South, West and North/Part 1/Chapter 1

ICHARD HAMPTON, until an hour ago first mate of the brig Acadian, stared across Boston Harbor, and under his fingers the broad gold pieces in his pocket gave off a dull clink. He was aware of a man coming down the wharf, but he did not look around until the stranger addressed him affably:

“A brisk day, sir, a brisk January day! You are a seaman, I take it?”

Hampton turned and coolly surveyed the speaker. A swift flash of interest glimmered in his gray eyes; he had not thought to see such a man in all Boston, and particularly on Lewis' Wharf, this cold afternoon of January twenty-third. It was not the affluent external aspect of the man that interested him; he passed over the silk hat and rich broadcloth, the velvet collar, the heavy gold fob, the handsome ebony stick. It was the face of the man that held his gaze—a bronzed and high-boned face, full of weather-wrinkles like his own, whose dark eyes gave him look for look and in their arrogance held a peculiar glassy appearance. The face was assertive, self-confident, insolent in its expression of superiority and its air of experience. These two men were much alike, not in any facial resemblance but in a certain mutual self-reliance, a cool aloofness from all around. Each was stamped as a man of positive, downright action, able to take care of himself under any conditions.

“Why take me for a seaman, sir?” demanded Hampton, with no softening of his bleak gaze.

“Because of your interest in the Capitol yonder,” and the other swung his stick toward the ship moored at the wharf, just beyond them. “You regard her with a seaman's eye. And you have rubbed off the corners in a way that sets you apart from these poor greenhorns. An officer, beyond doubt. My name, sir, is James Day.”

“Mine is Richard Hampton, and you are right. I am a ship's mate, and would have had command next voyage had not the Acadian, across the harbor, been sold to a California company.”

The two shook hands. Hampton encountered a strong, energetic grip, and a much hornier palm than to be looked for in so well-dressed a man. Day chuckled, and pointed again at the ship close by, and now ready to cast off.

“From your air, you seem to know her, sir.”

“Aye, and heaven help the poor fools!” said Hampton, with cynical eye. “Her skipper is a hard one; old Proctor is the worst manhandler afloat, and a stubborn, opinionated man to boot.”

A burst of yells and quick voices aboard the ship interrupted them, and suddenly her decks were alive with men. All were staring up toward the town, such as were not at work; Hampton and his companion likewise turned, as to them drifted the lively strains of a fife-and-drum corps, and gazed up the street.

“Gold and Bibles!” said Hampton, with a curt laugh. “It's a little gold the poor fools will ever see! They've been up at the Tabernacle Church listening to a sermon. They might better have been down at the docks listening to the truth about what's ahead of 'em.”

Day gave him a shrewd, sidelong glance, but kept silence. This was the gold year, the year of '49, and few men in all New England would have agreed with the voiced sentiments of Richard Hampton. Certainly those sentiments were shared by none of the approaching mob, whose shrill clamor of voices was sweeping down to the wharf and echoing out across the water. The Capitol was the finest ship yet to leave for California, and the Naumkeag Company of Salem, now embarking, was the largest and best-equipped organization that had so far left Boston for the gold-diggings.

“There goes 'Susannah!'” and Day chuckled. “By the time they've rounded the Horn they'll be singing a different sort of tune, eh?”

A roar of voices swelled out, after the fife and drums, in one of the countless variations of the great song which was sweeping the country from Maine to Mexico. The fifes skirled high, the drums rolled, as down to the wharf came the head of the procession—the Naumkeag Company, two hundred-odd strong, armed to the teeth with rifles, pistols, bowies, each man carrying a large Bible, gay banners flying in the cold wind. Behind and around trooped a great mob of friends and relatives, curious townsfolk, envious neighbors. Salem men and Boston crowd all joined in the roaring chorus that went lifting across the bay:

Out on the wharf poured the wild throng, women weeping, boys yelling, men shouting wild farewells and wilder prophecies of a wealthy return. Salem folk poured down to see the company off, just as folk were pouring down to many another New England wharf to see such companies depart—just as, in those first frantic golden days, other companies Were being seen off from many a wharf in France and England and Germany, and even in distant Australia.

Richard Hampton and his companion drew well over to one side, out of the rush of folk. All the Salem men knew Dick Hampton, however, and he was promptly recognized. As the company trooped past, a storm of excited shouts and greetings was hurled at him, eager flashing faces were turned to him, for he had been three months away from home this voyage.

“Join up, Dick, join up! Good ship, good seaman—come along!”

“There's Dick Hampton, home from sea! See you in Sacramento, lad!”

“Gold ahead of us, Dick—pitch in and get your share before it's all picked up! Eli's gone to the diggings, Dick! We're out to beat the Salem Mechanics' Company—cap'n's promised to pass 'em this side Callao-”

Hampton waved his hand as the company stamped past, and his cool exterior showed no sign of the sudden heart-leap within him at Eli's name. Eli gone! What did that mean? Then, as he listened to the excited cries, the wild promises of gold, the farewells, he drew out a hand from his pocket and began to juggle a number of broad pieces.

“Gold!” he muttered. “Better look at it now, for it's all the gold you'll see!”

“Right,” acclaimed a voice at his side. Half-startled, he turned to meet the dark and glassy eyes of James Day. “You're no fool—saw that at once, Mr. Hampton. Know the game, eh?”

“I know the sea,” said Hampton, “and I know what these poor are up against at the end of the voyage. Yes, I know the game.”

“Right. Come along, if you're free. I want a quiet word with you.”

Day took his arm, and they worked along the edge of the wharf, out of the tide of crowding humanity. The business of the harbor was in full blast, for on every side other ships were fitting out in mad haste—the brig Almena was sailing in a day or two with the Bay State Mining and Trading Company, and others were getting ready in a frenzy to reach California before all the gold was gone. Reaching the head of the wharf, beyond the throng, Day halted and gave Hampton a friendly smile.

“These New England farmers and whalers and army men don't know the game, but you do; show that in your phiz, you do! At the same time, go slow in your notions, sir. I'm vice-president of the Beverly Panama Gold Company. You know how much better the Panama route could be, if there was any one along to show the way and to pull ropes. I know all those countries down there. We've organized a company, keeping our plans dark; we've got a brig chartered for Chagres and have arranged for passage from Panama to 'Frisco. It's no poor man's party, either. Shares cost five hundred, the Panama passage north is extra. You're a good man, and I'd like to have you with us. I'll offer you fourth mate's berth to Chagres, your wages to be remitted as passage money, and the company will pay your way over the Isthmus. We want one or two men who know how to handle themselves and others. Think it over, sir.”

With this rapid speech, Day produced a cheroot, strode a few paces away, and began to watch the departing ship.

Hampton jingled the gold in his pocket, then thoughtfully got out his pipe and lighted it. He was quite aware of the high compliment that had been paid him, and found it puzzling. Any company could open its books, and have every berth, every bit of stock, subscribed in a day's time. There was no trouble about men wanting to go—the difficulty lay in getting passage. If, as men did, a man were to lay the keel of a schooner or brig on the ocean-side of his farm land, he could have an entire company formed and paid up before the ship's timbers were in place. Military companies were forming and drilling—companies of wealthy men, of mechanics, of college men, were all in a mad rush of preparation, competing for ships. The fever had gripped deep and promised to drain New England of its best blood. If Day had really secured a brig for Chagres, his company was in luck.

But—why this offer? Hampton was forced to take the explanation at face value. He knew that few of these companies, except possibly one or two from Nantucket way composed exclusively of whaling skippers, contained men who were leaders or who knew what they would face in California; while the Panama route was a chronicle of horror for all who had taken it, although as yet none of those at home would believe the fact. Men like Dick Hampton or this Day, older or steadier men who had keen ability and the strength of character to meet peril by sea or land, were not easily picked out. Greenhorns were many, experienced hands were few. Thus reflecting, Hampton walked up beside Day, who turned to meet him.

“I haven't the California fever, Mr. Day”

“Precisely why I want you, sir.”

“Well, what about you?” demanded Hampton. “You're not a New Englander. You're not a Beverly man, or I'd know of you. I'd like to know with whom I'm working.”

“Right,” Day nodded quiet acceptance of the demand. “I'll tell you frankly, Hampton, that I'm in this game to make money. A chap in Panama put me on to it, and I came up from Mexico for that purpose. Companies are pouring across the isthmus—and what happens? Even if they get across the isthmus, which most of them don't, they reach Panama and stick there. They can't get passage north to 'Frisco for love or money. The coasters are filled up with South Americans bound for the diggings, and the other ships can't hold a tenth of the greenhorns; even when passage is arranged in advance, the contracts are broken.”

“True enough,” said Hampton. “I've heard all about it.”

“Right. Here's the lay, now! I've got two schooners at work, carrying passengers north from Panama. I come up here, organize a company, guarantee 'em first-class passage through, and no delay; and keep my word. Why, some of those poor have been in Panama for months, and die like flies from fever and plague! My company has none o' that. They get across the isthmus in my care, step into one or both o' my schooners, and off they go—slick! Also, they pay for the privilege, and pay high. They ought to. They'll be picking up nuggets in Sacramento before these folks here today will round the Horn! They're willing to pay extra, and I want only those who can afford to pay well for value received. I make money, and it's fair and square.”

Hampton nodded. “Fair and square, sir. Well, I'm free of the gold fever, and I'm called home to Salem on an errand I can't postpone. At the same time, I'd like to think over your offer, if I may.”

“Right. What's your experience?”

“I'm just home from first mate aboard the brig Acadian—she's across the harbor now, bought and fitting for 'Frisco with the Hampshire & Holyoke Company. I've not been around the Horn, but I've been every where else; across the isthmus and up the west coast, too.”

“You'll do,” said James Day decisively. “I'll keep open the berth for three days—until an hour of sailing time. By the way, we have a family going from your town—Jedediah Barnes and his daughter. Do you know them?”

Hampton slowly turned and looked at the speaker. He was an inch shorter than Day, yet tall enough, and wider through the shoulders. His face was thin and almost too harshly curved; one guessed that he could be a hard master, and so he was, though seamen liked him since he knew his business thoroughly. What spoke most from him was the poise of his head, the quiet tensity of his eyes, the deep firmness of his facial lines. Now, as he looked at Day, his gray eyes were level and hard, showing no emotion, but for an instant his teeth clenched on his pipe-stem. His chief business at home had been with Nelly Barnes.

“Jed Barnes? Yes, I know him. But he has—why, it's impossible! Nelly can't be going.”

“She is, though.” Day chuckled. His eyes were on the crowd, not on the man beside him. “Both going out. They're the only Salem folks with us.”

“Why? Barnes has plenty of money.”

“Like every one else, he wants more. He's sold out everything and is going to California to stay. Nice girl, Nelly! We've several married women in the company, and she'll be taken care of, you can be sure.”

Hampton did not answer. He dimly realized that speeches were being made down the wharf as the lines of the Capitol were cast off, but the voice of Day rung in his brain. Nelly Barnes going to California! It seemed preposterous. He had not been home for three months, and much might have occurred in that time—his own brother, apparently, had gone. Yet Nelly Barnes, of all people!

“Three days, eh?” he said slowly. “Thanks, Mr. Day. I'll let you know.”

“Right.” Day nodded. “And keep your mouth shut, sir. It's known that we're going, of course, but we want no talking about our plans and so forth. We've made up our company quietly, picked the best men we could find, and are getting off for work, without any flourish of trumpets. Banners and Bibles are barred. So are pistols.”

Day chuckled, but Hampton did not respond. With a curt farewell he turned and strode away. He had some accounts to settle, had to arrange about his chest and belongings; he could not get off for home before the early morning.

As he reached the head of the wharf, a sudden whirl of fifes and a lifting roar of voices from the crowd behind him burst into song. Hampton found himself keeping pace to the air, and then cursed it with sudden bitterness as the words impacted upon his brain.