Dear Editor,
Just for a moment lay aside some of the everyday nonsense and allow me to share with you a bitter-sweet, wonderful and poignant story. Some days ago on the American Hero Channel (AHC) there was a documentary on the California Gold Rush which gave me quite an insight into how the cruel fate of one man can literally become a golden opportunity for another – a sudden twist of fate in the darkest moments changing the course of destiny and catapulting a person to a plane beyond his wildest dreams.
The discovery of gold in California was a big shout which caused quite a stir, galvanising well over 300,000 men on a hunt for the coveted yellow mineral in a quest to achieve financial freedom. As was explained by the narrator the dream of approximately one third of the gold hunters was ephemeral and thwarted, and came nowhere – not even remotely – to finding as much as a grain of gold; they lost their lives to treacherous conditions and rigorous labour.
Many were murdered, while the majority of those remaining were consumed by the heavy use of the toxic agent mercury (quicksilver) which polluted not only the environment and water, but took a toll on the human body itself, wrecking nerves, and causing blindness, insanity, the loss of hair and teeth, and ultimately death. Indeed, all that glitters is not gold, and half the stories have never been told. As viewers were informed, the wonderful colourful stories about this yellow metal, and the triumph of a handful who by a stroke of luck or providence made it, were amplified and publicized, while the tragic accounts on the other side of the coin – the grief, despair, hunger, frustration, hopelessness, broken spirit, suicides – of the overwhelming majority were not told, and remained dead and buried like them.
But here’s the gist of the story. Among those 300,000 plus prospectors were two friends equally woebegone and consumed by despair all alone and sitting together munching on scraps of whatever was left of their ration, contemplating their future, when one with an unmistakably heartbroken expression on his face got up and said, “I’m going for a walk.” Within a minute a gunshot was heard; his friend in fright jumped to his feet and saw him lying on the ground; he had shot himself dead; he had surrendered. There was no light at the end of the tunnel for him, he had pinned all his hopes and dreams on a mineral that had eluded him, hence life for him was hopeless. In grief his friend held on to him shedding bitter tears, unable to control his emotions. He was now left alone in abandoned terrain with no one in sight – nothing! As a parting gesture out of honour and respect for his dear friend he decided to bury him. While half way into digging the grave he raised his pickaxe high and then suddenly stopped with it suspended above his head. He stared wide-eyed and then with a mixture of astonishment and anxiety bent down and focused intently. Not wanting to be mistaken he began scratching nervously and then hysterically, and couldn’t believe his eyes – bingo! He was dumbstruck and made a funny sound – you couldn’t tell if he was crying or laughing, but boy oh boy, it was what it was.
Oliver Morton had literally struck gold. He continued scratching and then picked up a handful of the soil and examined it meticulously. Convinced beyond a doubt that indeed it was gold he began digging around the solid rock; lo and behold, it was the largest gold rock ever found: 1501bs of gold! I can’t remember if it was in the history of gold mining or just California, but it was valued at some three million dollars in the early 1800s.
In a moment of lost hope, despair and sorrow, Oliver Morton experienced a dream come true in a way he had never remotely envisaged, giving him financial glory beyond his wildest dreams. Had his good friend not shot himself there would have been no need for digging the grave which held that 1501bs gold rock, and though it was by happenstance he picked a spot to bury him, one cannot dismiss the fact that the dead man played a key role in him realising his fortune. The death of his friend was bitter sweet, but because of it Oliver Morton was reborn, and given a whole new life; it would not be stretching it too far to say he died for him. How and in what form could he ever thank him?
Yours faithfully,
Frank Fyffe
