In the bottom of the boat there was now close to six inches of shipped water. The captain found his demi-john still corked, lying on its side. He wrenched the cork free and downed several life-giving swallows of fiery liquid, which spread throughout his body. He then stuck his numbed fingers into his mouth and sucked at each one to revive some sensitivity. He again drank deeply from the demi-john. His boat had been tossed every which way, he had no idea which direction was home, and there was no hope of getting back on course now. The broken mast dragged like an anchor in the lake. The storm had yet to subside and the boat bounced on each wave, but the Captain was beyond caring. He had no strength left. Totally spent, he re-corked the demi-john, and collapsed into a deep sleep.
The gray light of morning found the storm much less severe. A light snow still fell, but the wind was now just a gentle breeze. The clouds were higher and visibility grew as the last lingering mist vanished off the surface of the gray water. Some of the clouds still hung to the mountains, but everything at lake level was now clear. The storm had pushed the small boat an equal distance from either shoreline. The captain’s face, as he slept, was facing up, but most of his head was submerged in the water inside the boat. He awoke and cautiously lifted his neck to find most of his body was also beneath water. Cold and wet through, he painfully lifted his head above the boat to see where he was. He was maybe three miles away from the bay and his cabin. The broken mast continued to bounce into the boat’s side. The captain reached for his knife and, with difficulty, cut the rigging free. He watched the mast float away.
The top of Mount Tallac was obscured among the clouds, but its unmistakable shape was evident beneath. Renewing his vigor from his blessed demi-john, he untied the oars that were lashed under the seats. There were parts of his body that ached and other parts which he could not feel at all. Mechanically, he sat with the oars on either side and started to row. Even though the boat was only now and again lifted by a rogue wave, the progress was very slow. His neck was stiff, his clothes hung icy cold against his skin, and he was just about as uncomfortable as he had ever been. Sometimes the oars fell from his grasp and he would have to clap his hands together to get the blood circulating. He constantly stopped to take sustenance from the demi-john. After every swallow he shivered. After a painful two hours he reached the bay, he had rowed a distance which normally would have taken him barely thirty minutes.
Reaching the beach outside his cabin, he limped ashore. He left most of his new purchases in the boat, but he brought the demi-john and tobacco inside. To get dry and warm was his first concern. The cabin’s walls were lined with cut firewood, and within minutes Captain Dick had a blazing fire going. It took all the effort he could muster to strip down to his long johns. He hung his heavy wet clothes to one side. Having stood before the fire long enough, he filled his pipe with damp tobacco and filled a glass with whiskey. He moved his favorite chair a comfortable distance from the flames and melted into it with his pipe and glass in hand. He toasted renewed life and sat there until hunger moved him to fix something to eat.
After he had taken breakfast the following morning, the captain was better able to take stock. He knew he needed help to repair his boat and started to plan for an early return to south shore. He had suffered little physical harm, but he noticed that three toes on his right foot had not recovered their healthy color and were in fact becoming blacker. The captain had seen gangrene before at sea, and he knew that this was his possible fate now.
Immediate attention to his toes meant forgoing any other plans he had intended. The blackened toes had obviously resulted from frost bite, and to stop the gangrene from spreading, the toes would have to come off. Amputations at sea were commonplace, and, without a good ship surgeon, many seamen died at the hands of incompetence. Following amputation, nerve endings of cut limbs would go into shock. Pain was temporarily retarded and bleeding was minimal. While pain and bleeding were slowed, a surgeon would have to work quickly. The captain was no coward, but this would take more than courage. A fine balance between keeping alert and numbing the pain would be needed. Just the right amount of Dutch courage; combined with a steady hand.
With the exception of the poker, which rested in the fire, the instruments the captain needed were laid out on the hearth: a knife, a chisel, a hammer, one brick, a towel, stripped pieces of bed linen, a bowl of water (melted snow,) a tall glass filled with whiskey, his demi-john and one sock. He proposed to down the whole glass before starting and, in the period before it took effect, get as much as he could stomach done. The captain had cut two holes in a sock, so the surviving big and little toe could protrude through. For want of company, he put his looking glass on the mantle. In many months of isolation the captain was in the habit of talking to himself. On the towel was a four-inch biting stick; after swallowing the glass of whiskey he would bite down on the stick and get to work.
It might have looked very ghoulish, but he had thought it through; it was important to take the toes off as quickly as possible. A hammer and chisel to get through the bone; place the chisel at the base of each gangrenous toe; a gulp of whiskey and - no hesitation - a swift decisive blow with the hammer. Maybe two gulps of whiskey, maybe three. He had everything he needed, it was all right there. There was nothing left to do but do it.
Actually, another talking-to was needed. He got the looking glass and talked to his reflection. “Only sensible thing to do,” he told himself. “Lose three toes now or maybe a whole leg next week. Not possible to take your whole leg off by yourself. It’s got to be done!” He reseated himself, and looked at his toes; it was gangrene, no doubt. He got up again and paced. He talked to himself again, “The sooner done, the sooner over!” There really was no alternative. He sat down again. He drank some whiskey, and he felt better, so he drank some more.
He was going to do it. He drank a bit more, got up, and adjusted the poker so it was in the hottest part of the fire. He could feel the whiskey taking effect. He sat down again. It was now or never.
He placed the stick between his teeth, pulled the towel over the brick, and planted his foot on top. He leaned forward, put the chisel at the base of his first gangrenous toe, raised the hammer above his head, and brought it down with as much force as he could muster. The flesh split, the bone cracked, and the bloody first toe was off. Tears welled up in his eyes as his teeth bit ever harder into the stick, but he had to keep going. Speed was of the essence now. He placed the chisel at the base of the second toe and again brought the hammer down with as much strength as he had. He placed the chisel at the base of third toe and fooled himself into thinking that the intense pain was due to the gangrene, and not because he had just butchered himself.
Two of the toes were completely off. The third toe was still attached by a piece of obstinate flesh. He stood up on his one good foot and reached for the poker. He immediately placed the hot tip of the poker to the gap between his remaining big toe and the toe which was tenuously still attached. There was a putrid smell of burning flesh accompanied by a searing pain, which sent a sudden rush of nausea to his nostrils. Still, his grim determination overcame his urge to pass-out and he put the poker to the bit of flesh that had kept the third toe from fully separating. The hot poker had lost some of its intensity and was not hot enough to free the toe from the foot. He took the stick out of his teeth, returned the poker to the fire, picked up the demi-john and swallowed directly from the bottle. Whiskey spilled from the corners of his mouth and ran down his chin.
He put the demi-john aside and sat down again. He picked up his pipe from the nearby table, filled it with tobacco, and lit it with the dried bark of an aspen, which he kept especially for the purpose. After some long draws on his pipe, the cabin filled with exhaled smoke. He carefully placed his butchered foot with its dangling toe into the bowl of water. The cold water increased the throbbing sensation, and he could only imagine how bad the pain might have been had he not had the whiskey inside him. He clamped his free hand to his head. He would no
t be defeated now, but he would have to wait for the poker to heat up again before he could finish. It was amateurish surgery, but it could have been a lot worse. The throbbing told him there could be hours if not days of continued pain, and he might have to ration his intake of whiskey for when the pain was at its most unbearable.
He felt physically drained, which was a good sign. Sleep would be a good healer and a deep sleep would alleviate pain for a while. He would give into the exhaustion once he was finished. But first he had to cauterize the foot completely and bind the wound. He would have to dress the wound on a daily basis. And there was probably not enough fresh bed linen, so he would need to boil what linen he had and reuse it.
The bowl of water was now a cloudy red, with little bits of flesh floating around his immersed ankle. He gingerly took the foot out. The toe still dangled, and as gently as he could he placed the foot on the already soiled towel. With the pipe in his mouth, he again carefully stood on his good foot and grabbed the poker. He put the glowing tip of the poker to burn off the obstinate flesh that kept the toe attached. The moist flesh sent a mixture of steam and smoke thick enough to obscure the captain from seeing clearly. He did not care about the pain; he just wanted it finished. So he pressed down with enough strength to burn a hole through the towel. He felt his foot slide a little and he knew his third and last toe had finally been detached.
A week later, the foot had been healing well and there was no sign of further infection. He had given the foot another round of cauterization, just to be sure. With the foot bound, he wore the modified sock, and he hobbled around as best he could. He would purposely give time each day to strip the bandages off and air the wound. He had been forced to miss his once-weekly visit to south shore and, despite rationing, he was out of whiskey. He had tobacco to last a few more days, but he felt unsure whether the foot would be healed enough to attempt his usual weekly trip even after another week. But no whiskey, a longer period of isolation, and three missing toes were a small price to pay for having saved his leg.
The weather had turned mild and the captain was seated on the step outside the cabin, resting his foot. In the sky, an osprey fish hawk circled above the bay, waiting to strike feet first on an unsuspecting trout. Just as the fish was unaware of the osprey, the osprey was unaware of the old seafarer. However, unknown to all three, a pair of sharper eyes were looking on. With huge dark wings and frightening quickness, the keen-eyed observer came swooping down from the surrounding cliffs. Skimming the water, its outstretched talons snatched at the surface. The attack and capture took a matter of seconds, and, despite a defiant struggle, the wriggling trout was lifted high and carried up to the cliffs. Robbed of its dinner, the startled osprey flew off, shrieking its futile objections to the bald eagle’s act of piracy. The captain smiled to see the eagle would not suffer an intruder to its territory. He felt honored that eagle did not seem to mind to share the bay with him. From its high vantage point, the eagle initially ignored the writhing fish beneath its foot, and instead watched a boat pulling into the bay.
The boat had been in the bay ten minutes before the captain noticed it. The old seafarer’s smile broadened to a grin as he recognized the half- dozen men on board. The south-shore locals had been concerned for the captain’s well-being and when he had not arrived on his weekly visit they decided to see if he was all right!
“Ahoy there, my hearties!” shouted the captain.
“Well, here he is, boys, as right as a fiddle!” said the first local, as the men walked up to his cabin. “Caused us a lot of worry you did, Cap’n, not showing up like that,” continued the local.
“Thought you’d be out of whiskey and tobacco, so we brought some,” added a second.
The captain’s face beamed. “Well you better come in,” he said as he struggled to stand up.
The men crowded into the small cabin. Sharing the whiskey, they sat on the floor around the fire. The old seafarer, seated in his chair, told them of his experience.
“Cut your toes off? That’s a bit hard to swallow, Cap’n,” stated the first local.
The captain pointed to a glass on the mantle. “Care to have a drink from my last glass of whiskey? That you may find even harder to swallow!” he chuckled.
The local got up to look inside the glass. As he picked it up, he could see two or three objects in the darkened liquid. His face winced and his muffled cry got the other five friends to their feet. The captain burst out laughing as each one of his visitors’ expressions changed as they recognized the contents of the glass.
“I had to keep my last drop of whiskey for me toes. I thought they would miss my foot less, if they had something to drink. They’re a part of me. I couldn’t just throw them away!”
“© Collin Bogle. Used with permission by MHS Licensing.”
“With huge dark wings and frightening quickness,
the keen-eyed observer came sweeping
down from the surrounding cliffs.”
Outlet of Lake Tahoe before the turn
of the twentieth century
Painting especially commissioned for this book
By local artist Keith Brown
© Keith Brown
Fish Supper © Jean Louis Klein & Marie Luce Hubert
“He had known when the fish were
plentiful in the shallows of Lake Tahoe.”
(The End of an Era)
Albert Bierstadt View from Donner Summit 1872
Central Pacific Railroad visible to the right, the rough
location of the Jung Lo story.
Part of the Donner party was stranded on the far shore of
the lake in 1846 -1847.
The big hands worked quickly. The axe arched high and crashed into the tall Jeffrey pine. The blade was stuck, but the big hands yanked it free and swung it again.
Big Jim Stewart stood six feet five inches tall and was one of the best lumberjacks around the camps of Tahoe. No one knew where he was originally from. Some said he was from Tennessee and he had fought for the South during the Civil War. Others said he was from Pennsylvania and he had fought for the North. Like many ex-soldiers, he had come out west to work on the Transcontinental Railroad during the mid and late 1860s. Some said they knew him when he worked in Nebraska for the Union Pacific. Others said he had been a tracklayer for the Central Pacific in Nevada. But no one ever asked Jim Stewart for the truth, because they knew Stewart would not take kindly to any questions.
The men would often talk about Jim Stewart, but they would never talk to him. His mean demeanor was notorious throughout the Tahoe area. He was paid extra, not just for his good work, but also to ensure the peace within the camp during working hours. The other men knew Stewart would not cause trouble while cutting timber, but he became the most feared man at the end of the day. Those big hands could free a gun from a holster quicker than an axe from a tree. And nobody came near Stewart when he drank.
There was at first a hesitant whine, followed by a more continual moan. As one big hand gave a helpful shove the moan turned into an ear splitting crack. The fated Jeffrey pine swayed dangerously and then plummeted, its fall making the ground shudder. A day’s work was over. The big hands swung the axe into the fallen tree and left it there until morning. Tahoe City was less than three miles, and his throat needed to be washed free of dust. The evening sun was still warm as he swung his leg over his horse. The big appaloosa danced sideways as the big man’s weight landed in the saddle. Stewart, in no great hurry, rode toward town.
It was always a possibility the boys’ friendly evening drink together might be interrupted by the big man. If they were lucky, Stewart would choose one of the other saloons in town. The customers of Campbell’s Custom House were unlucky that evening. The bar was busy and noisy. No one heard his footsteps. Only those closest to the swinging doors were aware who had just pushed them open, but there was a tangible reaction that spread within seconds. All talk started to peter out, and within seconds the silence was complete. Some loc
als downed their drinks, while others just abandoned theirs and left. The big man smiled a singularly unfriendly smile, as the last customer gave Stewart an exaggerated wide berth on his way out. A matter of a few minutes, and he had the whole saloon to himself.
Wishing he could do otherwise, the young bartender, Freddie Scott, stood his ground. Nervously the young man placed a bottle and glass on the bar counter. The big ham fist enveloped the bottle from neck to bottom. While Jim Stewart drank, Freddie started to clear up after the departed customers. Having poured and swallowed several glasses, Stewart wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As Freddie moved back behind the bar, the big man fixed the young bartender with a stare.
“YOU. Didn’t I already kill you, boy?” Stewart demanded of Scott.
“No, sir, you must be mistaken,” Scott answered in a voice slightly higher than usual.
“Don’t smart-mouth me, boy!”
It was useless, Freddie was trapped. Not even by admitting to his own death could he have avoided trouble.
“Got a gun, boy?”
“Mister Stewart, sir, please, I don’t want no trouble.”
As the young bartender pleaded for his life, two would-be customers walked into the saloon, cheerfully talking to each other, unaware of the lack of customers or the reason why. Stewart whirled around and noisily clamped a hand on his gun butt. The quickness of the action startled the two intruders into realizing the dire situation they had unwittingly walked in on. They slowly inched backward to the doors. Once outside, they decided to run. The big man followed as far as the swinging doors and watched their flight down the boardwalk. Laughing to himself, Stewart turned around and went back into the saloon.
The Ghosts of Lake Tahoe Page 6