“Therefore I went to Father Uria and told him your story. He was very
kind, and bade me write to you that you might trust him to find you
something to do if you should decide to come here. Have no fear; there
are not enough men at San Buenaventura to prevent a single man from
having all the work he may wish. Make haste and come. Do not delay.
Diego.” The reader finished the letter, and there was a silence of some
minutes between the two, reader and listener. The former, a young man,
not much more than twenty-five years of age, had a moody expression on
his dark face. After reading the letter he waited for his companion to
speak. But Maria, his wife, appeared not to notice this and remained
silent. The two were sitting on the porch of a little adobe house on the
outskirts of the presidio town of Tubac, Mexico, a few, miles from the
coast of the Gulf of California. This had been the home of Benito’s
parents, and since their death three years before, that of himself and
his wife. For a time they had been happy in their hard-working life, for
love lightened their toil; but toward the close of the second year in
their home they had suffered a series of reverses that sadly crippled
Benito’s resources. First there had been a season of such heat and
drought that all their labor in the dozen acres which Benito cultivated
came to naught, and they gathered hardly more than enough to keep them
from starving before the next year’s harvest. Then one of Benito’s
horses, of which he had three, and fine ones they were, had been taken
sick and died just at the time when it was most needed, during the early
summer plowing--both Benito’s and his neighbors’; for after the work on
his own land was done, Benito worked for others, thus adding something
toward their income. The death of his horse was a severe blow to him,
not only because he loved his horses, but because his income was greatly
curtailed in consequence. With three horses Benito could use a pair
every day, and yet allow each horse to rest one day out of three; but
with two, it could be done only by losing a day’s work out of every
three; and this was the plan Benito had followed, for he could not
bring himself to use his good steeds every day. This had occurred in the
spring following the poor harvest.
Some weeks later, about six months before our story opens, another
disaster befell these two unfortunate ones. One night, Benito and Maria
had been awakened by a terrible uproar in their chicken house. Benito
rushed out to find it in flames. Some traveler passing, after smoking
a cigarette, had, most likely, carelessly thrown the burning stub among
the inflammable boards and loose stuff of the enclosure. Benito did what
he could to rescue the hens and chickens, but of all of his flock, he
saved a mere score. This last calamity was almost more than Maria could
bear. The hens had been her especial care. She had, under her skillful
tending, seen the flock increase from the small nucleus of a dozen,
which Benito had bought and given her on her coming to his home, a few
days after they were married, to over one hundred. These hens had been
the source of no small profit, and by their means Benito was able to put
aside a little nest egg each year. And now they must begin again! It was
hard, and both felt there was no relief for them. The little they had
saved during the first few years had to be used for the summer sowing,
and for food until they could gather a harvest. Here, again, Benito
found there would not be more than sufficient for their wants, and that,
when the next sowing time came, they would be in a worse condition than
at present for continuing the struggle for existence. Altogether Benito
and Maria were on the edge of despair.
Shortly after the death of Benito’s parents, his elder brother had made
one of a band of artisans, laborers and soldiers, in company with two
Franciscan priests, to the province of Nueva California. Diego, who was
of a roving disposition, had wandered off to the south, working at his
trade of carpentry as the mood seized him, or the state of his pocket
forced him, now here, now there, until finally he found himself in
the coast town of San Blas. This was the point from which many of the
expeditions to the northern province set sail; and the busy preparations
for departure, which Diego witnessed, fired his desire to join a company
about to leave for the remote, half-mythical region in the north. This
he did, and, some weeks later, landed at Monterey, whence, in the course
of the next year, he worked his way south until he reached Mission San
Buenaventura. Here he settled down permanently, having grown tired of
his aimless life, and became an active and useful man to the Father.
Communication between the two countries in those days was infrequent,
and Benito had heard his brother was settled at San Buenaventura only
after he had been there nearly a year. Diego described, in glowing
terms, the advantages of the province--the fine climate, exceeding
fertility of the soil, land to be had for the asking, where everything
necessary and desired could be grown, and his own content, far away,
though he was, from his old home. This letter had reached Benito when
he was at the lowest ebb of his fortunes. The glowing language of his
brother’s description of Nueva California awakened an intense longing
in his heart to go there and make a new beginning, under more favorable
influences. He said nothing to Maria, but wrote a letter to Diego,
telling of his troubles, and asking if there were room for himself and
wife in that new land. This he sent off by a friend to San Blas, where
it was given over to a priest who, in turn, was to deliver it into the
charge of the next expedition to be sent out. Benito had written nearly
six months before, and had about given up looking for an answer, when a
neighbor, returning home from the town, handed him a letter as he passed
by. His brother gave him encouraging news and advised him to come,
ending with the words quoted above. After reading it, Benito hastened
to find Maria, and with her by his side on the little porch he read it
again to her.
At last Maria broke the silence:
“Benito, I am glad you wrote to Diego, and I feel sure the best thing
for us to do is to go. How can we keep on in the way we have been doing
the last two years? I am tired and disheartened, and I know you are
too; but there, in the new land, we could make another start with better
courage. Let us go.” Maria looked up at Benito, smiling brightly, but
with tears in her eyes.
Benito lost no time in carrying out his plan, and at the end of a few
weeks he had sold his house and land, and all his furniture and farming
tools, reserving only his horses. These, with a few clothes, and two
hundred dollars in gold in his pocket, made up the entire wealth of this
poor couple. As Benito wished to keep his horses, he decided to go to
the new country overland by way of the Colorado River, and across the
desert to Mission San Gabriel. This had been the regular route of the
land expeditions of the early days of mission history, and was still
used, although less frequently. Benito and Maria had not long to wait
when a company was formed to start out on the long journey of seven
hundred miles to Mission San Buenaventura.
At the time of the setting out of our friends in the year 1830,
traveling overland from Mexico to California was an easy thing, compared
to the hardship and dangers of fifty years earlier. Then, the way,
through the desert around the mouth of the Colorado River, was beset by
the fierce and powerful Yuma Indians, and unless the band of travelers
were large and well armed, it would suffer severely at their hands. But
the Yumas had become subdued with time, and traveling made safe. The
company with which Benito and Maria journeyed had no mishap, and after
four weeks passed on the way, they arrived, one evening late in October,
at Mission San Buenaventura, just as the bells of the mission church
were pealing out their evening burden.
What a charming place Mission San Buenaventura was in those days!
Situated on the coast, it stood not a half-mile from the water, which
it faced, while behind, and close to it, was a line of hills running off
into the distance until they disappeared on the horizon. At the time
of year our pilgrims first saw it, there was little remaining of the
verdant freshness of spring and early summer. But if Nature refuses to
permit southern California to wear her mantle of green later than May
or June, she has bestowed on her a wealth of warm yellow, red and
brown, which, to some, is even more pleasing. The bare ground takes on a
vividness of glowing color that is almost incredible, while the hills in
the distance run through another gamut of color--from yellow through
all the shades of orange to an almost pure pink, with pale blue shadows,
changing at sunset to intensest purple. Color is rife in California.
The mission consisted of a large white adobe church, a long line of
buildings adjoining in which lived the padre and the Mexicans, and
a number of little houses and cabins, some of adobe, but the greater
number of straw and rushes, which sheltered the Indians. These little
huts were scattered around irregularly on all sides; and to them the
inmates were wending their way from their daily toil in the fields and
among the horses and cattle, and from all the occupations of a pastoral
life. Nothing more beautiful could well be imagined than the picture the
mission made in the rosy light of sunset--crowds of savages, children of
nature gathered together to receive the rich blessings bestowed on them
by the fathers, deriving their authority from the Church whose symbol,
the great white building, towering above all else of man’s work, stood
like a sentinel guarding the religious life of the mission.
Father Uria had been pacing to and fro in front of the mission for more
than an hour, waiting impatiently for the expedition from Mexico, which
had been expected two days before, its regular time of arrival. It was
not at all unusual for these bands to be delayed three or four days, and
that without meeting with any accident on the way; but news from home
was infrequent to a degree that made an expedition to the province
awaited with almost unreasonable impatience. Mail, as well as everything
else, came usually by sea; but to send letters by the desert route was
by no means rare.
Father Uria was known to all his fraternity in the country for his
eccentricity. He was a small, rather stout man, about sixty years of
age, every one of which had left its mark upon him; for his had been a
life of toil surpassed by but few, even among those self-denying workers
in the Lord’s vineyard. But the hardships of his life had not quenched
his jovial spirits, which were, indeed, irrepressible. A laughing
greeting for every one he met, Mexican or Indian, was his habit, one
that might have begotten a measure of contempt in the beholder, had the
Father not possessed a sternness, latent for the most part, it is
true, but which could, on occasion, be evoked to prop up the apparently
tottering respect due him. Father Uria was fond, too, of company,
not only for its own sake, but because it gave him an excuse for the
pleasures of the table, and, in especial, for enjoying the delights of
the wine made at Mission San Gabriel, and which was in demand by all the
missions. This was a weakness seldom indulged in, for the Father cared
not for imbibing this delectable liquid unless assisted by pleasant
company; and occasions when this could be had were rare. Let not the
reader infer from this that our respected fraile was guilty of drinking
more than was good or seemly for him. There had been a whisper one time,
going the rounds of the missions, that he had been uproariously drunk
on some occasion in the past; one slanderous tongue said the priest had
been reprimanded by President Sanchez, but we do not believe a word of
this. And who would grudge him all the pleasure he might get from the
good San Gabriel wine? Think of the poor padre, expatriated for the rest
of his days, and in a land that wanted much to make life seem worth the
living! Our hearts go out to the Father, as to all the other good men
who had done likewise, in deepest sympathy.
It is not our intention to enumerate all the peculiarities of
Father Uria. But there was one, before which all the rest sank into
insignificance, and that was his excessive fondness for cats. The love
of cats is more particularly a feminine trait; and this, together with
his strength of mind, marked though it was usually by his geniality,
makes it the more surprising in Father Uria’s case. Yet such was the
fact, and as such was it recognized by all with whom he came in contact;
for in this instance it was “love me love my”--cats! This hobby of the
friar was one he had had from childhood; but gaining man’s estate,
he had kept it in subjection (fearing it was not in accord with the
strictest propriety, especially after taking orders) until he came to
California. Here he had found a life of such loneliness, that, as a
refuge from almost unbearable ennui, he had gone back to his youthful
feline love with more than youthful ardor. When he came to take charge
of the Mission, San Buenaventura, three years before, he had brought
with him, carefully watched over, four immense cats, which had long been
his pets. These he still had, and in their companionship he found his
greatest solace for a life of solitude.
Father Uria continued his walking to and fro, gazing off to the east
along the road which the expedition from Mexico must traverse on its way
to Monterey. Behind him, almost at his heels, trotted one of his pets,
seeming to be perfectly content to follow the footsteps of her master,
and showing unbounded joy, when he stopped for a moment to pet and speak
to her.
“Well! gatita mia, you are the only one to stay with your old master.
Where are the others? Off hunting for gophers, I suppose. But here
are the travelers at last,” and he hurried down the road toward the
approaching train, the cat bounding along at his side, or running off
every few feet, now this way, now that, to chase a butterfly or mosquito
hawk. Once, in her haste to overtake her master, she encountered a
horned toad. With a spring to one side, and a loud “spst!” she passed
it, for this pet of Father Uria was acquainted with these hated objects,
but could never overcome her intense horror of them. We are much afraid
this puss is a sad coward.
The Father reached the band of travelers, and he received from the
commander the packet of letters destined for the mission. Then, with
a few words of welcome to all, he bade them follow him to the mission,
where they would find refreshment and shelter for the night. On the way,
singling out Benito and Maria (the former from his resemblance to Diego)
Father Uria questioned them as to their journey, and plans for their
future home at his mission. Benito related his story, and hopes of
finding some occupation.
“Diego tells me you are skilled in gardening,” said the Father. “Would
you like to take charge of my garden and orchard? My gardener is growing
too old for work, and I have long had thoughts of retiring him. I have
waited only to find some one to take his place, and when Diego told me
of you, I thought you might be the one I want. What say you?”
“I thank you heartily, my Father,” replied Benito. “I should, indeed, be
happy and proud to do that, if I can prove worthy.”
They reached the mission, and there Benito found Diego waiting to
welcome him. After bidding Benito to come and see him in the morning, as
Diego led them away to his own little home, the Father went in, his cat
following. Leaving her in the house, the Father passed on to the church,
where he performed the usual short evening service of the rosario, after
which he returned to his habitation. No sooner was he in the house, than
he was fairly bombarded by a small army of cats, or so it seemed;
for although there were only four, including the one with whom we are
already acquainted, one might have thought, from the noise and confusion
they made, trying to get at their dear master, that there were a dozen
at least.
“Now, my cats, you really must behave yourselves a little better than
this,” said the Father, with a tone of sternness, which, however, had
not the slightest effect, since he began at once to pet them, first one
and then another, as they crowded around him. “I know you are hungry,
but that is no excuse for making such a disturbance. Come, we shall have
supper,” and with these words he went into his dining-room, the cats
trooping after him.
Father Uria always had his table set with as much variety and luxury as
his meagre salary, and the resources of the mission, allowed. He was
not a hearty eater, nor, as we have said, did he drink largely of wine,
unless he had the support of congenial company, but he insisted on
variety. His vegetable garden was his pride, and the object of extremist
solicitude. In it he had, in flourishing condition, every sort of
edible, including, as well, the fruits especially adapted to that
climate. As he was seldom favored with guests, he had made it a custom
to have his pet cats bear him company at his meals; and he had trained
them so well that they were, in general, as perfectly behaved, in their
limited capacity, as the best mannered human being; only occasionally,
when hunger gained the upper hand, did they break the bounds of
cat-decorum. They had their places opposite the Father, in two chairs,
two cats, side by side, in each chair; and there they would sit, looking
with meek but hungry eyes, first at the Father, then at the meat and
cream destined for their repast.
But it is time these cats were introduced to the reader, for such
intimate and (if we may be permitted to use the word) personal friends
of the priest should have a regular introduction. Let us begin then,
with the first, and, as it happens, the oldest and most sedate one. His
name is San Francisco, a solemn-looking beast, large and handsome; he
is a maltese, and is admired by all who have seen him. The cat sitting
quietly by his side in the same chair is Santa Barbara, a maltese like
her companion, but younger and not so handsome, only because not so
large. Next comes, in the second chair, the cat whose acquaintance we
have already made, Santa Clara, the Father’s usual companion at all
times, for she has less roving blood in her veins, and prefers remaining
with her master to hunting and other feline diversions. She, too, is
maltese, but has white paws, the only deviation from pure blood that any
of the four cats show. The last, the youngest and smallest cat (although
she can boast of five years of age, and, in any company but the present,
would be considered a fine large animal), is Santa Inez, the daughter
of Santa Barbara. She is the one to get into all the mischief of which
cats are capable; to run away and lead every one a lively chase until
she is found, for the Father (let us whisper it under our breath) would
feel nearly as much sorrow at the loss of one of his cats, as he would
at losing the soul of one of his neophytes.
We fear much that our reader will be ready to set Father Uria down as a
mere fool, or a half-crazy old man, and to sneer at him and his precious
cats. But are not we all crazy on some subject; has not each one of us
some hobby or idiosyncrasy which makes us appear more or less demented
to our neighbors? And just because the twist in our poor Father’s mind
takes the particular form of a love for cats: why should we, how dare
we, say he is crazy? No, he was no more crazy than are we; and perhaps
his beautiful cats kept him from becoming so, in very sooth, forced
to live in the wilderness, if we may call it that, deprived of all the
happiness of his native land, and of the friends for whom these cats
make a poor substitute at the best.
But there is one point on which we cannot find excuse for the Father,
that is, in giving his cats the names of some of the most respected
and venerated saints among the Franciscans; going so far, indeed, as
to bestow upon his finest cat the name of Saint Francis himself, the
founder of the order. It is difficult to conceive of such irreverence in
a priest, himself a member of that great order in the Catholic Church;
and it is this, if anything, which would show a weakness of the mind.
But even here, let us say, not as excuse, but in mitigation of his
offense, that only from inadvertence did the Father speak to, or of,
his cats by these names in any one’s hearing; and there were only two or
three people at the mission who knew after what august personages
they were called. Besides, their full title was usually reserved for
occasions of reprimand, and with these well-mannered creatures such
occasions were rare indeed.
“Well,” said the Father, beginning his own supper, after having given
the cats each their portion of meat in a large deep plate, flanked by a
saucer brimming full of sweet cream, “aren’t you pretty cats to go off
and leave me the whole afternoon? Clara was the only one to keep me
company. What is the use in having four cats to amuse me, if you mean to
run off whenever the notion seizes you? I want you cats to be home all
the time. You, San Francisco, should have stayed here with Clara as you
are the largest. I think I shall have to tie you up to-morrow. No, I
believe I’ll punish you now by taking away your supper,” saying which,
the Father reached across the table and removed the plate of meat and
the cream from in front of Francisco, who had just begun to devour
his repast. “Miou! Miou!” said Francisco, piteously, looking after his
supper, which the priest put down on the table near his own. It was too
much: Francisco forgot his manners and with one bound he leaped across
the table, snatched up a piece of meat, and, with a growl of defiance,
began chewing it vigorously. The Father laughed and returned the cat’s
supper. “I am afraid, Francisco, you did not catch much in your hunt
this afternoon, for you appear to be as hungry as usual. So I won’t
punish you by depriving you of your supper. Go back to your place.”
After supper, the Father, accompanied by his friends, made a tour of the
mission to see that everything was safe for the night; then, returning
to his house by the church, he spent the evening reading the letters and
messages brought to him that day, and in studying for an hour or so by
the help of the few theological books his library boasted. Father
Uria was an intelligent and well-educated man, and took delight in
the investigation of the abstruse subjects and doctrines his Church
afforded. He did this from natural inclination, and not from any
practical use to be made of such study in his capacity as head of
the mission. People in Nueva California, in those days, not only the
Indians, but the Mexicans and Spaniards, were of the utmost simplicity
of mind, entirely unable to grasp anything beyond the rudiments of their
faith.
Early the next morning Benito made his appearance. The Father conducted
him out to his garden, and showed him the method he had pursued in
bringing everything to a high state of cultivation. Irrigation was
not absolutely essential, as at many of the other missions; but,
notwithstanding, Father Uria had evolved a miniature system in his
garden by means of a spring in the foot-hills, half a mile away, from
which water was brought in a narrow flume. This had long been in use for
the general needs of the mission; but it was reserved for Father Uria
to apply some of the surplus water to the garden. Father Uria had once
visited the garden at Mission San Gabriel which had been the special
pride and comfort of Father Zalvidea; and it was with complacent
satisfaction that, in comparing it with his own, he saw the latter
suffered no disparagement. His was in fully as flourishing condition,
but the element of picturesque beauty was lacking; his needs for a
garden were entirely utilitarian, while Father Zalvidea required beauty
quite as much as use. The two gardens were typical of the two men. So
Benito was installed as his gardener.
While the Father was showing Benito the garden, and explaining to him
about the plants, the cats which, as usual, had followed him, employed
the time in roaming around among the bushes, searching intently for
anything alive which might make fair game. They scattered in all
directions, one after a humming-bird, another chasing a butterfly; the
third wandered off lazily to a big patch of catnip for a sniff of its
delightful aroma; while the fourth began to career to and fro after a
dragon-fly, in the wildest fashion. The priest and Benito had moved off
to an asparagus bed, to consult about the best treatment to give it,
for the plants were slowly dying, and the Father was in a quandary. The
dragon-fly alighted to rest on his broad-brimmed hat. All unconscious
of its presence, he talked on with Benito, expounding his theory of the
proper treatment for the asparagus, when, suddenly, as he bent over a
plant to look at it more closely, with a blow that almost knocked him
down, his hat went flying from his head, and fell to the ground several
yards away, while at his feet dropped the venturesome Inez. She was up
in an instant, looking for her prey, but it was out of sight.
With an exclamation rather stronger than was quite proper in one of his
cloth, the Father turned to the cat.
“What is the meaning of this business, Inez? Really, you are getting to
be insufferable. I cannot allow you to come out with me if you carry on
in this way.” Benito had run to pick up his hat, and offered it to him,
his eyes dancing with merriment, and the corners of his mouth twitching.
The Father took it, and noting the gleam in his eyes, smiled himself.
“These cats of mine will be the death of me some day, I expect,” he
said, laughing. “Go along, Inez, and remember to show a little more
respect for your master another time.”
These saints of Father Uria were given the run of the entire mission,
and were known to all its inhabitants. Although every one was kind to
them, the cats were dignified and distant toward all but the Father and
Benito, after the latter had lived there a few months. It had gradually
become one of Benito’s duties to keep an eye on them; shut them up when
the Father did not wish them around; and when, as occasionally happened,
they ran away, to search for them. Usually they would return of their
own accord the second day, if not found the night before; but the Father
could not sleep unless he knew his precious animals were housed safely,
and an effort was always made to find the truants before night set in.
From the time Benito and Maria made San Buenaventura their home, Fortune
again turned her face toward them. Benito, with steady employment as the
Father’s gardener and trusted servant, was prosperous and happy; while
Maria once more had her chickens, although the demand for her poultry
and eggs was smaller than she had found in her former home in Mexico.
She seldom missed her old associates, busy as she was, and content with
her simple tasks the whole day long. What a quiet, peaceful life was
that at the California missions in the old days! Perhaps, reader,
you think humdrum would be the more appropriate adjective to use than
peaceful or even quiet. And to one like our Father Uria, thousands of
miles from his early home, cut off from all the pleasures and advantages
of ordinary social intercourse, it was, as we have seen, more, much
more, than humdrum. But for Maria, the life at the mission was not
unlike that they had been accustomed to in their former Mexican home.
California was Mexico in those days, and the life greatly similar.
About two years after Benito’s arrival at San Buenaventura, a dreadful
misfortune befell Father Uria, in the death of his largest and finest
cat--San Francisco. This saint had always manifested a most singular and
inveterate propensity, to hunt tarantulas. More than once he had been
discovered when just on the point of beginning a battle with one of
those monsters, and had been stopped in the nick of time. With almost
constant watchfulness, the Father had succeeded in preserving the life
of his cat for many years; but the reader has already guessed what the
end was to be. After an absence of three whole days, during which the
Father was almost distracted, Benito found the saint dead on the plain,
fully a mile from the mission. On one paw, which was slightly swollen,
a minute wound was discovered, supposed to have been the bite of the
venomous spider, although the Father could not tell positively. Poor
Father Uria was inconsolable, and from that day his health, which had
been deserting him for many months, yet so gradually as to be hardly
perceptible, took a sudden change for the worse, and with the long years
of toil he had lived, soon made great inroads on his strength. Less
than a year after this dire event, he became so feeble that, at his
own request, he was relieved. The last thing he did before leaving San
Buenaventura was to give his three remaining friends into the charge of
Benito, who promised to care for them faithfully, so long as they lived.
Much the Father would have liked to take them with him, but he was
growing too feeble to care for them; and once retired from his position
as head of the mission, he would not have enough power and authority to
be able to treat them as such old and dear friends should be treated. We
shall not attempt to depict the sorrowful parting between the Father and
his cats--it would need the master hand of a Dickens to keep the comic
element in the pathetic scene within due bounds. The Father, poor old
man, felt no further interest in life, broken down in health and obliged
to give up his companions, his only comfort being the thought that his
remaining days were few, and would soon pass.
He removed to Mission Santa Barbara, and there, some months later,
at the close of the year 1834, he died, worn out in the cause of his
Master.
Note.--This story of Father Uria and his oddities is not wholly
fanciful. In an early book on California occurs the following:
“At dinner the fare was sumptuous, and I was much amused at the
eccentricities of the old Padre (Father Uria), who kept constantly
annoying four large cats, his daily companions; or with a long stick
thumped upon the heads of his Indian boys, and seemed delighted thus to
gratify his singular propensities.” Alfred Robinson: Life in California,
New York, 1846, Chap. IV, page 50.