PART II--IN THE FLOOD


Three months after the survey of the Espiritu Santo Rancho, I was again
in the valley of the Sacramento. But a general and terrible visitation
had erased the memory of that event as completely as I supposed it had
obliterated the boundary monuments I had planted. The great flood of
1861-62 was at its height when, obeying some indefinite yearning, I took
my carpetbag and embarked for the inundated valley.

There was nothing to be seen from the bright cabin windows of the
GOLDEN CITY but night deepening over the water. The only sound was the
pattering rain, and that had grown monotonous for the past two weeks,
and did not disturb the national gravity of my countrymen as they
silently sat around the cabin stove. Some on errands of relief to
friends and relatives wore anxious faces, and conversed soberly on
the one absorbing topic. Others, like myself, attracted by curiosity
listened eagerly to newer details. But with that human disposition to
seize upon any circumstance that might give chance event the exaggerated
importance of instinct, I was half-conscious of something more than
curiosity as an impelling motive.

The dripping of rain, the low gurgle of water, and a leaden sky greeted
us the next morning as we lay beside the half-submerged levee of
Sacramento. Here, however, the novelty of boats to convey us to the
hotels was an appeal that was irresistible. I resigned myself to a
dripping rubber-cased mariner called "Joe," and, wrapping myself in a
shining cloak of the like material, about as suggestive of warmth as