Charles Forrest goes for the gold, 1859
A gold rush always attracts adventurers, and the gold rush that began in 1858 in Colorado attracted those who had failed to find gold in California, as well as those new to the adventure.
One was Charles Forrest, who was described by a correspondent for the Boston Journal (unavailable to me) reporting from Pike’s Peak. The first story presented readers with a young widow determined to do what she could for her child; while the whole reprint from the original in the Boston Journal is informative and entertaining, I’ve transcribed only the section regarding Forrest.
[Transcriber’s notes: “John Phenix” was “John Phoenix,” the pen name of George Horatio Derby, who wrote humorous pieces for the San Diego Herald in the early 1850s. (See pieces at sandiegohistory.org) The “tripod” appears to be a reference to the tripod on which the oracle of Delphi sat in order to prophecy. Charles Forrest claimed to be a niece of Edwin Forrest (1806-1872), a prominent tragedian whose feud with William Macready sparked a riot in New York City in 1849.]
“Pike’s Peak: A Woman.” Boston Journal [Boston, Massachusetts]; reprinted in Bangor Daily Journal [Bangor, Maine] 23 July 1859; p. 2.
When that melancholy person, Mr. John Phenix, occupied the tripod of The San Diego Herald, he advertised for a lad of good moral character, to bring water, black his boots and keep the sanctum in order—one by whom obtaining a knowledge of the business would be deemed sufficient compensation! The caution which he added: “No young woman in disguise need apply,” seemed superfluous, but I begin to think it was necessary in a mining country. I have already written you about meeting one or two females in masculine apparel. A few mornings ago, I was writing in the tent of a friend in the Gregory Diggings, when my attention was arrested by what seemed a feminine voice, just outside. Lifting the curtain I saw a well-formed lad, with a comely face, attempting to light a cigar, which he handled awkwardly. The wind was blowing too strong for his matches, so he walked toward the camp fire. His movements were not those of one who had always worn male habiliments, and I addressed him:
“If you will step into the tent, sir, you can light your cigar where the wind will not interfere.”
He accepted the invitation and entered, when I abruptly asked:
“What motive brought you here in such a dress?”
A quick warning gesture called my attention to the fact that several persons outside were within hearing of the tone in which I spoke. The visitor then threw away the cigar with an air of intense disgust, and a removal of his—or rather her—broad-brimmed hat, revealed an unmistakable female brow and head. She was born, she said, on a plantation in Louisiana, a few miles above New Orleans; a wife at fourteen, and left a widowed mother at sixteen. A year later, becoming weary of bending over the needle to earn fifty cents a day, she had placed her child at an educational institute in Tennessee, donned masculine apparel, and had worn it ever since. She was now but twenty-four; had lived several years in St. Louis, crossed the plains to California, driving cattle, three times; made some money and supported herself and child without difficulty. For the last month she had been in the diggings, and though not mining herself, held a claim for which she had been offered $1000 that very morning. Only one person in the diggings knew her sex; and she was smoking when I met her only to disarm suspicion. Her maiden name was Eliza Jane Forrest, though known here as Charles Forrest; and she asserted in most emphatic terms that she was a niece of the distinguished American tragedian. She had barely concluded these statements, when her companion looked in to ascertain what detained her so long, and she accompanied him away. Her story was certainly romantic, but from what I afterwards learned, I fear that it lacked, in many respects, the essential element of truth; else I should not give it publicity.
It’s a good story: the determined parent braving the dangers of cattle drives and goldrushes in order to support a child. Jared Lewis—correspondent for the Buffalo Daily Republic—in a letter dated from Denver City on 13 October 1859 had a different experience:
“Correspondence of the Buffalo Republic,” by Jared Lewis. Buffalo Daily Republic [Buffalo, New York] 3 November 1859; p. 2.
… Charley, the female in male apparel, whom some romantic writer from here has represented as an interesting widow from Louisiana, struggling to support her child at school, is here gambling, swearing, and drinking forty-rod whiskey as usual. She has for a paramour a married man from the eastern part of the Territory; man of splendid talents, but, I am told, sadly misapplied. …
Ah, well. The Louisiana widow was a bit too sentimental a figure to be real. The gambling, swearing, and drinking Forrest is actually more typical. Still, we have someone born female who found a more adventurous life—and, perhaps, a true identity—as a male.
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