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FOLLOWING THE SEA.

At the time of “the great earthquake of ’68,” I was at Arica, Peru.  I have not a map by me, and am not certain that Arica is not in Chili, but it can’t make much difference; there was earthquake all along there.  As nearly as I can remember it occured in August—­about the middle of August, 1869 or ’70.

Sam Baxter was with me; I think we had gone from San Francisco to make a railway, or something.  On the morning of the ’quake, Sam and I had gone down to the beach to bathe.  We had shed our boots and begun to moult, when there was a slight tremor of the earth, as if the elephant who supports it were pushing upwards, or lying down and getting up again.  Next, the surges, which were flattening themselves upon the sand and dragging away such small trifles as they could lay hold of, began racing out seaward, as if they had received a telegraphic dispatch that somebody was not expected to live.  This was needless, for we did not expect to live.

When the sea had receded entirely out of sight, we started after it; for it will be remembered we had come to bathe; and bathing without some kind of water is not refreshing in a hot climate.  I have heard that bathing in asses’ milk is invigorating, but at that time I had no dealings with other authors.  I have had no dealings with them since.

For the first four or five miles the walking was very difficult, although the grade was tolerably steep.  The ground was soft, there were tangled forests of sea-weed, old rotting ships, rusty anchors, human skeletons, and a multitude of things to impede the pedestrian.  The floundering sharks bit our legs as we toiled past them, and we were constantly slipping down upon the flat fish strewn about like orange-peel on a sidewalk.  Sam, too, had stuffed his shirt-front with such a weight of Spanish doubloons from the wreck of an old galleon, that I had to help him across all the worst places.  It was very dispiriting.

Presently, away on the western horizon, I saw the sea coming back.  It occurred to me then that I did not wish it to come back.  A tidal wave is nearly always wet, and I was now a good way from home, with no means of making a fire.

The same was true of Sam, but he did not appear to think of it in that way.  He stood quite still a moment with his eyes fixed on the advancing line of water; then turned to me, saying, very earnestly: 

“Tell you what, William; I never wanted a ship so bad from the cradle to the grave!  I would give m-o-r-e for a ship!—­more than for all the railways and turnpikes you could scare up!  I’d give more than a hundred, thousand, million dollars!  I would—­I’d give all I’m worth, and all my Erie shares, for—­just—­one—­little—­ship!”

To show how lightly he could part with his wealth, he lifted his shirt out of his trousers, unbosoming himself of his doubloons, which tumbled about his feet, a golden storm.