Edward Dolnick - The Rush: Americas Fevered Quest for Fortune, 1848-1853

The Clockwork Universe

The Forgers Spell

The Rescue Artist

Down the Great Unknown

Madness on the Couch

To Lynn

The planter, the farmer, the mechanic, and the laborer all know that their success depends upon their own industry and economy, and that they must not expect to become suddenly rich by the fruits of their toil.

President Andrew Jackson, 1837

A frenzy seized my soul; piles of gold rose up before me at every step; castles of marble; slaves bowing to my beck and call; virgins contending with each other for my love in short, I had a very violent attack of the Gold Fever.

James Carson, a soldier stationed in California, 1848

A BANDONED BY HIS COMPANIONS, starving, and trapped by snowstorms high in the Sierra Nevada, even a pathologically optimistic man like J. Goldsborough Bruff found himself fretting. He had thought he could outlast the cold and snow until a rescue party turned up, but months had passed. Now he could scarcely muster the strength to stumble in search of food.

Dinner one night had consisted of candles melted in a skillet, and, another night, boiled woodpecker. A few days later, Bruff found a half-decayed deers skull; the worms and bugs had left a bit of meat, and Bruff shared it with his faithful dog, a bull terrier named Nevada. (The scraps, Bruff conceded in his diary, would have been, probably, in different circumstances, quite disgusting!) That was breakfast on April 1, 1850. It marked a step up from another recent meal, coffee grounds with salt. To keep his spirits up, Bruff recited over and over, I will soon have plenty to eat! Bread and meat, coffee and milk! A house to sleep in! An end of my sufferings!

Back at home, he had entertained more extravagant fantasies. Bruff was an architectural draftsman from Washington, D.C., with a wife, a houseful of children, a secure job, and a thirst for adventure. In 1849, no one in the East could talk of anything but the gold strike in California. For weeks, Bruff listened and pondered and sat awake late at night studying guidebooks. Finally, his mind made up, he shoved his sharpened pencils aside. Soon he had organized a company of sixty-six men and seventeen mule-drawn wagons. The party sported dashing uniforms, new weapons, and a suitably imposing name.

On April 2, 1849, with Bruff at their head, the Washington City and California Mining Association marched to the White House to meet the president. Then they headed for California and a life of ease and luxury.

Almost exactly a year later, Bruff gathered his strength for a final attempt at escaping the mountains. Staggering his way, falling to the ground every few steps, he inched along. He ate the last of his candles. He gave the wick to Nevada.