It Was Always A Solemn And
Interesting Spot To Me.
There it stood, desolate, and in the midst
of desolation; and there were the remains of one who died and was
buried alone and friendless.
Had it been a common burying-place,
it would have been nothing. The single body corresponded well with
the solitary character of everything around. It was the only thing
in California from which I could ever extract anything like poetry.
Then, too, the man died far from home; without a friend near him;
by poison, it was suspected, and no one to inquire into it; and
without proper funeral rites; the mate, (as I was told,) glad to
have him out of the way, hurrying him up the hill and into the ground,
without a word or a prayer.
I looked anxiously for a boat, during the latter part of the
afternoon, but none came; until toward sundown, when I saw a
speck on the water, and as it drew near, I found it was the
gig, with the captain. The hides, then, were not to go off.
The captain came up the hill, with a man, bringing my monkey
jacket and a blanket. He looked pretty black, but inquired
whether I had enough to eat; told me to make a house out of
the hides, and keep myself warm, as I should have to sleep
there among them, and to keep good watch over them. I got
a moment to speak to the man who brought my jacket.
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