Gold, a Tale of the California Gold Rush

By Steve Bartholomew

I must admit that of my published novels, Gold, a tale of the California gold rush, is in many ways my favorite story. This is in part because of personal, sentimental reasons. I greatly enjoyed researching it, discovering how much literature I could find on the subject of sidewheel steam ships, and the sea route to California. Gold was an Eppie awards finalist for 2009.
    Imagine you're living on a small, isolated planet where you have to work twelve or sixteen hours a day just to earn enough money to stay alive, and where it's freezing cold in the winter and too hot in the summer. You're sharing rooms with maybe several other people you barely know; the future seems to offer only more of the same.
    Suddenly you're given a chance. You can travel to a far distant world, if you can come up with about two hundred dollars for the ticket. This new planet is warm all the time, uncrowded, with limitless opportunity. And you can become fabulously rich by just picking up gold off the ground. Why, even the servants there are rich. Oh, there's a couple of drawbacks: You will have to travel in a ship using radically new and untested technology. You will be crowded in with a thousand other passengers and crew, but out of contact with the rest of humanity for weeks at a time. During the passage you will be eating mainly dried meat and beans, no fresh fruit or veggies. Oh, and one other thing: the ship might possibly explode at any moment.
    That was the situation emigrants to California found themselves in when they shipped aboard a steam ship from the east coast. Thousands more traveled that way than came by wagon train. Gold is the story of a few of these emigrants, and how their lives were changed by the journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Bartholomew
• Release date: Oct 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215781357

Steve Bartholomew

I grew up in San Francisco, joined the Army after high school. That's where I got my most valuable education. Since then I've lived in a few other places, such as Mexico City and New York. Now I inhabit a small town in Northern California, where we have a volcano and a lake. What more could I ask? I have been writing since age 9. What more do you wish to know?

Book preview

Part One – Inferno

Chapter 1

That March morning in 1850, Marcus Gale wandered down to the docks and stared toward the far horizon, wishing he might sail away. He owed a lot of cash to certain money lenders, and they were looking for him. He needed to get out of New York City, but he had no idea how to do that. Somewhere out there was California, but the cheapest passage by ship started at two hundred dollars, a sum far beyond his means.

He tugged his coat over his nose in an effort to block the smell. Although the cold weather tended to keep odors down, there was always the background aroma of old seafood. He hadn’t eaten for two days, but when he recalled what that fellow, Oscar, had said he would do to him if he didn’t come up with a payment soon, he forgot about eating.

It was a month into sailing season, and the docks were piled high with crates and baggage, crowded with passengers, dock wallopers, and sailors. He had never seen so many people in one place before. The demand had not declined since the rush for gold started the previous year. The masts in the East River looked like a forest. Every vessel that could still float was there. Some of them had been dragged out of wrecking yards and hastily refitted. At least half of them didn’t seem as if they’d make it as far as Mexico. Still, he would have boarded in an instant if he could.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t find work. Since the gold rush started, there were plenty of jobs because half the labor force had headed out for California. But if he were to take a job in town, Oscar would find him. He’d even thought of applying for a job as sailor, but was certain he’d be turned down. After all, Marcus had always worked indoors, sitting at a desk. A sailor would probably laugh at him.

It crossed his mind he might stow away—in all the confusion it wouldn’t be hard to slip aboard unnoticed—but he dismissed that idea. On a crowded ship, he would not go undetected for long. Like as not, some ruthless skipper would have him tossed overboard, if not chained in the bilge till he could be turned over to authorities.

Perhaps, he thought, he might somehow get to St. Louis and beg passage on a wagon train headed west...

He gave a long, weary sigh and sat down on a mooring bollard. He’d spent the night in a horse barn, with only his overcoat for warmth. It had been a long, miserable night. Idly, he thought about his twenty-third birthday, now two days past, and with no one but himself to notice.

Happy birthday, Marcus!

He might as well go face the music with Oscar, or just throw himself off the dock. At the end of his tether, he could see no way out. It was at that moment his life changed forever.

Hey, you!

At first he didn’t realize the voice was directed at him. He continued staring into space. Someone poked him roughly on the shoulder. Hey! Sailor!

Marcus turned and saw a large man wearing a black sweater and watch cap. You mean me? I’m no sailor, sir.

I thought you were. Look like one. Don’t matter. You lookin’ for a berth?

A b ... berth? Oh, you mean a job? On a boat?

"Not a boat, a ship. In fact, that one right behind me, the steamer. The American Sword. She needs another stoker. Fact is, we need no less than nine and had that many, but now one’s gone off and got himself drunk in jail, and we sail in half an hour. Come to that, we oughta have three Engineers, but we only got one. So, you interested or not? I could always get somebody down at the Sailor’s Hall."

Marcus got shakily to his feet. He wasn’t sure what a stoker was, or what one did, but he looked at the steamship and thought her the most lovely sight he had ever seen. He took a deep breath. Count me in, he said, and had a gut feeling his world would never be the same again.

I’m First Mate, the man said. From now on you address me as Mr. Scuggins. Where’s your duffle?

My ... you mean my baggage? I’m afraid I don’t have any, Mr. Scuggins.

The man shrugged. Don’t matter, you can get enough for a kit on board from the slops. Come on with me, we can’t keep Mr. Lewis waiting. He’s our Engineer. From now till the end of the voyage, he owns you.

Two thousand tons burthen, Finnegan was saying. Length, two hundred eighty-five feet, thirty-eight feet in the beam. Three barquentinerigged masts and a five-hundred-horsepower walking-beam engine. Eight hundred passengers and crew on board. She’s one of the finest, most modern ships on the sea. The First Mate had turned Marcus over to Finnegan, an able-bodied seaman. Finnegan had seen to it that Marcus was properly clothed in canvas dungarees and showed him his bunk on a top tier in the foc’sle.

While a tug urged the ship downriver, Finnegan had taken Marcus to the crew’s mess where he enjoyed his first meal in days. In fact, it was the best meal he’d had in ... he couldn’t remember how long. Lamb chops, potatoes, and fresh greens.

Don’t get used to this mess, Finnegan warned. The fresh meat will run out in a day or two. Then it will be salt pork, bully beef, and hard tack till we raise St. Catherine’s. Well, I see you’re finished. We’d better get you below to the engines. Mr. Lewis will be wanting his own supper about now, but he’ll be wanting a head of steam first. Let’s go.

They headed for a hatch halfway down the deck. Marcus was feeling a warm glow from the food. He still could not believe his good luck. We’re really going to California, then?

Where else? By way of the Straits of Magellan. Three months from now, you’ll be standing on the Golden Shore. Half the crew will probably jump ship, including myself. I intend to get rich while I can.

Rich... Marcus mused. The idea was beginning to set in. He might become rich.

Finnegan paused at the hatch. One more thing I should tell you. It’s true she’s a fine ship, and our Engineer seems capable, but I’m afraid I can’t say the same for Mr. Cutter, our Captain. He gazed thoughtfully up at the rigging. The owners had a hard time finding good crew and officers. The previous captain decided he liked the gold fields better than sailing. Half the ship commanders now on the California run shouldn’t be in charge of a rowboat, I regret to say. Now, I wouldn’t go that far with Mr. Cutter. But he’s not exactly what you would call experienced, at least not with steamships. This is only his second command. His first was a three-hundred-ton schooner.

Marcus blinked. Never having been to sea before, he had not understood much of Finnegan’s explanation of beam and keel and so on, but he knew a three-hundred-ton schooner would be a lot smaller than the ship he was on now.

Finnegan added, Matter of fact, I served on that very schooner. That’s how I come to know the Captain. Then he turned, and they plunged down the hatch into what felt like an oven.

"This will be the new stoker, then? the Engineer said. About time. Welcome to Inferno, lad. Grab a shovel and get to stoking."

Marcus squinted, trying to see in the dimness. He had descended from the brisk, clean air of the upper deck through two lower decks, to a different world below. With the skylight shutters still closed, the engine room was smoky and dim, lit by a single hurricane lamp and from the red glow of the furnace. He immediately began to sweat.

Sir, I’ve never been on a ship before. You’ll have to show me what to do. His eyes began to adjust so he could make out the general shape of the Engineer. He was a short, bald man with a chest like a barrel. His bushy mustache made up for the lack of hair on his cranium. He took a step forward, displaying a marked limp.

Hah! the man barked. "Might a knowed it. A landlubber. Scrapin’ the bottom of the pickle barrel, they are. Here, grab this shovel. It ain’t complicated. See that pile a coal over there? See that furnace? Ya takes a shovel full of coal and puts it in the burner. Keep doin’ that. See that gauge there? You don’t wanta see the needle get below that line, nor above this line. We keeps the pressure up till we’re out to sea, then I’ll come back below and start the engine. Think you can handle that?"

Yessir, I guess I could. He took the shovel with both hands.

And stop calling me sir. You can address me as Lewis. Or Mister Lewis, if you’re feeling formal. Start shoveling and don’t stop till I get back. Oh, and rake the coals so the cinders go through the grate. With that, he turned and disappeared up the hatch.

Marcus shoveled. He wondered if it would be all right to take his shirt off. Mr. Lewis had been wearing his, but Marcus found the room hot after living for weeks out in the New York winter. He compromised by opening his buttons.

He thought he could handle shoveling coal, though he quickly began to wish for a pair of gloves. Already he was getting a blister. But he didn’t have to shovel constantly. There were three furnaces, but only one was being used, as yet. He watched the needle on the pressure gauge. When it began to rise, he stopped shoveling awhile and studied his surroundings with some fear. There were a great many valves, levers, and wheels. He had never been this close to an engine before, at least not one this big. The boiler was all polished brass; he could see his own face in it, distorted and demonic. Steam leaked steadily from some of the pipes, turning the space into something like a Turkish bath. He had an uneasy feeling that any moment now the great machine would begin to run by itself, having a mind of its own, and there would be no way to stop it. He thought wistfully about his idea of joining a wagon train west. But it was too late for that. He was already in Hell.

Mr. Lewis, as promised, returned some time later. Marcus had lost track of time; it might have been one hour, or three. He was getting nervous, watching the pressure gauge. The needle had been steadily climbing toward its red line even though he had stopped shoveling. He wondered how he might get a drink of water.

Feel her rockin’? Mr. Lewis called, sliding down the ladder. She’s cast off her tug. We’re in the ship channel. Time to turn her loose. The Captain wants to raise sail, but I asked him to wait. I want to see what she can do on steam.

Marcus pointed out the pressure gauge. Mr. Lewis nodded. If she goes past that line, you grabs this lever over here. That will let off some steam. But she’s okay as she is. Soon as we start moving, you’ll have to start shoveling again. Next watch, we’ll be havin’ two more men to help you out. They’re okay, but they don’t speak English too good. I wouldn’t want to leave them down here alone. You did good, you might make a stoker yet.

Marcus asked, What would happen if the needle went too high and I didn’t pull that lever?

Mr. Lewis winked and gave a wicked laugh. Then he began turning valves and pulling other levers. He put his mouth against the speaking tube on the wall and blew. Then he yelled into the tube, Engine room ready, Mr. Cutter... Aye, aye, sir, half speed forward it is.

The great machine groaned and began to move. Steam hissed. Almost silent, the piston, gleaming with oil, began its long vertical strokes. Far above, visible through the now-open skylight, the walking beam began to rock. Beyond the hull, the side wheels shuddered and began to turn. The ship had been rocking queasily side to side; now she steadied and began to move.

Mr. Lewis hopped from one position to another, checking gauges, turning valves. He snatched up an oil can and squirted at critical points. Finally, apparently satisfied, he stopped as if to admire his work. Marcus picked up another shovelful of coal. The Engineer glanced at him.

Still here, Gale? You’re off duty till the next watch. Lay yourself topside and take a last look at the shore, which you may never see again should the ship founder, God forbid. The other stokers will be coming down in a minute or two, or I’ll have their randy hides. You’ll have to learn to run this engine yourself, I can’t be here all the time. But you can start tomorrow. Now get out of my sight unless you want to sleep in the coal bin.

Aye, aye, sir! It was the first time in his life Marcus had used that phrase. It felt strange in his throat. He grabbed the ladder rails and climbed to the deck.

Chapter 2

Marcus was exhausted and wanted only to find his bunk. Yet it was still daylight, and he did want to see the shore. He had never before even dreamed of going to sea. Leaning over the bow rail, he shivered in the cold wind and watched the few lights spring up along the land.

How do you like Inferno? Finnegan asked, coming up behind him.

It’s not so bad. Does everyone call it that?

Finnegan snorted. It was the Captain, Mr. Cutter, that started calling the engine room Inferno. The rest of the crew went along with that, even Mr. Lewis. Mr. Cutter doesn’t like it down there and seldom looks in. I think he’s afraid it might blow up. Maybe he knows something we don’t.

It scares me a little, too, Marcus admitted. Mr. Lewis scares me. But I guess I’ll get used to it.

You’re lucky you’re on a steamer, Finnegan said. You’re also lucky you won’t have to climb the rigging and haul up half a ton of wet canvas in the middle of an ice storm. Count your blessings. Steamer’s the best way to get to California gold. Last year there was a brig that took eleven months getting from New York to San Francisco by way of the Horn. Barring accident, we’ll make it in three, maybe four months. What you aim to do with your money?

Marcus blinked at the change of subject. Come to think of it, when I signed on I didn’t ask how much they’re paying me.

Finnegan laughed. "I didn’t mean that money, I mean all the gold you’re going to pick up out west."

Marcus blinked again. I guess I’ll have to think about that. You really think we’ll get rich?

Not a doubt in my mind. Gents are coming back from the west with trunks full of gold dust, didn’t you hear? He gazed out to sea, leaning on the rail.

Marcus knew Finnegan was no older than himself, but his face had a more weathered look about it. At sea, the fellow didn’t bother to shave, and his beard was growing out wiry and tangled, lending him a piratical appearance.

Mr. Finnegan, Marcus said after a moment, I mean no offense, but it seems to me you’re uncommonly well spoken for a sailor. As if you might have some education.

Finnegan laughed again. That I do, you might say so. Fact is, I used to be a school teacher in Pennsylvania. I was forced to give up the profession as a result of a certain local scandal, of which you might say I was the instigator. It was either that or marry the lass. He turned to look directly at Marcus. And you? What’s your excuse?

Marcus felt his face flush. Even more shameful, I’m afraid. I was bookkeeper for an accounting office. But I had a gambling habit. My debts began to rise faster than my income. Then a couple months ago, my employers decided to form a mining company and take ship to California. I could have gone with them had I saved my money. Added to that, there were certain gentleman in the Bowery who would have me either pay my debts or take a bath in the river. Not an ideal choice.

Finnegan nodded thoughtfully. You’re lucky to be on a steamer.

That I am, Marcus said. 

Next morning after breakfast, Marcus was standing near the deckhouse, gazing out to sea and waiting for the bells that would signal a change of watch. He had slept like the dead for six hours straight. Now he watched the water churning under the starboard side wheel. There was only water to be seen in all directions. He’d always heard that sea sickness was a problem with landlubbers, but so far he had never felt better. He wondered if he might be immune.

Someone began speaking nearby. He turned and realized the voice was coming from an open porthole in the deck house, which was the main saloon. It would be difficult not to eavesdrop, he considered, so he didn’t try not to.

...ladies and gentlemen, the final draft of our company’s agreement, the voice was saying. Marcus took a furtive look, trying to be inconspicuous. The speaker was a bearded man, wearing a frock coat and cravat. He had a piece of paper in one hand and a cigar in the other. Sitting around the saloon table were a number of other men and only one lady that he could see.

As you know, the man was saying, our success is virtually assured because of your dedication to this project, as well as good planning and equipment. In our number, we include a geologist and a mining engineer, Messrs. Davis and Thornton, who, of course, you all know well and in whom we have the greatest confidence. There was a smattering of applause. We are confident, therefore, that when we, the Philadelphia Mining Company, shall return from the California gold fields at this time next year—if not sooner—we will all be wealthy. More applause. Every detail has been worked out, so there is no chance of failure. There remains only one addendum item to be added to our contract.

And what might that be, Ezra? someone asked after clearing his throat.

Why, the matter of transporting our gold dust and nuggets safely back to New York, Ezra replied. "I have been considering the safest method of accomplishing this. We can’t, after all, carry our newfound wealth around on our backs. Now, what I propose is this: I have been told this ship will be in port for at least a month for refitting and re-supply. It is already equipped with a secure vault. What I propose is that once we have reached port, we purchase the ship outright. With our modern equipment, I doubt we will need to go more than a mile or two outside of San Francisco to find ore. We can then bring