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Lost Lenore: The Adventures of a Rolling Stone

Volume Two – Chapter Six.
Red Ned

At the time that Stormy was teaching, or rather receiving, that terrible lesson of manners, I was not in the village. I had gone some two or three miles up the river, to look after my miners at their work.

A messenger brought me the news; and, in breathless haste, I hurried homewards.

On arriving at the house where Stormy lived, I found him stretched upon his bed – with a doctor bending over him.

“Rowley, my boy, it’s all over with me,” said he. “The doctor says so; and for the first time in my life I believe one.”

“Stormy! Stormy! my friend, what has happened?” I asked, as across my soul swept a wave of anguish more painful than words can describe.

“Never mind any explanation now,” interrupted the doctor, turning to me, and speaking in a low voice. “Do not excite your friend, by making him converse. You can learn the particulars of his misfortune from some one else.”

The doctor was in the act of leaving; and, interpreting a sign he gave me, I followed him out. I was told by him, that Stormy had been stabbed, and that his wound would prove mortal. The man of medicine imparted some other details of the affair, which he had collected from the spectators who had witnessed it.

On parting from me, the surgeon gave me warning, that the wounded man might live two days – certainly not longer.

“He has received an injury,” said he, “that must cause his death within that time. You can do nothing, beyond keeping him as quiet as possible.”

After pronouncing this melancholy prognosis, the surgeon took his departure, with a promise to call again in the morning.

I returned to the bedside of my doomed comrade.

He would talk, in spite of all I could do, or say, to prevent him.

“I will talk,” said he, “and there’s no use in your trying to stop me. I’ve not much longer to live; and why should I pretend to be dead, before I really am?”

I saw it was no use to attempt keeping him either quiet or silent. It only excited him all the more; and would, perhaps, do more harm to him than letting him have his way – which I at length did. He proceeded to inform me of all the particulars of the affair. His account slightly differed from that given me by the doctor, who had doubtless heard a one-sided statement, from the friends of the bully.

“I don’t know whether I’ve been sarved right or not,” said Stormy, after concluding his account. “I sartinly called the man some ugly names; and every one about here is likely to say that it was right for him to teach me manners. But why did he stab me with a knife? My legs were staggering drunk; and he might have thrashed me without that!”

On hearing Stormy’s statement, I became inspired with a feeling of fell indignation against the scoundrel, who had acted in such a cowardly manner: a determination, that my old comrade should be avenged.

I knew it would be idle to go before a magistrate, for the purpose of getting the bully punished, for the two men had come to blows, before the knife had been used.

The affair would be looked upon as an affray – in which either, or both, had the right to use whatever weapons they pleased – and Stormy would be thought deserving of his fate, for not protecting himself in a more efficient manner!

I knew that he was drunk; and that even if sober he would not have used a deadly weapon in a bar-room row; but although I knew this, others would tell me, that my friend’s being drunk was not the fault of the man who had stabbed him; and that if he had not chosen to defend himself according to custom, he must bear the consequences.

Impelled by my excited feelings, I left Stormy in the care of a miner who had come in to see him; and stepped over to the tavern, where the horrible deed had taken place.

About forty people were in the bar-room when I entered. Some were seated around a table where “Monte” was being dealt, while others were standing at the bar, noisily swilling their drinks.

Without making remark to any one, I listened for a few minutes to the conversation. As the affair had occurred only that afternoon, I knew that they would be talking about it in the bar-room – as in reality they were. Several men were speaking on the subject, though not disputing. There was not much difference of opinion among them. They all seemed to regard the occurrence, as I expected they would, in the same light.

Two men had got into a quarrel, and then come to blows. One had stabbed the other – in California an everyday occurrence of trifling interest. That was all the bar-room loungers were disposed to make of it.

I differed in opinion with them; and told them, in plain terms, that the fight they were talking about had not been a fair one, that the man who had stabbed the other had committed a crime but little less than murder.

A dozen were anxious to argue with me. How could I expect a man to be called hard names in a public room without his resenting it?

“But why did the man use a knife?” I asked. “Could the insult not have been resented without that?”

I was told that men had no business to fight at all, if they could avoid it; but when they did, each had a right to be in earnest, and do all the harm he could to the other.

I was also admonished that I had better not let “Red Ned” hear me talk as I was doing, or I might probably get served as bad as the sailor, who had offended him that same day.

I thus learnt, for the first time, that the man who had wounded Stormy was “Red Ned,” and from what I had heard of this ruffian already, I was not the less determined that Stormy should be avenged.

I knew, moreover, that if “Red Ned” was to receive punishment, it would have to be inflicted by myself.

He was not in the tavern at the time; or, perhaps, he might have received it on the instant.

I returned to Stormy; and passed that night by his side.

He was in great pain most part of the night. The distress of my mind at the poor fellow’s sufferings, determined me to seek “Red Ned” the next morning; and, as Stormy would have said, “teach him manners.”

When the day broke, the wounded man was in less pain, and able to converse – though not without some difficulty.

“Rowley,” said he, “we must attend to business, before it be too late. I know I shan’t live through another night, and must make up my reckoning to-day. I’ve got about one hundred and eighty ounces; and it’s all yours, my boy. I don’t know that I have a relation in the world; and there is no one to whom I care to leave anything but yourself. I can die happy now, because I know that the little I leave will belong to you. Had this happened before our meeting in Sonora, my greatest sorrow at going aloft would have been, to think some stranger would spend what I have worked hard to make, while my little Rowley might be rolling hungry round the world.”

At Stormy’s request, the landlord of the lodging was called in; and commanded to produce the bag of gold which the sailor had placed in his keeping.

At this the man, apparently an honest fellow, went out of the room; and soon returned with the treasure, which, in the presence of the landlord and a miner who had come in, its owner formally presented to me. It was a bequest rather than a present – the act of a dying man.

“Take it, Rowley,” said he, “and put it with your own. It was got in an honest manner, and let it be spent in a sensible one. Go to Liverpool, marry the girl you told me of; and have a home and family in your old age. I fancy, after all, that must be the way to be happy: for being without home and friends I know isn’t. Ah! it was that as made me live the wretched roaming life, I’ve done.”

The exertion of talking had made Stormy worse. I saw that he began to breathe with difficulty; and seemed to suffer a great deal of pain. So great was his agony, that it was almost equal agony for me to stand by his side; and I stole out, leaving him with the surgeon – who had meanwhile arrived – and the miner before mentioned.

I stole out upon an errand.

Volume Two – Chapter Seven.
My Comrade Avenged

Perhaps ere this my errand may have been conjectured. If not I shall disclose it. I left the bedside of Stormy to seek Red Ned.

I went direct to the tavern – knowing that the bully frequented the place, and that if not there, some one could probably tell me where he might be found.

As I entered the bar-room, a tall, slender man, with red hair, was talking, in a loud voice, to a knot of others collected in front of the bar.

“Let him dare tell me that it was murder,” said the red-haired man, “and I’ll serve him in the same way I did the other. Murder indeed! Why, there was a dozen men by, who can prove that I listened for ten minutes to the man insulting and abusing me in the most beastly manner. Could flesh and blood stand it any longer? What is a man worth who’ll not protect his character? Whoever says I acted unfair is a liar; and had better keep his cheek to himself.”

As soon as I heard the speaker’s voice, and had a fair look at him, I recognised him as an old acquaintance.

It was Edward Adkins, first mate and afterwards captain of the ship “Lenore” – the man who had discharged me in New Orleans after the death of Captain Hyland – the man who had accused me of ingratitude and theft! Yes, it was Adkins, my old enemy.

I knew that he was a coward of the most contemptible kind, and a bully as well.

What I had witnessed of his conduct on the Lenore, during many years’ service with him, had fully convinced me of this. A thorough tyrant over the crew, while cringing in the presence of Captain Hyland – who was often compelled to restrain him, from practising his petty spite upon those under his command. It did not need that last interview I had had with him in Liverpool – in the house of Mrs Hyland – to strengthen my belief that Edward Adkins was a despicable poltroon.

In answer to the question he had put: “What’s a man worth who’ll not protect his character?” I walked up to him and said: – “You have no character to protect, and none to lose. You are a cowardly ruffian. You purposely started a quarrel with an inoffensive man; and drew your knife upon him when you knew he was helpless with drink.”

“Hell and damnation! Are you talking to me?” inquired Adkins, turning sharply round, his face red with rage.

But his features suddenly changed to an expression that told me he wished himself anywhere else, than in the presence of the man to whom he had addressed the profane speech.

“Yes! I’m talking to you,” said I, “and I wish all present to listen to what I say. You are a cowardly wretch, and worse. You have taken the life of a harmless, innocent man, unable to protect himself. You, to talk of resenting an insult, and protecting your character – your character indeed!”

Had we two been alone, it is possible that Adkins would not have thought himself called upon to reply to what I had said; but we were in the presence of two score of men, in whose hearing he had just boasted – how he would serve the man who had been slandering him. That man was myself.

“Now!” I cried impatient for action, “you hear what I’ve said! You hear it, all of you?”

The bully had been brought to bay.

“Gentlemen!” said he, addressing the crowd who had gathered around, “what am I to do? I was driven yesterday to an act I now regret; and here is another man forcing me into a quarrel in the same way. Take my advice,” said he, turning to me, “and leave the house, before my blood gets up.”

“There is not the least danger of your blood getting up,” said I; “your heart’s gone down into your heels. If I was so drunk, as to be just able to keep my legs, no doubt you would have the courage to attack me. You haven’t got it now.”

The greatest coward in the world can be driven to an exhibition of courage – whether sham or real; and Adkins, seeing that he could no longer in California lay claim to the title of a dangerous man, without doing something to deserve it, cried out —

“Damnation! if you want it, you shall have it!”

As the words passed from his lips, I saw him stoop suddenly – at the same time jerking his foot upward from the floor. I divined his intention, which was to draw his bowie out of his boot; and while his leg was still raised, and before he could fairly lay hold of the knife, I dealt him a blow that sent him sprawling upon the floor. The knife flew out of his hand; and, before he could regain his feet, I stepped between him and the place where it was lying.

I have neglected to tell the reader, that I could no longer with propriety be called “The little Rolling Stone,” though Stormy still continued to address me occasionally by that appellation. At the time of this – my last encounter with Adkins – I was six feet without my boots; and was strong and active in proportion. I have called it my last encounter with this ruffian – it was so. Before he was in a position to attack me a second time, I drew my own knife from its sheath; and threw it on the floor alongside his. I did this, to show that I scorned to take any advantage of an unarmed man – as my cowardly opponent had done with poor Stormy Jack. I did not at the moment think of the wrongs Adkins had done to myself – of my imprisonment in a common gaol – of the falsehoods he had told to Mrs Hyland – of his attempt to win Lenore. I thought only of poor Stormy.

Adkins again rushed on me; and was again knocked down. This time he showed a disposition for remaining on the floor – in the hopes that some of his friends might come between us, and declare the fight to be over; but I kicked him, until he again got up, and once more closed with me.

I met the third attack, by picking him up in my arms – until his heels were high in the air, and then I allowed him to fall down again on the crown of his head. He never rose after that fall – his neck was broken.

Before I left the room, every man in it came up and shook hands with me – as they did so, telling me that I had done a good thing.

Volume Two – Chapter Eight.
Stormy Tranquil at Last

When I returned to Stormy he was worse; and I saw that he had not much longer to live. He was not in so much pain as when I left him; but it was evident he was sinking rapidly.

“Stormy,” said I, “what would you wish me to do to the man, who has brought you to this?”

“Nothing,” he answered; “he’s a bad man – but let him go. Promise me that you will not try to teach him manners – let the Lord do it for us.”

“All right, comrade,” said I, “your wishes shall be obeyed: for I cannot harm him now. He has gone.”

“I’m glad of that,” said the dying man, “for it shows that he knew himself to be in the wrong. By his running away, others will know it too; and will not say that I desarved what I’ve got.”

“But he has not run away,” said I, “he is dead. I went to the house, where you met him yesterday. I found him there. Before I came out, he died.”

Stormy’s expressive features were lit up with a peculiar smile.

It was evident that he comprehended the full import of my ambiguous speech, though he made no comment, further than what gave me to understand, that his object, in making me promise not to harm Red Ned, was only from fear that I might get the worst of it. I could tell, however, by the expression upon his features, that he was rather pleased I had not left to the Lord the work of teaching manners to his murderer.

I remained by the bedside of my dying comrade – painfully awaiting the departure of his spirit. My vigil was not a protracted one. He died early in the afternoon of that same day, on which his murder had been avenged.

There was no inquest held, either upon his body, or that of his assassin. Perhaps the latter might have been brought to trial, but for the judgment that had already fallen upon him. This being deemed just by all the respectable people in the place, there were no farther steps taken in the matter, than that of burying the bodies of the two men – who had thus fallen a sacrifice to the play of unfortunate passions.

I have seen many gold-diggers undergo interment, by being simply rolled up in their blankets, and thrust under ground without any ceremony whatever, all this, too, only an hour or two after the breath had departed from their bodies. Such, no doubt, would have been the manner in which the body of Stormy Jack would have been disposed of, had there not been by him in his last hour a friend, who had been acquainted with him long, and respected him much.

I could not permit his remains to be thus rudely interred. I had a good coffin made to contain them; and gave the old sailor the most respectable burial I had ever seen among the miners of California.

Poor Stormy! Often, when thinking of him, I am reminded of how much the destiny of an individual may be influenced by circumstances.

Stormy Jack was naturally a man of powerful intellect. He possessed generosity, courage, a love of justice, and truth – in short, all the requisites that constitute a noble character. But his intellect had remained wholly uncultivated; and circumstances had conducted him to a calling, where his good qualities were but little required, and less appreciated. Had he been brought up and educated to fill some higher station in society, history might have carried his name – which to me was unknown – far down into posterity. In the proportion that Nature had been liberal to him, Fortune had been unkind; and he died, as he had lived, only Stormy Jack – unknown to, and uncared for, by the world he might have adorned.

After having performed the last sad obsequies over his body, I recalled the advice he had given me, along with his gold, to return to Lenore.

I resolved to follow a counsel so consonant with my own desires. I found no difficulty in disposing of my mining shares; and this done, I made arrangements for travelling by the stage conveyance then running between Sonora and Stockton.

Before leaving the Stanislaus, I paid a visit to the young couple, who had been entrusted with the care of Leary’s child.

My object in going to see them was to learn, if possible, something more of that gentleman’s doings in Australia.

It was true, they had said, that they were unacquainted with him there; but there were several questions I wished to ask them – by which I hoped to learn something concerning my mother, and whether she had followed Leary to the colonies.

I found the guardians of the child still living where I had seen them, on the day the murderer was executed. The orphan was no longer in their keeping. They had sent it to its grandparents in Sydney, in charge of a merchant – who had left California for the Australian colonies some weeks before.

Though I obtained from the man and his wife all the information they were capable of giving, I learnt but little of what I desired to know. They thought it likely, that in San Francisco, I might hear more about the subject of my enquiries. They knew a man named Wilson – who had come from Sydney in the same ship with them; and who was now keeping a public-house in San Francisco. Wilson, they believed, had been well acquainted with Mathews – for this was the name which Leary had assumed in the colonies.

Such was the scant information I succeeded in obtaining from the friends of the late Mrs Leary; and with only this to guide me, I commenced my journey for the capital of California.

Volume Two – Chapter Nine.
A Rough Ride

The stage, by which I travelled from Sonora to Stockton, was nothing more than a large open waggon, drawn by four Mexican horses.

We started at six o’clock in the morning, on a journey of eighty-four miles. This we should have to perform before four o’clock in the afternoon of the same day – in order to catch the steamer, which, at that hour, was to start from Stockton for San Francisco.

Notwithstanding that the road over most of the route was in reality no road at all, but an execrable path, we made the eighty-four miles within the time prescribed: for the stage arrived at Stockton more than twenty minutes before the time appointed for the sailing of the steamer!

In spite of this rapidity of transit, I did not at all enjoy the journey between Sonora and Stockton. I was all the time under an impression that my life was in imminent danger; and, as I was at last on my way to Lenore, I did not wish to be killed by the overturning of a Californian stage coach – behind four half-wild horses, going at the top of their speed.

Sometimes we would be rushing down a steep hill, when, to keep the horses out of the way of the waggon they were drawing, the driver would stand up on his box, and fling the “silk” at them with all the energy he could command. On such occasions there would be moments when not a wheel could be seen touching the ground; and not unfrequently the vehicle would bound through the air, to a distance equalling its own length!

We were fortunate enough to reach Stockton, without breaking either the wheels of the waggon, or the bones of any of the passengers, which to me at the time seemed something miraculous.

I do not relish describing scenes of a sanguinary character; but, to give the reader some idea of the state of society in California, at the time I write of, I shall mention a circumstance that transpired during my twenty minutes’ sojourn in Stockton – while waiting for the starting of the steamer.

Just as we were getting out of the stage waggon, several pistol-shots were heard, close to the spot where we had stopped. They had been fired inside the gambling room of a public-house, on the opposite side of the street; and several men were seen rushing out of the house, apparently to escape the chances of being hit by a stray bullet.

As soon as the firing had ceased, the retreating tide turned back again; and re-entered the house – along with a crowd of others, who had been idling outside.

I walked over; and went in with the rest. On entering the large saloon, in which the shots had been fired, I saw two men lying stretched upon separate tables – each attended by a surgeon, who was examining his wounds.

I could see that both were badly – in fact mortally – wounded; and yet each was cursing the other with the most horrible imprecations I had ever heard!

One of the surgeons, addressing himself to the man upon whom he was attending, said: —

“Do not talk in that profane manner. You had better turn your thoughts to something else: you have not many hours to live.”

Neither this rebuke, nor the unpleasant information conveyed by it, seemed to produce the slightest effect on the wretch to whom it was addressed. Instead of becoming silent, he poured forth a fresh storm of blasphemy; and continued cursing all the time I remained within hearing.

I was told that the two men had quarrelled about a horse, that one of them first fired at the other, who fell instantly to the shot; and that the latter, while lying on the floor, had returned the fire of the assailant, sending three bullets into his body.

I heard afterwards that the shots had proved fatal to both. The man who had fired the first shot died that same night – the other surviving the sanguinary encounter only a few hours longer.

I had no desire to linger among the spectators of that tragical tableau; and I was but too glad to find a cue for escaping from it: in the tolling of the steam-boat bell, as it summoned the passengers aboard.

A few minutes after, and we were gliding down the San Joaquin —en route for the Golden City.

The San Joaquin is emphatically a crooked river. It appeared to me that in going down it, we passed Mount Diablo at least seven times. Vessels, that we had already met, could be soon after seen directly ahead of us, while those appearing astern would in a few minutes after, encounter us in the channel of the stream!

A “Down-easter,” who chanced to be aboard, made the characteristic observation: – that “the river was so crooked, a bird could not fly across it: as it would be certain to alight on the side from which it had started!”

Crooked as was the San Joaquin it conducted us to the capital of California – which we reached at a late hour of the night.

So impatient was I to obtain the information, which had brought me to San Francisco, that on the instant of my arrival I went in search of the tavern, kept by Mr Wilson.

I succeeded in finding it, though not without some difficulty. It was a dirty house in a dirty street – the resort of all the worthless characters that could have been collected from the low neighbourhood around it, chiefly runaway convicts, and gay women, from Sydney. It was just such a hostelrie, as I might have expected to be managed by a quondam companion of Mr Leary.

Mr Wilson was at “home,” I was at once ushered into his presence; and, after a very informal introduction, I commenced making him acquainted with my business.

I asked him, if, while at Sydney, he had the pleasure of being acquainted with a man named Mathews.

“Mathews! Let me see!” said he, scratching his head, and pretending to be buried in a profound reflection; “I’ve certainly heard that name, somewhere,” he continued, “and, perhaps, if you were to tell me what you want, I might be able to remember all about it.”

I could perceive that my only chance of learning anything from Mr Wilson was to accede to his proposal, which I did. I told him, that a man named Mathews had been hung a few weeks before on the Stanislaus, that it was for the murder of a young girl, with whom he had eloped from Australia; and that I had reason to believe, that the man had left a wife behind him in Sydney. I had heard that he, Mr Wilson, had known Mathews; and could perhaps tell me, if such had been the case.

“If it was the Mathews I once knew something about,” said the tavern-keeper, after listening to my explanation, “he could not have left any money, or property, behind him: he hadn’t a red cent to leave.”

“I didn’t say that he had,” I answered. “It is not for that I make the inquiry.”

“No!” said the tavern-keeper, feigning surprise. “Then what can be your object, in wanting to know whether he left a wife in Sydney?”

“Because that wife, if there be one, is my mother.”

This answer was satisfactory; and Mr Wilson, after healing it, became communicative.

He had no objections to acknowledge acquaintance with a man who had been hung – after my having admitted that man’s wife to be my mother; and, freely confessed, without any further circumlocution, that he had been intimate with a man named Mathews, who had eloped from Sydney with a shopkeeper’s daughter. He supposed it must be the same, that I claimed as my stepfather.

Wilson’s Mathews had arrived in Sydney several years before. About a year after his arrival he was followed by his wife from Dublin – with whom he had lived for a few weeks, and then deserted her.

Wilson had seen this woman; and from the description he gave me of her, I had no doubt that she was my mother.

The tavern-keeper had never heard of her, after she had been deserted by Mathews, nor could he answer any question: as to whether she had brought my children to the colony. He had never heard of her children.

This was the sum and substance of the information I obtained from Mr Wilson.

My mother, then, had actually emigrated to Australia; and there, to her misfortune, no doubt, had once more discovered the ruffian who had ruined her.

Where was she now? Where were her children? My brother William, and my little sister Martha, of whom I was once so fond and proud?

“I must visit Australia,” thought I, “before going back to England. Until I have recovered my relatives I am not worthy to stand in the presence of Lenore!”