Liberty! Liberty! For a half-century we have done nothing but repeat
this word, and one would say that those mouths which pronounce it belong
to the heads which are ignorant of its meaning, or rather that it has
no meaning; for, if one says: ‘We are free!’ ten others cry out at once:
‘We, we are oppressed!’ Such an one who found, a few years ago, too
great a freedom, to-day demands very much more; and this is, doubtless,
because each one has his own idea of liberty, and it is impossible to
create a liberty for each one.--Liberty to empty the treasury of
the state.--Liberty to seize public position.--Liberty to gather
in sinecures.--Liberty to get one’s self pensioned for imaginary
services.--Liberty to calumniate, abuse, revile the most venerated
things.--Is this to enjoy liberty? No, it is to abuse it, to profane it.
“It is, then, shown that no one is agreed on what is political liberty;
but it is not that about which I wished to write. It is a freedom
composed, I will not say of all men, but of all beings who are in
existence; it is this that nature demands imperiously; it is this, in
truth, that crime compels society to take away from the wrong-doer; but
it is this, also, that injustice and force snatch away from the unhappy
slave.”
Thus wrote Captain Duhaut-Cilly in his journal for the year 1827,
contrasting his ideal of freedom with the actual condition of the
aborigines in California, under the domination, as they were at that
time, of the Catholic Church, through its agent, the order of the
Franciscans.
Just a few words are necessary here as an introduction to the story
of Pomponio, to enable the reader to have a clear impression of the
condition of affairs, political and ecclesiastical, in the province of
Nueva California during the first thirty years of the past century.
When the country was explored and settled by the Franciscans, their
ostensible and, in the earlier days, real, aim was to civilize the
Indians, teaching them to live useful, moral lives, and instructing them
in the doctrines of Christianity. But to do this, force was necessary
to subdue the turbulence of insubordination. Gradually, at last, the
greater number of the natives were forced under the rule of the friars,
who brought them to such subjection as was actual slavery in all but in
name. It is a matter of regret that this was so, yet, though an evil,
it was a necessary one, for to do any measure of good to the Indians,
an oversight in every detail was essential; and, after all, the savages
were treated with almost uniform mildness, and the instances of cruelty
and wickedness practiced toward them, as in this tale of Pomponio, were
most happily very rare. It is a blot on the history of the Franciscans
in California that there was a single instance of anything but kindness
and humanity; but the truth cannot be ignored, however much it grieve us
to know it. Let us turn to Pomponio. His is a strange tale.
Distant about a league south from Mission San Francisco stood a little
Indian hut, made from the tules and rushes which were found growing with
such luxuriance in all parts of Nueva California. It was built in the
form of a cone with a blunt apex, was less than ten feet in diameter,
and but little more than that in height. An opening near the ground gave
communication with the outer air, and a small hole at the top of the
hut allowed the smoke from the fire to pass away. This hut stood in the
centre of a small open spot among the trees of the dense forest which
surrounded it on all sides; small in extent like the many other wooded
spots in the peninsula which terminated at the mission and the presidio
of San Francisco, but sufficiently large to force a stranger to them
to lose his way almost at the first step. But, difficult to find by the
stranger, this little open space was correspondingly safe from pursuit
by any one bent on hostile deeds; and for this reason it had been
selected by Pomponio for a retreat for himself.
Pomponio was a mission Indian, had been connected with the religious
establishment since boyhood, and had made, great progress on the way to
becoming a civilized human being. He had a mind above the low level
of the average Californian Indian intellect, and had been an object of
solicitude to the padres, arousing in them an interest in his mental and
spiritual welfare seldom evoked by the neophytes in general. For years
Pomponio had been contented with the life he led under the tutelage and
control of the fathers, receiving unquestioningly their teaching, and
regarding their ordering and direction of his and his parents’ life and
actions in every particular with indifferent eyes. But when Pomponio
left childhood and youth behind him, and acquired the mind of a man,
Indian though it was, he began to see the state of things in a different
light. “What right have these padres,” he would say to himself, “to come
here from far away, take our land from us, make us work for them, and
order us about as we should women and children taken from our enemies in
war? And what do they give us in return? They teach us the religion
of their God, and make us learn their catechism. Is their religion any,
better than ours their God more powerful than the Great Spirit? What
better is it to till the ground for growing food than to kill the wild
animals with bow and arrow? Why did my father’s father and all the
strong men of those days permit these espanoles to come here? I would
have, withstood them to the last drop of my life’s blood.”
Thus would Pomponio question. The Indians of Nueva California were mild
and gentle, having nothing in common with their neighbors, the warlike
Yumas, and were easily subjected by the early Franciscans. But gentle
and pliant as they were, there were always a few, fiercer than the rest,
who did not brook calmly the sight of their subjection; and these bolder
ones stirred up, from time to time, the other natives to insurrection.
Many were the uprisings at the different missions--one of the earliest
at San Diego, in 1775, when the savages killed one of the padres; one,
the last, and only a few months before the beginning of our tale, late
in 1824, when the two missions, Purezima and Santa Inez, were almost
destroyed. This last uprising had had more to do with Pomponio’s change
of attitude toward the fathers than anything else; and it had fired his
zeal to devote his life to the freeing of his kindred and tribe from the
slavery in which they were held at Mission San Francisco.
Pomponio, simple savage that he was, knew little of human nature; either
Indian or civilized. He judged others by himself, not realizing the
great difference between himself and the generality of the tribe to
which he belonged. He had had many talks with the various men of the
tribe, trying to instill into their minds some of the ferment of his
own; but to his amazement and anger they were too far sunk in their
servitude to be roused by his projects. A few there were, young and
venturesome like himself, who declared themselves ready to follow him
as a leader; and among these were some of the fierce savages of the
forests, with whom he was always in touch; but how could a mere handful
of a score of Indians cope successfully with the men of the mission,
aided, as they would be, by the trained soldiers of the presidio?
Pomponio had sense enough to see that such procedure would be foolhardy,
and he abandoned the plan for the time, hoping his little body of
followers would increase, when the disparity in strength and numbers
between the two sides might be less.
Pomponio was some twenty-three years old. A short time before he had
married an Indian girl, and, with her, lived in a little adobe house,
a few paces from the mission church. Pomponio and Rosa had lived the
regular life of the neophytes, working at various occupations of the
community--Pomponio tilling the ground and caring for the crops, and
helping in the making of bricks for the houses; Rosa spinning and
weaving and cooking. After they were married they continued with their
customary labors, still under the tutelage of the fathers. But about
this time, Father Altimira had begun to notice the alteration in
Pomponio’s demeanor. Wondering at the change in one of his most
promising neophytes, he had sought to find a clue to the mystery. From
an unquestioning readiness in everything pertaining to his mission life,
Pomponio had begun to neglect his duties, shirking the tasks given him,
wandering off among the mountains and stirring up the mission Indians
to a state of dissatisfaction and ill-feeling. Father Altimira had
seen Pomponio’s growing negligence with concern, but to his questioning
Pomponio would give no answer as to the reason for his new attitude
toward his masters. The Father, finding that persuasion was of no avail
in correcting Pomponio’s disobedience, had him locked up in the mission
prison for twenty-four hours, after which he was released with a
reprimand and warning.
Pomponio walked out of the prison and to his house without a word. For
a few days he was quiet and attentive to his work, not from fear of the
consequences of doing otherwise (that is not the Indian nature, even of
those poor natives of Nueva California), but because he was awaiting
his opportunity for inflicting some injury on his persecutors, as he had
come to think of them.
One night Father Altimira, who was a light sleeper, awoke, thinking he
had heard a faint noise in the room adjoining his bed-room, which was
used as a store-room for the books, the rich vestments embroidered with
gold and silver threads, and the money belonging to the mission. At this
time there was, in the strong iron-bound chest used for the safekeeping
of these valuables, a sum of nearly five thousand dollars in gold, and
the Father’s first thought on waking, was of this money. Rising on his
elbow, he listened. Hearing nothing, he was about to lie down, when
again came the sound which had disturbed him, scarcely louder than the
chirp of a far-away cricket, and which, but for the utter silence of
the night, would have been swallowed up in the thick depths of the
adobe wall between the two rooms. Springing out of bed, he threw on his
clothes, and without a thought of danger to himself, hurried out to the
cloisters and the next room. The night was dark, and he could not make
out anything until he reached the window of the room from which came the
noise. The heavy, wooden shutters were slightly ajar, and through the
narrow upright opening between them, filtered the faint light from
a small lantern in the room. With noiseless steps, Father Altimira
approached the window, and looked through the crack between the two
shutters. There, in front of the ironbound box, knelt Pomponio, busily
at work on the stout padlock that guarded the treasures within. With
all the strength of his powerful arms he filed away at the bar of the
padlock. For a moment the Father, forgot his part in the nocturnal
business, and stood, breathless, at the window, fascinated by the quick
motion of the arm back and forth, and the strident sound of the file as
it slowly ate its way through the steel. Suddenly Pomponio paused and
looked up, with an expression of fear and hate on his face, dreadful, to
see. Snatching up the lantern from the floor, he dropped it behind the
great box, and ran to the window. The Father stooped, and crouched close
against the wall under the window--for there had not been time to get
away--and waited, hardly daring to breathe. Pomponio carefully opened
the shutters and peered out, but he could distinguish nothing in the
intense blackness. After listening a moment and hearing no sound, he
closed the shutters and went back to his work. The priest waited until
he again heard the screech of the file before he dared to move. This
action of Pomponio recalled him to himself, and the responsibility
resting on him regarding the safety of the mission funds.
With hasty strides, the Father started off to seek assistance. He
hurried to the other end of the row of buildings, some three hundred
feet distant, where lived the Mexican servants of the mission. At the
house of the carpenter, which was the first he came to, the priest
rapped loudly on the door, and called to the occupant to awaken. Juan,
the carpenter, answered almost at once, and came to the door. Before he
could ejaculate a word of surprise on seeing the Father, the latter had
told him the trouble.
“Arouse, with all haste, the men in the next house, while I go for
Rafael. Be ready when I come back,” and the Father hurried off.
Juan lost no time in awakening the two men in the house near-by.
A moment after, the Father returned with Rafael, the overseer, and
together the five men ran swiftly and silently to the scene of the
disturbance. Nearing the window through which Pomponio had forced an
entrance, the carpenter stepped up to it softly. The Father’s absence
had not been longer than five minutes, and the thief was still hard
at work filing the padlock. Muttering to Rafael to follow him, and the
other two men to guard the window without, Juan noiselessly pushed open
the heavy shutters, and sprang through the window, Rafael close at his
heels.
It was not until both men had passed through the window, so quick were
their movements, that Pomponio became aware he was discovered. Looking
up, he dropped the file, snatched up the lantern and hurled it against
the wall, shivering it into pieces. Just as the light went out the men
seized him. Pomponio fought like a demon, and was fast getting loose
from their clutches, when Juan shouted to the men outside to come to
their aid; but too late. As they clambered through the window, and
sought to lay hold of him, which was not the work of a moment in the
darkness, the neophyte broke from his antagonists and sprang to one
side, avoiding the oncoming couple from the window. While the men were
shouting and swearing, groping this way and that to find their prey,
Pomponio slid softly to the window, jumped through it, and set off, at
his utmost speed, for the open plain and not far distant forest. During
the fray Father Altimira had remained somewhat apart, outside the room.
As Pomponio rushed by him, the Father, calling him by name, commanded
him to stop. He paid no attention, but kept on his way, and was
immediately lost in the darkness. By this time the four men had piled
out of the window, falling over each other in their eagerness to pursue
the fast escaping game.
“It is useless to follow him,” cried the Father. “You could not find him
in this gloom. Wait till daylight, and we will hunt for him. We must
see what damage he has done in the store-room. Stay here. I will get a
light.”
The Father went to his chamber, and brought out a lighted lantern, and
with this the men returned to the now, quiet room, entering by the door
which the priest unlocked with the key he had taken from its hiding
place in his own room. With the exception of the shattered lantern, and
the file and hammer lying on the floor, everything was in order. The
bar of the padlock was almost filed through--three minutes more, and
Pomponio would have been away with his booty. As further sleep that
night was out of the question, the Father and one of the men remained on
guard in the room until dawn, the others reconnoitering every half-hour
to see that all was quiet around the mission.
When morning came; the first thing the Father did was to send a
messenger to the presidio, four miles distant, with a letter to the
commandant, relating the occurrence of the night, and asking for a guard
for the mission, and a number of men to take up the hunt for the escaped
culprit. The soldiers arrived during the day, and at once made active
preparations for finding Pomponio. Beyond knowing the general direction
he had taken in fleeing from the mission, which the padre had noted as
well as he could in the darkness, the hunters were wholly at sea as to
where to look. He might be in any part of the hills and forests which
surrounded the mission on all sides. To the north he would probably not
go, for that way lay the presidio, and the country was more open and
traveled, as well as terminating, at no great distance, at the water’s
edge of the bay. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to find an
Indian of Pomponio’s intelligence, but the soldiers began their task,
searching near, and far, visiting the various rancheras and the room,
to rob which he had made such a bold and country for many days, but
without result. We shall leave them for a while, and see what is become
of our fugitive.
As Pomponio passed the Father in his flight from the room, to rob which
he had made such a bold and nearly successful attempt, he heard the
priest calling him to stop; but what cared he for his master? Had not he
been fleeing for his liberty and, perhaps, for his life, he would have
killed the Father on the spot: not because he hated his kind teacher,
but because in him was embodied the life of the mission, or so it seemed
to Pomponio; and his death would have been one blow given toward the
freedom of his kind. But Pomponio’s first thought now was for his own
safety, and he took the shortest course to the forests south of the
mission. As much at home among the great trees as at the mission,
he made his way into their depths with unerring aim, in spite of the
Egyptian darkness, until he reached a slight thinning of the trees,
where he halted. The spot, mentioned at the beginning of this tale, was
a favorite of Pomponio, and one he visited from time to time, when
he wished to be free to hold communication with the wild men in the
neighborhood. Here he felt reasonably secure from surprise, and here he
meant to spend the days to come.
There was an old Indian hut in the open space which once had sheltered
some family, and was now abandoned. Pomponio took possession of this.
When daylight came, he went in search of the savages in the forest,
and on finding them, he recounted his adventure and the consequences to
himself. Among the Indians were the larger number of those who had
sworn allegiance to Pomponio, promising to follow him whenever he should
decide for a general extermination of the detested Spaniards. They
welcomed him warmly, and supplied him with food and everything he needed
for his hut. The Indians not included in his band of followers had,
heretofore, looked askance on Pomponio, and had sought to withdraw him
from the mission into their own wild life. This he had refused to do,
contending, with more than usual Indian intelligence, that he would be
able to wreak greater harm to the Spanish if connected with the mission.
This had been the principal reason for his small following. Now that he
had broken definitely with his old life, they espoused his cause almost
to a man, and at last he had the joy of seeing himself at the head of
a very respectable band of nearly fifty determined men. The majority of
them were for advancing to the enemy without a day’s delay, and striking
a decisive blow once for all. But Pomponio refused.
“No,”, he said. “Wait until the excitement of last night dies away; then
we shall stand a better chance of winning. But now the mission will be
on guard, and we should be defeated.”
This cogent reasoning prevailed, but the hotheaded youths grumbled much
and long at the delay.
Pomponio, himself, chafed at their enforced inaction, necessary though
he knew it to be. Then another thing that troubled him was the thought
of his wife. Would they think she knew of his attempt that night, and
punish her? He had told her nothing, but whether she could make the
Father believe it, was another matter. Much he wished he could have some
communication with her, and tell her where he was, and beg her to join
him. But it was too dangerous. Without a doubt she was watched closely,
if she were not actually imprisoned. So he gave up all thought of it.
The days dragged slowly along for Pomponio and his companions. Several
times during the following two weeks he heard reports of the doings
of the mission from different ones of the Indians who went thitherto
reconnoitre. From these he learned that the soldiers were still kept
there, and while they remained on guard, nothing could be done. Once
Pomponio stole up to the more distant houses of the mission in the
gathering dusk of approaching night. He heard the chant of the fathers
and their servants at their evening devotions. All was calm and quiet,
and he was just about to risk the attempt to go to his old home, in
the hope of seeing Rosa, when a soldier came into view from behind
the church. Pomponio crouched down behind a shrub near which he was
standing, and waited until the man disappeared again from sight in
his round of the buildings. Then noiselessly he crawled away to his
companions in the forest.
It was about two weeks after Pomponio’s flight. He had been holding a
council of war with his followers, and had told them that, at last, the
time was come to strike for liberty. The soldiers at the mission had
not been seen for some days, and it was thought they had returned to the
presidio. What a shout of exultation went up from the Indians! Now the
time was at hand, the time they had looked forward to for so long,
when, at one single blow, they hoped to free themselves from their hated
oppressors. Vain hope! Had they forgotten already what was the fate of a
similar uprising in the southern missions only a few months before? But
each one learns from his own experience. The Indian is sanguine, and
hopes to succeed where others have failed, or carries out his purposes,
desperately and without hope, to end in certain failure. This is not an
Indian trait exclusively; it is a question of the weak overpowered by
the strong, and has shown itself in all parts of the earth and in
every race of mankind. See how well treated were the Indians of Nueva
California by their conquerors, mild, humane and devoted to their
interests, having given up home and friends to isolate themselves in a
wild new country, solely to bestow on these gentiles the blessings
of civilization and, above all, the gift of Christ’s religion. We may
wonder why they were not willing and glad to follow the fathers’, almost
without exception, gentle guidance. But the one thing necessary to make
it a complete success was wanting--freedom. That was the keystone on
which all depended: lacking that, the whole mission system was, by just
so much, a failure.
Pomponio was returning to his hut late that day after telling his
followers to hold themselves in readiness for marching on to the mission
on the nightfall of the morrow. He had nearly reached his habitation,
and was walking slowly and with downcast head, buried deep in thought
over the approaching conflict which he had wished for so long. Pomponio
saw clearly that the task before him and his band was a difficult one.
He was not blind to the fact that, even should they succeed at this
mission, there would be left in the land twenty others, each one
of which would give aid in quelling a revolt at San Francisco, and
punishing the insurgents. But Pomponio was in a desperate mood. He
preferred failure and death to his life at the mission, and he knew
his present life as a fugitive could not last; he would certainly be
captured sooner or later.
He walked slowly on. Had not he been so absorbed in thought of the
crisis of his life, on the brink of which he stood, the indications of
something unusual and foreboding would have arrested his attention.
A rustling among the leaves and brush of the undergrowth told of the
presence of some animated thing, human or brute. Once a gleam, as
of some highly burnished metal flashing in the sun, was to be
detected--that surely was no animal! But Pomponio walked on oblivious
to these signs which, at any other time, he would have been the first
to notice. He was within a few yards of the hut, and on the edge of the
clearing, when he heard a crackling among the branches underfoot, and
a rushing toward him. One glance was enough. Three soldiers, armed with
muskets, were upon him, one on each side, the third in front. They
were close to him before he was aware of their presence, and escape was
impossible, for he was seized and his arms bound behind him almost as
soon as he knew he was captured.
“Aha! we have you at last,” cried the leader. “You thought we could not
find you out here, hiding in the forest. And I must say it has been hard
enough and taken long enough. But we have you safe now, you rascal.”
Pomponio said not a word. From the first, so soon as he saw he was
helpless, he submitted quietly, and suffered the soldiers to bind his
arms with the leather thong they had brought with them. Had his Indian
followers been within sound of his voice, he would have shouted to
them to come, not to rescue him--that could not have been done, for
the soldiers, at the instant of his call and the answering cries of the
Indians, would have shot him dead--but to kill the soldiers. The Indians
were too far distant for this. How the soldiers had escaped the savages
was a mystery. They must have been at his hut soon after his leaving it
that morning, and kept watch for the return of its inmate, thinking it
might be Pomponio himself, or some one who would lead to the discovery
of his whereabouts. Only in this way could they have missed the Indians
roaming in the forest that day, as they made their preparations for the
eventful morrow.
“Now, my man, off to the presidio,” said the leader, after they had
finished binding Pomponio’s arms securely. “We have no time to lose;
the sun is low in the west, and will be set long before we get there. So
step lively all.”
The soldiers picked up their muskets, and started off quickly in the
direction of the mission, Pomponio guarded by a man on each side,
grasping his pinioned arms. Alas! Was this the end of his long, long
planning; was this the outcome of the insurrection which was to have
been the prelude to a glorious victory, that he should have been caught
through his own carelessness and carried off ignominiously to prison?
Pomponio could have sacrificed his life gladly for the cause he had so
much at heart; but to be captured before the blow for liberty had been
struck was unbearable. He had been the prime mover in planning the
revolt, and well he knew his capture sounded the knell, for no one could
take his place successfully as leader.
The soldiers hurried their prisoner forward almost on the run, partly
because it was so late, and they had a long walk before them, partly
from fear of encountering some of the savages they knew were in the
forest. However, they were not molested, and reached the mission, lying
on their way, as the last bit of sunset color faded away on the horizon.
They delayed only long enough to relate the circumstance of the capture,
and to get two of the soldiers, acting as guard at the mission, to
accompany them to the presidio. Pomponio did not see the Father, who was
engaged with the sick in the hospital, and he was glad. After a stop, of
a few minutes, they again took up their march, and reached the presidio
a little later. Here the commandant of the garrison, after having heard
the tale of the leader, and taken a look at Pomponio, ordered him to be
chained to the wall in a room of the prison. This was done. The chains
were fastened around his ankles; his arms were unbound, and he was left
to solitude and darkness.
Poor savage captive! Alone, abandoned, and chained to the wall of the
little cell he was in, so closely that he could barely reach the
low, rough bench on which to sit. But Pomponio could have borne his
imprisonment patiently, even cheerfully, had the rebellion only taken
place, successfully or not. That was the maddening thought. He buried
his head in his hands. Well he knew that all hope was over. Even though
he might manage to escape, he would find the Indians dispersed and
in hiding, too frightened at the effect his capture might have on the
Spaniards, and the result to themselves. All was over. He had nothing
farther to live for. Even the thought of Rosa failed to rouse him,
for he knew he had been too wicked in the eyes of the fathers to be
permitted to see her again--whether in prison or liberated, if such a
thing could have been dreamed of, she was dead to him.
Yet the love of life is implanted too deeply in the human breast to die
before life itself deserts our mortal body. As Pomponio crouched there,
bound and forsaken, a passionate feeling of revolt at his doom arose
within him. Was he to be killed; must he leave this earth, beautiful
to him even when in the lowest depths of misery, and that, too, at the
command of his enemies, who had stolen his country and made him and his
kindred slaves? They should not take his life, the only thing they had
left him. And with the wish came into his mind a plan of escape that
made him start.
When the soldiers arrested and imprisoned Pomponio, they neglected
to search him, thinking, no doubt, that by no possible means could he
escape from them, chained as securely as if to the solid rock itself.
Pomponio had, stuck in his belt underneath his shirt, a hunting-knife,
his trusty weapon and constant companion. No one who has not lived in
the wilderness can have any idea of the value of the hunting-knife. The
uses to which it can be put are countless. It is pocket-knife, scissors,
hatchet, dagger, and all cutting and stabbing instruments in one; it
will, moreover, take the place of revolver and rifle on many occasions,
and has one immense advantage over them--its utter silence. It is a
powerful, and, at need, murderous weapon.
Pomponio pulled out his knife from its leather sheath and examined it
by touch, for it was too dark to see it. He felt carefully of the blade;
yes, it was, sharp as a razor, and would do the work wanted of it. He
grasped it nervously, but firmly, in his right hand. Then he paused. Was
it, after all, worth the pain he must suffer; had life anything in store
for him in recompense for what he must endure? He could not expect to be
again a power among his brethren. At the best he would be the mere wreck
of what he had, till now, been to his followers. They might look to him
for counsel and advice: as a leader he could be of no more use. Again,
admitting he had the courage to do the deed, could his strength hold out
until he reached a place of safety? Suppose he fell helpless on the way;
he would be found and brought back. Yet to do nothing was to receive
certain death, or what, to Pomponio, with his Indian pride, was worse,
a public whipping, such as he had heard was given sometimes for grave
offenses; and afterward such humiliation in his life of bondage as was
not to be borne. No, anything to free himself out of the hands of his
persecutors. He hesitated no longer.
Clutching the knife, he stooped. Taking firm hold of his foot, as it
rested on the ground, with his left hand, he poised the edge of the
knife on his heel, back of the iron ring; then, with all his strength,
he gave one quick, sharp cut downward and severed the prominence of the
heel, removing the greater part of the os calcis. Not a sound passed his
lips. Letting fall the knife, he pushed the ring down over the wound and
the length of his foot. One foot was free, but only one; he was still as
much a prisoner as before. Could he bear the torture again?
He gave himself no time to think, but picking up the knife, repeated,
with convulsive strength, the operation on his other foot. With a low
moan, wrung from him by the double agony, he leaned, faint and deathly
sick, against the wall. In this position he remained for many minutes,
until, above the pain, arose the thought that he was not yet free.
The small window of the prison was within easy reach from the floor,
and it would have been the work of an instant to vault through it, had
Pomponio not been disabled by the ugly wounds he had inflicted upon
himself. With a sigh he stood up slowly on his maimed feet. Think of the
power of will of the poor Indian, his love of life, and, more than his
love of life, his hatred of his oppressors, to go through the agony each
movement caused him! He crept up to the window, laid hold of the sill,
and, with his hands, drew himself up to, and through it, the blood
spouting from his wounds at every inch of progress. Lowering himself
from the window, he lay down on the ground to gather a little strength
for flight. But first he must bind up his feet, in order that his blood
might not betray whither he went. Taking off his cotton shirt, he tore
it in half, and wrapped each foot in a piece. The touch of the cloth to
his wounds was like fire; but by this time his nerves were benumbed to
such a degree that he scarcely noticed it.
Going on hands and knees, he started to creep over the distance lying
between him and the fringe of trees near the presidio. There was a good
half-mile, and Pomponio feared he could not cover it. Four times he fell
to the ground unconscious, four times he revived and pushed on with all
the strength he could muster. Fortunately he had started early in the
night, for he needed every minute of the darkness. Foot after foot,
yard after yard, he crept along, the presidio and the other buildings
receding in the increasing distance behind him, while the welcome woods
and hills, his refuge, loomed up, higher and darker, as he neared them.
At last he reached the shelter of the trees, his friends, as the first
faint streaks of the dawn began to brighten in the east. Only a little
time remained before the hue and cry would begin, and he must find a
place of concealment before then, else he were lost. Pomponio knew every
part of the forests for miles around; and after getting under cover
of them, he turned at a slight angle toward the southwest, and made
straight for a cave he had once visited when hunting for a bear. He
remembered it was concealed by a thick tangled mass of bushes and young
trees, hiding it so effectually that discovery was well nigh impossible.
In pursuing the bear, Pomponio had tracked it to the cave which it had
entered, and this it was that gave him the secret. Summoning all his
remaining strength for a last supreme effort, he dragged himself on
slowly and painfully. It was not far, and soon he recognized the clump
of bushes that shaded the entrance; and none too soon, for just before
reaching it, he heard a musket shot in the direction of the presidio.
His flight was discovered. But he was safe, for the present, at least;
and crouching down in the depths of the dark cave, kind nature once more
came to his relief, and he knew no more.
Great was the excitement at the presidio when Pomponio’s escape was
discovered. The soldiers, on going past the place on their morning
rounds, saw the bloody tracks of the prisoner’s descent on the wall
under the window. An instant investigation was made, and the truth
of the awful manner in which Pomponio had accomplished his evasion
disclosed. Stupefied, the commandant and his men gazed at, the traces of
the deed, the pools of half-dried dark blood and the two pieces of bone,
eloquent of the fortitude he must have possessed, the desperation he was
in, to perpetrate such an act.
Might not it be thought that so astonishing a hardihood would have
awakened a feeling of admiration and pity for the unfortunate being?
So heroic a deed would have elicited praise to rend the skies from the
peoples of antiquity(2), and the story of Pomponio would have passed
down from generation to generation as that of one of their brave men.
But, alas! in the breasts of the men with whom Pomponio had to deal, no
such sentiment of ruth was raised. On the contrary, they were roused
to an even greater violence of hatred and anger toward the poor savage.
Wild with rage that his prisoner, whom he had hunted for so long, should
have escaped when securely bound, the commandant sent out his men in
squads of four and five to scour the woods and find their prey. “He must
and shall be found,” he said.
The search was instituted forthwith. For days, weeks and months, they
hunted for Pomponio, but not a trace of him was found. Gradually, as
time went on, the search was given up, for the intense excitement roused
by his flight died out from want of fresh fuel to feed upon, and, in
addition, the soldiers were required for other more immediate needs;
so that, before a year was past after his escape, all interest in the
subject ceased, and Pomponio was seldom thought of, or his name spoken,
except among those of the Indians to whom he and his deed were ever an
impulse toward insubordination.
And what was Pomponio doing? At first from necessity, on account of his
wounded feet, and afterward so long as the soldiers kept up a vigorous
search for him, he made the cave, in which he had taken refuge, his
home. All that day, following the night of his escape, he lay in the
cave, more dead than alive, caring for nothing, wishing, even, he might
die, now he was out of the grasp of his enemies. But the next morning
the pangs of hunger awakened him to life and its realities. Nearly two
days were passed since he had had a morsel to eat. He was too weak to go
in search of food, and his only help must come from making his presence
known to some of the Indians who were scattered in the forest. Pomponio
crawled to the opening, and out beyond the clump of bushes hiding it,
with the greatest caution. Slowly and painfully he reconnoitered in
every direction--no trace or sound of the soldiers. Picking out a
vantage point, from which he had a survey among the trees of several
hundred feet radius, he took up his watch, keeping a careful lookout
for the soldiers, as well as for any of his kindred who might chance
to wander thither. Here he passed the day, his little strength slowly
leaving him as the hours went by, until, near evening, he felt that
unless help came before the darkness fell, he could not survive the
night. Almost past caring whether the soldiers found him, he lay back
against a little heap of leaves he had scooped together, giving himself
up to the numb, delicious feeling of the last sleep--no more to be
feared and fought against--when his ear caught the sound of steps,
muffled by the leaves of the undergrowth carpeting the ground. He
started; life for an instant returned to him. Did that portend the
approach of the soldiers, or was it some friendly Indian roaming the
forest for game, and now on his return home? He gazed into the obscurity
of the approaching night, lying back too weak to move, though it were
his enemies come to take him again. But his fear was vain. It was an
Indian boy, not more than fifteen years old, on the way to his tribe. At
sight of him Pomponio was rejoiced, for the nearing Indian belonged to
his own tribe, and but for his extreme youth would have been included
among Pomponio’s followers in the contemplated revolt.
His eyes lighted up with the fire of life. He raised himself on an
elbow, and when the Indian was within a few yards of him, and about to
turn aside to reenter the thicker woods beyond, Pomponio called to him.
His voice was hardly above a whisper, but it was sufficient. The Indian
heard, and, turned quickly. Seeing the form of a man, he started, and
was on the point of springing away into the forest, when Pomponio spoke,
this time in a louder and stronger tone:
“Help me Taxlipu, I--am nearly dead. I am Pomponio.”
“Pomponio!” almost shrieked the boy. “It cannot be. I saw Pomponio
carried away and locked up at the presidio, and an Indian told me he had
been chained fast to the wall of his prison cell.”
The boy came nearer as he said this, but he held himself ready to flee
at the least movement of the figure lying on the ground. “Surely it is
his spirit,” he said to himself, “for it is, indeed, the countenance of
Pomponio.”
But the wounded man spoke again: “I am Pomponio. I cut myself loose from
the chains that bound me, and escaped from my prison. Give me a little
water, else I die,” and again he lost consciousness.
But, he was saved. Taxlipu came close, and gazed earnestly at the dark
upturned face. Yes, that was Pomponio. He sprang away and dashed madly
into the forest, and on to the settlement of the Indians, for help. Here
he found a number of Pomponio’s followers together, talking sadly of the
mishap to their chief. Taxlipu burst in on them with the startling news
that Pomponio had escaped and was now in the forest nearly dead. The
men sprang up, telling the boy to lead them to the place. But before
starting, one of the Indians went to a hut close by, and brought out
with him part of a rabbit, freshly cooked, and an olla of water. With
these, the company set off on the run, led by Taxlipu. It was only a few
minutes before they reached the spot where Pomponio lay as one dead. The
Indian with the water knelt down by his side, and poured some drops into
his mouth. After a short while, during which the dose was repeated as
often as it was swallowed, Pomponio opened his eyes, drawing a heavy
sigh.
Tenderly and reverently they cared for him. At his request they bore him
into the cave where he would be safe from the sight of any chance party
from the presidio hunting for him, and here they nursed him back to life
and strength. It was many days before he recovered from the effects of
the great loss of blood he had suffered; many more before the wounds
in his feet healed. From the ill-usage to which he had subjected them,
inflammation set in, and at one time great fear was felt that he could
not survive; but his strong constitution prevailed. Yet after all he
would have died gladly, for he was a helpless cripple from that day,
hobbling around only with the aid of rude crutches.
His comrades vied with each other in their attentions to the sick
leader, and after he had recovered from the fever and weakness, they
furnished him with all the necessaries of life which he was unable to
obtain by his own efforts. After a few months in the cave, Pomponio left
it to be with the Indians in the forest near the mission; but he was
careful to keep away from the neighborhood of the scene of his capture,
judging rightly that that place would be under surveillance at any time
of uneasiness. However, there was no thought of farther insurrection.
Their spirit had been broken with Pomponio’s capture, for a long time,
at any rate. But although they had abandoned all idea of a general
uprising, they did everything in their power to annoy and harass their
enemies: stealing their horses and cattle and sheep; devastating their
crops of wheat and grapes, and, once or twice, setting fire to an
outlying mission house or granary. Their lofty idea of freedom from
servitude had degenerated thus into a system of petty depredation.
Here, among his friends, Pomponio passed the days quietly and sadly,
caring for nothing, and going through mechanically the routine of
each day. His spirit was crushed--not so much from the effects of his
treatment, but because his long thought of, long desired, purpose was
come to naught. He paid but little attention to the affairs of those
about him. They went and came, carried on their game of life, rousing in
him only a gleam of interest. Thus three years passed.
One day, in the early spring, the Indians went away on a foraging
expedition, leaving Pomponio alone in his hut. It had been a warm,
sunny day, and in the afternoon Pomponio dragged himself to a little
moss-covered bank under the trees, on which he stretched himself, and,
after a short time, he fell asleep. All was quiet. Not a sound was to be
heard save the insects humming drowsily in the heated air, and, now and
then, the whirr of an oriole as it flew swiftly past, lighting up with
a glint of gold the shadows among the trees. The oriole is sunlight
incarnate.
But this quiet scene was to be broken. The sound of branches snapping
beneath the tread of some heavy foot was heard. It drew near the
secluded spot; then the form of a man, carrying a musket, could be
discerned, making his way, to the glade. He reached the edge of the
clearing, when he espied the sleeping Indian, lying with his face
turned from him. He halted instantly. Was it an Indian belonging to the
mission, and playing truant, or one of the savages of the forests, from
whom the mission had suffered so much during the last three years? He
must find out. Creeping so slowly and carefully that not a sound was
heard again from his feet among the plants, he passed around the edge of
the glade to a point nearly opposite, in order to get a more direct view
of the sleeping man. What a diabolical expression of alternate hate
and triumph passed over his countenance! Here was the scoundrel who had
escaped from the presidio. After three years, when hope of ever finding
him again had died out, when, except for the depredations continually
taking place at the mission and presidio, every one would have declared
Pomponio was dead of the wounds he had inflicted on himself, that he,
Pablo, the youngest soldier at the presidio, when out hunting, and with
no thought of enemies near, should find the miscreant, asleep and in his
power! This would advance him in the good graces of the commandant.
There was no time to lose. Pomponio might awake at any moment; his
friends in the forest might return on the instant. He raised his musket
and took long and steady aim at the Indian. There was a report that
raised the echoes. With lightning speed the soldier reloaded, and then
cautiously drew nearer; but there was no need of apprehension from
Pomponio. He was dead--shot through the heart. The soldier gazed at the
inanimate form, at the bullet-hole in his breast, from which the blood
was trickling, and at the poor mutilated feet. Did a glimmer of pity
stir in his heart? It were hard to say. Yet, as he stood there looking
down at his work, perhaps there was a little feeling of sorrow for the
fate of his fellow man, coupled with a touch of shame at his own unmanly
act in thus murdering his sleeping foe, criminal though he was, and
richly deserving death. But he had scant time for reflection. The noise
of men approaching was heard in the forest. Pomponio’s friends would be
here in an instant. He must go at once. He slipped away among the trees
in the direction from which he had come, and vanished. A moment later
four Indians appeared at the point where the soldier had stood when he
fired. Their first glance at Pomponio revealed to them the meaning of
the shot they had heard.
Pomponio was buried that night, secretly and in profound silence. His
comrades, determined his enemies should never find his grave and body,
bore it into the deepest recesses of the forest, and there interred it,
afterward removing all trace of any disturbance of the earth covering
it. There they left him, at rest, his little part in life’s drama ended.
Pablo’s story of his killing Pomponio was not believed when he told it
at the mission and the presidio. No one, however, could contradict him,
and as time went on, and nothing farther was heard of the neophyte, and
the marauding at the mission became less, until it ceased altogether,
his assertion came, in time, to be regarded as the true account of
Pomponio’s death.
Note.--The writer has taken the liberty of altering the real facts of
Pomponio’s end. He was captured by a party of four soldiers, tried by
court martial at Monterey, in February, and shot, about September, 1824.
The period covered by the story, also, has been changed to three
years later than the actual time of occurrence. It is surprising that
Bancroft, from whose history the facts in this note are taken, does not
mention Captain Duhaut-Cilly who, in his Voyage autour du Monde, Vol.
II, Chap. XI, recounts Pomponio’s self-mutilation in order to effect
his escape. As Pomponio’s execution occurred only three years before
Duhaut-Cilly’s visit, the French captain must have learned his facts
with a close approach to accuracy, and it seems safe to take them
without reserve. Bancroft affects to regard the main fact in this story
with some incredulity, and limits the victim’s manacles to one ankle
only. Vide Bancroft: History of California, Vol. II, pp. 537-38.
(2) “Un trait que les Anciens auraient divinisa.” Duhaut-Cilly.
Here end the Stories of the Old Missions of California as told by
Charles Franklin Carter, decorated by William H. Wilke and put into book
form by Paul Elder and Company at their Tomoye Press, San Francisco,
under the careful direction of Ricardo J. Orozco, in the month of
November, Nineteen Hundred and Seventeen.