In 1868, Harte launched as editor and proprietor a new magazine, the Overland Monthly, in which he aimed to publish his Western stories, the first of which was ‘The Luck of Roaring Camp’. The story duly made his name and kicked off a lifelong, bitter rivalry with Mark Twain. The story takes only half an hour to read.
The enduring interest in Harte’s tale lies in its being an antidote to the ‘frontier thesis’ – the sustaining myth of the West that the struggle which life there imposes brings out the true American spirit. For Harte, the ‘West’ (he lived and worked there in its frontier days) is a barbarous, primitive place that humankind must rise above. And, given what humankind is, probably never will rise above. We’re not that lucky.
Roaring Camp comprises a ‘wild bunch’ who have come west to California in 1849 in the hope of striking it rich in the gold fields. They have not struck it rich. The story opens in winter, when prospecting is slack. The tone is laconic:
There was commotion in Roaring Camp. It could not have been a fight, for in 1850 that was not novel enough to have called together the entire settlement. The ditches and claims were not only deserted, but ‘Tuttle’s grocery’ had contributed its gamblers, who, it will be remembered, calmly continued their game the day that French Pete and Kanaka Joe shot each other to death over the bar in the front room. The whole camp was collected before a rude cabin on the outer edge of the clearing. Conversation was carried on in a low tone, but the name of a woman was frequently repeated. It was a name familiar enough in the camp, – ‘Cherokee Sal.’
About five rattling Westerns are contained in that bleak mise en scène. What is it, then, that brings this god-forsaken crew into something temporarily resembling a community? The death of Cherokee Sal, the common-law wife (or, to be more blunt, whore), who services the otherwise all-male camp. Sal is not a doxy any Hollywood agent would let his client play onscreen: ‘She was a coarse and, it is to be feared, a very sinful woman’. She is in the last stage of pregnancy, and dying in the act of giving Roaring Camp a child. (Whose? It could be any one of them.) The surviving infant ‘ain’t bigger nor a derringer’. He is named (no christening is possible in this god-forsaken place) Thomas Luck. It’s a joke. Luck has been in very short supply in Roaring Camp.
Strangely, a child in their midst ‘regenerates’ the camp morally:
Almost imperceptibly a change came over the settlement. The cabin assigned to ‘Tommy Luck’ – or ‘The Luck,’ as he was more frequently called – first showed signs of improvement. It was kept scrupulously clean and whitewashed.
Civilisation has been born with the child. ‘Profanity’ is given up. Gun play too. Sanitation is introduced. A ‘golden summer’ breathes, temporarily, over Roaring Camp. But Harte does not let the reader off with any easy sentimentality. The winter of 1851 is one of the harshest in memory. With the camp nestling under the Sierra Nevada, the springtime melt causes flooding. The gulch becomes a tumultuous, unpredictable flood plain. It is now the water that roars. It is, for the miners, good luck. The streams, eroding the hills and mountains, bring down gold dust in their currents. But a particularly savage flash flood drowns little Thomas Luck. He is too good for the world – at least the world of Roaring Camp.