Selected Stories of Bret Harte, Page 2

  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 entiresettlement. The ditches and claims were not only deserted, but "Tuttle'sgrocery" had contributed its gamblers, who, it will be remembered,calmly continued their game the day that French Pete and Kanaka Joe shoteach other to death over the bar in the front room. The whole campwas 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 womanwas frequently repeated. It was a name familiar enough in thecamp,--"Cherokee Sal."

  Perhaps the less said of her the better. She was a coarse and, it is tobe feared, a very sinful woman. But at that time she was the only womanin Roaring Camp, and was just then lying in sore extremity, when shemost needed the ministration of her own sex. Dissolute, abandoned, andirreclaimable, she was yet suffering a martyrdom hard enough to beareven when veiled by sympathizing womanhood, but now terrible in herloneliness. The primal curse had come to her in that original isolationwhich must have made the punishment of the first transgression sodreadful. It was, perhaps, part of the expiation of her sin that, at amoment when she most lacked her sex's intuitive tenderness and care, shemet only the half-contemptuous faces of her masculine associates. Yeta few of the spectators were, I think, touched by her sufferings. SandyTipton thought it was "rough on Sal," and, in the contemplation of hercondition, for a moment rose superior to the fact that he had an ace andtwo bowers in his sleeve.

  It will be seen also that the situation was novel. Deaths were by nomeans uncommon in Roaring Camp, but a birth was a new thing. People hadbeen dismissed the camp effectively, finally, and with no possibility ofreturn; but this was the first time that anybody had been introduced ABINITIO. 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 tosome legal informality in these proceedings that Roaring Camp--a city ofrefuge--was indebted to his company. The crowd approved the choice, andStumpy was wise enough to bow to the majority. The door closed on theextempore surgeon and midwife, and Roaring Camp sat down outside, smokedits pipe, and awaited the issue.

  The assemblage numbered about a hundred men. One or two of thesewere actual fugitives from justice, some were criminal, and all werereckless. Physically they exhibited no indication of their past livesand character. The greatest scamp had a Raphael face, with a profusionof blonde hair; Oakhurst, a gambler, had the melancholy air andintellectual abstraction of a Hamlet; the coolest and most courageousman was scarcely over five feet in height, with a soft voice and anembarrassed, timid manner. The term "roughs" applied to them was adistinction rather than a definition. Perhaps in the minor details offingers, toes, ears, etc., the camp may have been deficient, butthese slight omissions did not detract from their aggregate force. Thestrongest man had but three fingers on his right hand; the best shot hadbut one eye.

  Such was the physical aspect of the men that were dispersed aroundthe cabin. The camp lay in a triangular valley between two hills and ariver. The only outlet was a steep trail over the summit of a hill thatfaced the cabin, now illuminated by the rising moon. The suffering womanmight have seen it from the rude bunk whereon she lay,--seen it windinglike a silver thread until it was lost in the stars above.

  A fire of withered pine boughs added sociability to the gathering. Bydegrees the natural levity of Roaring Camp returned. Bets were freelyoffered and taken regarding the result. Three to five that "Sal wouldget through with it;" even that the child would survive; side bets asto the sex and complexion of the coming stranger. In the midst of anexcited discussion an exclamation came from those nearest the door, andthe 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. Thepines stopped moaning, the river ceased to rush, and the fire tocrackle. It seemed as if Nature had stopped to listen too.

  The camp rose to its feet as one man! It was proposed to explode abarrel of gunpowder; but in consideration of the situation of themother, better counsels prevailed, and only a few revolvers weredischarged; for whether owing to the rude surgery of the camp, or someother reason, Cherokee Sal was sinking fast. Within an hour she hadclimbed, as it were, that rugged road that led to the stars, and sopassed out of Roaring Camp, its sin and shame, forever. I do not thinkthat the announcement disturbed them much, except in speculation asto the fate of the child. "Can he live now?" was asked of Stumpy. Theanswer was doubtful. The only other being of Cherokee Sal's sexand maternal condition in the settlement was an ass. There was someconjecture as to fitness, but the experiment was tried. It was lessproblematical than the ancient treatment of Romulus and Remus, andapparently as successful.

  When these details were completed, which exhausted another hour, thedoor was opened, and the anxious crowd of men, who had already formedthemselves into a queue, entered in single file. Beside the low bunk orshelf, on which the figure of the mother was starkly outlined belowthe blankets, stood a pine table. On this a candle-box was placed,and within it, swathed in staring red flannel, lay the last arrival atRoaring Camp. Beside the candle-box was placed a hat. Its use wassoon indicated. "Gentlemen," said Stumpy, with a singular mixture ofauthority and EX OFFICIO complacency,--"gentlemen will please pass inat the front door, round the table, and out at the back door. Them aswishes to contribute anything toward the orphan will find a hat handy."The first man entered with his hat on; he uncovered, however, as helooked about him, and so unconsciously set an example to the next. Insuch communities good and bad actions are catching. As the processionfiled in comments were audible,--criticisms addressed perhaps ratherto Stumpy in the character of showman; "Is that him?" "Mighty smallspecimen;" "Has n't more 'n got the color;" "Ain't bigger nor aderringer." The contributions were as characteristic: A silver tobaccobox; a doubloon; a navy revolver, silver mounted; a gold specimen; avery beautifully embroidered lady's handkerchief (from Oakhurst thegambler); a diamond breastpin; a diamond ring (suggested by the pin,with the remark from the giver that he "saw that pin and went twodiamonds better"); a slung-shot; a Bible (contributor not detected); agolden spur; a silver teaspoon (the initials, I regret to say, were notthe giver's); a pair of surgeon's shears; a lancet; a Bank of Englandnote for 5 pounds; and about $200 in loose gold and silver coin. Duringthese proceedings Stumpy maintained a silence as impassive as the deadon his left, a gravity as inscrutable as that of the newly born on hisright. Only one incident occurred to break the monotony of the curiousprocession. As Kentuck bent over the candle-box half curiously, thechild 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-beatencheek. "The damned little cuss!" he said, as he extricated his finger,with perhaps more tenderness and care than he might have been deemedcapable of showing. He held that finger a little apart from its fellowsas he went out, and examined it curiously. The examination provoked thesame original remark in regard to the child. In fact, he seemed toenjoy repeating it. "He rastled with my finger," he remarked to Tipton,holding up the member, "the damned little cuss!"

  It was four o'clock before the camp sought repose. A light burnt in thecabin 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 hisexperience, invariably ending with his characteristic condemnation ofthe newcomer. It seemed to relieve him of any unjust implication ofsentiment, and Kentuck had the weaknesses of the nobler sex. Wheneverybody else had gone to bed, he walked down to the river andwhistled reflectingly. Then he walked up the gulch past the cabin,still whistling with de
monstrative unconcern. At a large redwood-tree hepaused and retraced his steps, and again passed the cabin. Halfway downto the river's bank he again paused, and then returned and knocked atthe door. It was opened by Stumpy. "How goes it?" said Kentuck, lookingpast Stumpy toward the candle-box. "All serene!" replied Stumpy."Anything up?" "Nothing." There was a pause--an embarrassing one--Stumpystill holding the door. Then Kentuck had recourse to his finger, whichhe held up to Stumpy. "Rastled with it,--the damned little cuss," hesaid, and retired.

  The next day Cherokee Sal had such rude sepulture as Roaring Campafforded. After her body had been committed to the hillside, there wasa formal meeting of the camp to discuss what should be done with herinfant. A resolution to adopt it was unanimous and enthusiastic. But ananimated discussion in regard to the manner and feasibility of providingfor its wants at once sprang up. It was remarkable that the argumentpartook of none of those fierce personalities with which discussionswere usually conducted at Roaring Camp. Tipton proposed that they shouldsend the child to Red Dog,--a distance of forty miles,--where femaleattention could be procured. But the unlucky suggestion met with fierceand unanimous opposition. It was evident that no plan which entailedparting from their new acquisition would for a moment be entertained."Besides," said Tom Ryder, "them fellows at Red Dog would swap it, andring in somebody else on us." A disbelief in the honesty of other campsprevailed 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 decent woman could be prevailed to accept RoaringCamp as her home, and the speaker urged that "they didn't want any moreof the other kind." This unkind allusion to the defunct mother, harsh asit may seem, was the first spasm of propriety,--the first symptom of thecamp's regeneration. Stumpy advanced nothing. Perhaps he felt a certaindelicacy in interfering with the selection of a possible successor inoffice. But when questioned, he averred stoutly that he and "Jinny"--themammal before alluded to--could manage to rear the child. There wassomething original, independent, and heroic about the plan that pleasedthe camp. Stumpy was retained. Certain articles were sent for toSacramento. "Mind," said the treasurer, as he pressed a bag of gold-dustinto the expressman's hand, "the best that can be got,--lace, you know,and filigree-work and frills,--damn the cost!"

  Strange to say, the child thrived. Perhaps the invigorating climate ofthe mountain camp was compensation for material deficiencies. Naturetook the foundling to her broader breast. In that rare atmosphere of theSierra foothills,--that air pungent with balsamic odor, that etherealcordial at once bracing and exhilarating,--he may have found food andnourishment, or a subtle chemistry that transmuted ass's milk to limeand phosphorus. Stumpy inclined to the belief that it was the latterand good nursing. "Me and that ass," he would say, "has been father andmother to him! Don't you," he would add, apostrophizing the helplessbundle before him, "never go back on us."

  By the time he was a month old the necessity of giving him a name becameapparent. He had generally been known as "The Kid," "Stumpy's Boy,""The Coyote" (an allusion to his vocal powers), and even by Kentuck'sendearing diminutive of "The damned little cuss." But these were feltto be vague and unsatisfactory, and were at last dismissed under anotherinfluence. Gamblers and adventurers are generally superstitious, andOakhurst one day declared that the baby had brought "the luck" toRoaring Camp. It was certain that of late they had been successful."Luck" was the name agreed upon, with the prefix of Tommy for greaterconvenience. No allusion was made to the mother, and the father wasunknown. "It's better," said the philosophical Oakhurst, "to take afresh deal all round. Call him Luck, and start him fair." A day wasaccordingly set apart for the christening. What was meant by thisceremony the reader may imagine who has already gathered some idea ofthe reckless irreverence of Roaring Camp. The master of ceremonieswas one "Boston," a noted wag, and the occasion seemed to promise thegreatest facetiousness. This ingenious satirist had spent two daysin preparing a burlesque of the Church service, with pointed localallusions. The choir was properly trained, and Sandy Tipton was to standgodfather. But after the procession had marched to the grove with musicand banners, and the child had been deposited before a mock altar,Stumpy stepped before the expectant crowd. "It ain't my style to spoilfun, boys," said the little man, stoutly eyeing the faces around him,"but it strikes me that this thing ain't exactly on the squar. It'splaying it pretty low down on this yer baby to ring in fun on him thathe ain't goin' to understand. And ef there's goin' to be any godfathersround, I'd like to see who's got any better rights than me." A silencefollowed Stumpy's speech. To the credit of all humorists be it said thatthe first man to acknowledge its justice was the satirist thus stoppedof his fun. "But," said Stumpy, quickly following up his advantage,"we're here for a christening, and we'll have it. I proclaim you ThomasLuck, according to the laws of the United States and the State ofCalifornia, so help me God." It was the first time that the name of theDeity had been otherwise uttered than profanely in the camp. The formof christening was perhaps even more ludicrous than the satirist hadconceived; but strangely enough, nobody saw it and nobody laughed."Tommy" was christened as seriously as he would have been under aChristian roof and cried and was comforted in as orthodox fashion.

  And so the work of regeneration began in Roaring Camp. Almostimperceptibly a change came over the settlement. The cabin assigned to"Tommy Luck"--or "The Luck," as he was more frequently called--firstshowed signs of improvement. It was kept scrupulously clean andwhitewashed. Then it was boarded, clothed, and papered. The rose woodcradle, packed eighty miles by mule, had, in Stumpy's way of putting it,"sorter killed the rest of the furniture." So the rehabilitation of thecabin became a necessity. The men who were in the habit of loungingin at Stumpy's to see "how 'The Luck' got on" seemed to appreciatethe change, and in self-defense the rival establishment of "Tuttle'sgrocery" bestirred itself and imported a carpet and mirrors. Thereflections of the latter on the appearance of Roaring Camp tended toproduce stricter habits of personal cleanliness. Again Stumpy imposed akind of quarantine upon those who aspired to the honor and privilege ofholding The Luck. It was a cruel mortification to Kentuck--who, in thecarelessness of a large nature and the habits of frontier life, hadbegun to regard all garments as a second cuticle, which, like a snake's,only sloughed off through decay--to be debarred this privilege fromcertain prudential reasons. Yet such was the subtle influence ofinnovation that he thereafter appeared regularly every afternoon in aclean shirt and face still shining from his ablutions. Nor were moraland social sanitary laws neglected. "Tommy," who was supposed to spendhis whole existence in a persistent attempt to repose, must not bedisturbed by noise. The shouting and yelling, which had gained the campits infelicitous title, were not permitted within hearing distance ofStumpy's. The men conversed in whispers or smoked with Indian gravity.Profanity was tacitly given up in these sacred precincts, and throughoutthe 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,tranquilizing quality; and one song, sung by "Man-o'-War Jack," anEnglish sailor from her Majesty's Australian colonies, was quite popularas a lullaby. It was a lugubrious recital of the exploits of "theArethusa, Seventy-four," in a muffled minor, ending with a prolongeddying fall at the burden of each verse, "On b-oo-o-ard of the Arethusa."It was a fine sight to see Jack holding The Luck, rocking from sideto side as if with the motion of a ship, and crooning forth this navalditty. Either through the peculiar rocking of Jack or the length of hissong,--it contained ninety stanzas, and was continued with conscientiousdeliberation to the bitter end,--the lullaby generally had the desiredeffect. At such times the men would lie at full length under the treesin the soft summer twilight, smoking their pipes and drinking inthe melodious utterances. An indistinct idea that this was pastoralhappiness pervaded the camp. "This 'ere kind o' think," said the CockneySimmons, meditatively reclining on his elbow, "is 'evingly." It remindedhim of Greenwich.

/>   On the long summer days The Luck was usually carried to the gulch fromwhence the golden store of Roaring Camp was taken. There, on a blanketspread over pine boughs, he would lie while the men were working in theditches below. Latterly there was a rude attempt to decorate this bowerwith flowers and sweet-smelling shrubs, and generally some one wouldbring him a cluster of wild honeysuckles, azaleas, or the paintedblossoms of Las Mariposas. The men had suddenly awakened to the factthat there were beauty and significance in these trifles, which theyhad so long trodden carelessly beneath their feet. A flake of glitteringmica, a fragment of variegated quartz, a bright pebble from the bed ofthe creek, became beautiful to eyes thus cleared and strengthened,and were invariably pat aside for The Luck. It was wonderful how manytreasures the woods and hillsides yielded that "would do for Tommy."Surrounded by playthings such as never child out of fairyland hadbefore, it is to be hoped that Tommy was content. He appeared to beserenely happy, albeit there was an infantine gravity about him, acontemplative light in his round gray eyes, that sometimes worriedStumpy. 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 inthe soft earth, and remained with his mottled legs in the air in thatposition for at least five minutes with unflinching gravity. He wasextricated without a murmur. I hesitate to record the many otherinstances of his sagacity, which rest, unfortunately, upon thestatements of prejudiced friends. Some of them were not without a tingeof superstition. "I crep' up the bank just now," said Kentuck oneday, in a breathless state of excitement "and dern my skin if he wasa-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 eachother just like two cherrybums." Howbeit, whether creeping over the pineboughs or lying lazily on his back blinking at the leaves above him, tohim the birds sang, the squirrels chattered, and the flowers bloomed.Nature was his nurse and playfellow. For him she would let slip betweenthe leaves golden shafts of sunlight that fell just within his grasp;she would send wandering breezes to visit him with the balm of bay andresinous gum; to him the tall redwoods nodded familiarly and sleepily,the bumblebees buzzed, and the rooks cawed a slumbrous accompaniment.

  Such was the golden summer of Roaring Camp. They were "flush times," andthe luck was with them. The claims had yielded enormously. The campwas jealous of its privileges and looked suspiciously on strangers. Noencouragement was given to immigration, and, to make their seclusionmore perfect, the land on either side of the mountain wall thatsurrounded the camp they duly preempted. This, and a reputation forsingular proficiency with the revolver, kept the reserve of RoaringCamp inviolate. The expressman--their only connecting link with thesurrounding world--sometimes told wonderful stories of the camp. Hewould say, "They've a street up there in 'Roaring' that would lay overany 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 onstrangers, 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 inviteone or two decent families to reside there for the sake of The Luck, whomight perhaps profit by female companionship. The sacrifice that thisconcession to the sex cost these men, who were fiercely skeptical inregard to its general virtue and usefulness, can only be accounted forby their affection for Tommy. A few still held out. But the resolvecould not be carried into effect for three months, and the minoritymeekly 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 foothills. The snowlay deep on the Sierras, and every mountain creek became a river,and every river a lake. Each gorge and gulch was transformed into atumultuous watercourse that descended the hillsides, tearing down gianttrees and scattering its drift and debris along the plain. Red Dog hadbeen twice under water, and Roaring Camp had been forewarned. "Water putthe gold into them gulches," said Stumpy. "It been here once and willbe here again!" And that night the North Fork suddenly leaped over itsbanks and swept up the triangular valley of Roaring Camp.

  In the confusion of rushing water, crashing trees, and crackling timber,and the darkness which seemed to flow with the water and blot out thefair valley, but little could be done to collect the scattered camp.When the morning broke, the cabin of Stumpy, nearest the river-bank, wasgone. Higher up the gulch they found the body of its unlucky owner; butthe pride, the hope, the joy, The Luck, of Roaring Camp had disappeared.They were returning with sad hearts when a shout from the bank recalledthem.

  It was a relief-boat from down the river. They had picked up, theysaid, a man and an infant, nearly exhausted, about two miles below. Didanybody know them, and did they belong here?

  It needed but a glance to show them Kentuck lying there, cruelly crushedand bruised, but still holding The Luck of Roaring Camp in his arms. Asthey bent over the strangely assorted pair, they saw that the child wascold and pulseless. "He is dead," said one. Kentuck opened his eyes."Dead?" he repeated feebly. "Yes, my man, and you are dying too." Asmile lit the eyes of the expiring Kentuck. "Dying!" he repeated; "he'sa-taking me with him. Tell the boys I've got The Luck with me now;" andthe strong man, clinging to the frail babe as a drowning man is said tocling to a straw, drifted away into the shadowy river that flows foreverto the unknown sea.