The life of Gabriel hung by a very frail thread for several days, and
Clarence did not have the heart to leave him. He did not telegraph to
Mercedes their arrival, for he would then have been obliged to give a
reason for delaying. He wrote her saying that Gabriel had accidentally
fallen from a ladder, and not knowing how seriously he might have been
hurt, George and himself had decided to remain with Lizzie, who was very
much frightened and distressed.
Mercedes answered, thanking him in the warmest terms of gratitude for
remaining with her darling brother, adding that much as she wished to
see the long-lost Clarence, she preferred to endure the pains of waiting
rather than to have him leave Gabriel now.
The proudest man in America was Clarence. He knew that in the gratitude
of her heart she would allow him to press her to his, and he longed to
have that bliss. But faithfully he kept his watch at the hospital, and
Gabriel lived yet. No doctor dared say whether he would die or survive
his terrible fall, or his health remain impaired. No one dare venture a
prophecy for so dark a future.
In the meantime Clarence got his house ready for occupation, and as soon
as Gabriel could be removed without danger, they took up their residence
there. In the silent recesses of her heart Lizzie thanked God that her
surroundings were again those of a lady. She shuddered to remember the
poverty she endured for so long a time, and she would have felt really
happy could she have been sure that her beloved Gabriel would live.
"George," said she to her brother, as they walked towards the library,
when Clarence had relieved their watch, and was sitting by Gabriel's
bedside, "I have an idea in my head which I think we might put into
practice, if you will help me."
"What is it, dear sister?" asked George, tenderly, observing how thin
and haggard she looked.
"It is this, that if you and I write to Mercedes that she ought to marry
right away, so that Clarence can bring her to be with me, to help me
take care of Gabriel, that she will do so."
"By, Jove! It is a splendid idea, little sister, and I'll write to
Mercita and to Dona Josefa at once."
"It is little enough, George, for you and I to do, when Clarence has
been so devoted to my darling," said she, her eyes filling with tears of
heart-felt gratitude.
"Of course it is, but it comes so natural to Clarence to act always like
the noble fellow he is, that it would surprise me if he had acted
otherwise than nobly."
"But we ought to consult him about our project."
"Certainly. I'll go and stay with Gabriel and send him to you that you
may disclose your plan."
"No, let me go to Gabriel, while you tell him the plan," said she,
hurrying off to the invalid, whom she found sleeping.
She whispered to Clarence that George wished to speak to him, and took
his place by the bedside.
Clarence could find no words to express to George his joy and gratitude.
He flushed and paled by turns, and finally, stroking his mustache with
trembling fingers, and trying to bite it, in his agitation, sat down in
silence, while George went into the details of the matter.
"But will she consent?" Clarence exclaimed at last.
"I think she will, for you know how all of them love Gabriel, Mercedes
more than all,--and the thought that he is suffering, and Lizzie's
distress, and your kindness to him,--all that will furnish a most
excellent excuse to do what her heart has been begging for," said
George. "I am going to write now about it."
"Oh, I shall be so grateful!" Clarence exclaimed.
"Send Lizzie to me, we both must write," George said.
Clarence went back to the sick room, and said to Lizzie that George
wanted her.
Kissing her hand most fervently, he exclaimed in a tremulous whisper:
"You are my angel!"
George and Lizzie's letters were very pleading. Clarence wrote also,
imploring Mercedes to forgive the stupidity that took him away, and
beseeched her to yield to his prayer, and be his wife, after so many
years of suffering.
Mercedes kissed the letter, and cried over it, of course, as women must,
but referred the subject to her mother. Dona Josefa must also cry a good
deal before she said anything, for the memory of her husband made such
subjects most painful to her.
But Victoriano stormed from his bed. He would have no delay. He sent for
Everett, so that he would in person carry a dispatch to town, saying to
Clarence, by telegraph, to come in the very first steamer. Victoriano
would have no contradiction.
"If Mercedes don't marry Clarence, as George advises, I want to be taken
by the legs--my mean, cripple legs, my ridiculous kangaroo legs--and
dragged out of this bed, and out of this house. I don't want to live
under the same roof with people that will refuse so just and reasonable
a request."
"But who has refused it, Tano? Wait, won't you?" said Rosario, seeing
that Tano had hidden his head under the covers.
Victoriano's head came out again, and said: "Nobody says yes."
But the _yes_ was said.
Everett took a dispatch from Dona Josefa to George, saying that whenever
Clarence came, Mercedes would go with him, as George suggested.
There would be five days only before another steamer would arrive, but
by telegraphing to Clarence on that day, he would have time to take the
steamer next morning, or go on the cars to Los Angeles, and take the
steamer at Wilmington. And this was what Clarence telegraphed he would
do, suggesting that if Mercita would be ready, they could take the same
boat, and by again taking the cars at Los Angeles, be with Gabriel in
two days.
Was it a dream? To see Clarence within five days, and be his wife, when
she thought she might never see him on this earth again! Thus ran
Mercedes' reflections, when she had gone to her room to open a wardrobe
which had been locked for three years. That wardrobe held the
_trousseau_ sent by Mrs. Lawrence Mechlin in '74, and the jewelry which
Clarence had given her in New York.
Mercedes thought of those days, and the image of her father arose before
her vividly. She sat by the window to think of him with loving
tenderness and ever living regret.
"But, _mon Dieu_, mademoiselle," said Madame Halier, coming in, "why
don't you come? Miss Carlota is waiting to begin getting your things
ready."
"I beg pardon; I had forgotten," said Mercedes, rousing herself from her
reverie. Carlota, Rosario and Alice now came in, and soon the contents
of the wardrobe were distributed all over the room. Madame Halier was to
pack in trunks all Mercedes' things, leaving out only her bridal attire
and traveling dress. The madame did her work with pleasure, as she was
going with Mercedes, and had been wishing to visit the city of San
Francisco for a long time.
Everything was ready. A dispatch came from George saying that Clarence
had started; that Gabriel was a little better, and anxious to see
Mercedes. This made Dona Josefa feel that it was her imperative duty to
send Mercedes to her brother at once.
Mrs. Darrell went to see the priest about going to the rancho to perform
the marriage ceremony there. The good man would have preferred that it
were solemnized in the church, but, considering that Victoriano could
not leave his bed and Dona Josefa was still in very deep mourning, he
consented.
There would be no invited guests except the Holmans and Darrells. There
would be no bridesmaids either, though there were plenty of young girls
that could act as such.
Everett went to town the night before the arrival of the steamer to
bring Clarence as soon as he landed, and they came from town so quickly
and noiselessly that no one knew when they arrived at the rancho.
The ladies were all in Mercedes' room discussing the wedding outfit and
other matters, when it occurred to her to go out and from the veranda
look towards the road, as she might perhaps see the carriage in the
distance. What was her surprise when, on passing by the parlor door, she
saw Everett coming through the gate, and there, right there, where
Clarence had stood on that terrible night when he left her, there he
stood again, looking at her with those same speaking, glowing, loving
eyes. He seemed to her like an apparition, and she uttered an
exclamation of surprise, turning very pale and tottering as if about to
fall. In an instant he was by her side pressing her to his heart and
covering her face with kisses.
Surely this was no ghost. His warm kisses and beating heart spoke of the
lover full of life and hope, trembling with the realization of years of
longing to hold her thus close, very close in his loving, chaste
embrace.
"Mercedes, my own, my sweet wife," he said, and his voice had so much
the same tone and vibration as in that last memorable night, that the
rush of sad memories and painful emotions made her for a moment feel
confused, bewildered, almost losing consciousness. As her yielding form
relaxed in his arms he carried her to the sofa and sat there holding
her, scarcely realizing it was not all a dream.
Everett had gone to Victoriano's room, and now that impatient invalid
was screaming for Clarence to come. His loud calling brought Dona Josefa
to him, and then all the family learned that Clarence had arrived.
"Come here, you truant," said Victoriano to Clarence, "come here, you
ugly man." And as Clarence stooped to embrace him, he clasped him to his
heart, making him lie down by his side. "There," said he, "I have given
you a good hugging; now go and kiss the girls."
Which Clarence did gladly, but his mother and Dona Josefa he kissed
first. He then went to the parlor, where he was kindly greeted by no
less than fourteen girls, counting thus: three Alamares, three Holmans,
four Darrells, and four other Alamares, cousins of Mercedes.
Clarence was a brave fellow, so he never flinched and kissed them all,
very deliberately. "Not to give offence," he said.
There was one duty which Clarence shrank from performing, but which he
submitted to quietly, and that was meeting his father.
Darrell came to the Alamar house for the first time in his life, and as
he said he would like to be alone when he met Clarence, Rosario
conducted him to _the office_, a room used by her father when he saw
people on business and where he wrote his letters, but where others of
the family scarcely ever entered.
Clarence was shocked to see how aged his father was. When he left, the
auburn hair of the old man showed no white lines at all. Now he was so
gray that his hair was almost white. The sight of that white hair swept
from Clarence's heart all trace of resentment, and his love for his
father seemed to rush back to him with pain, but with great force.
"Oh, father!" exclaimed Clarence, seeing the open arms before him.
"My boy, my best beloved," said the old man, with a sob and a checking
of breath, holding his son close to his breast.
"Father, why are you so gray?" Clarence asked.
"Because I did you a great wrong. Because I murdered the Don, and he was
the best man I ever saw." When Darrell said this he completely lost his
self-control and wept like a child. Clarence wept with him, for he felt
deeply Don Mariano's death, but thought he must speak kindly to his
father.
"You did not murder him; don't think that," he said.
"Yes, I did. My wickedness helped the wickedness of others to kill him.
And our wickedness combined brought infinite misery upon this innocent
family. But a merciful God brought you back, and I know you will devote
your life to repair as much as it is possible the wrong your father did.
I know you will be a good husband, but for _my sake_, also, I beg you to
be a devoted son to the widowed lady whom I have injured so frightfully.
A wrong legislation authorized _us squatters_, sent us, to the land of
these innocent, helpless people to rob them. A wrong legislation killed
the Texas Pacific, and such legislation is the main cause of the Don's
death. But I, too, helped the wrong-doers."
"Don't blame yourself so much," Clarence remonstrated gently, trying to
soothe his father. "George and Lizzie told me that all the family
believe that the disappointment at the failure of the Texas Pacific was
what killed Don Mariano. It preyed upon his mind; it saddened, worried
and sickened him until it utterly undermined his health and broke down
his nervous system. It did the same with Mr. Mechlin. So, you see, those
who defeated the Texas Pacific are to blame for the death of these two
most excellent men, but not yourself."
"Yes, I am. No man can injure his fellow-man, and then shift the blame
on some one else's shoulders, because others had a share in the wrong
done. Each man must stand and bear his proportion of blame. I could and
should have prevented the settlers from destroying the Don's cattle. If
I had done so, he would not have been obliged to take them all at once.
He could have sent them in small bands, but he was afraid of the
murderous rifles of _my friends_. So the poor, dumb animals perished in
the snow. But this was not the worst; the saddest was yet to come.
Victoriano lost his health, and the Don lost his life. The good, the
best of men, was right when, in his dying moments, he said: '_The sins
of our legislators brought me to this_.' That was a truth uttered by a
just and noble soul as it passed away. Still, I must feel I am
individually to blame for the sorrow brought upon this family. I know
that if the railroad had been built the Don could have recuperated his
fortune, but yet my share of wrong-doing stands there all the same; I
must bear it myself. If I had not driven you away, you could have
prevented their misfortunes. I was a monster. So now I beg and entreat,
for my own sake, and as a slight reparation for my cruelty, that you be
kind to that lady, as kind as if you were her own child."
"I will, father; I vow I will."
"That is enough. I know you'll keep your word. Now, my boy, heaven bless
you, and your father's blessing will go with you always. Now, go, and
when the ceremony is to be performed, send Willie to call me."
As everything was ready, the marriage ceremony took place as soon as the
priest arrived. Victoriano was brought to the parlor in an arm-chair,
and managed to stand up, held by Everett and Webster. Dona Josefa wept
all the time and so did her daughters, but everybody understood that
memories of the sad past, but no fears for the future, caused those
tears to flow.
The parting with her mother and sisters was most painful to Mercedes.
Clarence feared she would make herself ill with weeping. He put his arms
around her waist and said:
"Don't be disheartened. I have been thinking that Dona Josefa and all
the family had better come to San Francisco to live. If she does, I
think we can persuade George to bring his family also to reside there."
Dona Josefa shook her head doubtingly, but Mercedes asked:
"Do you think George might come?"
"I do, and he can then carry out there our plan of establishing a bank.
San Diego is dead now, and will remain so for many years, but San
Francisco is a good business field. So we can all locate ourselves
there, and Gabriel and Tano go into business easily."
"Business without capital? See where my poor Gabriel is now," Dona
Josefa answered, sadly.
"That is true, but if you will sell your rancho, they will have plenty
of capital. Even at two dollars per acre, your rancho, being forty-seven
thousand acres--if sold at that low figure--would bring you ninety-four
thousand dollars."
"But who, who will buy mortgaged land, full of squatters, and without a
patent, in this dead place?"
"I will. I will pay you more than ninety-four thousand dollars--more
than double that amount--besides paying you for the lost cattle, which
will be no more than what is right."
"Oh, no, I couldn't agree to that, but as for selling the land, if my
children are willing, I shall be, for this place is too full of sad
memories, and will be sadder yet if I cannot have my children with me.
When Gabriel and Victoriano get well, talk to them about buying the
rancho, though I don't think you ought to pay any such high price. You
are too generous to us."
"Indeed, I am not. Don't forget I am a money-making Yankee. I think
four--or even three--dollars per acre is a high price for land in this
county _now_, but I can wait years, and then I shall double the price
paid now. So, you see, I am not a bit generous. I am trying to make
money out of you."
"Talk to the boys. See what George and Gabriel say," Dona Josefa said,
smiling sadly at Clarence's wily argument and earnest manner.
The last adieux were said, but the parting was less painful to Mercedes,
with the new hope held out by Clarence of a probability of being
reunited soon in San Francisco.
When Clarence and Mercedes arrived at their home they found that George
and Lizzie had propped up Gabriel with pillows, and he was sitting up to
receive his sister. From that day he began to improve slowly but
perceptibly.
The letters from home spoke of Victoriano's marked improvement, but
still his malady was not cured; so Clarence proposed that Dona Josefa,
the two girls and Tano should come up immediately. She could then make
up her mind whether she would like to make San Francisco her home, and
the change of climate would perhaps do Victoriano good. The idea was
highly approved by all, and that same evening Mercedes wrote to her
mother, begging her to come and see whether she liked San Francisco for
a home; that she and Clarence were going to Europe on a visit in the
fall, and she wanted to leave her mamma and sisters and brothers all
together; that George and Gabriel liked the plan of selling the rancho
to Clarence very much, and wanted to talk to her and Tano about it. Thus
Dona Josefa was enticed and persuaded to leave the home of her joys and
sorrows, where she had lived for thirty years. Carlota and Rosario were
willing to go, and Tano was most anxious to find a way of making a
living, for he was every day more in love with Alice, but could not
think of marrying her until he knew how he was going to support a
family.
Dona Josefa, Carlota and Rosario, therefore, escorted by Victoriano,
found themselves, on a bright morning, in the Southern Pacific Railroad
cars, on their way from Los Angeles to San Francisco. There were only
about a dozen persons besides themselves on the entire train.
"I wonder why they put on so many cars. One would carry all the
passengers," said Rosario.
"Half a car would be more than enough," Carlota added.
"They must lose money running empty cars," Tano observed. "I am glad of
it. They were so anxious to leave San Diego out in the cold, I hope they
will lose money with this road."
"Don't wish that, it is unkind, unchristian, ungenerous," said Dona
Josefa, with a sigh.
"And why not? Didn't they kill our road, the Texas Pacific, to build
this road? What consideration had they for us? I am glad that many years
will pass before they will run crowded cars over this desert. They are
old men, they won't live to see this, their pet road, with well-filled
cars, running over it, and I bet on that," said Tano, exultingly.
"Perhaps they will," said Carlota.
"I know they'll not," Tano retorted, emphatically.
In the afternoon, Clarence and Mercedes met them in Oakland, and
together they crossed the bay.
And now on that same night as Dona Josefa looked from her bedroom window
upon the lighted city, she noticed that a large mansion near by, was
very brightly illuminated, and Mercedes told her that one of the
railroad kings, who had killed the Texas Pacific, lived there, and was
giving a "_silver wedding_" party to the _elite_ of San Francisco. Dona
Josefa sighed, and sat at the window to think.
Truly, San Francisco had been in a flutter for ten days past, and the
"best society" had stretched its neck until it ached to see who got
invitations for "_The Great Nob Hill Silver Wedding Ball_" of one of San
Francisco's millionaires. Mrs. Grundy ascertained who were to be the
best-dressed ladies, what their pedigree was, and how their money had
been made, and then Mrs. Grundy went to the ball, too.
When all the elegance of San Francisco had arrived, nobly sprinkled with
a Baron or two, and ornamented with a Lord and Lady and a Marquise or
Count, the great millionaire proceeded to astonish his guests in the
manner he had conceived to be most novel and startling.
The band struck up a wedding march, and Mr. Millionaire, with his wife
leaning on his arm, proceeded to the last of an elegant _suite_ of
rooms, where, under a canopy of fragrant flowers, a mock marriage
ceremony was to be performed. After conducting the blushing bride to the
mock altar, and the ceremony being over, the millionaire thought he
would treat his guests to what he imagined to be a real hymenean
oration. He prefaced his homily with what he believed to be witticisms
and quotations of his own. He then thought it was time to wax eloquent
and didactic, above prejudices, truly large-minded.
"But let me read to you a short, telling lesson now," he said, swelling
with just pride; "I speak most particularly to the young men, to those
who have yet their fortunes to make. Be not discouraged if you meet with
hardships and trials. Go ahead and persevere. Look at all these
luxurious appurtenances surrounding us! I might well say, look at this
wealth! Look at this splendor! Well, ladies and gentlemen, sixteen years
ago we were in Sacramento, so poor, that we had to put tin pans over our
bed to catch the water that leaked through our roof, and keep our
bed-clothes dry. I had not money enough to get a better roof over our
heads," and the millionaire looked around for applause, but none came,
because the guests possessed the good taste, or, perhaps, bad, which
their host lacked, and were pained and mortified; they did not see the
good of waking up memories of unsavory poverty. The foreign nobility was
not so proud, perhaps, as they had been at the hour of receiving an
invitation to all this so very newly created splendor. But the rich man,
still inflated with pride, hurriedly wound up his peroration as best he
could, feeling vague misgivings that he had marred the _eclat_ of his
magnificent illumination shining over his costly furniture, by trying to
rise above himself to make a high-minded, witty speech. "Be plucky, and
persevering, and go ahead, as I did," said he to close his oration,
bowing to his foreign guests.
The company scattered in couples or in groups over the luxuriously
furnished and richly decorated rooms, and Mrs. Grundy hurried about
everywhere to catch the comments made by the grateful guests upon "the
brilliant speech of their amiable host." At the very first group she
heard a young man say:
"Yes, I would be _plucky and persevering_ if I had an associate in
Washington with plenty of money to bribe people so that no other
railroad could be built to start competition in California."
"I could be plucky, too, if the Government had given me millions of
money and more millions of acres to build two railroads, and which
millions I never intended to pay back," said another.
"And for which millions you never paid taxes," added another.
"Taxes? Bah! Let the poor people pay taxes. Why should railroad magnates
pay taxes when they have money to fight the law? Absurd!" said a fourth.
"Let us go and take ices; the brilliancy of our host's oration makes me
thirsty."
And while all this went on in the brilliantly lighted mansion, Dona
Josefa sat at her window in the dark, thinking of what "_might have
been_" if those railroad men had not blighted San Diego's prosperity.
Her husband would have been alive, and Mr. Mechlin, also, and her sons
would not have been driven to poverty and distress, and perhaps lost
their health forever.
"God of Justice, is this right, that so many should be sacrificed
because a few men want more millions? Our family is one of the many who
have suffered so much. Oh! so much! And all to what end? For what? Ah!
the same answer again, because a few heartless men want more millions,"
said she, with her face bathed in tears.
Dona Josefa evidently did not believe that because "_misery there must
always be in the world, no matter who causes it_," that she was called
upon to stoically submit to unmerited infliction. In a mild and
dignified way, her mind rebelled. She regarded the acts of the men who
caused her husband's ruin and death with genuine abhorrence. To her,
rectitude and equity had a clear meaning impossible to pervert. No
subtle sophistry could blur in her mind the clear line dividing right
from wrong. She knew that among men the word business means inhumanity
to one another; it means justification of rapacity; it means the freedom
of man to crowd and crush his fellow-man; it means the sanction of the
Shylockian principle of exacting the pound of flesh. She knew all this,
but the illustration, the ocular demonstration, had never been before
her until now in that gay house, in that brightly illuminated mansion,
and she sadly contrasted her sorrow with their gayety, and continued her
soliloquy: "No doubt those people think they have a right to rejoice and
feast with the money extorted in crushing so many people--the killing of
my darling. Doubtless they say that they earned the money in *BUSINESS*,
and that allegation is all-sufficient; that one word justifies in the
pursuit of riches everything mean, dishonest, rapacious, unfair,
treacherous, unjust, and fraudulent. After a man makes his money no one
cares how he made it, and so those people dance while I mourn for my
beloved."
For hours Dona Josefa sat at that window, weeping sadly, while the
others danced gayly.
Afterwards, when she had been for some time in San Francisco, she had
yet stronger demonstrations, and her sense of justice and her ideas of
moral adjustment of men's actions with principle, received additional
shocks, quite as painful as seeing the millionaire's palace illuminated,
while the humble houses he had desolated must remain dark.
Dona Josefa frankly spoke to the ladies who had called on her, of the
cause of her husband's death. She did so in answer to their inquiries.
She, on two or three occasions, mentioned how painful it had been to sit
by the window looking at that house of rejoicing, while thinking that if
those rich men had had more sense of justice and less greed of money,
that her husband could have been spared to her.
"Don't say that, my dear lady, for you will give great offense," said an
old friend, who having heard that Clarence was worth twelve million
dollars, had called on her, suddenly remembering that she used to know
the Alamares years ago.
"Why should I give offense? It is the truth," Dona Josefa replied.
"That may be, but you cannot speak against such rich people; San
Francisco society will turn against you," was the rejoinder.
"Then it is a crime _to speak_ of the wrongs we have suffered, but it is
not a crime _to commit_ those wrongs."
"I don't know. I am not a moralist. But this I do know, that if you
accuse those rich men of having done wrong, the society people will give
you the cold shoulder."
"Oh, very well, let it be so. Let the guilty rejoice and go unpunished,
and the innocent suffer ruin and desolation. I slander no one, but shall
speak the truth."
CONCLUSION.--_Out with the Invader._
"Let infamy be that man's portion who uses his power to corrupt, to
ruin, to debase," says Channing, in righteous indignation, speaking of
the atrocities perpetrated by Napoleon the First to gratify his vanity
and ambition. Further on, with increasing earnestness, Channing adds:
"In anguish of spirit we exclaim: 'How long will an abject world kiss
the foot that tramples it? How long shall crime find shelter in its very
aggravations and excess?'"
If Channing lived now, his 'anguish of spirit' would be far greater to
find in his own country, firmly enthroned, _a power that corrupts, ruins
and debases_ as utterly as that which he so eloquently deplored, and his
own fellow-citizens--the free-born Americans--ready and willing to _kiss
the foot that tramples them_!
Not infamy, but honor and wealth, is the portion of the men who corrupt
and ruin and debase in this country. Honor and wealth for the Napoleons
of this land, whose power the sons of California can neither check, nor
thwart, nor escape, nor withstand. And in California, as in France,
"crime finds shelter in its very aggravations and excess," for after ten
years of fighting in Congress against legislation that would have given
to the people of the Southern States and the Pacific Coast a competing
railway; and after fighting against creating a sinking fund to
re-imburse moneys due to the Government, and fighting against laws to
regulate freights and fares on a fair basis, they (the Napoleons) refuse
to pay taxes on their gigantic property, thus making it necessary for
the Governor of California to call an extra session of the Legislature
to devise some new laws which will compel those defiant millionaires to
pay taxes, and not leave upon the shoulders of poor people the onerous
duty of defraying public expenses.
Is not this "aggravation of excess?" Excess of defiance? Excess of
lawlessness? How insidiously these monopolists began their work of
accumulation, which has culminated in a power that not only eludes the
law of the land, but defies, derides it! They were poor men. They came
before the Government at Washington, and before the people of
California, as suppliant petitioners, humbly begging for aid to
construct a railroad. The aid was granted most liberally, and as soon as
they accumulated sufficient capital to feel rich they began their work
of eluding and defying the law. They became insolent, flinging defiance,
as if daring the law to touch them, and truly, the law thus far has been
powerless with them. At Washington they won their first victories
against the American people; and now California has the shame of seeing
that she has not the power to enforce her laws upon the men she made
rich. The Legislature convened and adjourned, and there is no way yet of
compelling the insolent millionaires to pay their taxes or regulate
their rates on freights and fares!
It seems now that unless _the people of California take the law in their
own hands_, and seize the property of those men, and confiscate it, to
re-imburse the money due _the people_, the arrogant corporation will
never pay. They are so accustomed to appropriate to themselves what
rightfully belongs to others, and have so long stood before the world in
defiant attitude, that they have become utterly insensible to those
sentiments of fairness animating law-abiding men of probity and sense of
justice.
These monopolists are essentially dangerous citizens in the fullest
acceptance of the word. They are dangerous citizens, not only in being
guilty of violation of the law, in subverting the fundamental principles
of public morality, but they are dangerous citizens, because they _lead
others_ into the commission of the same crimes. Their example is deadly
to honorable sentiments; it is poison to Californians, because it
allures men with the glamour of success; it incites the unwary to
imitate the conduct of men who have become immensely rich by such
culpable means.
Mr. Huntington in his letters (made public in the Colton suit), shows
the truth of all this; shows how bribing and corrupting seemed to him
perfectly correct. He speaks of "the men that can be _convinced_"
(meaning the men that will take bribes), as naturally as if no one need
blush for it. And with the same frankness he discloses his maneuvering
to defeat the Texas Pacific Railroad, and elude the payment of moneys
due the Government. It is surprising, as well as unpleasant, to read in
Mr. Huntington's letters the names of men in high positions whom he
reckons in his list as "men who can _be convinced_" and he speaks of
them in a cool way and off-hand manner, which shows how little respect
he has for those whom he can _convince_. Perhaps there are some in his
list who never did take a bribe from him, but then those gentlemen are
in the position of "Old Dog Tray," who suffered for being in bad
company.
"I have set matters to work in the South that I think will switch most
of the South from Tom Scott's Texas and Pacific bill," etc., etc., Mr.
Huntington wrote in April, '75, and in November of the same year he
concluded to send Dr. Gwin to work on the credulity of the Southerners,
to switch them off.
"I think the doctor can do us some good if he can work under cover. * *
* He must not come to the surface as _our man_. * * * Not as our agent,
but as an anti-subsidy Democrat and a Southern man," etc. When the
deceiver returned, Mr. Huntington wrote: "I notice what you say about
the interest that Dr. Gwin should have. I have no doubt that we shall
agree about what his interest should be," says Mr. Huntington, speaking
of the price to be paid the ex-Senator for his work of helping to
"_switch off the South_!"
In another letter Mr. Huntington says: "I had a talk with Bristow,
Secretary of the Treasury. He will be likely to help us fix up our
matters with the Government on a fair basis."
Another letter says: "I am doing all I can to have the Government take
six million acres of land, and give the railroad company credit for
fifteen million dollars, etc. I wish you would have the newspapers take
the ground that this land ought to be taken by the Government and held
for the people, etc. Something that the demagogues can vote and work
for," etc.
Mr. Huntington also says: "I think there should be a bridge company
organized (that we are not in) to build over the Colorado River, etc. In
this way we could tax the through business on this line should we so
desire," etc.
In another letter, dated March 7th, 1877, he says: "I stayed in
Washington two days to fix up a Railroad Committee in the Senate. * * *
The Committee is just as we want it, which is a very important thing for
us." * * *
He again says: "The Committees are made up for the Forty-fifth Congress.
I think the Railroad Committee is right, but the Committees on
Territories I do not like. A different one was promised me. Sherrel has
just telegraphed me to come to Washington," etc.
Mr. Huntington mentions in other letters the fact of bills being
submitted to him before being put to vote; and also about being
consulted concerning the formation of Committees and other Congressional
matters, much as if Congress really wished to keep on the good side of
Mr. Huntington. But it looked also as if he did not have everything his
own way always, for at times he loses patience and calls Congress a "set
of the worst strikers," and "the hungriest set" he ever saw.
In his letter to his friend Colton, of June 20th, '78, he exclaims: "I
think in the world's history never before was such a wild set of
demagogues honored by the name of Congress. We have been hurt some, but
some of the worst bills have been defeated, but we cannot stand many
such Congresses," etc.
The thing that annoyed Mr. Huntington the most was that he could not
persuade Governor Stanford to tell the bare-faced falsehood, that the
Southern Pacific did not belong to the owners of the Central Pacific.
Again and again Mr. Huntington urged the necessity of this falsehood
being told, childishly forgetting the fact that such prevarications
would have been useless, as all Californians knew the truth.
In the Congressional Committees, however, he himself attempted to pass
off that misstatement. It is not likely that he was believed, but he
succeeded in killing the Texas Pacific, and in "seeing the grass grow
over Tom Scott." The subterfuge no doubt was useful.
Mr. Huntington having buried the Texas Pacific, and also Colonel Scott,
as well as other worthy people (of whom no mention has been made in this
book), now proceeded to demand that the Government surrender to him and
associates, the land subsidy granted by Congress to the Texas Pacific.
This, surely, is an "_aggravation of excess_!"
The House Committee on Public Lands in their report on the "_forfeiture
of the Texas Pacific land grant_" reviewed Mr. Huntington's acts with
merited severity. Amongst many other truths the report says: "The
Southern Pacific claims to 'stand in _the shoes_' of the Texas Pacific.
Your committee agree that 'standing in the shoes' would do if the
Southern Pacific _filled the shoes_." But it does not. It never had
authority or recognition by Congress east of Yuma. For its own purpose,
by _methods which honest men have denounced_, greedy to embrace all land
within its net-work of rails, to secure monopoly of transportation,
surmounting opposition and beating down all obstacles in its way, and in
doing so, crushing the agent Congress had selected as instrument to
build a road there, _doing nothing, absolutely nothing, by governmental
authority or assent even, and having succeeded in defeating a necessary
work and rendering absolutely abortive the attempt to have one competing
transportation route to the Pacific built, it coolly asks to bestow upon
it fifteen millions of acres of lands; to give it the ownership of an
area sufficient for perhaps one hundred thousand homes, as a reward for
that result_.
And the committee (with one dissenting voice only) reported their
opinion that the Southern Pacific Railroad Company had _neither legal
nor equitable_ claim to the lands of the Texas Pacific which Mr.
Huntington wished to appropriate.
But is it not a painful admission that these few men should have
thwarted and defeated the purpose and intent of the Government of the
United States of having a competing railway in the Texas Pacific? Not
only Colonel Scott, and Hon. John C. Brown, and Mr. Frank T. Bond, the
President and Vice President of this road, but also Senator Lamar, Mr.
J. W. Throckmorton, Mr. House, Mr. Chandler, of Mississippi, and many,
many other able speakers, honorable, upright men, all endeavored
faithfully to aid the construction of the Texas Pacific. All failed. The
falsehoods disseminated by ex-Senator Gwin, which Senator Gordon and
others believed, and thus in good faith reproduced, had more effect when
backed by the monopoly's money.
But Tom Scott is laid low, and so is the Texas Pacific; now the fight
for greedy accumulation is transferred to California. The monopoly is
confident of getting the land subsidy of the Texas Pacific--after
killing it; of getting every scrap that might be clutched under pretext
of having belonged to the decapitated road. Thus the lands that the City
of San Diego donated to Tom Scott _on condition_ that the Texas Pacific
should be built, even these, the monopoly has by some means seized upon.
No Texas Pacific was built, but nevertheless, though clearly specified
stipulations be violated, San Diego's lands must go into the voracious
jaws of the monster. Poor San Diego! After being ruined by the greed of
the heartless monopolists, she is made to contribute her widow's mite to
swell the volume of their riches! This is cruel irony indeed.
And now those pampered millionaires have carried their defiance of the
law to the point of forcing the Governor of California to call an extra
session of the Legislature to compel them to obey the law. Speaking of
these matters a very able orator said in one of his speeches in the
extra session:
"It is stated in the proclamation of the Governor to convene this
Legislature, that for three or four years past the principal railroads
in this State have set at defiance the laws of the people; that they
have refused to pay their taxes; that they had set up within our borders
an _imperium in imperio_; that they had avowed and declared themselves
free from the laws of the State under which they hold their
organization; that there were no laws in this State to which they were
bound to submit and pay such taxes as would have fallen to them had they
been subject to the laws of the State, etc., etc. It has not occurred
before in the United States that a great Commonwealth has been defied
successfully by its own creatures."
Other speakers followed, and we of California have now, at least, the
satisfaction of knowing that faithful hearts and bright intellects have
been aroused and are watching the strides of the monster power.
The Spanish population of the State are proud of their countryman,
Reginaldo del Valle, who was one of the first to take a bold stand
against the monopoly. This young orator with great ability and
indomitable energy, has never flagged in his eloquent denunciations of
the power which has so trampled the laws of California and the rights of
her children.
Mr. Breckinridge, another brilliant orator, speaking of the pertinacious
defiance of the law exhibited by the monopolists, said: "Nothing but a
shock, a violent shock, a rude lesson--such as the old French noblesse
got when they saw their chateaux fired and their sons guillotined--will
awaken them from their dream of security."
The champions of right fought well, fought nobly, in the legislature,
but alas! the gold of the monopoly was too powerful, and the _extra
session_, called to devise means of compelling the railroad corporation
to obey the law, adjourned--adjourned, having _failed_ in accomplishing
the object for which it was called.
The legislators themselves acknowledged that corruption was too strong
to be withstood. Mr. Nicol said:
"There was once a belief that the legislature of California was a high,
honorable body, into which it should be the pride and glory of fathers
to see their sons gain admission. I have been here two sessions, and
instead of being a place to which an honorable ambition should prompt a
young man to aspire, I believe it to be the worst place on the
continent. _We are surrounded by a lobby which degrades every man here
by constant temptation and offers of corruption; the monopoly has made
it no place where a careful father will send his son._"
If these powerful monopolists were to speak candidly, would they say
that the result of their struggle for money in the last fourteen years
of their lives has compensated them for that shoulder-to shoulder fight
with opponents who were in the right, and must be vanquished by foul
means? "I shall see the grass grow over Tom Scott," prophetically wrote
Mr. Huntington several times. He had his wish. The grass grows over Tom
Scott. Mr. Huntington can claim the glory of having laid low his
powerful opponent, for it is well known that the ten years' struggle for
the Texas Pacific undermined Colonel Scott's health beyond recovery.
Broken down in health, he left Mr. Huntington master of the field. But
is the victory worth the cost? The fight was certainly not glorious for
the victor. Is it to be profitable? Many lives have been wrecked, many
people impoverished, much injustice done, and all for the sake of having
the Southern Pacific Railroad without a rival, without competition. This
road runs mostly through a desert; how is it to be made profitable? In
their eager pursuit of riches, the projectors of it miscalculated the
inevitable, and did not foresee that other capital could, in a few
years, build competing lines through more favorable routes; did not
foresee that it would have been a better policy to adhere honestly to
the terms of their first charter; did not foresee that it would have
been better not to sacrifice San Diego. No, they deemed it a wiser plan
to kill Tom Scott, to kill San Diego, and then take the money earned in
this manner to go and build railroads in Guatemala and in British
America. To men who do not think that in _business_ the rights of others
should be considered, this policy of crushing or desolating everything
in the path of triumphant accumulators no doubt is justifiable. But why
should the rich enjoy rights that are "deadly to other men?" It is
alleged in defense of the California railroad monopolists that as they
do not think it would be lucrative to run a railroad to San Diego, they
do not build any. If this were a true allegation, why did they fear the
Texas Pacific as a competing road? Why did they spend so much money and
ten years of their lives to kill that railroad? Surely, if they knew so
well that a road to San Diego would not pay, why were they so anxious to
prevent its construction? Was it out of a purely disinterested and
philanthropic solicitude for their rivals? Did Mr. Huntington wish "to
see grass grow over Tom Scott" because he kindly desired to prevent his
financial ruin?
Obviously, to maintain that the monopoly did not build a road to San
Diego because it would not pay, and that they would not allow Tom Scott
to build it either, for the same reason, is not logical. If to construct
and run such road would have been ruinous, that was the very best of
reasons for allowing it to be built. This would have been as effective a
way of getting rid of Colonel Scott as by seeing grass grow over his
grave.
But no, it is not true that the San Diego road would not have been
profitable; the truth is, that because it would have been profitable, it
was dreaded as a rival of the Southern Pacific. But the monopoly had no
money to build two roads at once, so they (characteristically) thought
best to kill it. As they could not have it, no one else should. And for
this reason, and because one of the railroad kings conceived a great
animosity against the people of San Diego and became their bitter,
revengeful enemy, they were not allowed to have a railroad. This last
fact seems incredibly absurd, but if we remember how a Persian tyrant
razed a city to the ground because he ate there something that gave him
an indigestion, we ought not be surprised if a modern king--one of
California's tyrants--should punish a little city because it did not
turn out _en masse_ to do him humble obeisance. Doubtless, to indulge in
such petty malice was not lofty; it was a sort of mental indigestion not
to be proud of; it was a weakness, but it was also a wickedness, and
worse yet, it was a _blunder_.
Time alone, however, will prove this. In the meanwhile, the money earned
in California (as Californians only know how) is taken to build roads in
Guatemala. Towns are crushed and sacrificed in California to carry
prosperity to other countries. And California groans under her heavy
load, but submits, seeing her merchants and farmers ground down with
"special contracts" and discriminating charges, and the refractory
punished with pitiless severity. Thus, merchants and farmers are hushed
and made docile under the lash, for what is the use of complaining? When
the Governor of this State sought in vain to curb the power of the
monster and compel it to pay taxes by calling an extra session of the
Legislature, and nothing was done, what more can be said?
Ask the settlers of the Mussel Slough what is their experience of the
pitiless rigor of the monopoly towards those who confidently trusted in
the good faith of the great power. These poor farmers were told by the
railroad monopoly to locate homesteads and plant orchards and vineyards
and construct irrigating canals; that they would not have to pay for
their land any higher price than before it was improved. With this
understanding the farmers went to work, and with great sacrifices and
arduous labor made their irrigating canals and other improvements. Then
when this sandy swamp had been converted into a garden, and valueless
lands made very valuable, the monopoly came down on the confiding people
and demanded the price of the land after it had been improved. The
farmers remonstrated and asked that the original agreement should be
respected; but all in vain. The arm of the law was called to eject them.
They resisted, and bloodshed was the consequence. Some of them were
killed, but all had to submit, there was no redress.
And what price did the monopoly pay for these lands? Not one penny, dear
reader. These lands are a little bit of a small portion out of many
millions of acres given as a subsidy, a _gift_, to build the Southern
Pacific Railroad, which road, the charter said, was to pass through San
Diego and terminate at Fort Yuma.
The line of this road was changed without authority. [Mr. Huntington
talks in his letters about _convincing_ people to make this change.]
Thus the Mussel Slough farmers got _taken in_, into Mr. Huntington's
lines--as was stated by the public press.
But these, as well as the blight, spread over Southern California, and
over the entire Southern States, are historical facts. All of which,
strung together, would make a brilliant and most appropriate chaplet to
encircle the lofty brow of the great and powerful monopoly. Our
representatives in Congress, and in the State Legislature, knowing full
well the will of the people, ought to legislate accordingly. If they do
not, then we shall--as Channing said "kiss the foot that tramples us!"
and "in anguish of spirit" must wait and pray for a Redeemer who will
emancipate the white slaves of California.