Chapter 1

Back home in Missouri, rain was welcome because it fed the crops that sustained us. Here in Whiskey Slide, a California gold mining camp, rain is hell on Earth because a man must work six days a week, no matter the weather, if he’s to survive. Somebody said, “We don’t dig for gold, we dig for bread,” and I can’t argue. After three months in the diggings, I’m near starving.

You’d think cold and rain would ease the pain of hard labor, but I’m here to say it doesn’t. My back might well be afire, such is the hurt, and shoulders and arms likewise complain. I’d expect at some point my body will toughen up, but so far all I’ve managed is blisters on my hands turning to calluses. The search for those elusive nuggets remains as unforgiving as the rain.

There was a time when I longed for a man and some fun. Now, all I crave is food and rest. Has all this labor brought rewards? I’d have to say no for the most part. The gold is hit and miss because the area has been heavily mined, riches mostly gained in 1848. Now, in September 1849, with men numbering in the thousands, a man must fairly scrape out a living. Had I known what lay ahead, I might have stayed home.

Whiskey Slide, which is no more than a makeshift settlement, is perched above the diggings on the bank of the Feather River’s south fork. The riverbank is crowded with men digging their claims, some swinging a pick like me, others fairly clawing because their tools broke. Where gold is scarce now is in the water itself. Panning is seldom done anymore. Men have turned to a new method, rocker boxes, which rock and sift dirt fed to them. This is faster than panning, which can drive a man crazy for no more than a pinch of dust. It takes three men to operate a rocker, which is what I’m doing. At present, I’m the fellow swinging the pick to turn fresh earth. My friend Dieter Hartung, a German from Pennsylvania, is feeding dirt and water into the rocker while Chet Sloane, from Illinois, keeps the rocker rocking. All this in pouring rain.

I’m digging in mud, of course, wet through and so cold my body, for all its labor, fails to warm me, but I cannot stop. We need to gain some gold today because we’re out of food and will go hungry without at least a few grains of ore. We’ve been working since first light, eight hours now, and I’m powerful hungry, breakfast having consisted of water and the last of the bread, a noon meal beyond our reach. Chet remarked, as we ate our morning fare, that it’s no better than what’s provided convicts.

Gold is difficult to find when mud is more plentiful than dirt, but still we keep on. Then Chet gives a shout, saying he’s got something, and I rush over to the rocker where Dieter stands looking over Chet’s shoulder. The rain lets up a tad, as if Ma Nature wishes to also have a look, and I glance skyward, offering thanks. Then I look at what Chet has in hand.

It’s not a nugget; it’s a sprinkling of dust, but that’s good enough. “Could be an ounce,” declares Chet.

I chime in, “Maybe more.”

Chet secures the dust in a once-white kerchief and pockets it. We work a bit more, then decide we’ve got the day’s take.

“Let’s head up to the store,” I suggest and the others agree.

Dunne’s Store is the finest building in Whiskey Slide, the other being the saloon. They’re far more than the shacks and cabins that house other enterprises, having been reasonably well-constructed. Dunne’s is not large. Shelves run partway down one side, barrels after that, mostly empty. A makeshift counter—long board atop barrels—fronts all this, and soon we stand opposite, eager toward making a purchase. A small scale sits on one end of the counter and Chet opens his kerchief and sprinkles the dust onto it. The amount comes to just under an ounce.

“Fifteen dollars,” declares Dunne.

This would be good news if prices weren’t so high. While a man can go next door and get a whiskey for twenty-five cents, in here it’s another matter because merchants know their customers are desperate. Potatoes are a dollar each, same for onions. Coffee, flour, sugar, beans, and pork are all a dollar a pound. Butter is a dollar fifty.

“Got something special today,” says Dunne, producing a box of small melons.

“How much?” asks Chet.

“Little are two dollars each, that big one is five.” There are no more than ten melons in the box. “Best make up your mind,” continues Dunne, who is round in the middle, obviously thriving on our hardship. “They’ll be gone by day’s end.”

“We need some fruit,” offers Dieter. “We’ll get scurvy if we don’t have some soon.”

We get a small melon along with three potatoes, an onion, some butter, a piece of pork, and a pound of beans. “Near out of coffee,” says Chet, so we add a pound of that. We leave the store with so little dust it can hardly be seen in the kerchief, but no matter, our step is light because we’ll eat tonight.