper.

  This is to say I put my hands to whatever paid me. By doing so, I made as much as ten dollars a day or more. Ten times more than I had earned in Providence.

  Oddly enough, the men for whom I worked paid me with grains of gold, not coin, because there wasn’t much real money around. That made me smile: here was Father about to seek gold at the diggings, while I was already acquiring gold by working in the city. I had more wealth than I ever thought possible, much more than Father had at that point. All of this enhanced my sense of freedom.