CHAPTER XXXVII.

BECOME DESPERATELY ILL—NURSED BACK TO CONSCIOUSNESS—KINDNESS OF AN AGED SPANISH COUPLE—BELT WITH MONEY ENTRUSTED TO ME DISAPPEARS—INTENSE ANXIETY—DISCOVER THE MONEY—GREAT SUFFERING—LAND AT SAN PEDRO—LEFT ON THE BEACH—DRAG MYSELF TO THE SHELTER OF AN OLD WALL—KINDNESS OF A SPANIARD AND HIS WIFE—A TERRIBLE NIGHT—SEEK A PASSAGE TO LOS ANGELES WITH FREIGHTERS—REFUSALS—MEET A KIND TEAMSTER—REACH LOS ANGELES—-DUMPED ON THE STREET—FIND SHELTER, BUT A CHILLY WELCOME—START NEXT MORNING, SICK AND HUNGRY, TO FIND A NEW PLACE—SO ILL I HAVE TO LIE DOWN IN THE STREET—TWO FRIENDS FROM SAN BERNARDINO—AM TOLD THAT I HAVE THE SMALLPOX—MY FRIENDS GIVE ME MONEY AND START IN SEARCH OF A HOUSE WHERE I CAN BE CARED FOR—FAILING TO SECURE A ROOM, THEY ENGAGE THE CITY MARSHAL TO GET A PLACE, AND THEY LEAVE FOR SAN BERNARDINO—I WANDER FOR SHELTER, BUT DOORS ARE CLOSED, AND PEOPLE AVOID ME—LODGE IN A DOCTOR'S OFFICE WHILE THE DOCTOR IS OUT—SCARE THE PEOPLE BY SHOUTING "SMALLPOX!"—THE DOCTOR RETURNS BUT LEAVES ME IN POSSESSION.

ON the voyage down from San Francisco I grew so desperately sick that I lost my reasoning powers, becoming so delirious that afterwards I could only remember removing my coat and vest and turning into bed, on the nail kegs, with my trunks and the mail sacks about me. The next thing that I recall was in the after part of the day, February 1st, 1853, when I began to regain consciousness. There was an old Spanish gentleman and his good old "mahara" (wife) rubbing my hands and feet, while a big crowd of the passengers stood around. My first thought was: What does this mean—who am I—where did I come from—where am I going—-how did I come here, and why are these strangers so interested in me as to be rubbing my hands? The next thing, the old gentleman brought me some refreshments, with a cup of coffee; and when I finally returned to consciousness I inquired what had been the matter. I was told that I had been a very sick man, but was much better, and would soon be well. When the crowd were satisfied that the worst was past they dispersed, but the old gentleman and lady sat near, as if to anticipate any favor I might need. Doubtless the good old couple have been gathered home to their fathers long ere this writing. If so, peace to their ashes; may they in no wise lose their reward, for they administered to the suffering stranger, although they were foreigners, while my own countrymen passed rudely by.

With consciousness returned, I remembered the money that I had in charge. I felt about my body, and to my surprise and mortification the belt was gone. The next thought I had was that I had been robbed by some one on board, and I wondered what could be done to regain the property, or, if it could not be recovered, how could I make amends to the poor women and children whom their husbands and fathers had sent it to? How could I prove my innocence to them? By this time the mental sufferings had overcome the physical pain, and in despair I drew the blankets close about me. In so doing I felt the belt of money lying at my back, under cover. The buckle had been ripped or cut off, most likely the latter, for, as I learned afterwards, in some way it was noised around that I had money.

The reaction of the mental faculties was too much for my weak state, and I almost swooned away; but when I fully recovered from the shock to my nerves, I rolled the belt snugly up, and raised on my knees with my blankets so drawn about my shoulders as to cover the front part of the trunk. Then I placed the belt inside, at the same time taking some article out, so as to divert the observers' attention from my real purpose; I then laid down, suffering with a terrible fever, and put in one night more of great wretchedness.

About 3 or 4 p.m. next day, February 2nd, we landed at San Pedro. There was a great rush for the shore, and for the four or five vehicles that were in waiting. The most of the passengers seemed to be without baggage, save a roll of blankets or a satchel, and as the the writer had so much and was sick, he was the last person to land. Every vehicle was gone, and all the passengers were out of sight before he got his baggage ashore. When this did come, it was thrown on the beach just above high water mark.

At that early date there was not a hotel, boardinghouse, or restaurant anywhere in sight from the landing. One wall of an old adobe warehouse stood near by, and the only thing for the writer to do was to seek what shelter that wall afforded. Thither he dragged his effects, then dropped down on his bedding exhausted. He lay there until he had excited the curiosity of a Spaniard and his wife who were some distance away. They came down and asked what was the matter, and as I did not know, I could not tell them. They saw that my face was swollen and they seemed afraid to come close, but inquired what I wished, and if they could do anything for me. I asked for milk and bread, which they supplied, and left me to my fate for the night.

The experiences of that terrible night baffle the writer's powers of description. Suffice it to say, he passed it alone, with the heavy mist of the briny deep resting upon him, while the fever and thirst seemed to be consuming his body.

At last the morning light came through a dense fog; but by 8 or 9 o'clock that had partly passed away. Some freight teams came down from Los Angeles, and the sufferer felt somewhat encouraged to think there was a prospect of his reaching civilization at the place where he had helped to rear the first liberty pole which was to bear aloft the Stars and Stripes on the Pacific coast. He accosted the freighters, feeling assured that he would not be denied a passage, as he was prepared to pay for this accommodation. The first man said no; he had all that he could haul. The second teamster said no, he was not doing a passenger business. The third said, "I don't know. It is too d—d bad to leave you here sick. I guess I can take you. Throw on your things if you can, and hurry about it." When the writer made an effort to do as invited, the freighter lent him a hand, and when the baggage was aboard the teamster said, "Come, get on here. It's a poor place for a sick man, away up on a goods box, among the bows, but it's your only chance with me. Up there!" and away we went on our journey twenty-one miles to Los Angeles, where we arrived about 8 p.m.

Near the center of the city, on the sidewalk at a street corner, my effects were dumped. I wandered around to find shelter, and at last reached Jesse D. Hunter's place. Hunter had been captain of Company B in the Mormon Battalion, and I thought I could do no better than stop with him, though I did not meet anything very inviting. I was coldly granted the privilege of dragging my blankets into the kitchen, and of bunking down on the dirt floor, after a light supper of bread and milk, the first food I had had since the night before. But I was too ill to do better, and Mr. Hunter was so cool and indifferent that I was glad to leave his place next morning without any further accommodations.

I started out alone, and turned so sick and dizzy that I had to lie down in the street on my blankets. While there I was approached by Daniel Clark and James Bailey from San Bernardino. They asked if my name was Brown, and if I was a returning missionary. I told them yes. They said they had heard of me, and that I had the smallpox, so they had been searching the town for me, and happening to see me lie down in the street, they became satisfied they had found the object of their search. Each of them threw me ten dollars in gold, and went in search of a room or place where I could be cared for. Failing in finding that, they called on the mayor, who started the marshal out to hunt a place. When Clark and Bailey had done all they could—and they were as kind as they could be—they had the mail sacks delivered, but did not find the pay that was to be all right on delivery. Then they went home to San Bernardino, while I did the best I could to find shelter, but my face was so terribly swollen that every door was shut against me; and when the news spread that there was a man around the streets with the smallpox, I could have the sidewalk to myself wherever I went.

At last I found Dr. Jones' office open, but dark and with no one in it. I dragged my bedding through the office to the bedroom, where I spread my blankets and turned in, leaving the door open and lights burning. When anyone came to the door I would shout "Smallpox!" and it was amusing to hear the people run.

About 11 p.m. the doctor came, and I shouted "Smallpox!" Said he: "Who is here?" I answered, "The man whom you said had the smallpox." He responded, "All right, but I would not have had it happen for five hundred dollars. Be quiet, you have done just right. But how did you get in?"

"Why, the door was open," I replied, and he said: "I never did such a thing before in my life. It must have been done on purpose for you, for it was not fit for you to be out." The doctor then held his breath, stepped in over me, took up his bed, and walked away.