Ol' Dry Diggins, aka Hangtown in the snow, 1849

 

HANGTOWN TOUGH

We headed for Hangtown in ‘49

But never showed till ‘50.

Between us we had nary a dime.

Suffice it to say, we was thrifty!

The Sierra Nevada's are god-awful high!

And the dang trail rugged at best.

Ma took one look and groaned, “Oh my!

We should have stayed home with the rest!”

The creek ain’t iced up all the time.

August heat is quick to thaw it.

It’s just for wading. That's the crime.

If there’s gold, I never saw it.

The housing in Hangtown leaves much to desire. 

That’s the case everywhere we went.

But there ain’t much Ma and me require,

And we had a luxurious tent!

The tent’s mighty cozy,

Though lacking for room,

With a dirt floor infested with mice

Damp as the dickens and cold as a tomb.

The first year I froze to death twice!

The wood stove was nice if ya sat on the lid.

A bonfire would be better I’m thinkin’.

When it dropped below thirty as often it did,

It froze finials right off of the Franklin!

Flatlanders are welcome despite what you hear. 

You won’t hang. I can’t even conceive it!

We’ve oodles of room

And we’re known for our beer.

Bring plenty of cash, and please leave it.

If you’ve got a hankerin’ for livin’ on beans,

Out west where it’s generally sunny,

Then check out the gold camps and by all means, 

Visit Hangtown and bring lots of money!

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

OBIE, Episode Twenty-nine, SCRAP O’ SCRIPTURE

 

OBIE

Episode Twenty-nine

SCRAP O’ SCRIPTURE

Leaving the equatorial regions in our wake, we sailed at last into the brilliant blue North Pacific. The temperatures moderated, the humidity dropped, and Lidge and I began to sleep out on the deck. One night we were sitting with an old salt at his watch. The night was cool, and the moon had a golden ring. “Do you fellows see that ring?” the seaman asked. “Just count the stars inside that ring, and that’s the number of days until the rain.” “Oh, go on!” says Lidge. Well, this old seaman is solemn as a judge! He’s serious, and he goes on to tell us why. “Those stars,” he says, “are signs and symbols. It says so in the book. Why they’re just as plain as the nose upon your face!”

“Don’t you boys read your Bibles,” this old seaman asks? We both assured him that we do. “Well then,” he says, “You should be familiar with this little scrap of scripture here.” At this point this old seaman reaches into his Pea coat and gets out this miniature, leather bound copy of the Old Testament. He opens the tattered manuscript to Genesis chapter one, verse fourteen, and reads aloud: “Let there be lights in the firmament of heaven, to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and seasons, and for days and years.”

Well, he had us there! “Do you boys see that bright star right up there?” he asks, pointing to the North Star. Well, we’re both familiar with the North Star, so we both shake our heads in affirmation. “Well, that star,” he says, “together with those other bright stars there around it, make up a constellation which is called Ursa Minor, the little bear, or the little dipper. Polaris, the North Star, is at the end of the little bear’s tail. The big dipper over yonder is called Ursa Major, or the big bear. There are twelve major constellations, and Lord only knows how many others. Once you’re familiar with the constellations, you use that information along with the phases of the moon, and all this information together becomes signs. The signs tell you when to plant, when to reap, and a million other affairs of daily living. I don’t even plant a post,” he says, “without first checking on the phase of the moon, and signs.”

Well, to me signs don’t make no more sense than bathing once a week, but these old sailors believe they’re the greatest things since hardboiled eggs! Whether you believe in signs or not, there’s something about sprawling on your back on a cool, clear night, and staring into myriad twinkling lights, that tends to open your heart and clear your mind.

Some nights we’d lay there in the stillness, with the North Pacific rolling beneath the deck, and the only sound you’d hear would be the rhythmic beating of your own heart. You could almost hear the pulsing of your own blood, as it flowed within the channels of your veins. It was as though you sensed the waning of your own life, as the minutes and the seconds of existence ran their course and ticked away.

On these cloudless nights the stars were bright as campfires in the snow and thick as sparks when you stir a fire at night. Sometimes the moon had a golden ring, and if the moon were full, the sea glowed with a green translucence as its teaming fathoms rolled beneath our bow. On more than one occasion as we drifted in calm, we’d float along in the midst of resting whales. You could hear their steady breathing, and once in a while they’d blow, or a whale would roll and a giant leviathan arm, would reach into the moonlight just as though it were in prayer, as if to touch the very face of God.

To be continued?

By Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Copyright © FEBRUARY 14th, 2009

OBIE, Episode Twenty-eight, CROSSING THE EQUATOR

 

OBIE

Episode Twenty-eight

CROSSING THE EQUATOR

The captain’s word was good as gold, and by eleven thirty the ship was stocked, the anchor hove, and we were underway. The captain ordered full sail, and that clipper broke out in canvas quicker than a barn sour mule can breakout in sweat! I’d never seen such a mountain of sails in my life. That old ship had moonrakers, skysails, and topgallants, till a healthy sneeze would have sped her up three knots.

This being July 4th, the captain ordered assembly on the quarterdeck, and he and the mate gave speeches for an hour and a half, and colorful orations they were too! In the full sun, on the hot deck, and ya didn’t dare to take your leave or even try and sit! Speaking of sitting, they’re a lot stricter aboard these peacetime vessels than a body would expect. All the months that I was aboard the Pacific, I never saw an officer or a crewman sitting down on deck. From the captain to the lowliest crewman, month after month after long, tedious month, I rarely saw a single soul sit down. On the few occasions when some poor weary seaman even dared to try, they were on him like a duck on a June bug, with some other trifling task they needed done.

From sunup, till sundown, they were always busy at something, unless it was their watch or their time below. Four hours on, and four hours off, twenty-four hours a day, those seamen toed the line, and you seldom heard a single soul complain. They rested on their Sabbath, and those fellows deserved it if ever a sailor did.

Anyway, as I was saying, they gave some speeches dedicated to the glorious event of our independence, and then they toasted the country, the captain, and the Lord above, with grog. By the time they were finished, a happier bunch of folks you’ve never seen! I have to admit this was one rare occasion, when even the captain took a seat on deck.

Staying on the ship wasn’t going to be a problem from here on out! 6000 miles of uninterrupted ocean lay between us and the California coast. There’d be nothing to disturb our tranquility now, except a sail, a storm, or the San Francisco shore. The captain estimated, barring complications, we should make landfall in San Francisco the end of August, or early September. We seemed to be in pretty good shape as far as supplies. There was a small menagerie of livestock on board. We had pigs and chickens, and even a couple of milk goats. Besides eggs and milk, the ship had a good supply of all the sea cooks essentials. They stocked salt pork and hard tack, beans and bananas, apples and potatoes, canned goods and flour, and cheese by the hundredweight! We might not have a bowel movement for days on end, but there shouldn’t be a soul who went unfed.

Our biggest concern from here on out would be the blasted weather and the wind. About midway between our position and California, lay the equator. The combination of unpredictable currents and the sultry heat of the equator, creates all variety of conditions, some good, some bad, and some unbearable! Part of the trip we’re likely to be blessed by favorable southerly breezes and the trade winds. If the good Lord’s willing and the trade winds blow, this voyage could be over in a snap. If we’re plagued with calms at the equator, and don’t encounter a favorable westerly to blow us east toward land, we could reach the Sandwich Islands before we ever see the California shore.

So, on we sailed across the boundless south Pacific. Days begrudgingly turned to weeks, and at last the weary weeks had made one month. Early on the morning of August 2nd, Lidge and I were strolling the decks when ol’ eagle eye Kinney brought my attention to several small spits of land, about twenty minutes away, to our northeast. Borrowing the first mate’s eyeglass, we were busily scrutinizing the far-off islands when the captain joined us on the deck. Noting our curiosity, and evidently not immune himself, the captain called for a course that brought us hard to starboard.

Within fifteen minutes we heard the unmistakable sound of rookeries. Situated on the equator, west of Ecuador, and sharing their name with the 500-pound Tortoise who dines on the island’s succulents and suns his fortress-like hulk along their pristine shores, the Galapagos Islands are one of nature’s curiosities. Formed by comparatively recent volcanic eruptions and blessed with a variety of peculiar creatures found nowhere else in the world, they suggest that creation may be a work in progress. Bringing our vessel to within a couple hundred yards of this uninhabited haven, we gave her a quick once over with the scope, and then the captain suggested that time was money, and we veered hard a port and continued on our way.

Leaving the brief but satisfying diversion in our wake, we proceeded north by northwest and crossed the equator. Crossing the equator is not something I’d recommend to the faint of heart. Besides the fact that it’s hot as Hades, the crew has this little diversion that they plan. It’s evidently become a tradition among many seamen to initiate any unfortunate pilgrim who hasn’t made the club previously, with any number of unpleasant pranks designed to get even for the ones that were pulled on them. On this occasion, they had one poor unseasoned seaman suspended from a yardarm, upside down on a rope.

When you’re already fixing to lose your lunch from the heat and humidity, this treatment is almost guaranteed to make you cuss a streak, turn hemorrhoid blue, and eventually purge your innards! Fortunately for the rest of us, the captain intervened at this point, suggesting for the occasion a double ration of ale. This pacified the most avid prankster, and those not working retired below for a nap.

Sometimes, on a long, calm, leisurely afternoon, Lidge and I would lie on our backs on the decks and point out the shapes we believed we could see in the endless columns of constantly changing clouds. Uncle Mark warned that this kind of behavior might cloud our judgment or even addle our brains. Lidge and I took it all in stride, and Lidge came up with a pretty good comeback too. “My father always said,” says Lidge, “Hold tight to your dreams. Denied your dreams, reality can be toxic. A little taste of fantasy might cloud a fellow’s judgment, but a steady diet of reality could kill a goat!” Well, if you can find fault with wisdom like that, you’re a better man than me.

To be continued?

By Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Copyright © FEBRUARY 14th, 2009

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY, OBIE, Episode Twenty-seven, VALPARAISO

 

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY

OBIE

Episode Twenty-seven

VALPARAISO

We’d received a pretty good initiation and gained a whole new confidence in the capabilities of the ship, and that confidence would serve us well as we were treated to a succession of three more gales during the days ahead. On May 27th, we bid a fond farewell to Drake Passage and the dreaded Antarctica, and, thanking God that this leg of the voyage was behind us, we sailed out into the sunny South Pacific. Encountering prevailing winds from the southwest, we sailed cautiously some distance out into the sea, so as to avoid any possibility of being blown up against Patagonia, and then sailed northward up the coast. Although we’d be sailing in close proximity to Juan Fernandez Island, our next port of call would be Valparaiso Chili, in about one month.

During the afternoon of the 28th, a frigate under a cloud of sail approached us from the north. As the ship came within hailing distance, our captain hollered out, “Ahoy there! We be the Pacific, 73 days out from Philadelphia. Who be ye?” The captain of the frigate cupped his hands to his mouth and answered back in a booming voice, “We be the Mermaid, 94 days out of San Francisco, and bound for New York.” “God’s speed!” bellowed our captain over the cry of the gulls, and the Mermaid’s captain benevolently returned the blessing.

As expected, it wasn’t long until Lidge and I began to bond with Uncle Mark. He was habitually good-natured, and in that way at least, he reminded me a little bit of Lidge. Lidge beats everything I’d ever seen. He springs out of bed every morning, the moment his eyes are opened, happy as a clam! “Good marnin’ to ya!” he’d say, with that confounded smile. I can’t help it; I’m not a morning person! People who wake up bright and cheerful just get my goat! Lidge and his sister are both like that; it must be an Irish thing.

Uncle Mark spent time each day reading his Bible and keeping a log in his ledgers. “Regardless of what the future holds,” he’d say, “sustained success depends on documentation.” Uncle Mark was prepared. He’d brought along a dandy leather case about the size of a breadbox, and packed snugly away inside, were six new ledgers, a dozen quill pens, and three bottles of Higgins ink with cork stoppers; one black, one blue, and one red. “Barring complications,” he says, “we won’t need the red.”

During the afternoon of July third, the Juan Fernandez Islands came into view off the starboard bow. The captain brought the bow around until we were sailing east by northeast, and as evening approached, we sailed into Valparaiso Bay. From the bay, a mountain range rose up steeply to an altitude of about sixteen hundred feet. Perched precariously along the shore, and nestled into a number of steep rugged, ravines, the whitewashed and red tile roofed houses of Valparaiso caught the last rays of the waning sun.

The area’s rich mineral deposits produce a bright red soil, and this red soil in conjunction with the dry and remarkably clear atmosphere, caused the entire scene to glow eerily in the sunset. Beyond the coastal range, the Aconcagua Volcano rises to an elevation of two thousand feet, and beyond that the snowcapped Andes themselves sparkled majestically in the pristine mountain air. The cool nights, dry summers, and strong southerly winds, result in a sparseness of vegetation. There wasn’t a tree in sight, and with the exception of a few patches of some mighty hardy wildflowers, the only vegetation was an occasional cluster of short, stocky, shrubs. Our ship anchored in the bay, and several longboats prepared to go ashore.

After the memorable experience on our last shore leave, Lidge and I were sorely tempted to just play it safe and stay aboard the boat! The captain indicated that the ship would remain at anchor until around noon of the following day. Uncle Mark was determined to go ashore and see the sights, and eventually the temptation to follow outweighed our concerns.

You know how sometimes right at dusk, the wind stops abruptly for a period of time, just before changing direction? By the time we were aboard the longboat, the wind had entirely abated; there wasn’t a breath of breeze, and the water was every bit as still as glass. The ocean’s surface turned to cobalt blue, and as lamps blinked on from the homes along the shore, the entire scene was captured in a perfect mirror image on the sea. A dog barked in the distance, and the only other sound was the rhythmic stroking of our oars.

A tall, slender Chilean met us as we reached the pier, catching our rope and securing it to a piling. Greetings were exchanged, and we received directions to a visitor center some distance up the hill. Just as we arrived at the center, a commotion broke out across the steep, rut-riddled boulevard. An elderly gentleman was saddling two mares, and a young man was removing the leashes from several long, lean dogs. The man with the dogs looked up as we approached, introductions were exchanged, and we offered assistance. A colt that had been pastured in a nearby meadow was squealing plaintively and evidently under attack. As the young man talked, we heard the mournful wailing for ourselves.

The elder gentleman, who turned out to be the father, overheard our offer of assistance and readily accepted. A third horse was quickly saddled, and the two men each chose a mount. Lidge and I would ride double on the third mount. Within moments we were all mounted and galloping at a good pace up a steep embankment toward a trail. The horses fought desperately for secure footing in the loose shale, rocks flew everywhere, and I leaned forward and I clung tightly to Lidge.

Once we reached the trail, it was only a matter of minutes until we rode down along a rough precipice and arrived at a small pasture in the bottom of a gorge. The four of us quickly dismounted and began listening for some sign of the frightened colt. It was rapidly growing too dark to see, and the only sound was the heavy breathing of our badly winded mounts. Leashing the frantic dogs, the father lit a lamp as he began his decent down a steep embankment, and the three of us fell hurriedly in behind.

Carefully negotiating a dry wash, I was suddenly horrified when an enormous form lunged toward us from an outcropping of rock, not a dozen feet away. I fell to my knees, expecting the ravenous predator to land momentarily, on whomever the creature had chosen as its prey. To my amazement, it didn’t land at all, but rose in ever-widening circles into the night sky.

Our hurried steps had disturbed a giant condor from its roost. This magnificent vulture had a wingspan of at least twelve feet, and it instilled in me a whole new respect for buzzards. It rose quickly into the darkness and was gone. The four of us regained our composure and continued our search. Moments later, around the next bend, the brush shook violently and the darkness reverberated with a hair-raising squall which sounded to me like a women’s hysterical scream. I broke out in goose bumps and my heart skipped several beats.

Within seconds of the terrifying scream, a large cat sprang from the bushes. Its snarling teeth gleamed for an instant in the lamplight, and then it screamed again and leapt into the night. My comrades took several steps forward, raised the lamp, and there on the ground were the tattered remains of the unfortunate colt.

Well, we’d done the best we could. Evidently pumas, as they call them here, are not at all uncommon in this area, and the scarcity of large game, due to the sparse habitat, occasionally forces them to attack the local livestock. The scarcity of any wild game in the area is responsible for the almost entirely vegetarian diet of the human population. Turning into herbivores is not an option for the puma population, so they improvise and do the best they can.

There was nothing to be done here, so we collected our horses and headed back toward the port. The moon was no more than a sliver, and you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. A chilling north wind swept down from the Andes, the atmosphere was pristine, and the stars were bright as polished brass and seemed the size of lemons. The complete darkness and treacherous terrain necessitated a mighty leisurely pace. By the time we arrived back at their home, a crowd had gathered along with Uncle Mark. We put up the horses and related the tale of the puma and the colt.

I introduced Uncle Mark to our new Chilean acquaintances, and they invited the three of us to stay for supper. Unk, having made other arrangements, thanked them kindly for their offer and suggested that Lidge and I stay and accept their hospitality. We gratefully took them up on their kind offer, and the crowd dispersed. Upon entering their home, we found the mother and daughter preparing the evening meal. Both smiled politely, but neither said a word. The father seated us at small table in an austerely furnished lean-to off the kitchen.

The home consisted of three rooms and a small, low loft. Within twenty minutes, we were each served a steaming bowl of boiled beans, along with a plate of roasted grains and fresh bread. The daughter eyed Lidge coyly as she poured our tea, and then the women adjourned to an adjacent room and the father and son each joined us at our table. Both were cordial, unassuming, and quiet. After several attempts at conversation, Lidge and I finally just sat quietly and finished our meal.

Twenty minutes later the mother returned briefly to the kitchen, and then approached our table with what was evidently considered a very special treat. Lidge and I eyed the concoction suspiciously, and at last the father pointed to the dish and said, “duff, eat!” I’d heard of duff before, but I’d never had an opportunity to sample the dish myself. Duff is a pretty basic pudding, consisting simply of flour boiled in water. The young man removed a small decanter of a sweet, syrupy condiment of some kind and applied it very liberally over his bowl. Lidge and I both hesitantly followed suit. Noting our hesitance, the father had another idea. Reaching into a cabinet under the shelf, he grinned enthusiastically, and brought out a jug of rum. Lidge and I had been down this road before! We waved our hands and shook our heads, and indicated we’d really rather not! This is the first time we’ve seen this ol’ guy smile. He popped the cork, poured a generous amount of the 90-proof condiment over his duff, and each of us grabbed a wooden spoon and advanced on our pasty treat. Thank God we were hungry or we’d never have gotten it down. Its consistency was a little like cobbler’s paste, and the flavor smacked of kerosene and goats!

After a while this ol’ guy loosened up, and he and his son begin to spin some yarns. Before long the kid got to doctoring his duff too, and the more they apply their tongue loosener, the more colorful their anecdotes become! They tell stories that would cause the saltiest ol’ seadog to blush. Lidge and I just kept real quiet and took it all in. While in Rome sometimes it’s best to keep still and humor the Romans.

Next thing you know, it’s after midnight, and we need a place to crash and get some rest! Lidge yawned real big, and the father pointed to a ladder that leads up to the loft. Come to find out, we’re sleeping up there with the son. Well, it’s too late to back water now. There’s no way back to the ship at this late hour. Lidge and I smiled and resigned ourselves to our fate. The three of us climbed the ladder and crawled on our hands and knees into this cramped, unheated loft. It’s about 25 degrees outside, and the draft from the eaves would chill a wooden Indian.

Now don’t get me wrong, we appreciate their hospitality and all, and these folks are just as sweet as they can be, but within ten minutes this kid begins to snore! And I’m not talking about your everyday, garden-variety, snort and rattle either. This kid’s snoring loosens plaster and rattles windows! Lidge and I buried our heads in the straw and jammed our ears with knuckles.

Next thing you know, the atmosphere in this place goes raunchier than the bilge water in the boat! Something this kid has eaten is leaking out in fumes! It gets so bad that we can’t even breathe! Lidge headed out first and I followed on his heels. Leaving the ladder, we both took a seat on the bench. “Well, now what do ya want to do?” It’s about one thirty in the morning now. There’s no way back to the ship, it’s way too cold to sleep outside, and we’re concerned we’ll hurt their feelings if we leave.

So, we’re sitting there hanging our heads, and here comes the daughter. This little gal is probably about fourteen years old; cute as a speckled pup, and she’s not wearing nothing but a floor length nightshirt and some goose bumps. She smiles real sweet and slides up alongside Lidge. Well, you talk about somebody sucking wind; Lidge turned white as a sheet, folded his hands in his lap, and for at least a minute poor Lidge don’t even breathe! This little sweetheart is adorned with a white variegated flower in her hair, and this flower is so fragrant, that after a minute, I’m beginning to feel puny myself!

So now what? Well, there clearly ain’t but one-way of getting out of this jam alive. Faster than greased lightning; we’re up that ladder and thanking the Lord for that cozy little loft! It don’t smell near as perty as that little gal, but the smell ain’t likely to kill us, and we’re not sure that’s true of that little darling’s dad. We toughed it out until first light, and as soon as the stars winked out, we bounded down the ladder and made a mad dash for the wood range. The mom was heating water for tea, and she smiled pleasantly as we entered the room. We stood quietly by the range until the dad arrived. The old boy was a little under the weather this morning. His eyes were red as beats, and he was evidently suffering from too much hot rum duff! After a table blessing, the mother removed a loaf of fresh baked wheat bread from the oven, and served it up warm with hot tea and some nice fresh figs. It really was a very pleasant meal. We visited briefly with the entire family, and all the while Lidge was making a point of keeping me between himself and that sweet young thing.

After breakfast I offered the father a couple of coins, which he readily stuck in his pocket, and then we thanked them all kindly, gathered our gear, and ran like the dickens for the pier. There were longboats coming and going regularly now, and we grabbed the next boat and high-tailed it back to the ship. Take me for a silly lout and question my sporting blood, but from this point on, I’m staying on the boat!

Uncle Mark had a real good belly laugh at our expense, as we related the gut-wrenching details of our ill-fated Chilean adventure. “You boys beat all!” he says, shaking his head and finger grooming his whiskers, “scared half to death by a bowl of rum duff and a helpless little girl.” Well, that’s easy for him to say, but he didn’t see the longing look in the soulful eyes of that desperate sweetheart’s face!

To be continued?

By Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Copyright © FEBRUARY 14th, 2009

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY, OBIE, Episode twenty-six

 

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY

OBIE

Episode twenty-six

DOUBLING THE HORN

A shore craft waited at the pier, and once we’d loaded our gear aboard, several seamen manned the oars and we prepared to shove off. Desperate to make a good first impression on Mr. Hopkins, I loosed the moorings, gave the prow a good shove, lost my balance and went headlong off the dock into a briny pool of tidal foam and seaweed. So much for first impressions! Mr. Hopkins helped me into the boat, and I stood demoralized and dripping as we made our way to the ship.

Lidge and I marveled as we approached the clipper. Her sails were white as snow, and her rigging fairly beamed! The whole ship seemed to glow in the setting sun. Several mates assisted Uncle Mark aboard. He apprised them of the events ashore and the demise of the late captain, and then informed them that the replacement captain should be onboard within the hour. “Oh, by the way,” he added, “my two nephews have joined us, and they’ll stay in my cabin with me.” “Very well Sir,” replied the first mate, “I’ll arrange for bedding and notify the cook.” This just got better and better, and Lidge and I just couldn’t believe our luck!

The clipper ship Pacific is as nice a craft as you’d ever want to see. If we’d had our pick of the whole darned fleet, we couldn’t have chosen a finer craft than this. The crew was comprised of professional seamen, all stalwart as they come. They’d made the sea their life and this ship their home. We couldn’t have been in better hands if we’d handpicked them everyone ourselves. We’d face the horn with the best darn crew afloat.

This ship was considerably larger than our last old scow. There were probably a hundred passengers onboard, plus crew. Most, like before, were members of joint-stock companies. Uncle Mark on the other hand was evidently a man of some means. His private cabin was on the upper deck, about mid ship on the starboard side. It was nicely furnished and undoubtedly set him back a bundle. Arriving at our benefactor’s cabin, we’d no more than entered the cozy compartment before two cots were promptly brought in and outfitted, and I was provided a towel. This beat peeling taters all to heck!

Uncle Mark offered us each a seat and suggested we have a talk. “First,” he says, “I’ll tell you about myself.” He proceeded to fill us in briefly, concerning his situation back east, and a little more in regard to his plans out west. He was clearly a man of integrity, and had left behind a lucrative position back home. His family owned a business, and he’d established himself quite well, but he’d been bitten by the gold bug just like us. Unlike us, his maturity and experience had tempered his dreams of gold. He’d taken precautions and established some alternate plans. If the gold didn’t happen, he’d fall back on plans B & C.

“There’ll be some minimal costs,” he says, “for bringing you boys aboard. This trip’s not cheap, and they’re not going to feed you for free. I’ll cover the costs for now,” he says, “and I’ll do it without reserve, but I expect you two to toe the line and prove worthy of my trust. Don’t give me a reason to regret this charitable act. The California coast is months away, and there’s still Cape Horn to round, then after Valparaiso, 6000 hard miles at sea. That’s a whole lot of time together,” he says, “and this cabins not very big. In the months ahead we’ll either bond or bust. So, I’m counting on the two of you,” he says, “to pull your weight and more. We’ll reach San Francisco, and then we’ll go from there.” Well, I can’t speak for Lidge of course, but if he’s wanting to bond with me, I’d have to say he’s off to a mighty fine start.

Following our discussion, the three of us settled into our cabin, and then Uncle Mark took us on an extensive tour of the ship. She’s a mighty impressive vessel, and that’s a fact! Ending up here was a blessing and a half. Being beaten, robbed, and marooned in Rio, may well prove to be the most fortuitous event of my whole colorful career.

Around dusk, the captain came aboard and immediately assembled the passengers and crew. This guy didn’t look very nautical to me. He was about five foot seven, probably weighed in at 155, and judging from his appearance, I’d have guessed him to be an attorney, or a dentist maybe, or some other variety of white-collar criminal, but he bore no resemblance to my vision of a sea captain. He was probably only in his early forties, but he evidently knew his stuff, and despite my first impression, this guy turned out to be a first-rate captain. He hadn’t kissed the blarney stone like Lidge, but he surely loved to talk. He was articulate and soft spoken, and you could take for gospel every word he said. Barring complications, he anticipated our arrival at Valparaiso to take place around the end of June.

The passage south was pleasant and uneventful. On our approach to Cape Horn, we were treated to all variety of astronomical sightings and colorful atmospheric phenomenon. We saw Magellan Clouds, the southern lights, and on numerous nights we saw the Southern Cross. Our approach to the dreaded Cape was deceptively peaceful. The passage between Rio and Valparaiso would prove to be the most perilous and grueling of the entire fourteen-thousand-mile voyage.

Our ship proceeded at a pretty good clip until the twenty-fourth day of May. Uncle Mark spent considerable time with several of his acquaintances. They met most afternoons for tea, and on many evenings, they played cards into the wee hours of the morning. Uncle Mark was a good Christian gentleman. He abstained from foul language, hard liquor, and most red meat. He had one vice though, most everybody does. Uncle Mark’s vice was expensive, hand rolled cigars. He believed in moderation and he practiced what he preached, but he burned up at least one good cigar each day. Rio’s leading export was a pretty good cigar, and Uncle Mark picked up a case before we left.

As we approached the southernmost tip of Patagonia, the temperatures would drop dramatically, weather conditions deteriorate, and dangerous storms reacquaint us with our maker. Passing between the Falkland Islands to the east, and Tierra del Fuego to the west, we would enter Drake Passage and sail westward against powerful crosscurrents between the dreaded Cape Horn and the frozen wastes of Antarctica herself. The horrific storms off Cape Horn were infamous around the world, as the most ruthless gales to ever assault the sea! The notorious, iceberg plagued channel had sucked many a vessel into a watery grave, with no man left alive to tell the tale. Rain, sleet, and snow fell incessantly, temperatures plummeted, powerful crosscurrents impeded progress, and the mountainous waves and merciless winds claimed countless ships with every man aboard.

On May 24th, West Falkland Island came into view to our southeast. The ship set a course that took us past the west edge of the island, and then southeast in order to keep a safe distance from the rocky outcroppings of the archipelago of Tierra del Fuego.

The sky darkened ominously as the noon hour approached, and as we turned westward into Drake Passage, a virtual wall of rapidly building clouds appeared on the horizon, thunder boomed threateningly, lightning flashed, and brutal winds whipped the waves into lather. The sea became black as coal, and the skies above us boiled like a witch’s cauldron.

A cruel wind from the northeast necessitated bringing down the canvas, and as the crew battened down the hatches, they began to lash themselves down as well. Within moments the squall line moved in and all heck broke loose! The crew brought down the mainsail; the temperature dropped to around 30 degrees Fahrenheit, and the gale force winds howled like poltergeists through the abandoned rigging of the ship.

Even with most of the canvas down, the pounding nor’easter continued driving our vessel southward into the frigid waters of the unforgiving Antarctic. The best we could hope for was that the determined efforts of our gallant crew might convert the contrary force into a slightly more westerly course. Achieving this tentative compromise would mean the difference between arriving at last in the sunny South Pacific, or being driven southward toward certain death in the ice plagued waters of Antarctica’s brutal coast.

Lightning flashed as the two fronts collided, it rained like the dickens, and then began to sleet. Ice formed in the rigging, covering the decks and trailing in sheets and icicles from the masts. Within 20 minutes the swells grew to the size of mountains, but the clipper took each mountainous swell in stride. Pausing at the crest of each, she’d rush headlong down its backside, and then groan and shudder as she plowed into the next. When we’d reach the low point between the swells, the crests would rise and build, till they towered like snowcapped mountains above our masts. The larger swells periodically buried the entire forward part of the vessel, rushing in through the bow ports and pouring into the deepest bowels of the ship.

The three of us watched spellbound from the portholes of our cabin, while the ship tossed and rolled until it was nearly impossible to stand. Much of our gear had been stowed on the bunk, or underneath our cots. Now it slid back and forth on the floor with each new swell. Waves crashed down on the deck outside our cabin, until water began seeping in beneath our door. We jammed towels against the threshold to keep out the water, and we doused our lamp for fear it might jar loose and start a fire. Never in my life have I had such a sense of terror and impending doom. I sat in the corner on the wet floor with my back against the wall and my feet braced defiantly against the bulwarks, resigned to disaster and prepared to meet the Lord. “Hold tight to your faith”, Dad always says, “Through the darkest hour our brightest hope is faith; faith burns most brightly when all other hopes are spent.”

Precipitation ranged from torrential rain, to blizzards of blinding snow, and that nor’easter raged while those seamen held their posts. Thus, we knelt in our cabin absorbed in prayer while Antarctica’s fit continued, without a break till noon of the following day.

Around two o’clock on the afternoon of May 25th, the worst of the storm was spent. The crew cleaned up the carnage, and Lidge and I decided to venture out. Uncle Mark went to check on his comrades, and Lidge and I set out for the map room to check on our progress. The mate was busy updating the chart as we approached; he engaged us in chat, and we learned a wealth of news. Evidently our vessel was coming up rapidly on mid channel when the storm began. Between the southern tip of South America, and the northernmost reaches of Antarctica, is a body of water about seven hundred miles across. Somewhere in this body of 29-degree water, the frigid waters of the Antarctic regions collide with the tropical currents flowing from the north. At this point of Antarctic convergence, temperatures clash and nature mirrors hell.

Fortunately for us, that nor’easter hadn’t clipped us until we were safely into the channel, away from the archipelago with it rocky shoals and jagged hidden reefs. If we’d been blown southwestward an hour earlier, we’d have been smashed to pieces along that treacherous shore. Some folks would consider this outcome predestined; I’m not much of a believer in fate myself. A good Christian would credit divine intervention: the intervening hand of almighty God. A gambling man would simply call it luck. I tend to believe it was probably a little of each.

Some would say this ship had saved our bacon! According to the mate here, the East Indiamen and galleys of old could safely sail at around four or five nautical miles per hour, some newer ships can safely sail at six. This clipper was built around 1841. At a length of two hundred and fifty feet, and a weight of around thirty tons, she was built to race the wind, and it’s safe to say she raced the wind last night. Her masts and prow are a new design, and she has canvas where other ships just have wind. Folks these days believe that time is money, and the clipper ships were purely built for speed. Their design was produced specifically to clip off time, thus, the clipper. That need for speed has surely saved our lives. The Pacific had sailed along that front for almost four hundred miles, and what’s more, she’d done it at speeds up to twenty knots. Where most old ships would have floundered and gone down to Davy Jones, the clipper Pacific had sailed us around the Horn.

To be continued?

By Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Copyright © FEBRUARY 14th, 2009

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY, OBIE, Episode Twenty-five UNCLE MARK

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY

OBIE

Episode Twenty-five

UNCLE MARK

The door was bolted from the outside, and it took about a minute to knock a hole in the rotten roof of that misbegotten shed. I gave Lidge a knee up, and he gave me a hand. Then we jumped and landed running like we’d never run before, through the jungle down the beach the way we’d come. As we reached the pier our stomachs turned, and our hopes crashed down in ruins. There were three fine ships at harbor, but our ship of dreams was gone without a trace.

I’d never felt so thoroughly heartsick in my entire life! I thought about what Griz had said, and all at once my mouth tasted like rusty mule shoes, and my heart was pounding till I thought the thing would bust. Thousands of miles from the home we love, marooned on a lonely beach, mugged and robbed and left in a pile of poop! If this isn’t a sorry spectacle! Great Hoary Bears! What would they think if my folks could see me now? All I can say is thank the Lord they can’t.

Speaking of the Lord, we could sure use a little guidance now. We walked slowly up the beach, heads down and feet dragging, wishing it wasn’t true, but you reap what you sew and we’re wallowing in a bumper crop! We were almost back to the Padre’s church when at last we both came to and looked around. The Padre stood in the door of that drafty old sanctuary, shaking his head as though he knew our pain. At his feet was the pile of gear we’d left, and sympathy shone from his face. He handed us a note as we collapsed on the weathered steps.

“Dear boys,” the note reads, “if you’re reading these scribbles, you’ve probably missed the boat. It’s a bitter pill I know but thank God you’re alive. The captain waited till half passed nine. I can’t believe it myself. It’s not like the captain to pace the floor and wait. The rest of the passengers pitched such a fit that at last the crew gave in, and he hated to do it but the captain said, “Shove off.” Watch for me in the gold fields on the California shore. I’ll be the one with the bags of gold and the big black stovepipe hat. Till then boys, happy sailing, thanks again for all your work, keep your sails trimmed, and don’t forget ol’ Griz.”

My first inclination was to just break down and bawl! I know boys aren’t supposed to cry, but that was my inclination nonetheless. I’ve been heartsick and miserable before, but this mess is an all-time low! Then I remembered the folks back home, Mom, and Dad, and Mariah. Disappointing myself is one thing, but while I have breath, I won’t let those folks down. “Perform, persist, and prevail!” Dad always says, and so we will!

The kindly old Padre examined Lidge’s bloody lump, grimaced and shook his head. We told our mournful tale of woe, expecting some sympathy and a little Christian concern, and the cussed old Padre started to smile, and then busted up and laughed until he cried! Up till now, if there was any humor in this situation, it hadn’t occurred to us, but that old Priests laughter was just what we needed to hear. Lidge joined him first, and then I broke down, and all three of us roared! Our sorrows salved, we fell back and regrouped. The Priest suggested stitches and Lidge didn’t like the sound of that at all!

We got directions to a clinic, thanked the Padre, shouldered our gear, and headed off up the street. Downtown Rio was a mighty wondrous place, and the buildings had a style all their own. The Portuguese had influenced most of the architecture, and the stucco buildings were as immaculate as the beach. The streets were narrow but spotless, and gigantic plants reached out from every tidy yard. Parrots and exotic birds observed us from the lush canopy of trees, and insects buzzed from a multitude of fragrant flowers.

When we reached the clinic, we went on in, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. The door of a room in the back stood half ajar, so I poked my head in for a quick look around. There on a cot was a man of about thirty. The cot, clearly in distress, was threatening to buckle and listed hard to port! The doctor was probably five foot two, and I’ll bet he weighed at least 275! He grunted and squinted as I stepped in the room, then he yawned real big and sat up in his cot. “You caught me son,” he snorted sleepily, wiping his eyes with his knuckles and sliding a wrinkled sleeve under his nose. We both joined Lidge in the other room, and following introductions; the doctor cleaned his spectacles, donned his smock, and took a good look at our heads. “It’s a mighty good thing you boys have hard heads!” He observed with a gravely chuckle. “A blow like that would have killed an old man like me!” He asked how it happened and we spilled the whole sorted affair.

“Boys will be boys!” he says, as he fills a basin and briskly washes his hands. At this point we explain that we have no way of repaying him for his services, and he chuckles some more and gets out the tools of his trade. “I can tell you two are good boy’s,” he says, “and undoubtedly far, far from home. I’ll stitch this up no charge. We pilgrim’s best stick together if you know what I mean?”

We knew real well what the doctor meant; they don’t call this old world a veil of tears for nothing. In this old world we best lend one another a hand. The doctor straightened his spectacles, disinfected a big ol’ patch of scalp, stitched Lidge up, and then got out his chart. “Now,” he says, “I’ve done my part, the next move is up to you. We can write this up as what it was and bring that rapscallion to justice, or chalk this up as a lesson well learned, and you boys can grab your gear and be on your way. What’ll it be?”

Well, we were all for law and order and promoting justice and all of that, but we didn’t have time for trials and such. We had places to go and things to do, and we hoped to catch one of the ships that were fixin’ to sail. We discussed the situation for a moment and both agreed, that ornery rascal was partly to blame, but it would never have happened if we hadn’t of gone for that pesky punch!

“Just write her up as a terrible accident.” I replied, “And we’ll be more careful if we’re ever in town again.” “Fair enough!” replied the Doc, and he finished our chart and saw us to the door. “Take this accident report right across the street to that consulate over yonder,” he says, “and they’ll thank you to sign it, and you’ll be underway.”

We strolled across the street expecting a three-minute stop, opened the door, and there in the lobby of this consulate was about the worst ruckus you’ve ever heard in your life! There were at least fifty men in there, most of them angry, several of them cussing, and all of them talking at once. Near as we could make out, the captain of one of the clipper ships at anchor in the bay was about the worst tyrant that ever sailed the sea!

The crew and passengers had been on the verge of mutiny from the time they left New York, and if it hadn’t been for the cool thinking and persuasive manner of a passenger by the name of Hopkins, they’d have set the old pirate adrift and called it good!

This Hopkins guy is addressing the authorities now. He’s filed a legal complaint against the captain, and this whole mob is gladly signing it one by one. Lidge and I fought our way up to the desk, hoping to drop off our report quiet like, and skedaddle! Well, we might have known it ain’t gonna be that easy.

The guy at the desk grabs our report real indignant, and after quite a bit of real gentle coaxing on our part, he reads it real quick and slams it in a drawer. Well, that would never do for us! We needed to sign it now! I tried to tell him real polite, that it needed to be done right now. After a minute he jumped to his feet, put his hands on his hips, and bellowed at the top of his lungs. “I don’t know if you boys are blind or just stupid, but I’ve something else going on right now; whatever your deal is can wait. Now shut up, calm down, and back away from my desk!”

All at once all the rest of the cussing and shouting cut off in mid-sentence, like them fellows were all struck dumb! Every eye in the house was on Lidge and me, and you could have heard a mouse gnawing cheese. This Hopkins guy walked over and took us aside. Mr. Hopkins is a good head taller than anyone else in the room. He’s skinny as a rail, and probably in his forties, with a real good growth of slightly graying beard. “Where are you boys from?” he asked, “and what’s your business here?” His manner was calm, his voice reassuring, and we got the feeling that things were looking up.

Lidge and I laid the whole thing out; from the moment we left home, through the escapade last night, to where we’re standing now. Mr. Hopkins nodded like he understood completely. “Don’t you boys fret.” he said calmly, I’ll straighten this out right now.” Well, Lidge and I just couldn’t believe our ears. We turned to each other in total amazement, dropped our jaws and renewed our vows of faith.

Mr. Hopkins went back to pleading his case for a less tyrannical captain. The authorities deliberated for about five minutes, upheld the grievance, and the captain was removed. A qualified replacement captain was quickly appointed, and business completed the authorities stood to leave. At this point Mr. Hopkins cleared his throat by way of indicating he had something further to say. Silence prevailed, as every eye turned to him. “If you distinguished gentlemen will allow me, I have one more request before you kind sirs leave.” “By all means.” replied an official, and Mr. Hopkins approached the bench and began to speak.

“These two young men,” he announced casually, nodding in our direction, “are my nephews.” Lidge and I just stared stupefied and amazed. “There is evidently,” continues Mr. Hopkins, “a technicality of some kind, which hinders their departure this afternoon with me. If you good sirs could see fit to deal expeditiously with this matter, I’d be forever indebted to you gentlemen for your kindness.” “Consider it done Mr. Hopkins.” was their reply, and so it was! The proceedings completed; the assembly noisily adjourned. Lidge and I quickly signed the document, grabbed up our gear, and followed Mr. Hopkins out.

Out on the steps, Mr. Hopkins participated briefly in some congratulatory handshaking with the crew and passengers of the newly emancipated ship. Then turning to us with an amused but benevolent smile, he says, “If you’re coming with me, you boy’s best shake a leg.” Then he headed out with those four-foot strides like a man of considerable importance, and we figured beyond the slightest doubt he was.

Approaching the harbor, Mr. Hopkins pointed out an impeccably maintained clipper ship. “That’s our craft boys.” he says, “the PACIFIC. What do you think?” Lidge and I were both too flabbergasted to reply! After a moment I spoke up sheepishly; “Sir.” I said, “I’m Obadiah, and this is my partner Lidge.” “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” he says, shaking our hands and smiling pleasantly. My name is Hopkins but call me Uncle Mark.”

To be continued?

By Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Copyright © FEBRUARY 14th, 2009