San Diego is full of quaint and curious entries, monotonous in its
religious reiterations, but touching in its simplicity and
unconscious testimony to his own single-heartedness and patience. The
nearest approach to a complaint he makes is to say that "nothing
abounds except stones and thorns." When they journey for days with no
water except scanty rations from the precious casks they are carrying,
he always piously trusts water will be found on the morrow; and when
they come to great tracts of impenetrable cactus thickets, through
which they are obliged to hew a pathway with axes, as through a
forest, and are drenched to the skin in cold rains, and deserted by
the Christian Indians whom they had brought from Lower California as
guides, he mentions the facts without a murmur, and has even for the
deserters only a benediction: "May God guard the misguided ones!" A
far more serious grievance to him is that toward the end of the
journey he could no longer celebrate full mass because the wafers had
given out. Sometimes the party found themselves hemmed in by
mountains, and were forced to halt for days while scouts went ahead to
find a pass. More than once, hoping that at last they had found a
direct and easy route, they struck down to the sea-shore, only to
discover themselves soon confronted by impassable spurs of the Coast
Range, and forced to toil back again up into the labyrinths of mesas
and cactus plains. It was Holy Thursday, the 24th of March, when they
set out, and it was not until the 13th of May that they reached the
high ground from which they had their first view of the bay of San
Diego, and saw the masts of the ships lying at anchor there,--"which
sight was a great joy and consolation to us all," says the diary.
They named this halting-place "Espiritu Santo." It must have been on,
or very near, the ridge where now runs the boundary line between the
United States and Mexico, as laid down by the treaty of Guadalupe
Hidalgo. It is a grand promontory, ten miles southeast of San Diego,
thrusting out to sea; bare of trees, but matted thick with the dewy
ice-plant, and in early spring carpeted with flowers. An ugly monument
of stone stands there, bearing the names of the American and Mexican
commissioners who established this boundary line in October, 1849. It
would seem much more fitting to have there a monument bearing the
names of the heroic men--friars and soldiers of Spain--who on that
spot, on May 14, 1769, sang the first Easter hymn heard on California
shores.
It was a sore grief for Father Crespí that the commandant of the party
would not wait here for him to say a mass of thanksgiving; but with
the port in sight, impatience could not be restrained, and the little
band pushed on. As soon as the San Diego camp was seen, the soldiers
discharged a salute of fire-arms, which was answered instantly from
shore and ship. Great joy filled every heart. The friars who had come
by sea ran to meet and embrace their brothers. The gladness was
dampened only by the sad condition of the ships' crews, many of whom
were dead or dying. They had been four months, with their poor charts
and poorer ships, making their way from La Paz up to San Diego; and in
consequence of insufficient and unwholesome food, the scurvy had
broken out among them. It was a melancholy beginning for the new
enterprise. When, six weeks later, the second land party with Father
Junipero arrived, eager to proceed to the establishing of the mission,
they found that their first duty was to the sick and dying of their
own people. In fifteen days twenty-nine of the sailors and soldiers
died. The Indians, who at first had been gentle and friendly, grew
each day more insolent and thievish, even tearing off the clothes of
the sick lying helpless in the tents or tule huts on the beach. At
last, on the 16th of July, a cross was set up facing the port, and in
a rude booth of branches and reeds, mass was celebrated and the grand
hymn of "Veni Creator" was sung, the pilgrims "supplying the want of
an organ by discharging fire-arms," says the old record, and with only
the "smoke of muskets for incense." Thus was founded the Mission of
San Diego; and thus was laid the corner-stone of the civilization of
California on July 16, 1769.
Two days before this the indefatigable Crespí had set off with another
overland party, Portalá at its head, to find Monterey. On this
journey, also, Father Crespí kept a diary,--little suspecting,
probably, with how much interest it would be studied a century later.
It was not strange that with only a compass and seventeenth-century
charts to guide them along the zigzagging labyrinths of bays,
headlands, and sand-hills which make the California shore, they
toiled to no purpose seeking the Monterey harbor. It is pitiful to
read the record of the days when they were close upon it, setting up a
cross on one of its hills, and yet could not see it; even querying, so
bewildered and lost were they, if it might not have been filled up
with sands since Viscayno's time. Forty leagues north of it they went,
and discovered the present bay of San Francisco, which they at once
recognized by Viscayno's description; and recalling the speech of
Galvez in regard to Saint Francis pointing out a port if he wanted a
mission of his own name, the pious fathers thought it not unlikely
that the saint himself had hidden Monterey from their sight, and led
them to his own harbor. Month after month passed, and still they were
wandering. They were footsore, weary, hungry, but not disheartened.
Friendly Indians everywhere greeted them kindly, gave them nuts, and
shell-fish, and bread made from acorn flour. At one time seventeen of
the party were too ill to travel. Twice they halted and held council
on the question of abandoning the search. Some were ready to continue
as long as the provisions held out, then to eat their mules, and go
back on foot. Fathers Crespí and Gomez volunteered to be left behind
alone.
At last, on the 11th of November, it was decided to return by the
route by which they had come. On the 20th, finding that their flour
had been stolen by the soldiers, they divided the remainder into equal
parts, giving to each person enough to last him two days. On Christmas
Day they had a present of nuts from friendly Indians, and on New
Year's Day they had the luck to kill a bear and three cubs, which gave
them a feast for which they offered most devout thanksgivings. For the
rest, they lived chiefly on mussels, with now and then a wild goose.
On the 24th of January they came out on the table-lands above San
Diego, six months and ten days from the time of their departure.
Firing a salute, they were answered instantly by shots from the camp,
and saw an eager crowd running to meet them, great anxiety having been
felt at their long absence.
It is worth while, in studying the history of these Franciscan
missions, to dwell on the details of the hardships endured in the
beginning by their founders. Only narrow-minded bigotry can fail to
see in them proofs of a spiritual enthusiasm and exaltation of
self-sacrifice which are rarely paralleled in the world's history. And
to do justice to the results accomplished, it is necessary to
understand thoroughly the conditions at the outset of the undertaking.
The weary, returned party found their comrades in sorry plight. The
scurvy had spread, and many more had died. Father Junipero himself had
been dangerously ill with it; provisions were running low; the Indians
were only half friendly, and were not to be trusted out of sight. The
supply-ships looked for from Mexico had not arrived.
A situation more helpless, unprotected, discouraging, could not be
conceived than that of this little, suffering band, separated by
leagues of desert and leagues of ocean from all possible succor. At
last an examination showed that there were only provisions sufficient
left to subsist the party long enough to make the journey back to
Velicatá. It seemed madness to remain longer; and Governor Portalá,
spite of Father Junipero's entreaties, gave orders to prepare for the
abandonment of the missions. He fixed the 20th of March as the last
day he would wait for the arrival of the ship. This was Saint Joseph's
Day. On the morning of it Father Junipero, who had been praying night
and day for weeks, celebrated to Saint Joseph a high mass, with
special supplications for relief. Before noon a sail was seen on the
horizon. One does not need to believe in saints and saints'
interpositions to feel a thrill at this coincidence, and in fancying
the effect the sudden vision of the relief-ship must have produced on
the minds of devout men who had been starving. The ship appeared for a
few moments, then disappeared; doubtless there were some who scoffed
at it as a mere apparition. But Portalá believed, and waited; and,
four days later, in the ship came!--the "San Antonio," bringing
bountiful stores of all that was needed.
Courage and cheer now filled the very air. No time was lost in
organizing expeditions to go once more in search of the mysteriously
hidden Monterey. In less than three weeks two parties had set
off,--one by sea in the "San Antonio." With this went Father Junipero,
still feeble from illness. Father Crespí, undaunted by his former six
months of wandering, joined the land party, reaching the Point of
Pines, on Monterey Harbor, seven days before the ship arrived. As soon
as she came in sight, bonfires were lighted on the rocks, and the ship
answered by firing cannon. It was a great rejoicing. The next day,
June 1st, the officers of the two parties met, and exchanged
congratulations; and on the third they took formal possession of the
place: first, in the name of the Church, by religious ceremonies;
secondly, in the name of the King of Spain, unfurling the royal
standard, and planting it in the ground, side by side with the cross.
To one familiar with the beauty of the Monterey shore in June, the
picture of this scene is vivid. The sand-dunes were ablaze with color;
lupines in high, waving masses, white and yellow; and great mats of
the glittering ice-plant, with myriads of rose-colored umbels, lying
flat on the white sand. Many rods inland, the air was sweet with their
fragrance, borne by the strong sea-wind. On long cliffs of broken,
tempest-piled rocks stood ranks upon ranks of grand old
cypress-trees,--gnarled, bent, twisted, defiant, full of both pathos
and triumph in their loneliness, in this the only spot on earth to
which they are native.
The booth of boughs in which the mass was performed was built under a
large oak, on the same spot where Viscayno had landed and his
Carmelite monks had said mass one hundred and sixty-seven years
before. The ceremonies closed with a ringing Te Deum,--sailors,
soldiers, monks, alike jubilant.
When the news of the founding of this second mission reached the city
of Mexico, there was a furore of excitement. The bells of the city
were rung; people ran up and down the streets telling each other; and
the viceroy held at his palace a grand reception, to which went all
persons of note, eager to congratulate him and Galvez. Printed
proclamations, giving full accounts, were circulated, not only in
Mexico but throughout Spain. No province so remote, no home so lowly,
as to fail to hear the good news. It was indeed good news to both
State and Church. The fact of the occupation of the new country was
accomplished; the scheme for the conversion and salvation of the
savage race was fairly inaugurated; Monterey and San Diego being
assured, ultimate possession of the whole of the coast line between
would follow. Little these gladdened people in Spain and Mexico
realized, however, the cost of the triumph over which they rejoiced,
or the true condition of the men who had won it.
The history of the next fifteen years is a history of struggle,
hardship, and heroic achievement. The indefatigable Serra was the
mainspring and support of it all. There seemed no limit to his
endurance, no bound to his desires; nothing daunted his courage or
chilled his faith. When, in the sixth year after the founding of the
San Diego Mission, it was attacked by hostile Indians, one of the
fathers being most cruelly murdered, and the buildings burned to the
ground, Father Junipero exclaimed, "Thank God! The seed of the Gospel
is now watered by the blood of a martyr; that mission is henceforth
established;" and in a few months he was on the spot, with money and
materials, ready for rebuilding; pressing sailors, neophytes,
soldiers, into the service; working with his own hands, also, spite of
the fears and protestations of all, and only desisting on positive
orders from the military commander. He journeyed, frequently on foot,
back and forth through the country, founding a new mission whenever,
by his urgent letters to the College of San Fernando and to the
Mexican viceroys, he had gathered together men and money enough to do
so. In 1772, when perplexities seemed inextricably thickened and
supplies had fallen so short that starvation threatened the missions,
he took ship to San Blas. With no companion except one Indian boy, he
toiled on foot from San Blas to Guadalajara, two hundred and forty
miles. Here they both fell ill of fever, and sank so low that they
were supposed to be dying, and the Holy Viaticum was administered to
them. But they recovered, and while only partly convalescent, pushed
on again, reaching the city of Mexico in February, 1773. Hard-hearted
indeed must the Mexican viceroy have been to refuse to heed the
prayers of an aged man who had given such proofs as this of his
earnestness and devotion. The difficulties were cleared up, money and
supplies obtained, and Father Junipero returned to his post with a
joyful heart. Before leaving, he kissed the feet of the friars in the
college, and asked their blessing, saying that they would never behold
him more.
Father Junipero's most insatiable passion was for baptizing Indians;
the saving of one soul thus from death filled him with unspeakable
joy. His biographer illustrates this by the narrative of the first
infant baptism attempted at the San Diego Mission. The Indians had
been prevailed upon to bring an infant to receive the consecration.
Everything was ready: Father Junipero had raised his hand to sprinkle
the child's face; suddenly heathen terror got the better of the
parents, and in the twinkling of an eye they snatched their babe and
ran. Tears rolled down Father Junipero's cheeks: he declared that only
some unworthiness in himself could have led to such a disaster; and to
the day of his death he could never tell the story without tears,
thinking it must be owing to his sins that the soul of that particular
child had been lost.
When he preached he was carried out of himself by the fervor of his
desire to impress his hearers. Baring his breast, he would beat it
violently with a stone, or burn the flesh with a lighted torch, to
enhance the effect of his descriptions of the tortures of hell. There
is in his memoir a curious engraving, showing him lifted high above a
motley group of listeners, holding in his hands the blazing torch and
the stone.
In the same book is an outline map of California as he knew it. It is
of the coast line from San Diego to San Francisco, and the only
objects marked on it are the missions and dotted lines showing the
roads leading from one to another. All the rest is a blank.
There were nine of these missions, founded by Serra, before his death
in 1784. They were founded in the following order: San Diego, July 16,
1769; San Carlos de Monterey, June 3, 1770; San Antonio de Padua, July
14, 1771; San Gabriel, Sept. 8, 1771; San Luis Obispo, Sept. 1, 1772;
San Francisco (Dolores), Oct. 9, 1776; San Juan Capistrano, Nov. 1,
1776; Santa Clara, Jan. 18, 1777; San Buena Ventura, March 31, 1782.
The transports into which Father Junipero was thrown by the beginning
of a new mission are graphically told by the companion who went with
him to establish the mission of San Antonio. With his little train of
soldiers, and mules laden with a few weeks' supplies, he wandered off
into the unexplored wilderness sixty miles south of Monterey, looking
eagerly for river valleys promising fertility. As soon as the
beautiful oak-shaded plain, with its river swift and full even in
July, caught his eye, he ordered a halt, seized the bells, tied them
to an oak bough, and fell to ringing them with might and main, crying
aloud: "Hear, hear, O ye Gentiles! Come to the Holy Church! Come to
the faith of Jesus Christ!" Not a human creature was in sight, save
his own band; and his companion remonstrated with him. "Let me alone,"
cried Father Junipero. "Let me unburden my heart, which could wish
that this bell should be heard by all the world, or at least by all
the Gentiles in these mountains;" and he rang on till the echoes
answered, and one astonished Indian appeared,--the first instance in
which a native had been present at the foundation of a mission. Not
long afterward came a very aged Indian woman named Agreda, begging to
be baptized, saying that she had seen a vision in the skies of a man
clad like the friars, and that her father had repeated to her in her
youth the same words they now spoke.
The history of this San Antonio Mission justified Father Junipero's
selection. The site proved one of the richest and most repaying,
including, finally, seven large farms with a chapel on each, and being
famous for the best wheat grown, and the best flour made in the
country. The curious mill in which the flour was ground is still to be
seen,--a most interesting ruin. It was run by water brought in a
stone-walled ditch for many miles, and driven through a funnel-shaped
flume so as to strike the side of a large water-wheel, revolving
horizontally on a shaft. The building of this aqueduct and the placing
of the wheel were the work of an Indian named Nolberto, who took the
idea from the balance-wheel of a watch, and did all the work with his
own hands. The walls are broken now; and the sands have so blown in
and piled around the entrance, that the old wheel seems buried in a
cellar; linnets have builded nests in the dusky corners, and are so
seldom disturbed that their bright eyes gaze with placid unconcern at
curious intruders.
Many interesting incidents are recorded in connection with the
establishment of these first missions. At San Gabriel the Indians
gathered in great force, and were about to attack the little band of
ten soldiers and two friars preparing to plant their cross; but on
the unfurling of a banner with a life-size picture of the Virgin
painted on it, they flung away their bows and arrows, came running
toward the banner with gestures of reverence and delight, and threw
their beads and other ornaments on the ground before it, as at the
feet of a suddenly recognized queen.
The San Gabriel Indians seem to have been a superior race. They spoke
a soft, musical language, now nearly lost. Their name for God
signified "Giver of Life." They had no belief in a devil or in hell,
and persisted always in regarding them as concerning only white men.
Robbery was unknown among them, murder was punished by death, and
marriage between those near of kin was not allowed. They had names for
the points of the compass, and knew the North Star, calling it Runi.
They had games at which they decked themselves with flower garlands,
which wreathed their heads and hung down to their feet. They had
certain usages of politeness, such as that a child, bringing water to
an elder, must not taste it on the way; and that to pass between two
who were speaking was an offence. They had song contests, often
lasting many days, and sometimes handed down to the next generation.
To a people of such customs as these, the symbols, shows, and
ceremonies of the Catholic Church must needs have seemed especially
beautiful and winning.
The records of the founding of these missions are similar in details,
but are full of interest to one in sympathy either with their
spiritual or their historical significance. The routine was the same
in all cases. A cross was set up; a booth of branches was built; the
ground and the booth were consecrated by holy water, and christened by
the name of a saint; a mass was performed; the neighboring Indians, if
there were any, were roused and summoned by the ringing of bells swung
on limbs of trees; presents of cloth and trinkets were given them to
inspire them with trust, and thus a mission was founded. Two monks
(never, at first, more) were appointed to take charge of this cross
and booth, and to win, baptize, convert, and teach all the Indians to
be reached in the region. They had for guard and help a few soldiers,
and sometimes a few already partly civilized and Christianized
Indians; several head of cattle, some tools and seeds, and holy
vessels for the church service, completed their store of weapons,
spiritual and secular, offensive and defensive, with which to conquer
the wilderness and its savages. There needs no work of the imagination
to help this picture. Taken in its sternest realism, it is vivid and
thrilling; contrasting the wretched poverty of these single-handed
beginnings with the final splendor and riches attained, the result
seems wellnigh miraculous.
From the rough booth of boughs and reeds of 1770 to the pillars,
arched corridors, and domes of the stately stone churches of a
half-century later, is a change only a degree less wonderful than the
change in the Indian, from the naked savage with his one stone tool,
grinding acorn-meal in a rock bowl, to the industrious tiller of soil,
weaver of cloth, worker in metals, and singer of sacred hymns. The
steps of this change were slow at first. In 1772, at the end of five
years' work, five missions had been founded, and four hundred and
ninety-one Indians baptized. There were then, in these five missions,
but nineteen friars and sixty soldiers. In 1786, La Perouse, a French
naval commander, who voyaged along the California coast, leaves it on
record that there were but two hundred and eighty-two soldiers, and
about one hundred officers and friars, all told, in both Upper and
Lower California, from Cape Saint Lucas to San Francisco, a line of
eight hundred leagues. At this time there were five thousand one
hundred and forty-three Indians, in the missions of Upper California
alone. In the year 1800 there were, at the mission of San Diego,
fifteen hundred and twenty-one Indians; and the San Diego garrison,
three miles away from the mission, numbered only one hundred and
sixty-seven souls,--officers, soldiers, servants, women, and children.
Such figures as these seem sufficient refutation of the idea sometimes
advanced, that the Indians were converted by force and held in
subjection by terror. There is still preserved, in the archives of the
Franciscan College at Santa Barbara, a letter written by Father
Junipero to the Viceroy of Mexico, in 1776, imploring him to send a
force of eighty soldiers to be divided among seven missions. He
patiently explains that the friars, stationed by twos, at new
missions, from sixty to a hundred miles distant from each other,
cannot be expected to feel safe without a reasonable military
protection; and he asks pertinently what defence could be made, "in
case the enemy should tempt the Gentiles to attack us." That there was
so little active hostility on the part of the savage tribes, that they
looked so kindly as they did to the ways and restraints of the new
life, is the strongest possible proof that the methods of the friars
in dealing with them must have been both wise and humane.