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THE SQUATTER AND THE DON
A NOVEL DESCRIPTIVE OF CONTEMPORARY OCCURRENCES IN CALIFORNIA.
BY
C. LOYAL.
SAN FRANCISCO:
1885.
_Copyright, 1885._
C. LOYAL.
_San Francisco, Cal._
_All Rights Reserved._
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
- I. Squatter Darrell Reviews the Past.
- II. The Don's View of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo.
- III. Pre-empting under the Law.
- IV. Efforts to Right the Wrong.
- V. The Don in his Broad Acres.
- VI. Naughty Dog Milord an Important Factor.
- VII. From Alameda to San Diego.
- VIII. Victoriano and His Sister.
- IX. Clarence is the Bearer of Joyful News.
- X. But Clarence Must Not be Encouraged.
- XI. George is a Christian Gentleman.
- XII. Why the Appeal was Not Dismissed.
- XIII. At San Francisco.
- XIV. Of Miscellaneous Incidents.
- XV. Journeying Overland.
- XVI. Spanish Land Grants Viewed Retrospectively.
- XVII. Dona Josefa at Home.
- XVIII. At Newport.
- XIX. In New York.
- XX. At the Capitol.
- XXI. Looking at the Receding Dome.
- XXII. Perplexities at Alamar.
- XXIII. Home Again.
- XXIV. The Brewers of Mischief.
- XXV. The Squatter and the Don.
- XXVI. Mrs. Darrell's View of Our Land Laws.
- XXVII. Darrell Astonishes Himself.
- XXVIII. Shall it be Forever?
- XXIX. Hasty Decisions Repented Leisurely.
- XXX. Effect of Bad Precept and Worse Example.
- XXXI. A Snow Storm.
- XXXII. A False Friend Sent to Deceive the Southerners.
- XXXIII. San Diego's Sentence is Irrevocable.
- XXXIV. The Sins of Our Legislators!
- XXXV. The Fashion of Justice in San Diego.
- XXXVI. Clarence and George with the Hod-carrier.
- XXXVII. Reunited at Last.
- CONCLUSION.--Out with the Invader.
CHAPTER I.--_Squatter Darrell Reviews the Past._
"To be guided by good advice, is to profit by the wisdom of others; to
be guided by experience, is to profit by wisdom of our own," said Mrs.
Darrell to her husband, in her own sweet, winning way, as they sat alone
in the sitting room of their Alameda farm house, having their last talk
that evening, while she darned his stockings and sewed buttons on his
shirts. The children (so-called, though the majority were grown up) had
all retired for the night. Mr. and Mrs. Darrell sat up later, having
much to talk about, as he would leave next day for Southern California,
intending to locate--somewhere in a desirable neighborhood--a homestead
claim.
"Therefore," continued Mrs. Darrell, seeing that her husband smoked his
pipe in silence, adding no observations to her own, "let us this time be
guided by our own past history, William--our experience. In other words,
let us be wise, my husband."
"By way of variety, you mean," said he smiling. "That is, as far as I am
concerned, because I own, frankly, that had I been guided by your
advice--your wisdom--we would be much better off to-day. You have a
right to reproach me."
"I do not wish to do anything of the kind. I think reproaches seldom do
good."
"No use in crying over spilt milk, eh?"
"That is not my idea, either. On the contrary, if by '_milk_' it is
meant all or any earthly good whatever, it is the '_spilt milk_' that we
should lament. There is no reason to cry for the milk that has not been
wasted, the good that is not lost. So let us cry for the _spilt milk_,
by all means, if by doing so we learn how to avoid spilling any more.
Let us cry for the _spilt milk_, and remember how, and where, and when,
and why, we spilt it. Much wisdom is learnt through tears, but none by
forgetting our lessons."
"But how can a man learn when he is born a fool?"
"Only an idiot is, truly speaking, a born fool; a fool to such a degree
that he cannot act wisely if he will. It is only when _perversity_ is
added to foolishness, that a being--not an idiot--is utterly a fool. To
persist in acting wrongfully, that is the real folly. To reject good
counsel, either of one's own good thoughts or the good thoughts of
others. But to act foolishly by deciding hastily, by lack of mature
reflection, that I should only call a foolish mistake. So, then, if we
have been foolish, let us at least utilize our foolishness by drawing
from it lessons of wisdom for the future. We cannot conscientiously
plead that we are born fools when we see our errors."
Mr. Darrell smilingly bowed, and with a voice much softer than his usual
stentorian tones, said:
"I understand, little wife, but I fear that my streak of perversity is a
broad one, and has solely been the bane of my life; it has a fatality
accompanying it. I have often seen the right way to act, and yet I have
gone with my eyes wide open to do the wrong thing. And this, too, not
meaning to do harm to any one, nor wishing to be malicious or mean. I
don't know what power impelled me. But if you will forgive my past
wickedness, I'll try to do better."
"Don't say that. Don't speak of your wickedness, for real wickedness is
perversity. You have acted wrongly at times, when you have misapplied
your rights and the rights of others, but you have not intentionally
done wrong. You are not perverse; don't say that."
"In a few days it will be twenty-four years since we crossed the plains
with our three babies, in our caravan of four wagons, followed by our
fine horses and choice Durham cows. I firmly believed then, that with my
fine stock and my good bank account, and broad government lands, free to
all Americans, I should have given you a nice home before I was five
years older; that I would have saved money and would be getting more to
make us rich before I was old. But see, at the end of twenty-four years,
where and how do I find myself? I am still poor, all I have earned is
the name of '_Squatter_.' That pretty name (which I hate because you
despise it) is what I have earned."
"Don't say that either, William. We will only recommence one of numerous
fruitless discussions. We are not poor, because we have enough to live
in comfort, and I do not despise the name of Squatter, for it is
harmless enough, but I do certainly disapprove of acts done by men
because they are squatters, or to become squatters. They have caused
much trouble to people who never harmed them."
"They, too, the poor squatters, have suffered as much distress as they
have caused, the poor hard-worked toilers."
"That is very true, but I am afraid I shall never be able to see the
necessity of any one being a squatter in this blessed country of
plentiful broad acres, which a most liberal government gives away for
the asking."
"That's exactly it. We aren't squatters. We are '_settlers_.' We take up
land that belongs to us, American citizens, by paying the government
price for it."
"Whenever you take up government land, yes, you are 'settlers,' but not
when you locate claims on land belonging to any one else. In that case,
you must accept the epithet of '_Squatter_.'"
Darrell set his teeth so tightly, that he bit a little chip off his
pipe. Mrs. Darrell went on as if she had not observed her husband's
flash of irritation.
"But I hope we will never more deserve such name; I trust that before
you locate any homestead claim in Southern California, you will first
inform yourself, very carefully, whether any one has a previous claim.
And more specially, I beg of you, do not go on a Mexican grant unless
you buy the land from the owner. This I beg of you specially, and must
_insist upon it_."
"And how am I to know who is the owner of a rancho that has been
rejected, for instance?"
"If the rancho is still in litigation, don't buy land in it, or if you
do, buy title from the original grantee, on fair conditions and clear
understanding."
"I don't know whether that can be done in the Alamar rancho, which I am
going to see, and I know it has been rejected. But of one thing you can
rest assured, that I shall not forget our sad experience in Napa and
Sonoma valleys, where--after years of hard toil--I had to abandon our
home and lose the earnings of years and years of hard work."
"That is all I ask, William. To remember our experience in Napa and
Sonoma. To remember, also, that we are no longer young. We cannot afford
to throw away another twenty years of our life; and really and truly, if
you again go into a Mexican grant, William, I shall not follow you there
willingly. Do not expect it of me; I shall only go if you compel me."
"Compel you!" he exclaimed, laughing. "Compel you, when you know I have
obeyed you all my life."
"Oh! no, William, not all your life, for you were well grown before I
ever saw you."
"I mean ever since I went to Washington with my mind made up to jump off
the train coming back, if you didn't agree to come North to be my
commandant."
"I don't think I have been a very strict disciplinarian," she said,
smiling. "I think the subaltern has had pretty much his own way."
"Yes, when he thinks he might. But when the commandant pulls the string,
by looking sad or offended, then good-by to the spirit and independence
of the subaltern."
"One thing I must not forget to ask you;" she said, going back to the
point of their digression, "and it is, not to believe what those men
have been telling you about the Alamar rancho having been finally
rejected. You know John Gasbang could never speak the truth, and years
have not made him more reliable. As for Miller, Hughes and Mathews, they
are dishonest enough, and though not so brazen as Gasbang, they will
misrepresent facts to induce you to go with them, for they want you with
them."
"I know they do; I see through all that. But I see, too, that San Diego
is sure to have a railroad direct to the Eastern States. Lands will
increase in value immediately; so I think, myself, I had better take
time by the forelock and get a good lot of land in the Alamar grant,
which is quite near town."
"But, are you sure it is finally rejected?"
"I saw the book, where the fact is recorded. Isn't that enough?"
"Yes, if there has been no error."
"Always the same cautious Mary Moreneau, who tortured me with her doubts
and would not have me until Father White took compassion on me," said
he, smiling, looking at her fondly, for his thoughts reverted back to
those days when Miss Mary was _afraid_ to marry him; but, after all, he
won her and brought her all the way from Washington to his New England
home.
William Darrell was already a well-to-do young farmer in those days, a
bachelor twenty-eight to thirty years of age, sole heir to a flourishing
New England farm, and with a good account in a Boston bank, when Miss
Mary Moreneau came to New England from Washington to visit her aunt,
Mrs. Newton. As Mrs. Newton's husband was William Darrell's uncle,
nothing was more natural than for Mary to meet him at his uncle's house.
Nobody expected that William would fall in love with her, as he seemed
to be proof against Cupid's darts. The marriageable maidens of William's
neighborhood had in vain tried to attract the obdurate young farmer, who
seemed to enjoy no other society than that of his uncle Newton and his
wife.
But Mary came and William surrendered at once. She, however, gave him no
encouragement. Her coldness seemed only to inflame his love the more,
until Miss Moreneau thought it was best to shorten her visit and return
home about the middle of September.
"Why are you to return home so early?" Darrell asked Mary, after Mrs.
Newton had informed him of Mary's intention of going.
"Because I think it is best," she answered.
"Why is it best?"
"For several reasons."
"May I be permitted to ask what are those reasons?"
"Certainly. One reason is, that as I came to see my aunt and at the same
time to rest and improve my health, and all those objects have been
accomplished, I might as well go home. Then, my other aunt, with whom I
reside, is not feeling well. She went to spend the summer in Virginia,
but writes that her health has not improved much, and she will soon come
back to Washington. Then some of my pupils will want to recommence their
lessons soon, and I want to have some little time to myself before I
begin to work. You know, Mr. Darrell, I teach to support myself."
"Yes, only because you have a notion to do it."
"A notion! Do you think I am rich?"
"No, but there is no need of your working."
"It is a need to me to feel independent. I don't want to be supported by
my aunts, while I know how to earn my own living."
"Miss Mary, please, I beg of you, let me have the happiness of taking
care of you. Be my wife, I am not a rich man, but I have enough to
provide for you."
"Mr. Darrell, you surprise me. I thank you for the compliment you pay me
with your honorable offer, but I have no wish to get married."
"Do you reject me, Miss Mary? Tell me one thing; tell me truly, do you
care for any one else?"
"No, I care for nobody. I don't want to marry."
"But you will marry some time. If you knew how very miserable you make
me, I think you would not have the heart to refuse me."
"You will get over it. I am going soon. Forget me."
Darrell made no answer. He staggered out of the room and did not return
until the following week, when Mary had left for Washington, accompanied
by Letitia, her colored servant (called Tisha), who was devotedly
attached to her.
Darrell had become rather taciturn and less sociable than ever, Mrs.
Newton noticed, and since Mary left he seemed to lose flesh and all his
spirits, and passed the winter as if life were a burden to him. But when
spring came, he brightened up a little, though he felt far from happy.
About that time Mrs. Newton had a letter from Mary, saying that she was
going to spend vacation in Maryland with her other aunt, and Tisha for
her escort.
"She don't come here, because she fears I shall pester her life with my
visits. As she knows I can't keep away from her, she keeps away from
you. She hates me. I suppose you, too, will take to hating me, by and
by," said Darrell, when he heard that Mary was not coming that summer.
"No danger of that, William," Mrs. Newton replied.
"Yes, there is. You ought to hate me for driving her away. I hate myself
worse than I hate the devil."
"William, you mustn't feel so. It isn't right."
"I know it. But when did I ever do anything right, I'd like to know? I
wish I could hate her as I hate myself, or as she hates me."
"William, she does not hate you."
"How do you know she don't?"
"Because she would have told me. She is very truthful."
"I know it. She gave me my walking papers in a jiffy. I wish I could
hate her."
"William, do you promise not to get angry, if I tell you why Mary
declined your offer?"
"Say on. You couldn't well make a burning furnace any hotter. I am too
mad already."
"Well, I'll tell you. She likes you, but is afraid of you."
"Afraid? afraid?" said he, aghast--"why! that is awful! I, an object of
fear, when I worship the ground she treads on! But, how? What have I
done? When did I frighten her?"
"At no particular time; but often you gave her the impression that you
have a high temper, and she told me, 'If I loved Mr. Darrell better than
my life, I wouldn't marry him, for I could never be happy with a man of
a violent temper.' Then she spoke, too, of her being a Roman Catholic
and you a Protestant."
"But you are a Catholic and uncle is Protestant."
"Certainly, I think the barrier is not insuperable."
"So, my temper frightened her! It is awful!" He mused in silence for a
few minutes and then left the room.
About an hour after, he returned dressed for traveling, carrying a
satchel in one hand and a tin box under his arm. He put the box on the
table, saying:
"Aunt Newton, I am going away for a few days. Please take care of this
box until I return or you hear from me. Good-by!" and he hurried away,
for he had only barely time to catch the train going to New York.
Darrell was in New York for a few hours. He bought a finer suit of
clothes, a very elegant light overcoat, hat and boots, and gloves to
match, and thus equipped so elegantly that he hardly recognized himself,
as he surveyed his figure in a large mirror of the furnishing store,
where he was so metamorphosed, he took the night train for Washington.
It was early on a Sunday morning that Darrell arrived at Washington. He
went to a hotel, entered his name, took a room, a bath and a breakfast,
and then called a hack to go in search of Mary. He knew that was not an
hour for calling, but he had _business_ with Mary. His was no friendly
visit; it was a matter of life and death with him.
He rang the bell, and presently he heard Tisha's flapping steps coming.
"Lud a massa!" she exclaimed, stepping back. But recovering herself,
said with true heartiness--
"Come in the parlor, please. It is true glad Miss Mary will be to see
ye."
"Do you think so, Tisha?" he asked.
"I know it; no thinking about it, neither. She is going to mass; but
she'll see you for a little while, anyway."
Opening the parlor door for Darrell to walk in, Tisha ran up stairs to
Mary's room.
"Oh Miss Mary!" said she, "guess who is down stairs."
"I couldn't, Tish, being so early and on Sunday, but I heard a man's
voice. Is it a gentleman?"
"You bet; ah! please excuse me, I mean sure as I live it is, and no
other than Mr. Darrell, from New England."
"Ah!" said Miss Mary, affecting indifference, but her hands trembled as
she tied her bonnet strings.
Darrell knew he must appear self-contained and not in the least
impetuous, but when he saw those beautiful dark eyes of Mary's he forgot
all his pretended calmness.
"Is my aunt well?" Mary began as she came in.
"Yes, yes, everybody is well; don't be alarmed at my coming, I know it
must seem strange to you. Two days ago I had no idea of coming to
Washington, but Miss Moreneau, your aunt told me you were not coming
North this summer, and this news nearly drove me crazy."
"Oh, Mr. Darrell!"
"Wait, don't drive me off yet. Your aunt told me that you refused me
because you believe I have a violent temper. Now, I am not going to deny
that, but this I am going to say--That I have never violated my word,
and never shall, and I make a most solemn oath to you, that if you will
marry me you shall never have occasion to be made unhappy or displeased
by my quick anger, because you will only have to remind me of this
pledge, and I shall curb my temper, if it kills me."
"Mr. Darrell, I believe you are perfectly sincere in what you say, but a
strong trait of character is not controlled easily. It is more apt to be
uncontrollable."
"For God's sake don't refuse me, I feel I must kill myself if you spurn
me. I don't want life without you."
"Don't say that," Mary said, trying to keep calm, but she felt as if
being carried away in spite of herself, by the torrent of his
impetuosity. She was afraid of him, but she liked him and she liked to
be loved in that passionate rebellious way of his; she smiled, adding,
"we must postpone this conversation for I must go to church, and it is
quite a long walk there."
"The carriage that brought me is at the door, take it, and don't walk,
it is quite warm out."
"Will you go with me to church? You see, that is another obstacle; the
difference of religions."
"Indeed, that is no obstacle; your religion tells you to pity me."
"We will talk to Father White about that."
"Then Mary, my beloved, will you give me hope?"
"And will you really try to control your anger when you feel it is
getting the mastery over you?"
"I will, so help me God," said he, lifting his hand.
"Take care, that is an oath."
"I know it, and mean it," said he, much moved.
They went to church together. After church, Mary had a few moments
conversation with her pastor. She explained everything to him. "Do you
love him, my child," asked the good father, knowing the human heart only
too well. Mary blushed and said--
"Yes, father, I believe I do."
"Very well, send him to see me to-morrow morning."
Darrell had a long talk with Father White, and promised solemnly not to
coerce or influence his wife to change her religion, and that should
their union be blessed with children, they should be baptized and
brought up Catholics.
And his union was blessed. Mary made his New England home a paradise,
and eight children, sharing largely their mother's fine qualities,
filled to overflowing his cup of happiness.