The Birth of the Golden Baby
The birth of the Golden Baby, in other words, the coming of the Golden
State into the Union, was a time of struggle and uncertainty,
when feelings were deeply stirred and hope deferred caused bitter
disappointment. When the treaty of peace with Mexico was ratified by
Congress it left the Pacific coast settlements in a strange position--a
territory containing thousands of people, with more coming by hundreds,
but with no legally appointed rulers.
As soon as Congress accepted the treaty, the military governor ceased to
have any power, for there was then no longer a state of war; yet he was
still obeyed by courtesy, until some one with a better right took his
place. The only other official was the local alcalde of each community.
This was a Mexican office, but was at that time often filled by an
American who had, perhaps, been in the territory only a few months and
knew nothing of Mexican laws, but ran things as well as he could after
the Eastern fashion.
The Rev. Mr. Colton, chaplain of the warship Congress, was made alcalde
of Monterey, and his book on those times is most interesting.
“My duties,” said he, “are similar to those of the mayor of an Eastern
city, but with no such aid of courts as he enjoys. I am supreme in every
breach of peace, case of crime, disputed land title, over a space of
three hundred miles. Such an absolute disposal of questions affecting
property and personal liberty never ought to be confided to one man.”
The country owed much to Mr. Colton’s work while alcalde. He soon gained
the confidence of law-abiding residents, but was a terror to evil doers.
Those he put to work quarrying stone and building the solid structure
afterward named Colton’s Hall. Here one of the first of California’s
schools was opened, and here was held the first convention.
Perhaps the truth that “as a man sows, so shall he reap,” that a wrong
action is apt to bring its own punishment, was never more plainly shown
than in the Mexican war. The war was brought upon the United States in
a great degree by those interested in slavery, not because they had any
just cause of quarrel with the people of Mexico, but because they wanted
more territory where slaves could be held.
California, which was the name generally given to all the country
extending from Mexico northward to Oregon and the Louisiana Purchase,
and eastward from the Pacific Ocean to Texas, was what they really
fought for, and when they got it, it became their undoing. When a
commissioner went to Mexico to arrange for peace, he demanded California
for the United States. As is usual, the conquered had to yield to the
victor, and Mexico agreed, “provided the United States would promise not
to permit slavery in the territory thus acquired.”
“No,” replied Mr. Trist, the American commissioner, “the bare mention
of such a thing is an impossibility. No American president would dare
present such a treaty to the Senate.”
The Mexican authorities persisted, saying the prospect of the
introduction of slavery into a territory gained from them excited the
strongest feelings of abhorrence in the hearts of the Mexican people,
but the American commissioner made no promise.
In the summer of 1848 the President, in a special message, called
the attention of Congress to California and asked that the laws of a
territory be granted to it. The South agreed, provided half should
be slave territory. The Northern people, who disliked slavery, had
no commercial interest in it, and felt it a disgrace to the nation,
resisted this demand. Then began a bitter struggle over California and
the question of slavery on her soil, which lasted for two years and
called forth some of the grandest speeches of those mighty leaders,
Webster, Clay, and Calhoun.
In 1849, while this fight in Congress was still going on, an amendment
to tax California for revenue, and another which would result in making
her a slave state, were added to the regular appropriation bill which
provided for the expenses of government and without which the government
would stop. Congress was supposed to close its session on Saturday,
March 3d, at midnight. The new President, Taylor, was to take office on
Monday.
There had been many times of excitement in that Senate chamber, but this
night, it is said by those who were present, was equal to any. Such a
war of words and a battle of great minds! Many eyes were turned to the
clock as it drew near the hour of midnight. Would the stroke of twelve
dissolve the meeting and the great government of the United States be
left without funds?
To many of the senators this seemed a certainty, but Mr. Webster
insisted that Congress could not end while they remained in session.
So, through the long night, the struggle went on. About four o’clock
the amendment in regard to slavery was withdrawn, and the bill for the
government money was passed.
Meantime the American settlers in California were extremely
dissatisfied. To be living without suitable laws was an unnatural and
dangerous state of affairs which could not be tolerated by men who loved
their country and their homes. The Spanish Californians, also, were
anxious to know what they had to expect from the laws of the United
States. At last it was decided by the people, and agreed to by the
military governor, Riley, who was a man of good judgment, that
delegates should be chosen to a convention which should arrange a state
constitution and government. It was determined, however, to wait for
word from Congress, which had closed in such tumult.
News would certainly arrive by the next steamer, the Panama, which was
long overdue. It was a favorite amusement in those days for the boys of
San Francisco to go upon the hill and watch for her coming. The 4th of
June they were rewarded by the sight of her. As she came into harbor a
large part of the population hurried to the wharf, eager to learn the
action of Congress. Was California to be a state or not?
The disappointment was great when it was found that nothing had been
done except to pass the revenue laws, which meant taxation without
representation. In the plaza and on the streets the crowds were loud in
their disapproval. The excitement was almost as great as in Boston, so
long before, when the news of the tax on tea arrived. A mass meeting was
called.
“It is plain they expect us to settle the slavery question for
ourselves,” said one. “We can do it in short order,” said another.
Monday, September 3, 1849, the constitutional convention met at
Monterey.
“Recognizing the fact that there is need of more than human wisdom, in
the work of founding a state under the unprecedented condition of the
country,” says the minutes of that meeting, “the delegates voted to open
the session with prayer.” It was decided to begin each morning’s work
in this way, the Rev. S. H. Willey and Padre Ramirez officiating
alternately.
There were present forty-eight delegates, seven of whom were Spanish
Californians. Of these Carrillo of the south and General Vallejo of
Sonoma were prominent. They were able men, who were used to governing
and who understood fairly well the needs of the times. Later, in the
United States Senate, Mr. Webster quoted Mr. Carrillo of “San Angeles,”
as he called it. Another delegate, Dr. Gwin, was a Southern man who had
recently come to California for the purpose of gaining the position of
United States senator and of so planning things that even though the
state should be admitted as free soil, it might later be divided and
part be made slave territory.
He depended for this upon the boundaries. If the whole great section was
admitted as California, he thought division would surely follow with
the southern part for slavery. The people, however, showed themselves
opposed to slavery in their new state, and Dr. Gwin soon found that he
must either forego his hopes of becoming senator or give way on this
point. The constitution finally adopted was that of a free state with
its boundaries as they are to-day. The new legislature chose Colonel
Fremont and Dr. Gwin senators, and they left in January, 1850, for
Washington, taking the new constitution to offer it for the approval of
Congress.
While the people of the Pacific coast had been making their
constitution, Congress was in session, and the subject of California and
slavery was still troubling the nation. The discussion grew so bitter
that in January Clay brought forward his famous Omnibus Bill, so called
because it was intended to accommodate different people and parties, and
contained many measures which he thought would be so satisfactory to
the senators that they would pass the whole bill, although part of it
provided for the admission of California as a free state.
At once Southerners sprang forward to resist the measure. They realized
keenly that slavery could not hold its own if the majority of the
country became free soil. They must persist in their demand for more
slave territory, or give up their bondmen. Calhoun, the great advocate
of slavery, who was at that time ill and near his death, prepared a
speech, the last utterance of that brilliant mind, which was delivered
March 4th. He was too ill to read it, but sat, gaunt and haggard,
with burning eyes, while his friend spoke for him. It closed with the
declaration that the admission of California as a slave or a free state
was the test which would prove whether the Union should continue to
exist or be broken up by secession. If she came in free, then the South
could do no less than secede.
Three days later, March 7th, Webster delivered one of the great speeches
of his life. In it he said, “The law of nature, physical geography, and
the formation of the earth settles forever that slavery cannot exist in
California.”
Seward followed with a speech mighty in its eloquence. He said:
“California, rich and populous, is here asking admission to the Union
and finds us debating the dissolution of the Union itself. It seems to
me that the perpetual unity of the empire hangs on this day and hour.
Try not the temper and fidelity of California, nor will she abide
delay. I shall vote for the admission of California directly, without
conditions, without qualifications, and without compromise.”
On September 9, 1850, California was at last admitted.
From that time the country advanced steadily onward to the terrible
period of 1861, when the South put her threat into execution. The Civil
War followed, and the abolition of slavery; but from the sorrowful
struggle there arose a better and happier nation, a united North
and South. There are two things to be remembered: that into the new
territory gained from Mexico slavery never entered; and that the wealth
which came from the mines of California did much toward strengthening
the North in the conflict.
Over half a year the Californians had been waiting for their
constitution to be adopted, and for their representatives to be received
in Congress. Sometimes it seemed as though the good news would never
come.
One October morning word came down from the lookout on Telegraph
Hill: “The Oregon is coming in covered with bunting. All her flags are
flying.” Almost at the same moment throughout the city could be heard
the quick booming of her guns as she entered the harbor. With shouts
and clapping of hands the people rushed to the wharf. Tears were pouring
down the faces of men who did not know what it was to cry; women were
sobbing and laughing by turns. The shrill cheers of the California
boys rose high above all. There was the report of guns, the cracking of
pistols, the joyful pealing of bells. New York papers sold readily at
five dollars each. No more business that day. Joy and gayety reigned. At
night the city was ablaze with fireworks and mighty bonfires, which the
boys kept going until morning.
Messengers started in every direction to carry the news. The way the
word came to San Jose was exciting. The new governor, Peter Burnett, was
in San Francisco on steamer day. On the very next morning he left for
San Jose on the stage coach of Crandall, one of the famous drivers of
the West. The stage of a rival line left at the same time. There was
great excitement: a race between two six-horse teams, with coaches
decorated with flags, and the governor on the box of one of them.
They had to creep through the heavy sands to the mission, but beyond
there they struck the hard road, and away they went, horses at a gallop,
passengers shouting and singing. As they passed through a town or by a
ranch house people ran out, aroused by the hubbub. Off went the hats of
all on the coaches.
“California has been admitted to the Union!” some one would shout in his
loudest voice, and, looking back, they would see men shaking hands and
tossing hats on high, and small boys jigging while shouts and cheers
followed them faintly as they disappeared in the distance.
Past San Bruno, San Mateo, Mayfield, they went with a rush, then swept
through Santa Clara, then at a gallop down the beautiful Alameda to San
Jose, the governor’s coach but three minutes in advance of its rival.
A few days later there was the grand ceremony of admission day, which
was described in the papers not only of this country but of England as
well.
Still, after the rejoicing came a time of anxiety and sorrow. In its
treatment of the land question in California the United States made one
of the gravest mistakes ever made by a civilized nation.
The man whom the government sent out to investigate the subject, W. C.
Jones, was an able Spanish scholar, skilled in Mexican and Spanish law,
and his carefully prepared report declared that the greater part of the
rancheros had perfect title to their lands, and all that was necessary
for the United States to do was to have them resurveyed.
In Congress, Senator Benton and Senator Fremont in most points supported
this report as the only just plan. Against the bill that was finally
passed Senator Benton protested vigorously, saying that it amounted
to confiscation of the land instead of the protection promised by the
American government, through Larkin and Sloat.
This law made it necessary for every Californian, no matter how long he
had lived on his land, to prove his title to it, and that, too, while
the United States attorney resisted his claim inch by inch, as if he
were a criminal.
Thus the Spanish American, who was seldom a man of business after
the standard of the Eastern states, was forced into the distressing
necessity of fighting for what was his own, in courts, the law and
language of which he did not understand. Meantime his property was
rendered hard to sell, while taxation fell heaviest upon him because he
was a large land owner. Often, too, he would have to pay his lawyer in
notes, promising to give money when he could get it, and in the end the
lawyer often got most of the land which the United States government had
left to the unhappy Californian.
The way in which unprincipled men got the better of the rancheros would
fill a volume. Guadalupe Vallejo, in the Century Magazine (Vol. 41),
tells how a leading American squatter came to her father and said:--
“There is a large piece of your land where the cattle run loose, and
your vaqueros are all gone to the mines. I will fence the field at my
own expense if you will give me half of it.” Vallejo agreed, but when
the American had inclosed it, he entered it on the record books as
government land and kept it all.
This article also describes the losses of the ranchmen from cattle
stealing. It tells how Americans, who were afterward prosperous
citizens, were guilty of selling Spanish beef which they knew had been
stolen.
The life of the Spanish-speaking people at the mines was made miserable.
The American miners seemed to feel that the Californian had no right
to be there. Of course there were some of the lower class, many of whom
were part Indian, who would lie, steal, or, if they had an opportunity,
murder; but often those who were persecuted were not of this type.
A woman of refinement, who under the title of “Shirley” wrote her
experiences at the mines, says:--
“The people of the Spanish race on Indian Bar, many of whom are highly
educated gentlemen, are disposed to bear an ill opinion of our whole
nation on account of the rough men here. They think that it is a
great characteristic of Columbia’s children to be prejudiced, selfish,
avaricious, and unjust.”
Because in a quarrel a Mexican killed a drunken miner, the men of the
Bar determined to drive away all Californians. They captured several,
not the guilty one, banished some, and two they sentenced to be flogged.
Shirley from her cabin heard what was going on. She tells how one of
them, a gentlemanly young Spaniard, begged in vain to be killed rather
than be disgraced by whipping. When, finally, he was released, he swore
eternal vengeance against the American race.
In San Francisco the disorderly state of affairs caused by the host
of criminals gathered there from all over the world, attracted by the
discovery of gold, became unendurable. On the city streets robbery and
murder were of frequent occurrence, no one was safe, and wrongdoers went
unpunished because, frequently, the officers of the law were in league
with them. At last the best citizens felt that for the sake of their
homes and families they must take matters into their own hands, so they
formed an association, seven thousand strong, which was known as the
“Vigilantes.”
Those who committed crimes were taken by this organization, and, after
careful trial, punished. Several of the worst offenders were executed,
many were banished from the country, and unjust officials were removed.
When law and order were restored, the Vigilantes disbanded.
The example of San Francisco was followed in various parts of the state,
especially in the mining camps, where there were many crimes; but not
all the Vigilantes displayed the same care and fairness as the people of
the larger city, and sometimes terrible mistakes were made, and innocent
people suffered.
With thousands of newcomers on the Pacific coast, and the long distance
between them and their homes, it was often of the greatest importance
to get their parcels and mail to them as promptly as possible. For this
reason several express companies were started and did excellent work;
but the mail route called the Pony Express was the most interesting. It
is well described by W. F. Bailey in the Century Magazine (Vol. 56).
One day in March, 1860, the following advertisement appeared in a St.
Louis paper:--
“To San Francisco in eight days. The first carrier of the Pony Express
will leave the Missouri River on Tuesday, April 3d, and will run
regularly weekly hereafter, carrying letter mail only. Telegraph mail
eight days, letters ten days to San Francisco.”
From St. Joseph, Missouri, the first start was made. A large crowd was
present to see the rider off. The same day, the same hour, the Western
mail started on the thousand-mile ride eastward. There would be ten
riders each way, with horses changed every twenty-five miles.
Both Sacramento and San Francisco were full of enthusiasm. It was
planned to give the first messenger a rousing reception when he should
arrive from the East. He was received by crowds as he galloped into
Sacramento, and hurried to a swift river steamboat which immediately
started for the Bay. News of his coming was telegraphed ahead, and was
announced from the stages of the San Francisco theaters so that when he
arrived at midnight a large number of people were awaiting him, bands
were playing, and bells were ringing; and a long procession escorted him
to the company’s office.
In all, there were sixty riders of this express company, all young men,
light in weight, accomplished riders, coolheaded, and absolutely brave.
They were held in high regard by all, and with good reason. Each when he
entered the service signed this pledge:--
“I agree not to use profane language, not to get drunk, not to gamble,
not to treat animals cruelly, and not to do anything incompatible with
the conduct of a gentleman.” They also had to swear to be loyal to the
Union.
The average journey of one man was seventy-five miles, this to be
accomplished in one day, but the men frequently had to double the
distance, and once, when the messenger who was waiting was killed by
Indians, “Buffalo Bill” (Mr. Cody) made the long trip of three hundred
and eighty-four miles, stopping only for meals and to change horses.
By day and by night, through rain and storm, heat and cold, they rode,
these brave men, one facing east, the other west, alone, always alone,
often chased by Indians, though, owing to their watchfulness and the
superiority of their horses, they were seldom caught. A number were,
however, killed by immigrants, who mistook them for Indians or robbers.
The great feat of the Pony Express was the delivering of Lincoln’s
inaugural address in 1861.
With the Southern states claiming to be out of the Union, people were
wild to know what the President would say. To St. Joseph, Missouri,
the address was hurried. Here it was carefully wrapped in oil skin,
consigned to the saddle bags, and amid wild cheers the express was
off. Horses were waiting every ten miles. What a ride was that! “Speed,
speed! faster, faster!” was the cry. Each man tried to do a trifle
better than the last, while the thousands on the Pacific coast seemed to
be straining their ears for the sound of the galloping hoof beats which
brought nearer to them the brave message of the grand new President. And
when the last rider came in, making the final ten miles in thirty-one
minutes, what a cheer went up!
One thousand nine hundred and fifty miles in one hundred and eighty-five
hours, the message had traveled--at an average of a little more than ten
miles an hour--straight across the continent.
When we read of the speed-breaking special trains of to-day, let us not
forget what these brave men of the first overland express accomplished
in the days of ‘61.