“Ah! that was a beautiful mission sixty years ago,” the old man said, in
a tone of sad retrospect.
“Tell me about it,” I said. “In those days, sixty years ago, the mission
must have been perfect, with no ruins to mar its beauty. And were there
not many neophytes at that time?” I added.
“Senor, San Luis Rey was the largest mission in California. So much
larger than this place, although Pala had many more Indians in those
days, before the padres were driven away, that it seemed to me like a
city. There were more than two thousand Indians, and all worked busily
from morning until night, the men plowing and planting in the fields, or
making adobes for building houses, and the women weaving and sewing and
cooking. Every one had something to do, and knew it must be done, and
all were willing and glad to do it; for we all dearly loved the padre,
he was so good, and it was a happiness to do what he demanded of us.”
“You speak of Padre Peyri, do you not?” I asked.
“Si, Senor. Padre Peyri was the head of the mission, and no one could
do anything unless he had the padre’s consent. There was almost always
a second padre there, but this second padre never stayed long, and when
one went away, another would come in his place; but Padre Peyri was
there all the time, and never left the mission until he went back to
Mexico.”
“And what,” I asked, “did you do in those days, before you were large
enough for a man’s work?”
“I worked with the children, for the children had their own work to do
just the same as the grown people. We had to go to school at the mission
every day, to learn to speak Spanish, and to say the doctrina cristiana,
to read and write; but not all the children could get so far as to
write, for it was hard for them to learn, and only the brightest ones
were ever able to write more than their names. But it was not so hard
for me, for I wished to learn, and the padres liked to teach me. Then,
after school, we had other work--to fetch wood for the fires; to drive
the cows to the fields; to feed and water the horses at the mission, and
all such things that boys can do. There were a hundred boys or more in
the country around, and many of them seldom came to the mission except
for school and Sunday mass; but there were always enough, and more than
enough, to do all the work, and they had plenty of time for play. But
my work was different from that of the other boys. I was one of the two
boys who waited on the padres at meal times, swept the mission rooms
and walks, and were ready to do any errands the padres wished. Then, for
three years, I was one of the altar boys, until I could play well enough
to go into the choir. And that is what I liked better than anything
else--to play on my violin. I began to learn when I was twelve
years old. I used to listen to the boys of the choir, when they were
practicing their mass music, and again on Sundays in the church, and
wish I, too, could learn to make that beautiful music. Many times I
implored the padre to let me learn, and he would say: ‘After a little,
my son, when you are old enough; it is a difficult instrument to learn.’
I knew he was right, but did not like to wait. At last, however, he told
me I was to begin, and the very next day gave me a violin, and sent me
to the choir teacher. It was a happy day for me.”
“Tell me something about Padre Peyri,” I asked.
“Senor, I could talk all day long about that good man. He was so kind
and gentle to all, that no one but would have been willing to die for
him, if he had asked such a thing. He was not a large man, but was as
strong as many of the Indians, and he worked as hard as any one of us. I
have heard my mother tell how he helped with his own hands to build the
church and the other houses of the mission, and worked all day, so long
as it was light, hardly stopping to take time to eat. She said he seemed
to think of nothing but to get all the buildings finished, and was
unhappy until that was done. She saw him on the day he first came from
Mission San Diego with a few workmen and soldiers to start the mission.
It was in the afternoon, and the padre and his men passed the time till
nightfall in making a few huts for themselves like those of the Indians.
The next morning, before he would permit anything else to be done, he
made an altar of earth, which he covered all over with the green growing
grass, and there offered up a sacrifice to his God. He had with him some
children he had brought from San Diego, and after the mass he baptized
them. My mother and some of the Indians had been to San Diego, to the
mission there, and were not afraid, but nearly all the Indians did not
dare come near.
“As soon as the mass was ended, the padre marked out on the ground the
lines for the mission buildings, and the men went to work making
adobes. After a few days, the Indians began to lose their fear of the
cristianos, and it was not long before they were helping in all the work
to be done. The padre paid them every day for what they did; he would
give them clothes or something to eat, and they were very glad to work
for him; and it was only a short time when a great crowd was busy on the
buildings. My mother told me all this, Senor, for that was long before
I was born,--more than fifteen years. She was a young girl then. My
mother told the Indians how good the padres were to them at San Diego,
and did all she could to bring them to work for the mission. I was
her first child, and, at her wish, the padre named me after
himself--Antonio. But all the mission buildings were finished in a few
years, and they, have never been changed except by falling into ruins.
I have not been to San Luis Rey for a long, long time, for I cannot bear
to go there and see the poor old buildings tumbling to the ground--at
least that is what they were doing until Padre O’Keefe came from Santa
Barbara to live there and take charge of the mission. I am glad it is
in his care; but he cannot bring back the old days, for the Indians are
nearly all gone now.
“But the Senor wishes to hear about the padre. I think Padre Peyri was
nearly fifty years old when I was born, and he had been at the mission
all the time since he started it, about fifteen years before. How he
did love his mission, and how proud he was of it! And he was right to
be proud, for it was the finest mission in the country, and the largest
also. Every one who came there praised the padre for the wonders he had
done; and that made him very happy. After his day’s work was over,
he liked to walk about in the neighborhood, looking at, and seeing,
everything--the ground, the trees and the sky, listening to the singing
of the birds, and watching the sun sink out of sight in the west; but
above all else, gazing at the mission, at the beautiful big church, and
the building and arches around the patio. Sometimes when I came to him
at his bidding, I would see him smiling to himself, as though he was
happy to have been able to raise up such a good work to his Lord.
“But alas! Senor, those happy times could not last always. I do not
understand very well the trouble that was between the missions and the
Governor--it has always been too much for my poor head--but I suppose
the Senor knows all about it. The Governor wished the Indians to be
taken away from the missions, and live in pueblos of their own; but the
Indians did not like it, nor the padres either; and it made trouble for
many years. I was too young to think much about it, but I used to hear
the Indians talking among themselves of what they heard from time to
time. I asked my father why the Governor could take the Indians away
from the missions. He told me it was the wish of Mexico that we should
not live in the missions any longer, but have our own land, and work for
money. ‘But must we leave our padre here, and not see him any more?’ I
asked my father.
“‘We may have to go away from here,’ he answered, ‘but the padre would
be our padre still, and we should see him at mass and at other times;
but it would not be as it is now.’”
“‘I will never leave here,’ I said to him, ‘as long as the padre stays;
I do not want to go off to work for myself.’”
“But the change, Senor, was long in coming, and before it did come,
there was another and a greater change at the mission. Well do I
remember the day when first I knew, without a doubt, that our old life
was at an end. It was a dark and stormy Saturday in early winter. Just
before nightfall, a traveler arrived at the mission from the north.
Alone and riding slowly a tired horse, which looked as if it had been
driven long and hard, he approached, gazing around at the church and all
the buildings within sight. I was driving one of the cows home from
the pasture to provide milk for the padre’s supper, and saw him as he
reached the mission. As soon as I came up to him, he asked me:”
“‘Is the padre here?’”
“‘Si, Senor.’”
“‘Tell him Don Manuel wishes to see him at once,’ he said, in a
commanding tone.”
“Calling one of the boys not far away to look after the cow, and to take
care of the stranger’s horse, I went to the padre’s room and knocked.
After waiting a moment, and getting no reply, I knocked again. Hearing
no sound, I opened the door and went in. The room was empty, but the
door leading into a small side room, from which was an entrance into the
church for the padre’s use, stood open, and I knew he was in the church.
At any other time I would have hesitated, but the traveler had spoken
so sternly that I dared not delay, so went on into the church. There was
the padre kneeling before the altar of our patron saint, San Luis Rey,
his rosary of beautiful gold beads and ivory cross in his hands; but so
still one would have said he himself was a statue. I waited again, in
hopes he would finish his prayer and come away; but the minutes went
by and still he did not move. At last I stepped toward him, stumbling a
little against one of the seats that he might know some one was there.
He heard the sound and, rising slowly, turned and came toward the door
near which I stood. When he saw me he asked what was wanted. I told
him.”
“Is it come at last?’ he said, more to himself than to me, and walked
slowly, with bowed head, out of the church. I followed, closing the
door of the church and of the little side room, and saw once more
the traveler, as he rose from his knees, after receiving the padre’s
blessing. A moment later he followed the padre into his room.”
“I did not see them again until supper time, when I had to wait at
table. They had been some minutes at supper, but were so occupied with
their talk that they had eaten scarcely anything. The stranger was
speaking when I went in.”
“‘But, padre,’ he said, ‘what will become of your charge here, if you
carry out your intention? You know they look up to you as the head and
soul of this great mission, and would be, indeed, as sheep without their
shepherd, if you--’”
“‘My son,’ interrupted the padre, with a look toward me, ‘we will speak
of that another time.’”
“Nothing more was said until after I had left them. I had seen the look
the padre sent in my direction. Had not it been at a time when every one
was fearing a change of some kind at the mission, I should have thought
nothing of it; but at the time, I knew we might expect something to
occur almost any day; so that when he interrupted the stranger, it was
only after enough had been said to fill me with fear. I knew, from what
he said about the sheep being without a shepherd, that we might, in
some way, lose our padre. As soon as I was free I hastened out to find
Miguel, the boy who had taken the stranger’s horse. He had gone to his
house, a little way from the church.”
“‘Miguel,’ I asked, ‘do you know who is this visitor, Don Manuel, and
why he is come?’”
“‘He came from Los Angeles, on important business with the padre,’
Miguel replied.”
“‘How do you know he is from Los Angeles, and that his business is
important?’”
“‘Because, while you were seeking the padre, Don Manuel was so impatient
at your delay that he could not stand still, and kept striding up and
down the length of the arcade, muttering to himself. Once I caught the
words that if the padre but knew the importance of his business, he
would make great haste. When I led away his horse, he told me to take
good care of it, for it must carry him as far on his way tomorrow as it
had to-day from Los Angeles.’”
“‘And what is this important business?’”
“‘Quien sabe!’ answered Miguel, with a shrug of his shoulders.”
“This was very little to be sure, and it served only to increase my fear
that all was not right.”
“But I heard nothing further that night.”
“The next day was the Sabbath. Nothing occurred before mass; breakfast
was eaten by the stranger, alone in the padres’ dining-room, and the
padre was not seen by any one until the hour for mass. The other padre
was here at Pala to take the place of the fraile who was sick. The
beautiful church was crowded, every neophyte casting a glance now and
then at Don Manuel, who was seated in front, watching the door by which
the padre was to enter. But it was not until all had begun to wonder
what was the reason for his delay, and to grow uneasy and whisper softly
to each other, looking at the stranger as though they connected him with
some trouble about to befall the mission and their padre. For in those
days very little was necessary to stir up fears of a change all knew
might come suddenly at any time. At last the door opened, and the padre
came slowly into the church. He was pale, and looked sad and troubled,
but went through the service in his usual manner. But when he came to
the sermon, it seemed as if he could not go on. He did not take a text
from which to preach, but began at once to talk to us in his earnest,
gentle voice, saying we must look to God as our father, as one who loved
us and would guide us in all this life. Padre Peyri did not preach to us
like the fathers at other missions: he seldom said anything about hell
and the punishments waiting for us if we were wicked, but talked to us
and preached about the love of God and His Son Jesus Christ, and our
duty to them, not from fear of future punishment, but because we owed it
to them, as we owed our earthly parents love and respect. This morning
he was more than ever solemn, and before the close of his short talk,
many of his listeners had tears in their eyes. More than once he had to
stop for a moment, to regain control of his voice which, all through his
talk, trembled and sometimes was hardly above a whisper. As soon as
the service was ended, he left the church, followed quickly by the
stranger.”
“I hastened from the choir and church to the padre’s room to be ready at
hand in case he should want anything. He was not there, but I found him
in the patio, talking earnestly with Don Manuel, as they walked up and
down the cloister. As soon as he saw me, he told me to give orders to
have the visitor’s horse ready for him immediately after dinner. I
did so, and on coming back from the large dining-room, where I told my
errand to one of the mozos, found the padre and Don Manuel just sitting
down to their own dinner. The padre ate little; but there was nothing
else to make me think that anything was wrong, and had not it been for
the night before, and the morning’s mass, I should have thought nothing
of it. But now every little thing was large and important in my eyes;
and although nothing was said but what might have been said by any
visitor at any time, I grew more and more heavy-hearted. After they had
finished eating, which they did very quickly, the stranger prepared
to leave. Gathering up his sombrero and zarape, and receiving a small
package, which looked like a bundle of letters, from the padre, he
strode out to his horse, already waiting for him in front of the
building, the padre close behind him.”
“I took my place by the horse, and pretended to be looking at the
saddle, to see that everything was right, while I tried to hear what the
padre and Don Manuel were saying; but they spoke too low for me to make
out more than a word now and then. I heard Don Manuel say ‘San Diego;’
‘the Pocahontas, a small ship but;’ ‘Spain,’ and a few other words of no
significance. Padre Peyri said hardly a word, but stood with bowed head,
and eyes cast on the ground. At last Don Manuel knelt to receive the
padre’s blessing, and with a last low sentence, and an ‘adios,’ spoken
aloud, as he sprang to his horse, he dashed off down the hill until he
came to the mission road which runs from San Diego into the far north.
The padre watched him turn his horse’s head toward the south, and
disappear behind a hill; a few minutes later he came into sight again as
he ascended another hill until at last he stood on the top. With a long
look at the rider hurrying away in the distance, the padre turned and,
without a word to me, went into the house and shut himself in his room.”
“Senor, that was the last time I saw him at the mission. Padre Asnzar,
who had been at Pala that day, returned to the mission in the afternoon,
and I saw him at supper, but Padre Peyri did not come out of his room
the rest of the day. Late that night I wandered around the church, so
sad and full of fear of what I knew was coming, that I could not sleep.
There was a light in the church, and I was sure the padre was in there,
but, of course, I could not go in to see, and speak to him. After a
little while the light disappeared, and I went back to my bed.”
“Although I now felt certain I knew what the padre was going to do, from
what I had heard and seen, yet I knew nothing of the time, and did not
dream it was so near. But early the next morning I knew all. I was on my
way to the padre’s house, when I met Miguel coming toward me on the run.
As soon as he came near he cried to me:”
“‘Antonio, el padre se ha ido (the padre is gone)! His horse is not
here, nor his saddle.’”
“My heart stood still. So all that I had feared the day before was come
true, and our beloved padre had left us. But how suddenly it had taken
place! I thought of ‘San Diego’ and ‘the small ship Pocahontas,’ and
knew all. I had not seen Miguel since my talk with him two nights
before, and he knew nothing of what had occurred. I now told him
everything.”
“‘Dios mio! Our padre gone away, not to come back? Oh, why did he
go? Why did not he stay with us? What shall we do without him?’ he
exclaimed.”
“While Miguel was crying in this manner, I was like one stunned, and
knew not what to do. Suddenly a thought came to me.”
“Miguel, let us follow him, and, if we can, persuade him to come back.
I know he did not go willingly, but was driven to it by the Governor and
his people; for you know he has often said that here was his home, and
here he intended to stay, until his death.’”
“‘But, Antonio, what can we two do? He would not listen to us, and,
besides, he must be too far ahead now to be overtaken. And the ship may
have left before we get to San Diego. You did not hear when it was to
sail?’”
“‘No, but we can come up with him, I am sure, before he reaches San
Diego, if we waste no time. Come, I am going to tell my father, and get
my horse, and be off.’ And I started on the run for my father’s house,
which was not far from the church. I found him just leaving for his
work, and told him, in a few words, what had happened. He was not so
surprised as I thought he would be, for he was an old man, and knew more
of all that was taking place in the country, than was possible for me, a
mere boy.”
“‘Go, Antonio,’ he said. ‘I shall follow you;’ and he turned away into
the house.”
“I waited not to see what he would do, but darted away, and, catching my
horse, was off as hard as I could ride. Before I had gone many rods, I
heard a horse’s gallop behind me, and, looking back, saw Miguel at full
speed. I stopped to permit him to come up with me, and then, without a
word, we went on together.”
“There are nearly ten leagues between San Luis Rey and San Diego,
Senor; and as we were determined to reach there by noon, we said very
little during the whole ride, but urged our horses to their utmost.
After going a few miles, we came to the shore, and went along by the
ocean, sometimes on the beach itself, sometimes on the mesa above. But
swiftly as we went, the sun was still quicker, and it was nearly noon
when we came in sight of San Diego. We hastened on, past houses, the
presidio, and down to the edge of the water, taking no notice of the
men, women and children, who gazed wonderingly after us. Out in the bay,
not far from the shore, lay a ship with sails spread, ready to start
with the first puff of wind, which began faintly to blow as we reached
the water. On the deck there were many people, passengers and sailors,
and among them we saw our padre, a little apart from the others, and
gazing toward the land he was leaving. By his side stood Don Manuel, who
had been at the mission the day before, and with them were two of the
mission Indians. I envied them, Senor, and wished I could have been
there also, for my heart was breaking at the thought of losing my
beloved padre. At first he did not notice us, but when, with a cry, we
called to him, he started as he saw us standing on the beach, with our
arms held out to him. Just at that instant, we heard a distant sound of
horses coming hard and fast over the ground toward us. Looking around,
we saw a sight that made us thrill: a great throng of men, each one
urging on with whip and spur the horse he was riding. We did not at once
know what it meant, but, in a second or two, understood. It was a band
of Indians from our mission. Madly they dashed down to the shore, sprang
from their horses, and fell on their knees--some on the beach, some
half in the water, so great was the crowd--imploring, with heartbreaking
cries, our padre to have pity on them and not leave them. There were
nearly five hundred men, and their lamentations were terrible to hear.”
“But the sails had filled with the freshening breeze, and the ship was
fast getting under way. The padre gazed at us all, long and sorrowfully,
and, with arms raised up to Heaven, in a faltering voice, which we could
scarcely hear from the increasing distance, called down the blessing of
God on us. With groans and cries we watched the ship sail away, and as
it faded into the distance, we saw our beloved padre kneeling on the
deck in prayer.”
“Senor, there is no more to tell. We waited there on the beach until
the ship had disappeared; then slowly, one by one, found each our horse,
and set out for the mission. All night we rode, not caring how or when
we should get there. When we reached the mission, we found the women and
children gathered together, waiting for us. As soon as they saw us they
burst out weeping and lamenting, for, by our manner, they knew our padre
was gone. Silently we turned loose our horses, and went back to our old
life and work, but with sorrow in our hearts. That is all, Senor.”
I had listened to the old man with great and constantly increasing
interest, and long before he had finished, found myself with brush held
idly in my hand. He had told his story with simple earnestness, crossed,
now and then, with deep emotion, as his love for the Franciscan father,
and sorrow at his loss, came to the surface. After an interval of
silence, I asked him if he had ever heard of the padre since that day.
“Only two or three times,” he answered. “A few months afterward we had
news of him from Mexico; he was then about to return to Spain. Two years
after we heard he was at his old home and, a little later, that he was
gone to Rome. Some one told us he lived there till his death, but we
never knew positively.”
Padre Peyri is one of the most picturesque figures in California’s
mission history: the zeal he showed in calling his mission into
existence; the intensity of enthusiasm with which he labored for it; his
long career of usefulness; the love the neophytes had for him; his
agony at the ruthless destruction of the missions--too great for him
to endure, old and feeble as he then was growing; and his dramatic
departure, hastening away under cover of the night, to escape the
importunities of his devoted flock: all this had been pictured with keen
clearness in the old Indian’s simple tale.
I thanked him for his story as he rose to go. Wishing me “adios” with
grave politeness, he walked slowly away, and left me to dream of the old
mission times, full of color and romance, which have given so much to
the present day, until the sun sinking behind the hills in the west
recalled me to myself and my surroundings.
I fear I shall never again see Pala; but I shall not forget its charm
and beauty, the quaint old campanario and near-by buildings, and, above
all, Antonio, the Indian, and his tale of mission life in the old days.