Notes by Flood and Field Page #5

"Notes by Flood and Field" is a collection of short stories and sketches by Bret Harte, set against the backdrop of the American West during the Gold Rush. Known for his vivid characters and rich storytelling, Harte captures the struggles, humor, and eccentricities of life in mining camps and frontier towns. Through his unique narrative style, he explores themes of humanity, morality, and the diverse experiences of those drawn to the promise of wealth and adventure. The book showcases Harte's mastery of regional literature, blending a sense of place with keen social observations.

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to carriage wheel or footfall. The low ripple of water, the occasional
splash of oars, or the warning cry of boatmen were the few signs of life
and habitation.

With such scenes before my eyes and such sounds in my ears, as I lie
lazily in the boat, is mingled the song of my gondolier who sings to
the music of his oars. It is not quite as romantic as his brother of
the Lido might improvise, but my Yankee "Giuseppe" has the advantage of
earnestness and energy, and gives a graphic description of the terrors
of the past week and of noble deeds of self-sacrifice and devotion,
occasionally pointing out a balcony from which some California Bianca
or Laura had been snatched, half-clothed and famished. Giuseppe is
otherwise peculiar, and refuses the proffered fare, for--am I not a
citizen of San Francisco, which was first to respond to the suffering
cry of Sacramento? and is not he, Giuseppe, a member of the Howard
Society? No! Giuseppe is poor, but cannot take my money. Still, if I
must spend it, there is the Howard Society, and the women and children
without food and clothes at the Agricultural Hall.

I thank the generous gondolier, and we go to the Hall--a dismal, bleak
place, ghastly with the memories of last year's opulence and plenty,
and here Giuseppe's fare is swelled by the stranger's mite. But here
Giuseppe tells me of the "Relief Boat" which leaves for the flooded
district in the interior, and here, profiting by the lesson he has
taught me, I make the resolve to turn my curiosity to the account of
others, and am accepted of those who go forth to succor and help the
afflicted. Giuseppe takes charge of my carpetbag, and does not part from
me until I stand on the slippery deck of "Relief Boat No. 3."

An hour later I am in the pilothouse, looking down upon what was once
the channel of a peaceful river. But its banks are only defined by
tossing tufts of willow washed by the long swell that breaks over a
vast inland sea. Stretches of "tule" land fertilized by its once regular
channel and dotted by flourishing ranchos are now cleanly erased. The
cultivated profile of the old landscape had faded. Dotted lines in
symmetrical perspective mark orchards that are buried and chilled in the
turbid flood. The roofs of a few farmhouses are visible, and here and
there the smoke curling from chimneys of half-submerged tenements shows
an undaunted life within. Cattle and sheep are gathered on Indian mounds
waiting the fate of their companions whose carcasses drift by us, or
swing in eddies with the wrecks of barns and outhouses. Wagons are
stranded everywhere where the tide could carry them. As I wipe the
moistened glass, I see nothing but water, pattering on the deck from the
lowering clouds, dashing against the window, dripping from the willows,
hissing by the wheels, everywhere washing, coiling, sapping, hurrying in
rapids, or swelling at last into deeper and vaster lakes, awful in their
suggestive quiet and concealment.

As day fades into night the monotony of this strange prospect grows
oppressive. I seek the engine room, and in the company of some of the
few half-drowned sufferers we have already picked up from temporary
rafts, I forget the general aspect of desolation in their individual
misery. Later we meet the San Francisco packet, and transfer a number
of our passengers. From them we learn how inward-bound vessels report
to have struck the well-defined channel of the Sacramento, fifty miles
beyond the bar. There is a voluntary contribution taken among the
generous travelers for the use of our afflicted, and we part company
with a hearty "Godspeed" on either side. But our signal lights are not
far distant before a familiar sound comes back to us--an indomitable
Yankee cheer--which scatters the gloom.

Our course is altered, and we are steaming over the obliterated banks
far in the interior. Once or twice black objects loom up near us--the
wrecks of houses floating by. There is a slight rift in the sky toward
the north, and a few bearing stars to guide us over the waste. As we
penetrate into shallower water, it is deemed advisable to divide our
party into smaller boats, and diverge over the submerged prairie. I
borrow a peacoat of one of the crew, and in that practical disguise
am doubtfully permitted to pass into one of the boats. We give way
northerly. It is quite dark yet, although the rift of cloud has widened.

It must have been about three o'clock, and we were lying upon our oars
in an eddy formed by a clump of cottonwood, and the light of the steamer
is a solitary, bright star in the distance, when the silence is broken
by the "bow oar":

"Light ahead."

All eyes are turned in that direction. In a few seconds a twinkling
light appears, shines steadily, and again disappears as if by the
shifting position of some black object apparently drifting close upon
us.

"Stern, all; a steamer!"

"Hold hard there! Steamer be damned!" is the reply of the coxswain.
"It's a house, and a big one too."

It is a big one, looming in the starlight like a huge fragment of the
darkness. The light comes from a single candle, which shines through a
window as the great shape swings by. Some recollection is drifting back
to me with it as I listen with beating heart.

"There's someone in it, by heavens! Give way, boys--lay her alongside.
Handsomely, now! The door's fastened; try the window; no! here's
another!"

In another moment we are trampling in the water which washes the floor
to the depth of several inches. It is a large room, at the farther end
of which an old man is sitting wrapped in a blanket, holding a candle in
one hand, and apparently absorbed in the book he holds with the other. I
spring toward him with an exclamation:

"Joseph Tryan!"

He does not move. We gather closer to him, and I lay my hand gently on
his shoulder, and say:

"Look up, old man, look up! Your wife and children, where are they? The
boys--George! Are they here? are they safe?"

He raises his head slowly, and turns his eyes to mine, and we
involuntarily recoil before his look. It is a calm and quiet glance,
free from fear, anger, or pain; but it somehow sends the blood curdling
through our veins. He bowed his head over his book again, taking no
further notice of us. The men look at me compassionately, and hold their
peace. I make one more effort:

"Joseph Tryan, don't you know me? the surveyor who surveyed your
ranch--the Espiritu Santo? Look up, old man!"

He shuddered and wrapped himself closer in his blanket. Presently he
repeated to himself "The surveyor who surveyed your ranch--Espiritu
Santo" over and over again, as though it were a lesson he was trying to
fix in his memory.

I was turning sadly to the boatmen when he suddenly caught me fearfully
by the hand and said:

"Hush!"

We were silent.

"Listen!" He puts his arm around my neck and whispers in my ear, "I'm a
MOVING OFF!"

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