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THE LITTLE LADY OF LAGUNITAS
A FRANCO-CALIFORNIAN ROMANCE
By Richard Henry Savage
Project Gutenberg Editor's Note: There are many French words in this file which
have missing letters or invalid symbols because the character set in which this file was produced did not supply letters with the needed diacritic marks. If any reader with skill in the French language is able to correct all these problem words, it would be much appreciated. DW
INTRODUCTION.
Forty-two years have passed since California's golden star first
glittered in the flag of the United States of America.
Its chequered history virtually begins with the rush for gold in
'48-'49.
Acquired for the evident purpose of extending slave-holding territory,
it was occupied for years by a multitude of cosmopolitan "free lances,"
who swept away the defenceless Indians, and brutally robbed the great
native families, the old "Dons."
Society slowly made headway against these motley adventurers. Mad riot,
wildest excess, marked these earlier days.
High above the meaner knights of the "revolver and bowie knife,"
greater than card sharper, fugitive bravo, or sly wanton, giant schemers
appeared, who throw, yet, dark shadows over the records of this State.
These daring conspirators dominated legislature and forum, public office
and society.
They spoiled the Mexican, robbed the Indian, and paved the way for a
"Lone Star Republic," or the delivering of the great treasure fields of
the West to the leaders of Secession.
How their designs on this grand domain failed; what might have been, had
the South been more active in its hour of primary victory and seized the
Golden West, these pages may show.
The golden days of the "stars and bars" were lost by the activity of the
Unionists and the mistaken policy at Richmond.
The utter demoralization of California by the "bonanza era" of silver
discovery, the rise of an invincible plutocracy, and the second reign of
loose luxury are herein set forth.
Scenes never equalled in shamelessness have disgraced the Halls of
State, the Courts, and the mansions of the suddenly enriched.
The poor have been trampled by these tyrants for twenty years.
Characters unknown in the social history of any other land, have been
evolved from this golden eddy of crime and adventure.
Not till all these men and women of incredibly romantic fortunes have
passed away, will a firm social structure rise over their graves.
Throttled by usurers, torn by gigantic bank wars, its resources drained
by colossal swindles, crouching yet under the iron rule of upstart
land-barons, "dashing journalism," and stern railroad autocrats, the
Californian community has gloomily struggled along.
Newer States have made a relative progress which shames California. Its
future is yet uncertain.
The native sons and daughters of the golden West are the hope of the
Pacific.
The homemakers may yet win the victory.
Some of the remarkable scenes of the past are herein portrayed by one
who has seen this game of life played in earnest, the shadowed drama of
California.
There is no attempt to refer to individuals, save as members of
well-defined classes, in these pages. This book has absolutely no
political bias.
THE AUTHOR.
NEW YORK CITY, May 15, 1892.
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.
THE LAST OF THE DONS BY THE BLUE PACIFIC.
CHAPTER I.--Under the Mexican Eagle.--Exit the Foreigner.--Monterey,
1840
CHAPTER II.--At the Presidio of San Francisco. Wedding Chimes from the
Mission Dolores.--Lagunitas Rancho
CHAPTER III.--A Missing Sentinel.--Fremont's Camp
CHAPTER IV.--Held by the Enemy.--The Bear Flag
BOOK II.
GOLD FOR ALL.--A NEW STAR IN THE FLAG.
CHAPTER V.--The Golden Magnet.--Free or Slave?
CHAPTER VI.--Lighting Freedom's Western Lamp
CHAPTER VII.--The Queen of the El Dorado.--Guilty Bonds
CHAPTER VIII.--Joaquin the Mountain Robber.--The Don's Peril
CHAPTER IX.--The Stranger's Foot at Lagunitas. Valois' Spanish Bride
BOOK III.
GOING HOME TO DIXIE.--STARS AND STRIPES, OR STARS AND BARS?
CHAPTER X.--A Little Dinner at Judge Hardin's. The Knights of the Golden
Circle
CHAPTER XI.--"I'se gwine back to Dixie."--The Fortunes of War.--Val
Verde
CHAPTER XII.--Hood's Day.--Peachtree Creek. Valois' Last Trust.--De
Gress' Battery.--Dead on the Field of Honor
BOOK IV.
A LOST HEIRESS.--MILLIONS AT STAKE.
CHAPTER XIII.--Mount Davidson's Magic Millions. A California
Plutocracy.--The Price of a Crime
CHAPTER XIV.--A Mariposa Bonanza.--Natalie de Santos born in Paris.--The
Queen of the El Dorado joins the Gallic "Four Hundred"
CHAPTER XV.--An Old Priest and a Young Artist. The Changelings
CHAPTER XVI.-Hearing Each Other.--The Valois Heirs
CHAPTER XVII.--Weaving Spiders.--A Coward Blow.--Marie Berard's Doom
BOOK V.
REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.
CHAPTER XVIII.--Joe Woods Surprises a Lady. Love's Golden Nets
CHAPTER XIX.--Lovers Once, Strangers Now. Face to Face
CHAPTER XX.--Judge Hardin Meets his Match. A Senatorial Election.--In a
Mariposa Court Room.--The Trust fulfilled at Lagunitas
LAGUNITAS.
BOOK I.
THE LAST OF THE DONS BY THE BLUE PACIFIC.
CHAPTER I.
UNDER THE MEXICAN EAGLE.--EXIT THE FOREIGNER.--MONTEREY, 1840.
"Caramba! Adios, Seflores!" cried Captain Miguel Peralta, sitting on
his roan charger on the Monterey bluffs. A white-sailed bark is
heading southward for Acapulco. His vaqueros tossed up their sombreros,
shouting, "Vive Alvarado! Muerte los estrangeros!"
The Pacific binds the hills of California in a sapphire zone, unflecked
by a single sail in sight, save the retreating trader, which is flitting
around "Punta de los Pinos."
It is July, 1840. The Mexican ensign flutters in the plaza of Monterey,
the capital of Alta California.
Miguel Peralta dismounts and crosses himself, murmuring, "Sea por Dios y
la Santissima Virgen."
His duty is done. He has verified the departure of the Yankee ship. It
is crowded with a hundred aliens. They are now exiles.
Gathered in by General Vallejo, the "pernicious foreigners" have been
held at Monterey, until a "hide drogher" comes into the port. Alvarado
permits her to anchor under the guns of the hill battery. He then seizes
the ship for his use.
Captain Peralta is given the honor of casting out these Ishmaels of
fortune. He views calmly their exit. It is a land which welcomes not the
"Gringo." The ship-master receives a draft on Acapulco for his impressed
service. These pioneer argonauts are warned (on pain of death) not to
return. It is a day of "fiesta" in Monterey. "Vive Alvarado!" is the
toast.
So, when Captain Miguel dashes into the Plaza, surrounded with his
dare-devil retainers, reporting that the vessel is off shore, the
rejoicing is unbounded.
Cannons roar: the yells of the green jacket and yellow scrape brigade
rise on the silent reaches of the Punta de los Pinos. A procession winds
up to the Carmel Mission. Governor Alvarado, his staff, the leading
citizens, the highest families, and the sefioritas attend a mass
of thanksgiving. Attired in light muslins, with here and there
a bright-colored shawl giving a fleck of color, and silk
kerchiefs--fleecy--the ladies' only other ornaments are the native
flowers which glitter on the slopes of Monterey Bay. Bevies of dark-eyed
girls steal glances at Andres, Ramon, or Jose, while music lends a
hallowing charm to the holy father's voice as he bends before the
decorated altar. Crowds of mission Indians fill the picturesque church.
Every heart is proud. Below their feet sleeps serenely good Fray
"Junipero Serra." He blessed this spot in 1770;--a man of peace, he
hung the bells on the green oaks in a peaceful wilderness. High in air,
to-day they joyously peal out a "Laus Deo." When the mystery of the
mass rehearses the awful sacrifice of Him who died for us all, a silence
broods over the worshippers. The notes of the choristers' voices slowly
die away. The population leaves the church in gay disorder.
The Bells of the Past throw their spells over the mossy church--at once
triumph, tomb, and monument of Padre Junipero. Scattered over the coast
of California, the padres now sleep in the Lethe of death. Fathers Kino,
Salvatierra, Ugarte, and sainted Serra left their beautiful works of
mercy from San Diego to Sonoma. With their companions, neither unknown
tribes, lonely coasts, dangers by land and sea, the burning deserts
of the Colorado, nor Indian menaces, prevented the linking together of
these outposts of peaceful Christianity. The chain of missions across
New Mexico and Texas and the Mexican religious houses stretches through
bloody Arizona. A golden circlet!
Happy California! The cross here preceded the sword. No blood stains the
Easter lilies of the sacrifice. The Dons and Donnas greet each other in
stately fashion, as the gathering disperses. Governor Alvarado gives
a feast to the notables. The old families are all represented at the
board. Picos, Peraltas, Sanchez, Pachecos, Guerreros, Estudillos,
Vallejos, Alvarados, De la Guerras, Castros, Micheltorrenas, the
descendants of "Conquistadores," drink to Mexico. High rises the jovial
chatter. Good aguadiente and mission wine warm the hearts of the fiery
Californian orators. A proud day for Monterey, the capital of a future
Empire of Gold. The stranger is cast out. Gay caballeros are wending to
the bear-baiting, the bull-fights, the "baile," and the rural feasts.
Splendid riders prance along, artfully forcing their wild steeds into
bounds and curvets with the rowels of their huge silver-mounted spurs.
Dark lissome girls raise their velvety eyes and applaud this daring
horsemanship. Se¤ioritas Luisa, Isabel, and Panchita lose no point of
the display. In a land without carriages or roads, the appearance of the
cavalier, his mount, his trappings, most do make the man shine before
these fair slips of Mexican blue blood.
Down on the beach, the boys race their half-broken broncos. These lads
are as lithe and lean as the ponies they bestride. Across the bay,
the Sierras of Santa Cruz lift their virgin crests (plumed with giant
redwoods) to the brightest skies on earth. Flashing brooks wander to the
sea unvexed by mill, unbridged in Nature's unviolated freedom. Far to
north and south the foot-hills stand shining with their golden coats
of wild oats, a memorial of the seeds cast over these fruitful mesas
by Governor Caspar de Portala. He left San Diego Mission in July, 1769,
with sixty-five retainers, and first reached the Golden Gate.
Beyond the Coast Range lies a "terra incognita." A few soldiers only
have traversed the Sacramento and San Joaquin. They wandered into the
vales of Napa and Sonoma, fancying them a fairyland.
The sparkling waters of the American, the Sacramento, the Yuba, Feather,
and Bear rivers are dancing silently over rift and ripple. There
precious nuggets await the frenzied seekers for wealth. There are
no gold-hunters yet in the gorges of these crystal streams. Down in
Nature's laboratory, radiated golden veins creep along between feathery
rifts of virgin quartz. They are the treasures of the careless gnomes.
Not till years later will Marshall pick up the first nugget of gleaming
gold in Sutter's mill-race at Coloma. The "auri sacra fames" will bring
thousands from the four quarters of the earth to sweep away "the last of
the Dons."
A lovely land to-day. No axe rings in its forests. No steamboat threads
the rivers. Not an engine is harnessed to man's use in this silent, lazy
realm. The heart of the Sierras is inviolate. The word "Gold" must be
whispered to break the charm.
The sun climbs to noon, then slowly sinks to the west. It dips into the
silent sea, mirroring sparkling evening stars.
Stretching to Japan, the Pacific is the mysterious World's End.
Along the brown coast, the sea otter, clad in kingly robes, sports shyly
in the kelp fields. The fur seals stream by unchased to their misty home
in the Pribyloffs. Barking sea-lions clamber around the jutting rocks.
Lazy whales roll on the quiet waters of the bay, their track an oily
wake.
It is the land of siesta, of undreamed dreams, of brooding slumber.
The barbaric diversions of the day are done. The firing squad leave the
guns. The twang of guitar and screech of violin open the fandango.
The young cavaliers desert the streets. Bibulous dignitaries sit in
council around Governor Alvarado's table. Mexican cigars, wine in old
silver flagons (fashioned by the deft workers of Chihuahua and Durango),
and carafes of aguadiente, garnish the board.
The mahogany table (a mark of official grandeur), transported
from Acapulco, is occupied (below the salt) by the young officers.
Horse-racing, cock-fighting, and gambling on the combat of bear and
bull, have not exhausted their passions. Public monte and faro leave
them a few "doubloons" yet. Seated with piles of Mexican dollars before
them, the young heroes enjoy a "lay-out." All their coin comes from
Mexico. Hundreds of millions, in unminted gold and silver, lie under
their careless feet, yet their "pieces of eight" date back to Robinson
Crusoe! This is the land of "manana!" Had Hernando Cortez not found the
treasures of Mexico, he might have fought his way north, over the Gila
Desert, to the golden hoards of the sprites of the Sierras.
At the banquet fiery Alvarado counselled with General Vallejo. Flushed
with victory, Captain Miguel was the lion of this feast. He chatted with
his compadres.
The seniors talked over the expulsion of the strangers.
Cool advisers feared trouble from France, England, or the United States.
Alvarado's instinct told him that foreigners would gain a mastery over
the Dons, if permitted to enter in numbers. Texas was an irresistible
warning. "Senores," said Alvarado, "the Russians came in 1812. Only a
few, with their Kodiak Indians, settled at Bodega. Look at them now!
They control beautiful Bodega! They are 800 souls! True, they say they
are going, but only our posts at San Rafael and Sonoma checked them. A
fear of your sword, General!" Alvarado drank to Vallejo.
Vallejo bowed to his Governor. "Senor," said he, "you are right. I have
seen Mexico. I have been a scholar, as well as a soldier. I knew Von
Resanoff's Russian slyness. My father was at the Presidio in 1807, when
he obtained rights for a few fur hunters. Poor fellow! he never lived to
claim his bride, but he was a diplomat."
"Foreigners will finally outroot us. Here is Sutter, building his
fort on the Sacramento! He's a good fellow, yet I'll have to burn New
Helvetia about his ears some day. Russian or Swiss, French or Yankee,
it's all the same. The 'Gringo' is the worst of all. Poor Conception de
Arguello. She waited long for her dead Russian lover."
"General, do you think the Yankees can ever attack us by land?" said
Alvarado.
"Madre de Dios! No!" cried Vallejo, "we will drag them at our horses'
tails!"
"Then, I have no fear of them," said Alvarado. "We occupy San Diego,
Santa Barbara, Monterey, and San Francisco, the missions of San Juan
Capistrano, Los Angeles, San Luis Obispo and Santa Clara, and help to
control the Indians, but these home troubles have stopped their useful
growth."
Governor Alvarado sighed. Governor Hijar in 1834 had desecularized
the Catholic missions. Their cattle were stolen, their harvests and
vineyards destroyed. The converts were driven off to seek new homes
among the Utes, Yubas, Feather River, Napa, and Mohave tribes.
Pious Alvarado crossed himself. He glanced uneasily at Padre
Castillo,--at the board. Only one or two priests were left at the
beautiful settlements clustering around the old mission churches. To-day
these are the only architectural ornaments of Alta California.
"I doubt the wisdom of breaking up the missions," said Alvarado, with
gloomy brow. A skeleton was at this feast. The troubled Governor could
not see the handwriting on the wall. He felt California was a priceless
jewel to Mexico. He feared imprudent measures. Lying dormant, California
slept since Cabrillo saw Cape Mendocino in 1542. After he turned his
shattered prows back to Acapulco on June 27, 1543, it was only on
November 10, 1602, that ambitious Viscaino raised the Spanish ensign
at San Diego. He boldly claimed this golden land for Spain. Since that
furtive visit, the lonely coast lay unsettled. It was only used as
a haunt by wild pirates, lurking to attack the precious Philippine
galleons sailing to Acapulco. For one hundred and sixty-eight years the
land was unvisited. Spanish greed and iron rule satisfied itself with
grinding the Mexicans and turning southward in the steps of Balboa and
Pizarro.
Viscaino's neglected maps rotted in Madrid for two centuries. Fifty-five
years of Spanish rule left California undeveloped, save by the gentle
padres who, aided by their escort, brought in the domestic animals. They
planted fruit-trees, grains, and the grape. They taught the peaceful
Indians agriculture. Flax, hemp, and cotton supplanted the skins of
animals.
Alvarado and Vallejo remembered the Spanish war in 1822. At this banquet
of victory, neither thought that, a few years later, the rule of the
Dons would be over; that their familiar places would know them no more.
Just retribution of fate! The Dons drove out the friars, and recked not
their own day was close at hand.
As the exultant victors stood drinking the toast of the day, "Muerte los
estrangeros," neither crafty statesman, sly priest, fiery general, wise
old Don, nor reckless caballero, could predict that the foreigners
would return in two years. That they would come under protection of the
conquering British flag.
Alvarado was excited by his feuds with Micheltorrena. The people were
divided into clericals and anti-clericals. A time of "storm and stress"
hung over all.
Wise in victory was Captain Miguel Peralta. His campaign against the
foreigners marked the close of his service. Born in 1798, his family
were lords of broad lands on the Alamedas of San Francisco Bay. He was
sent to the city of Mexico and educated, serving in the army of the
young republic. Returning to Alta California, he became a soldier.
Often had he sallied out to drive the warlike Indian toward the
Sacramento. In watching his mustangs and cattle, he rode far to the
slopes of the Sierra Nevadas. Their summits glittered under the blue
skies, crowned with silvery snows, unprofaned by the foot of man.
A sturdy caballero, courtly and sagacious. His forty-two years
admonished him now to settle in life. When Alvarado was in cheeriest
mood, at the feast, the Captain reminded him of his promise to release
him. This would allow Peralta to locate a new ten-league-square grant of
lands, given him for past services to the State.
Graciously the Governor accorded the request. Noblesse oblige! "Don
Miguel, is there any reason for leaving us besides your new rancho?"
said Alvarado. The Captain's cheek reddened a little. "Senor Gobernador,
I have served the State long," said he. "Juanita Castro waits for me at
San Francisco. I will lay off my rancho on the San Joaquin. I move there
in the spring."
Alvarado was delighted. The health of Senorita Juanita Castro was
honored by the whole table. They drank an extra bumper for gallant Don
Miguel, the bridegroom.
The Governor was pleased. Powerful Castros and Peraltas stretched from
the Salinas, by San Jose and Santa Clara, to Martinez; and San Rafael as
well as Sonoma. By this clan, both Sutter's Fort and the Russians could
be watched.
This suitable marriage would bring a thousand daring horsemen to serve
under the cool leadership of Don Miguel in case of war.
Peralta told the Governor he would explore the San Joaquin. He wished
to locate his ranch where he could have timber, wood, water, game, and
mountain air.
Don Miguel did not inform the chief of the state that in riding from San
Diego to Cape Mendocino he had found one particular garden of Paradise.
He had marked this for his home when his sword would be sheathed in
honor.
"I will say, your Excellency," said the Captain, "I fear for the future.
The Yankees are growing in power and are grasping. They have robbed us
of lovely Texas. Now, it is still a long way for their ships to come
around dreary Cape Horn. We had till late years only two vessels from
Boston; I saw their sails shining in the bay of San Francisco when I was
five years old. I have looked in the Presidio records for the names.
The Alexander and the Aser, August 1st, 1803. Then, they begged only
for wood and water and a little provision. Now, their hide-traders swarm
along our coast. They will by and by come with their huge war-ships.
These trading-boats have no cannon, but they are full of bad rum. Our
coast people will be cleared out. Why, Catalina Islands," continued the
Captain, "were peopled once densely. There are yet old native temples
there. All these coast tribes have perished. It is even worse since the
holy fathers were robbed of their possessions."
The good soldier crossed himself in memory of the wise padres. They
owned the thousands of cattle, sheep, and horses once thronging the
oat-covered hills. Theirs were the fruits, grains, and comforts of these
smiling valleys, untrodden yet by a foreign foe.
"Your Excellency, when the Yankee war-ships have come, we cannot resist
them. Our batteries are old and poor, we have little ammunition. Our
arms are out of repair. The machete and lasso are no match for their
well-supplied men-of-war. I shall locate myself so far in the interior
that the accursed Gringos cannot reach me with their ships or their
boats. The trappers who straggle over the deserts from Texas our
horsemen will lasso. They will bring them in bound as prisoners."
"Miguel, mi compadre," said the Governor, "do you think they can cross
the deserts?" He was startled by Peralta's views of the future.
"Senor," said the Captain, "I saw the first American who came overland.
The wanderer appeared in 1826. It was the 20th of December. He was found
half starved by our vaqueros. I have his name here on a piece of paper.
I have long carried it, for I was a guard over him."
Miguel slowly spelled off the detested Yankee name, Jedediah S. Smith,
from a slip of cartridge paper in his bolsa. Glory be to the name of
Smith!
"Where THAT one Yankee found a way, more will come, but we will meet
and fight them. This is our OWN land by the right of discovery. The good
King Philip II. of Spain rightfully claimed this (from his orders to
Viceroy Monterey in 1596). We get our town name here in his honor. We
will fight the English, and these accursed Yankees. They have no right
to be here. This is our home," cried fiery Miguel, as he pledged the
hospitable Governor. He passed out into the dreaming, starry night. As
he listened to the waves softly breaking on the sandy beach, he thought
fondly of Juanita Castro. He fumbled over the countersign as the
sentinel presented his old flint-lock musket.
Both Governor and Captain sought the repose of their Spartan pillows.
The Captain forgot, in his zeal for Spanish dominion, that daring Sir
Francis Drake, in days even then out of the memory of man, piloted the
"Golden Hind" into Drake's Bay. He landed near San Francisco in 1578,
and remained till the early months of 1579. Under the warrant of "good
Queen Bess" he landed, and set up a pillar bearing a "fair metal plate"
with a picture of that antiquated but regal coquette. He nailed on
the pillar a "fair struck silver five-pence," saluting the same with
discharge of culverins, much hearty English cheer and nautical jollity.
The land was English--by proscription.
Sir Francis, gallant and courtly, was, like many travellers, as skilful
at drawing the long bow as in wielding the rapier. He was not believed
at home.
Notwithstanding, he tarried months and visited the inland Indians,
bringing home many objects of interest, announcing "much gold and
silver," his voyage was vain. His real discovery was deemed of no
practical value. The robust Indians swarmed in thousands, living by
the watersides in huts, wearing deerskin cloaks and garments of rushes.
Hunters and fishers were they. They entertained the freebooter, and like
him have long since mouldered to ashes. Along the Pacific Coast
great mounds of shells, marking their tribal seaside feasts, are now
frequently unearthed. Their humble history is shadowed by the passing
centuries. They are only a memory, a shadow on Time's stream. Good Queen
Bess sleeps in the stately fane of Westminster. Sir Francis's sword
is rusted. The "brazen plate" recording that date and year is of a
legendary existence only. "Drake's Bay" alone keeps green the memory of
the daring cruiser. Even in one century the Spanish, Russian, Mexican,
and American flags successively floated over the unfrequented cliffs of
California. Two hundred years before, the English ensign kissed the air
in pride, unchallenged by the haughty Spaniard.
Miguel Peralta was happy. He had invited all the officials to attend the
nuptials by the Golden Gate. Venus was in the ascendant. The red planet
of Mars had set, he hoped, forever. The officers and gentry contemplated
a frolicsome ride around the Salinas bend, over the beautiful passes to
Santa Clara valley and the town of Yerba Buena.
Peralta's marriage was an excuse for general love making. A display of
all the bravery of attire and personal graces of man and maid was in
order.
The soldier drifted into the land of dreams haunted by Juanita Castro's
love-lit eyes and rare, shy smile. No vision disturbed him of the
foothold gained in Oregon by the Yankees. They sailed past the entrance
of San Francisco Bay, on the Columbia, in 1797, but they found the great
river of the northwest. They named it after their gallant bark, said to
be the legal property of one General Washington of America.
The echoes of Revolutionary cannon hardly died away before the
eagle-guided Republic began to follow the star of empire to the
Occident.
Had the listless mariners seen that obscured inlet of the Golden
Gate, they had never braved the icy gales of the Oregon coast. Miguel
Peralta's broad acres might have had another lord. Bishop Berkeley's
prophecy was infallible. A fatal remissness seemed to characterize all
early foreign adventure on Californian coasts.
Admiral Vancouver in 1793 visited Monterey harbor, and failed to raise
the Union Jack, as supinely as the later British commanders in 1846.
French commanders, technically skilful and energetic, also ignored the
value of the western coast. As a result of occasional maritime visits,
the slender knowledge gained by these great navigators appears a
remarkable omission.
The night passed on. Breezes sweeping through the pines of Monterey
brought no murmur from the south and east of the thunder crash of cannon
on the unfought fields of Mexico.
No drowsy vaquero sentinel, watching the outposts of Monterey, could
catch a sound of the rumbling wheels and tramping feet of that vast
western immigration soon to tread wearily the old overland and the great
southern route.
The soldier, nodding over his flint-lock as the white stars dropped
into the western blue, saw no glitter of the sails of hostile Yankee
frigates. Soon they would toss in pride at anchor here, and salute the
starry flag of a new sovereignty. The little twinkling star to be added
for California was yet veiled behind the blue field of our country's
banner.
Bright sun flashes dancing over the hills awoke the drowsy sacristan.
The hallowed "Bells of Carmel" called the faithful to mass.
Monterey, in reverse order of its social grades, rose yawning from
the feast. Fandangos and bailes of the day of victory tired all. Lazy
"mozos" lolled about the streets. A few revellers idly compared notes of
the day's doings.
In front of the government offices, squads of agile horses awaited
haughty riders. A merry cavalcade watched for Captain Miguel Peralta.
He was to be escorted out of the Pueblo by the "jeunesse doree" of Alta
California.
Clad in green jackets buttoned with Mexican dollars, riding leggings of
tiger-cat skin seamed with bullion and fringed with dollars, their
brown faces were surmounted by rich sombreros, huge of rim. They were
decorated in knightly fashion with silver lace. The young caballeros
awaited their preux chevalier. Saddle and bridle shone with heavy silver
mountings. Embossed housings and "tapadero," hid the symmetry of their
deer-like coursers.
Pliant rawhide lassos coiled on saddle horns, gay serapes tied behind
each rider, and vicious machetes girded on thigh, these sons of the West
were the pride of the Pacific.
Not one of them would be dismayed at a seven days' ride to Los Angeles.
A day's jaunt to a fandango, a night spent in dancing, a gallop home on
the morrow, was child's play to these young Scythians.
Pleasure-loving, brave, and courteous; hospitable, and fond of their
lovely land--they bore all fatigue in the saddle, yet despised any
manual exertion; patricians all, in blood.
So it has been since man conquered the noblest inferior animal. The man
on the horse always rides down and tramples his brother on foot. Life
is simply a struggle for the saddle, and a choice of the rarest mount in
the race. To-day these gay riders are shadows of a forgotten past.
Before noon Captain Peralta receives the order of the Governor. It
authorizes him to locate his military grant. General Vallejo, with
regret, hands Miguel an order relieving him from duty. He is named
Commandante of the San Joaquin valley, under the slopes of the undefiled
Sierras.
Laden with messages, despatches, and precious letters for the ranches
on the road to the Golden Gate, he departs. These are entrusted to the
veteran sergeant, major-domo and shadow of his beloved master. Miguel
bounds into the saddle. He gayly salutes the Governor and General with
a graceful sweep of his sombrero. He threads the crowded plaza with
adroitness, swaying easily from side to side as he greets sober friend
or demure Donna. He smiles kindly on all the tender-eyed senoritas who
admire the brave soldier, and in their heart of hearts envy Juanita
Castro, the Rose of Alameda.
Alert and courteous, the future bright before him, Peralta gazes on the
Mexican flag fluttering in the breeze. A lump rises in his throat.
His long service is over at last. He doffs his sombrero when the guard
"turns out" for him. It is the last honor.
He cannot foresee that a French frigate will soon lie in the very
bay smiling at his feet, and cover the returning foreigner with her
batteries.
In two short years, sturdy old Commodore Jones will blunder along with
the American liners, CYANE and UNITED STATES, and haul down that proud
Mexican ensign. He will hoist for the first time, on October, 19, 1842,
the stars and stripes over the town. Even though he apologizes, the
foreigners will troop back there like wolves around the dying bison of
the west. The pines on Santa Cruz whisper of a coming day of change. The
daybreak of the age of gold draws near.
Steadily through the live-oaks and fragrant cypress the bridegroom
rides to the wedding. A few days' social rejoicings, then away to
the beautiful forests of his new ranch. It lies far in the hills of
Mariposa. There, fair as a garden of the Lord, the grassy knolls of the
foothills melt into the golden wild-oat fields of the San Joaquin.
Behind him, to the east, the virgin forest rises to the serrated peaks
of the Nevada. He drops his bridle on his horse's neck. He dreams of a
day when he can visit the unknown ca¤ons beyond his new home.
Several Ute chiefs have described giant forests of big trees. They tell
of a great gorge of awful majesty; that far toward the headwaters of the
American are sparkling lakes fed by winter snows.
His escort of young bloods rides behind him. They have had their morning
gymnastics, "a cheval," to edify the laughing beauties of the baile of
last night. The imprisoned rooster, buried to the neck in soft earth,
has been charged on and captured gaily. Races whiled away their waiting
moments.
Then, "adios, se¤oritas," with heart-pangs in chorus. After a toss of
aguardiente, the cigarito is lit. The beaux ride out for a glimpse of
the white cliffs of the Golden Gate. The sleeping Monterey belles dream
yet of yester-even. Nature smiles, a fearless virgin, with open arms.
Each rancho offers hospitality. Money payments are unknown here yet, in
such matters.
Down the Santa Clara avenue of great willows these friends ride in the
hush of a starry evening. As the mission shows its lights, musical bells
proclaim the vesper service. Their soft echoes are wafted to the ears of
these devotees.
Devoutly the caballeros dismount. They kneel on the tiled floor till the
evening service ends.
Miguel's heart sinks while he thinks of the missions. He bows in prayer.
Neglected vineyards and general decay reign over the deserted mission
lands.
It is years since Hijar scattered the missions, He paralyzed the work of
the Padres. Already Santa Clara's gardens are wasted. Snarling coyotes
prowl to the very walls of the enclosures left to the Padres.
Priest and acolytes quit the altar. Miguel sadly leaves the church. Over
a white stone on the sward his foot pauses. There rests one of his best
friends--Padre Pacheco--passed beyond these earthly troubles to eternal
rest and peace. The mandate of persecution can never drive away that
dead shepherd. He rests with his flock around him.
Hijar seized upon the acres of the Church. He came down like the feudal
barons in England. Ghostly memories cling yet around these old missions.
"When the lord of the hill, Amundeville,
Made Norman church his prey,
And expelled the friars, one friar still
Would not be driven away."
So here the sacred glebe was held by a faithful sentinel. His gravestone
flashed a white protest against violence. In the struggle between sword
and cowl, the first victory is with the sword; not always the last. Time
has its revenges.
Padre Hinojosa, the incumbent, welcomes the Captain. There is cheer for
the travellers. Well-crusted bottles of mission claret await them. The
tired riders seek the early repose of primitive communities.
Beside the fire (for the fog sweeps coldly over the Coast Range)
the priest and his guest exchange confidences. Captain Peralta is
an official bulletin. The other priest is summoned away to a dying
penitent. The halls of the once crowded residence of the clergy re-echo
strangely the footsteps of the few servants.
By the embers the man of the sword and he of the gown lament these days.
They are pregnant with trouble. The directing influence of the Padres is
now absent. Peralta confides to Hinojosa that jealousy and intrigue
will soon breed civil warfare. Micheltorrena is now conspiring against
Alvarado. Peralta seeks a secluded home in the forests of Mariposa.
He desires to gain a stronghold where he can elude both domestic and
foreign foes.
"Don Miguel," the padre begins, "in our records we have notes of a
Philippine galleon, the SAN AUGUSTIN, laden with the spoils of the
East. She was washed ashore in 1579, tempest tossed at the Golden Gate.
Viscaino found this wreck in 1602. Now I have studied much. I feel that
the Americans will gradually work west, overland, and will rule us.
Our brothers destroyed the missions. They would have Christianized
the patient Indians, teaching them industries. Books tell me even the
Apaches were peaceful till the Spanish soldiers attacked them. Now from
their hills they defy the whole Mexican army." The good priest sighed.
"Our work is ruined. I shall lay my bones here, but I see the trade
of the East following that lonely wrecked galleon, and a young people
growing up. The Dons will go." Bestowing a blessing on his guest, the
padre sought his breviary. Priest and soldier slept in quiet. To-day the
old padre's vision is realized. The treasures of the East pour into
the Golden Gate. His simple heart would have been happy to know that
thousands of Catholics pause reverently at his tomb covered with the
roses of Santa Clara.
CHAPTER II.
AT THE PRESIDIO OF SAN FRANCISCO.---WEDDING CHIMES FROM THE MISSION
DOLORES.---LAGUNITAS RANCHO.
Golden lances pierced the haze over the hills, waking the padre betimes
next morning. Already the sacristan was ringing his call.
The caballeros were kneeling when the Indian choir raised the chants.
When mass ended, the "mozos" scoured the potrero, driving in the
chargers. Commandante Peralta lingered a half hour at the priest's
house. There, the flowers bloom in a natural tangle.
The quadrangle is deserted; while the soldier lingers, the priest runs
over the broken chain of missions. He recounts the losses of Mother
Church---seventeen missions in Lower California, twenty-one all told
in Alta California, with all their riches confiscated. The "pious
fund"--monument of the faithful dead--swept into the Mexican coffers.
The struggle of intellect against political greed looks hopeless.
The friends sadly exchange fears. The bridegroom reminds the priest that
shelter will be always his at the new rancho.
Peralta's plunging roan frets now in the "paseo." After a blessing, the
Commandante briskly pushes over the oak openings, toward the marshes of
the bay. His shadow, the old sergeant, ambles alongside. Pearly mists
rise from the bay. Far to the northeast Mount Diablo uplifts its
peaked summit. From the western ridges balsamic odors of redwoods float
lightly.
Down by the marshes countless snipe, duck, geese, and curlew tempt the
absent sportsman.
The traveller easily overtakes his escort. They have been trying all the
arts of the vaquero. Past hills where startled buck and doe gaze until
they gracefully bound into the covert, the riders pursue the lonely
trail. Devoid of talk, they follow the shore, sweeping for six hours
over the hills, toward the Mission Dolores. Another hour brings them to
the Presidio.
This fort is the only safeguard of the State; a battery of ship guns is
a mere symbol of power.
In the quadrangle two companies of native soldiers and a detachment of
artillery constitute the feeble garrison. Don Miguel Peralta canters up
to the Commandante's residence.
Evening parade is over. Listless sentinels drag over their posts with
the true military laziness.
Peralta is intent upon affairs both of head and heart. His comrade, the
Commandante, sits late with him in sage counsel. A train follows from
Monterey, with stores for the settlement. Sundry cargoes of gifts for
the fair Juanita, which the one Pacific emporium of Monterey alone could
furnish, are moving. Miguel bears an order for a detail of a sergeant
and ten men, a nucleus of a force in the San Joaquin. Barges and a
shallop are needed to transport supplies up the river. By couriers,
invitations are to be sent to all the clans not represented at the
Monterey gathering.
The priests of the mission must also be visited and prepared for
the wedding. Miguel's heart softens. He thinks of his bright-eyed
Californian bride waiting in her home, soon to be Seftora Peralta.
In twenty days Don Miguel arranges his inland voyage. While his
assistants speed abroad, he pays visits of ceremony to the clergy and
his lovely bride.
The great day of his life arrives. Clad in rich uniform, he crosses to
the eastern shore. A breeze of morning moves. The planet of love is on
high. It is only the sun tinting the bay with golden gleams. Never a,
steamer yet has ploughed these silent waters.
Morning's purple folds Tamalpais in a magic mantle. Rolling surges break
on the bar outside the Golden Gate. Don Miguel, attended by friends,
receives his bride, the Rose of Alameda. Shallops wait. The merry party
sails for the western shore. Fluttering flags decorate this little navy
of San Francisco.
Merry laughter floats from boat to boat. The tinkle of the guitar sounds
gaily. Two hours end this first voyage of a new life.
At the embarcadero of Yerba Buena the party descends. They are met by a
procession of all the notables of the mission and Presidio. Hardy riders
and ladies, staid matrons and blooming senoritas, have gathered also
from Santa Clara, Napa, and Sonoma. The one government brig is crowded
with a merry party from Monterey.
The broad "camino real" sweeps three miles over sand dunes to the
mission. Past willow-shaded lakes, through stunted live-oak groves, the
wedding cavalcade advances. The poverty of the "mozo" admits of a horse.
Even the humblest admirer of Don Miguel to-day is in the saddle. No one
in California walks.
With courtly grace the warrior rides by his bride. Juanita Castro is a
true Spanish senorita. Blest with the beauty of youth and the modesty of
the Castilian, the Rose of Alameda has the blush of her garden blossoms
on her virgin cheek. She walks a queen. She rides as only the maids of
Alta California can.
The shining white walls of the mission are near. Eager eyes watch in the
belfry whence the chimes proclaim the great event. To the west the Coast
Range hides the blue Pacific. Rolling sand hills mask the Presidio. East
and south the panorama of shore and mountain frames the jewel of the
West, fair San Francisco bay.
Soldiers, traders, dull-eyed Indians, and joyous retainers crowd the
approaches.
The cortege halts at the official residence. Soon the dark-eyed bride
is arrayed in her simple white robes. Attended by her friends, Juanita
enters the house of the Lord. Don Luis Castro supports the bride, who
meets at the altar her spouse. Priests and their trains file in. The
fateful words are said.
Then the girl-wife on her liege lord's arm enters the residence of the
Padres; a sumptuous California breakfast awaits the "gente de razon."
Clangor of bells, firing of guns, vivas and popular clamor follow the
party.
The humbler people are all regaled at neighboring "casas."
In the home of the Padres, the nuptial feast makes glad the gathered
notables. The clergy are the life of this occasion. They know when to
lay by the austerity of official robes. From old to young, all hearts
are merry.
Alcaldes, officials, and baronial rancheros--all have gathered for this
popular wedding.
Carrillos, Del Valles, Sepulvedas, Arguellos, Avilas, Ortegas, Estradas,
Martinez, Aguirres and Dominguez are represented by chiefs and ladies.
Beakers of mission vintages are drained in honor of the brave and fair.
When the sun slopes toward the hills, the leaders escort the happy
couple to the Presidio. The Commandante and his bride begin their path
in life. It leads toward that yet unbuilt home in the wild hills of
Mariposa. With quaint garb, rich trappings, and its bright color, the
train lends an air of middle-age romance to the landscape.
Knightly blood, customs, and manners linger yet in the "dolce far
niente" of this unwaked paradise of the Occident. Sweetly sound the
notes of the famous sacred mission bell. It was cast and blessed at
far Mendoza in Spain, in 1192. Generations and tens of generations have
faded into shadowy myths of the past since it waked first the Spanish
echoes. Kings and crowns, even countries, have passed into history's
shadowy night since it first rang out. The cunning artificer, D.
Monterei, piously inscribed it with the name of "San Franisco." Mingled
gold and silver alone were melted for its making. Its sacred use saved
the precious treasure many times from robbers. Six hundred and fifty
years that mellow voice has warned the faithful to prayer. Pride and
treasure of the Franciscans, it followed the "conquistadores" to Mexico.
It rang its peal solemnly at San Diego, when, on July 1, 1769, the
cross of the blessed Redeemer was raised. The shores of California were
claimed for God by the apostolic representative, sainted Friar Junipero
Serra. In that year two babes were born far over the wild Atlantic, one
destined to wrap the world in flame, and the other to break down the
mightiest modern empire of the sword. It was the natal year of Napoleon
Bonaparte, the child imperially crowned by nature, and that iron chief,
Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington.
The old bell sounded its first call to the faithful on San Francisco
Bay, in 1776. It was but a few months after the American colonists gave
to wondering humanity their impassioned plea for a world's liberty--the
immortal Declaration of the Fourth of July.
No merrier peal ever sounded from its vibrant throat than the rich notes
following Miguel Peralta and his lovely Rose of Alameda.
Revelry reigns at the Presidio; Commandante Peralta's quarters are open.
Music and brightest eyes mark the closing of this day. In late watches
the sentinels remember the feast as they pace their rounds, for none are
forgotten in largesse.
Fair Juanita learns to love the dainty title of Senora. Light is her
heart as she leaves for the Hills.
Don Miguel's barges already are on the San Joaquin. The cattle have
reached their potreros on the Mariposa. Artificer and "peon" are
preparing a shelter for the lord of the grant.
Donna Juanita waves her hand in fond adieu as the schooner glides across
to Alameda. Here Commandante Miguel has a report of the arrival of his
trains.
From the Castros' home, Juanita rides out toward the San Joaquin.
Great commotion enlivens the hacienda. Pack-trains are laden with every
requisite--tents, hammocks, attendants, waiting-women and retainers are
provided.
Winding out of the meadows of the Alameda, eastwardly over the Coast
Range defiles, the train advances. Even here "los ladrones" (thieves
of animals) are the forerunners of foreign robbers. Guards watch the
bride's slumbers.
Star-lit nights make the journey easy. It is the rainless summer time;
no sound save the congress of the coyotes, or the notes of the mountain
owl, disturbs the dreams of the campers.
Don Miguel, in happiest mood, canters beside his wife. The party has
its scouts far in advance. Resting places in fragrant woods, with pure
brooks and tender grass, mark the care of the outriders.
Over the Coast Range Juanita finds a land of delightful promise. Far
away the rich valley of the San Joaquin sweeps. Rolling hills lie on
either side, golden tinted with the ripening wild oats. Messengers join
the party with auspicious reports.
Down the San Joaquin plains the train winds. Here Senora Peralta is in
merry mood; hundreds of stately elk swing tossing antlers, dashing away
to the willows. Gray deer spring over brook and fallen tree, led by
some giant leader. Pigeons, grouse, doves, and quail cleave the air with
sudden alarm. Gorgeous in his painted plumage, the wood duck whirrs away
over the slow gliding San Joaquin. Swan and wild geese cover the little
islands.
There are morning vocal concerts of a feathered orchestra. They wake the
slumbering bride long before Don Miguel calls his swarthy retainers to
the day's march.
By night, in the valley, the sentinels watch for the yellow California
lions, who delight to prey on the animals of the train. Wild-cats,
lynx, the beaver and raccoon scuttle away surprised by this invasion of
Nature's own game preserves.
It is with some terror that the young wife sees a display of native
horsemanship. Lumbering across the pathway of the train a huge grizzly
bear attracts the dare-devils. Bruin rises on his haunches; he snorts
in disdain. A quickly cast lariat encircles one paw. He throws himself
down. Another lasso catches his leg. As he rolls and tugs, other fatal
loops drop, as skilfully aimed as if he were only a helpless bullock.
Growling, rolling, biting, and tearing, he cannot break or loosen the
rawhide ropes. When he madly tries to pull in one, the agile horses
strain upon the others. He is firmly entangled. The giant bear is
tightly bound.
Donna Juanita, her lord by her side, laughs at the dreaded "oso." She
enjoys the antics of the horsemen. They sport with their enemy. After
the fun ends, Bruin receives a gunshot. Choice cuts are added to the
camp menu.
The bear, panther, and rattlesnake are the only dangers of the
Californian woods.
Days of travel bring the hills of Mariposa into view. Here the monarchs
of the forest rise in air; their wild harps are swept by the cool
breezes of the Sierras. Tall, stately redwoods, swathed in rich, soft,
fibrous bark, tower to the skies. Brave oaks spread their arms to
shelter the doe and her fawns. The madrona, with greenest leaf and
pungent berry, stands here. Hazels, willows, and cottonwoods follow the
water. Bald knolls are studded with manzanita, its red berry in harvest
now. Sturdy groves of wild plum adorn the hillsides. Grouse and squirrel
enjoy their annual feast.
The journey is over. When the train winds around a sweeping range, Don
Miguel nears his wife. The San Joaquin is studded with graceful clumps
of evergreen. In its bosom a lake shines like a diamond. The Don
uncovers smilingly. "Mi querida, there lies your home, Lagunitas," he
murmurs.
Sweet Juanita's eyes beam on her husband. She says softly, "How
beautiful!"
It is truly a royal domain. From the lake the ten leagues square of the
Commandante's land are a panorama of varying beauties. Stretching back
into the pathless forests, game, timber, wood, and building stones are
at hand; a never-failing water supply for thousands of cattle is here.
To the front, right, and left, hill pastures and broad fields give every
variety of acreage.
Blithely the young wife spurs her favorite steed over the turf. She
nears the quarters. The old sergeant is the seneschal of this domain. He
greets the new arrivals.
With stately courtesy the Commandante lifts his bride from her charger.
The hegira is over. The occupation of arranging abodes for all is the
first task. Already the cattle, sheep, and horses are fattening on the
prairie grasses. Peons are sawing lumber. A detachment is making bricks
for the houses. These are one-storied mansions with wide porches,
beloved by the Californians; to-day the most comfortable homes in
the West. Quaintly superstitious, the natives build so for fear of
earthquakes. Corrals, pens, and sheds have been first labors of the
advance guard. The stores and supplies are all housed.
Don Miguel left the choice of the mansion site to his Juanita. Together
they visit the different points of vantage. Soon the hacienda rises in
solid, fort-like simplicity.
The bride at Lagunitas strives to aid her companion. She shyly expresses
her preferences. All is at her bidding.
Don Miguel erects his ranch establishment in a military style. It is at
once a square stronghold and mansion shaded with ample porches. Corrals
for horses, pens for sheep, make up his constructions for the first
year. Already the herds are increasing under the eyes of his retainers.
The Commandante has learned that no manual work can be expected of his
Californian followers, except equestrian duties of guarding and riding.
A flash of mother-wit leads him to bring a hundred mission Indians from
the bay. They bear the brunt of mechanical toil.
Autumn finds Lagunitas Rancho in bloom. Mild weather favors all. Stores
and supplies are brought from San Francisco Bay.
Don Miguel establishes picket stations reaching to the Castro Rancho.
Save that Juanita Peralta sees no more the glories of the Golden Gate,
her life is changed only by her new, married relation. A few treasures
of her girlhood are the sole reminders of her uneventful springtime.
Rides through the forests, and canters over the grassy meadows with her
beloved Miguel, are her chiefest pleasures. Some little trading brings
in the Indians of the Sierras. It amuses the young Donna to see the
bartering of game, furs, forest nuts, wild fruits and fish for the
simple stores of the rancho. No warlike cavaliers of the plains are
these, with Tartar blood in their veins, from Alaskan migration or old
colonization. They have not the skill and mysterious arts of the Aztecs.
These Piute Indians are the lowest order of indigenous tree dwellers.
They live by the chase. Without manufactures, with no language, no arts,
no agriculture, no flocks or herds, these wretches, clad in the skins of
the minor animals, are God's meanest creatures. They live on manzanita
berry meal, pine-nuts, and grasshoppers. Bows and flint-headed arrows
are their only weapons. They snare the smaller animals. The defenceless
deer yield to their stealthy tracking. The giant grizzly and panther
affright them. They cannot battle with "Ursus ferox."
Unable to cope with the Mexican intruders, these degraded tribes are
also an easy prey to disease. They live without general intercourse, and
lurk in the foothills, or hide in the ca¤ons.
Juanita finds the Indian women peaceable, absolutely ignorant, and yet
tender to their offspring. The babes are carried in wicker baskets
on their backs. A little weaving and basket-making comprise all their
feminine arts. Rudest skin clothing covers their stunted forms.
Don Miguel encourages the visits of these wild tribes. He intends to use
them as a fringe of faithful retainers between him and the Americans.
They will warn him of any approach through the Sierras of the accursed
Yankee.
The Commandante, reared in a land without manufactures or artisans,
regarding only his flocks and herds, cherishes his military pride in
firmly holding the San Joaquin for the authorities. He never turns aside
to examine the resources of his domain. The degraded character of the
Indians near him prevents any knowledge of the great interior. They do
not speak the language of his semi-civilized mission laborers from the
Coast Range. They cannot communicate with the superior tribes of the
North and East. All their dialects are different.
Vaguely float in his memory old stories of the giant trees and the
great gorge of the Yosemite. He will visit yet the glistening and secret
summits of the Sierras.
Weeks run into months. Comfort and plenty reign at Lagunitas. With his
wife by his side, Miguel cons his occasional despatches. He promises the
Seflora that the spring shall see a chapel erected. When he makes the
official visit to the Annual Council, he will bring a padre, at once
friend, spiritual father, and physician. It is the first sign of a
higher life--the little chapel of Mariposa.
Winter winds sway the giant pines of the forests. Rains of heaven swell
the San Joaquin. The summer golden brown gives way to the velvety green
of early spring.
Juanita meekly tells her beads. With her women she waits the day when
the bell shall call to prayer in Mariposa.
Wandering by Lagunitas, the wife strays in fancy to far lands beyond
the ocean. The books of her girlhood have given her only a misty idea
of Europe. The awe with which she has listened to the Padres throws a
glamour of magic around these recitals of that fairy world beyond the
seas.
Her life is bounded by the social horizon of her family circle; she is
only the chatelaine. Her domain is princely, but no hope clings in her
breast of aught beside a faded middle age. Her beauty hides itself under
the simple robe of the Californian matron. Visitors are rare in this
lovely wilderness. The annual rodeo will bring the vaqueros together.
Some travelling officials may reach the San Joaquin. The one bright
possibility of her life is a future visit to the seashore.
Spring casts its mantle of wild flowers again over the hillocks. The
rich grass waves high in the potreros; the linnets sing blithely in the
rose-bushes. Loyal Don Miguel, who always keeps his word, girds himself
for a journey to the distant Presidio. The chapel is finished. He will
return with the looked-for padre.
Leaving the sergeant in command, Don Miguel, with a few followers,
speeds to the seashore. Five days' swinging ride suffices the soldier
to reach tide-water. He is overjoyed to find that his relatives have
determined to plant a family stronghold on the San Joaquin. This will
give society to the dark-eyed beauty by the Lagunitas who waits eagerly
for her Miguel's return.
At the Presidio the Commandante is feasted. In a few days his business
is over. Riding over to the Mission Dolores, he finds a missionary
priest from Acapulco. He is self-devoted to labor. Father Francisco
Ribaut is only twenty-five years of age. Born in New Orleans, he has
taken holy orders. After a stay in Mexico, the young enthusiast reaches
the shores of the distant Pacific.
Commandante Miguel is delighted. Francisco Ribaut is of French blood,
graceful and kindly. The Fathers of the mission hasten to provide the
needs of Lagunitas chapel.
The barges are loaded with supplies, councils and business despatched.
Padre Francisco and Don Miguel reach the glens of Mariposa in the lovely
days when bird, bud, and blossom make Lagunitas a fairyland. In the mind
of the veteran but one care lingers--future war. Already the feuds of
Alvarado and Micheltorrena presage a series of domestic broils. Don
Miguel hears that foreigners are plotting to return to the coast; they
will come back under the protection of foreign war-ships. As his horse
bounds over the turf, the soldier resolves to keep out of this coming
conflict; he will guard his hard-won heritage. By their camp fire,
Padre Francisco has told him of the Americans wrenching Texas away from
Mexico. The news of the world is imparted to him. He asks the padre if
the Gringos can ever reach the Pacific.
"As sure as those stars slope to the west," says the priest, pointing
to Orion, gleaming jewel-like in the clear skies of the Californian
evening.
The don muses. This prophecy rankles in his heart. He fears to ask
further. He fears these Yankees.
Joy reigns at Lagunitas! A heartfelt welcome awaits the priest, a
rapturous greeting for Don Miguel. The grassy Alamedas are starred with
golden poppies. Roses adorn the garden walks of the young wife. Her
pensive eyes have watched the valley anxiously for her lord.
Padre Francisco hastens to consecrate the chapel. The Virgin Mother
spreads her sainted arms on high. A school for the Indians soon occupies
the priest.
Months roll around. The peace and prosperity of the rancho are emulated
by the new station in the valley.
Don Miguel rides over the mountains often in the duties of his position.
Up and down the inland basin bronzed horsemen sweep over the untenanted
regions, locating new settlements. San Joaquin valley slowly comes under
man's dominion.
Patriot, pioneer, and leader, the Commandante travels from Sutter's
Fort to Los Angeles. He goes away light-hearted. The young wife has a
bright-eyed girl to fondle when the chief is in the saddle.
Happiness fills the parents' hearts. The baptism occasions the greatest
feast of Lagunitas. But, from the coast, as fall draws near, rumors of
trouble disturb the San Joaquin.
Though the Russians are about to leave the seacoast, still Swiss Sutter
has taken foothold on the Sacramento. The adherents of Micheltorrena and
Alvarado are preparing for war in the early spring. To leave Lagunitas
is impossible. The Indian tribes are untrustworthy. They show signs of
aggressiveness. Father Ribaut finds the Indians of the Sierras a century
behind those of the coast. They are devoid of spiritual ideas. Contact
with traders, and association with wild sea rovers, have given the
Indians of the shore much of the groundwork of practical civilization.
To his alarm, Don Miguel sees the Indians becoming treacherous. He
discovers they make voyages to the distant posts, where they obtain guns
and ammunition.
In view of danger, the Commandante trains his men. The old soldier sighs
to think that the struggle may break out between divided factions of
native Californians. The foreigners may gain foothold in California
while its real owners quarrel.
The second winter at Lagunitas gives way to spring. Rapidly increasing
herds need for their care all the force of the ranch.
From the coast plentiful supplies provided by the Commandante arrive.
With them comes the news of the return of the foreigners. They are
convoyed by a French frigate, and on the demand of the British consul at
Acapulco they are admitted. This is grave news.
Donna Juanita and the padre try to smooth the gloomy brow of Don Miguel.
All in vain. The "pernicious foreigner" is once more on the shores of
Alta California. The Mexican eagle flutters listlessly over the sea
gates of the great West. The serpent coils of foreign conspiracy are
twining around it.
CHAPTER III.
A MISSING SENTINEL.---FREMONT'S CAMP.
"Quien Vive!" A sentinel's challenge rings out. The sounds are borne
away on the night wind sweeping Gavilan Peak. No response. March breezes
drive the salty fog from Monterey Bay into the eyes of the soldier
shivering in the silent hours before dawn.
"Only a coyote or a mountain wolf," mutters Maxime Valois. He resumes
his tramp along the rocky ramparts of the Californian Coast Range.
His eyes are strained to pierce the night. He waits, his finger on the
trigger of his Kentucky rifle.
Surely something was creeping toward him from the chaparral. No: another
illusion. Pride keeps him from calling for help. Three-score dauntless
"pathfinders" are sleeping here around intrepid Fremont.
It is early March in 1846. Over in the valley the herd-guard watch the
animals. "No, not an Indian," mutters the sentinel. "They would stampede
the horses at once. No Mexican would brave death here," muses Valois.
Only a boy of twenty, he is a veteran already. He feels for his revolver
and knife. He knows he can defy any sneaking Californian.
"It must be some beast," he concludes, as he stumbles along the
wind-swept path. Maxime Valois dreams of his far-away home on the "Lower
Coast," near New Orleans. He wanders along, half asleep. This hillside
is no magnolia grove.
It is but a year since he joined the great "Pathfinder's" third voyage
over the lonely American Desert. He has toiled across to the Great Salt
Lake, down the dreary Humboldt, and over the snowy Sierras.
Down by Walker's Lake the "pathfinders" have crept into the valley of
California. As he shields his face from biting winds, he can see again
the panorama of the great plains, billowy hills, and broad vistas,
tantalizing in their deceptive nearness. Thundering herds of buffalo and
all the wild chivalry of the Sioux and Cheyennes sweep before him. The
majestic forests of the West have darkened his way. The Great Salt
Lake, a lonely inland sea; Lake Tahoe, a beautiful jewel set in snowy
mountains; and its fairy sisters near Truckee--all these pass before his
mental vision.
But the youth is tired. Onward ever, like the "Wandering Jew," still to
the West with Fremont.
Pride and hot southern blood nerve him in conflicts with the fierce
savages. Dashing among the buffalo, he has ridden in many a wild chase
where a single stumble meant death. His rifle has rung the knell of elk
and bear, of wolf and panther.
These varied excitements repaid the long days of march, but the
Louisianian is mercurial. Homeward wander his thoughts.
Hemmed in, with starvation near, in the Sierras, he welcomes this
forlorn-hope march to the sea. Fremont with a picked squad has swept
down to Sutter's Fort to send succor to the remaining "voyageurs."
But the exploring march to Oregon, and back East by the southern road,
appalls him. He is tired now. He would be free. As a mere volunteer, he
can depart as soon as the frigate PORTSMOUTH arrives at Monterey. He
is tired of Western adventures. Kit Carson, Aleck Godey, and Dick Owens
have taught him their border lore. They all love the young Southerner.
The party are now on the defensive. Maxime Valois knows that General
Jose Castro has forbidden them to march toward Los Angeles. Governor Pio
Pico is gathering his army to overawe "los Americanos."
Little does Valois think that the guns of Palo Alto and Resaca de la
Palma will soon usher in the Mexican war. The "pathfinders" are cut off
from home news. He will join the American fleet, soon expected.
He will land at Acapulco, and ride over to the city of Mexico. From
Vera Cruz he can reach New Orleans and the old Valois plantation, "Belle
Etoile." The magnolias' fragrance call him back to-night.
Another rustle of the bushes. Clinging to his rifle, he peers into the
gloom. How long these waiting hours! The gleaming stars have dipped
into the far Pacific. The weird hours of the night watch are ending.
Ha! Surely that was a crouching form in the arroyo. Shall he fire? No.
Another deception of night. How often the trees have seemed to move
toward him! Dark beings fancifully seemed to creep upon him. Nameless
terrors always haunt these night hours.
To be laughed at on rousing the camp? Never! But his inner nature
tingles now with the mysterious thrill of danger. Eagerly he scans his
post. The bleak blasts have benumbed his senses.
Far away to the graceful groves and Gallic beauties of Belle Etoile his
truant thoughts will fly once more. He wonders why he threw up his law
studies under his uncle, Judge Valois, to rove in this wilderness.
Reading the exploits of Fremont fascinated the gallant lad.
As his foot falls wearily, the flame of his enthusiasm flickers very
low.
Turning at the end of his post he starts in alarm. Whizz! around his
neck settles a pliant coil, cast twenty yards, like lightning. His cry
for help is only a gurgle. The lasso draws tight. Dark forms dart from
the chaparral. A rough hand stifles him. His arms are bound. A gag is
forced in his mouth. Dragged into the bushes, his unknown captors have
him under cover.
The boy feels with rage and shame his arms taken from his belt. His
rifle is gone. A knife presses his throat. He understands the savage
hiss, "Vamos adelante, Gringo!" The party dash through the chaparral.
Valois, bruised and helpless, reflects that his immediate death seems
not to be his captors' will. Will the camp be attacked? Who are these?
The bitter words show them to be Jose Castro's scouts. Is there a force
near? Will they attack? All is silent.
In a few minutes an opening is reached. Horses are there. Forced to
mount, Maxime Valois rides away, a dozen guards around him. Grim
riders in scrapes and broad sombreros are his escort. The guns on their
shoulders and their jingling machetes prove them native cavalry.
For half an hour Valois is busy keeping his seat in the saddle. These
are no amiable captors. The lad's heart is sad. He speaks Spanish as
fluently as his native French. Every word is familiar.
A camp-fire flickers in the live-oaks. He is bidden to dismount. The
lair of the guerillas is safe from view of the "pathfinders."
The east shows glimmers of dawn. The prisoner warms his chilled bones at
the fire. He sees a score of bronzed faces scowling at him. Preparations
for a meal are hastened. A swarthy soldier, half-bandit, half-Cossack in
bearing, tells him roughly to eat. They must be off.
Maxime already realizes he has been designedly kidnapped. His capture
may provide information for Castro's flying columns. These have
paralleled their movements, from a distance, for several weeks. Aware
of the ferocity of these rancheros, he obeys instantly each order. He
feigns ignorance of the language. Tortillas, beans, some venison,
with water, make up the meal. It is now day. Valois eats. He knows his
ordeal. He throws himself down for a rest. He divines the journey will
be hurried. A score of horses are here tied to the trees. In a half hour
half of these are lazily saddled. Squatted around, the soldiers keep a
morose silence, puffing the corn-husk cigarette. The leader gives rapid
directions. Valois now recalls his locality as best he can. Fremont's
camp on Gavilan Peak commands the Pajaro, Salinas, and Santa Clara. A
bright sun peeps over the hills. If taken west, his destination must
be Monterey; if south, probably Los Angeles; and if north, either San
Francisco Bay or the Sacramento, the headquarters of the forces of Alta
California.
Dragged like a beast from his post, leaving the lines unguarded! What
a disgrace! Bitterly does he remember his reveries of the home he may
never again see.
The party mounts. Two men lead up a tame horse without bridle. The
leader approaches and searches him. All his belongings fill the
saddle-pouches of the chief. A rough gesture bids him mount the horse,
whose lariat is tied to a guard's saddle. Valois rages in despair as the
guard taps his own revolver. Death on the slightest suspicious movement,
is the meaning of that sign.
With rough adieus the party strike out eastwardly toward the San
Joaquin. Steadily following the lope of the taciturn leader, they wind
down Pacheco Pass. Valois' eyes rove over the beautiful hills of the
Californian coast. Squirrels chatter on the live-oak branches, and the
drumming grouse noisily burst out of their manzanita feeding bushes.
Onward, guided by distant peak and pass, they thread the trail. No word
is spoken save some gruff order. Maxime's captors have the hang-dog
manner of the Californian. They loll on their mustangs, lazily worrying
out the long hours. A rest is taken for food at noon. The horses are
herded an hour or so and the advance resumed.
Nightfall finds Valois in a squalid adobe house, thirty miles from
Gavilan Peak. An old scrape is thrown him. His couch is the mud floor.
The youth sleeps heavily. His last remembrance is the surly wish of a
guard that Commandante Miguel Peralta will hang the accursed Gringo.
At daybreak he is roused by a carelessly applied foot. The dejected
"pathfinder" begins his second day of captivity. He fears to converse.
He is warned with curses to keep silent. In the long day Maxime
concludes that the Mexicans suspect treachery by Captain Fremont's
"armed exploration in the name of science."
These officials hate new-comers. Valois had been, like other gilded
youth of New Orleans, sent to Paris by his opulent family. He knows the
absorbing interest of the South in Western matters. Stern old Tom Benton
indicated truly the onward march of the resistless American. In his
famous speech, while the senatorial finger pointed toward California,
he said with true inspiration: "There is the East; there is the road to
India."
All the adventurers of the South are ready to stream to the West. Maxime
knows the jealous Californian officials. The particulars of Fremont's
voyage of 1842 to the Rockies, and his crossing to California in 1843,
are now history. His return on the quest, each time with stronger
parties and a more formidable armament, is ominous. It warns the local
hidalgos that the closed doors of the West must yield to the daring
touch of the American---manifest destiny.
The enemy are hovering around the "pathfinders" entrenched on the hills;
they will try to frighten them into return, and drive them out of the
regions of Alta California. Some sly Californian may even contrive an
Indian attack to obliterate them.
Valois fears not the ultimate fate of the friends he has been torn away
from. The adventurous boy knows he will be missed at daybreak. The camp
will be on the alert to meet the enemy. Their keen-eyed scouts can read
the story of his being lassoed and carried away from the traces of the
deed.
The young rover concludes he is to be taken before some superior
officer, some soldier charged with defending Upper California. This view
is confirmed. Down into the valley of the San Joaquin the feet of the
agile mustangs bear the jaded travellers.
They cross the San Joaquin on a raft, swimming their horses. Valois sees
nothing yet to hint his impending fate. Far away the rich green billows
of spring grass wave in the warm sun. Thousands of elk wander in
antlered armies over the meadows. Gay dancing yellow antelope bound
over the elastic turf. Clouds of wild fowl, from the stately swan to the
little flighty snipe, crowd the tule marshes of this silent river. It is
the hunter's paradise. Wild cattle, in sleek condition, toss their heads
and point their long, polished horns. Mustangs, fleet as the winds,
bound along, disdaining their meaner brethren, bowing under man's yoke.
At the occasional mud-walled ranches, vast flocks of fat sheep whiten
the hills.
Maxime mentally maps the route he travels. Alas! no chance of escape
exists. At the first open attempt a rifle-ball, or a blow from a
razor-edged machete, would end his earthly wanderings. Despised, shunned
by even the wretched women at the squalid ranchos, he feels utterly
alone. The half-naked children timidly flee from him. The wicked eyes of
his guards never leave him. He knows a feeling animates the squad, that
he would be well off their hands by a use of the first handy limb and
a knotted lariat. The taciturn chief watches over him. He guards an
ominous silence.
The cavalcade, after seven days, are in sight of the purpled outlines
of the sculptured Sierras. They rise heavenward to the sparkling crested
pinnacles where Bret Harte's poet fancy sees in long years after the
"minarets of snow." Valley oaks give way to the stately pines. Olive
masses of enormous redwoods wrap the rising foot-hills. Groves of
laurel, acorn oak, and madrona shelter the clinging panther and the grim
warden of the Sierras, the ferocious grizzly bear.
Over flashing, bounding mountain brooks, cut up with great ledges of
blue bed rock, they splash. Here the silvery salmon and patrician trout
leap out from the ripples to glide into the great hollowed pools, yet
the weary cavalcade presses on. Will they never stop?
Maxime Valois' haggard face looks back at him from the mirrored waters
of the Cottonwood, the Merced, and the Mariposa. The prisoner sees there
only the worn features of his strangely altered self. He catches no
gleam of the unreaped golden harvest lying under the feet of the wild
mustangs. These are the treasure channels of the golden West.
The mountain gnomes of this mystic wilderness are already in terror lest
some fortunate fool may utter the one magic word, "Gold." It will call
greedy thousands from the uttermost parts of the earth to break the
seals of ages, and burrow far below these mountain bases. Through
stubborn granite wall, tough porphyry, ringing quartz, and bedded
gnarled gneiss, men will grope for the feathery, fairy veins of the
yellow metal.
A feverish quest for gold alone can wake the dreamy "dolce far niente"
of the Pacific. God's fairest realm invites the foot of man in vain.
Here the yellow grains will be harvested, which buy the smiles of
beauty, blunt the sword of justice, and tempt the wavering conscience
of young and old. It will bring the human herd to one grovelling
level--human swine rooting after the concrete token of power. Here, in
later years, the wicked arm of power will be given golden hammers to
beat down all before it. Here will that generation arise wherein the
golden helmet can dignify the idle and empty pate.
Maxime, now desperate, is ready for any fate. Only let this long ride
cease. Sweeping around the hills, for the first time he sees the square
courtyard, the walled casas of the rancho of Lagunitas.
By the shores of the flashing mountain lake, with the rich valley
sweeping out before it, it lies in peace. The fragrant forest throws out
gallant flanking wings of embattled trees. It is the residence of the
lord of ten leagues square. This is the great Peralta Rancho.
In wintering in the San Joaquin, Maxime has often heard of the fabulous
wealth and power of this inland chieftain. Don Miguel Peralta is
Commandante of the San Joaquin. By a fortunate marriage he is related to
Jose Castro, the warlike Commandante general of Pio Pico--a man of mark
now. Thousands of cattle and horses, with great armies of sheep, are
herded by his semi-military vaqueros. The young explorer easily divines
now the reason of his abduction.
The party dismounts. While the sergeant seeks the major-domo, Valois'
wondering eye gazes on the beauties of lake and forest. Field and
garden, bower and rose-laden trellises lie before him. The rich autumn
sun will ripen here deep-dyed clusters of the sweet mission grapes. It
is a lordly heritage, and yet his prison. Broad porches surround the
plaza. There swinging hammocks, saddled steeds, and waiting retainers
indicate the headquarters of the Californian Don.
Maxime looks with ill-restrained hatred at his fierce guards. They squat
on the steps and eye him viciously. He is under the muzzle of his own
pistol. It is their day of triumph.
Dragging across the plaza, with jingling spur, trailing leggings, and
sombrero pushed back on his head, the sergeant comes. He points out
Maxime to a companion. The new-comer conducts the American prisoner to
a roughly furnished room. A rawhide bed and a few benches constitute its
equipment. A heavy door is locked on him. The prisoner throws himself on
the hard couch and sleeps. He is wakened by an Indian girl bringing
food and water. Some blankets are carelessly tossed in by a "mozo." The
wanderer sleeps till the birds are carolling loudly in the trees.
Hark! a bell! He springs to the window. Valois sees a little chapel,
with its wooden cross planted in front. Is there a priest here? The
boy is of the old faith. He looks for a possible friend in the padre.
Blessed bell of peace and hope!
Sturdy and serious is the major-domo who briskly enters Valois' room.
"Do you speak Spanish?" he flatly demands in that musical tongue.
"Yes," says Maxime, without hesitation. He knows no subterfuge will
avail. His wits must guard his head.
"Give me your name, rank, and story," demands the steward.
Valois briefs his life history.
"You will be taken to the Commandante. I advise you not to forget
yourself; you may find a lariat around your neck." With which admonition
the major-domo leaves. He tosses Maxime a bunch of cigaritos, and offers
him a light ere going, with some show of courtesy.
Valois builds no fallacious hopes on this slender concession. He knows
the strange Mexicans. They would postpone a military execution if the
condemned asked for a smoke.
Facing his fate, Maxime decides, while crossing the plaza, to conceal
nothing. He can honorably tell his story. Foreigners have been
gathering in California for years. The Commandante can easily test his
disclosures, so lying would be useless. He believes either a British or
American fleet will soon occupy California. The signs of the times have
been unmistakable since the last return of the foreigners. Will he live
to see the day? "Quien sabe?"
Maxime sees a stern man of fifty seated in his official presence room.
Commandante Miguel Peralta is clad in his undress cavalry uniform. The
sergeant captor is in attendance, while at the door an armed sentinel
hovers. This is the wolf's den. Maxime is wary and serious.
"You are a Yankee, young man," begins the soldier. Maxime Valois' Creole
blood stirs in his veins.
"I am an American, Senor Commandante, from New Orleans. No Yankee!"
he hotly answers, forgetting prudence. Peralta opens his eyes in vague
wonder. No Yankee? He questions the rash prisoner. Valois tells the
facts of Fremont's situation, but he firmly says he knows nothing of his
future plans.
"Why so?" demands Peralta. "Are you a common soldier?" Maxime explains
his position as a volunteer.
A pressing inquest follows. Maxime's frankness touches the Commandante
favorably. "I will see you in a day or so. I shall hold you as a
prisoner till I know if your chief means war. I may want you as an
interpreter if I take the field."
"Sergeant," he commands.
The captor salutes his chief.
"Has this young man told me the truth?"
"As far as I know, Senior Don Miguel," is the reply.
"See that he has all he wants. Keep him watched. If he behaves himself,
let him move around. He is not to talk to any one. If he tries to
escape, shoot him. If he wants to see me, let me know."
The Commandante lights a Mexican cigar, and signs to the sergeant to
remove his prisoner. Maxime sees a score of soldiers wandering around
the sunny plaza, where a dozen fleet horses stand saddled. He feels
escape is hopeless. As he moves to the door, the chapel bell rings out
again, and with a sudden inspiration he halts.
"Senior Commandante, can I see the priest?" he asks.
"What for?" sharply demands the officer.
"I am a Catholic, and would like to talk to him."
Don Miguel Peralta gazes in wonder. "A Gringo and a Catholic! I will
tell him to see you."
Valois is reconducted to his abode. He leaves a puzzled Commandante, who
cannot believe that any despised "Gringo" can be of the true faith. He
has only seen the down-east hide traders, who are regarded as heathen by
the orthodox Dons of the Pacific.
Don Miguel knows not that the mariners from Salem and the whalers of New
England hold different religious views from the impassioned Creoles of
the Crescent City.
The prisoner's eye catches the black robe of the priest fluttering among
the rose walks of the garden. Walking with him is a lady, while a pretty
girl of seven or eight years plays in the shady bowers.
The sergeant gruffly fulfils the orders of his chief. Maxime is given
the articles needed for his immediate use. He fears now, at least, a
long captivity, but a war may bring his doom suddenly on him.
There is an air of authority in Miguel Peralta's eye, which is a
guarantee of honor, as well as a personal menace. His detention will
depend on the actions of the besieged Fremont.
Valois prays that bloodshed may not occur. His slender chances hang now
on a peaceable solution of the question of this Yankee visit.
There have been days in the dreary winter, when Maxime Valois has
tried to divine the future of the magnificent realm he traverses.
His education and birth gave him the companionship of the scientific
subordinates of the party. His services claimed friendly treatment of
the three engineer officers in command. That the American flag will
finally reach the western ocean he doubts not. Born in the South, waited
upon by patrimonial slaves, he is attached to the "peculiar institution"
which throws its dark shadow on the flag of this country. Already
statesmen of the party have discussed the question of the extension of
slavery. Maxime Valois knows that the line of the Missouri Compromise
will here give a splendid new southern star to the flag south of 36 deg
30 min. In the long, idle hours of camp chat, he has laughingly
pledged he would bring a band of sable retainers to this western terra
incognita. He dreamed of establishing a great plantation, but the prison
cell shatters these foolish notions.
He marvels at his romantic year's experience. Was it to languish in a
lonely prison life on the far Pacific, that he left the gay circle at
far-off Belle Etoile? Worn with fatigue, harassed with loneliness, a
prisoner among strangers, Maxime Valois' heart fails him. Sinking on the
couch, he buries his head in his hands.
No present ray of hope cheers the solitary American. He raises his eyes
to see the thoughtful face of a young priest at the door of his prison
room.
CHAPTER IV.
HELD BY THE ENEMY.--"THE BEAR FLAG."
The padre bends searching eyes on the youth as the door opens. The
priest's serious face heightens his thirty-five years. He is worn by
toil as a missionary among the tribes of the Gila--the Apaches and the
wild and brutal Mojaves. Here, among the Piute hill dwellers, his
task is hopeless. This spiritual soil is indeed stony. Called from the
society of Donna Juanita and his laughing pupil, merry Dolores, he comes
to test the religious faith of the young freebooter--Yankee and Catholic
at once.
Maxime's downcast appearance disarms the padre. Not such a terrible
fire-eater! He savors not of infidel Cape Cod.
"My son, you are in trouble," softly says the padre. It is the first
kind word Maxime has heard. The boy's heart is full, so he speaks freely
to the mild-mannered visitor. Padre Francisco listens to the recital.
His eyes sparkle strangely when Valois speaks of New Orleans.
"Then you understand French?" cries the padre joyously.
"It is my native tongue," rejoins Valois proudly.
"My name before I took orders was Franois Ribaut," says the overjoyed
father. "Hold! I must see Don Miguel. I am a Frenchman myself." He flies
over the plaza, his long robe fluttering behind him. His quickened steps
prove a friendly interest. Maxima's heart swells within him. The beloved
language has unlocked the priestly heart.
In five minutes the curate is back. "Come with me, 'mon fils,'" he
says. Guided by the priest, Maxime leaves his prison, its unlocked door
swinging open. They reach the head of the square.
By the chapel is Padre Francisco's house, school-room, and office. A
sacristy chamber connects chapel and dwelling.
The missionary leads the way to the chancel, and points to the altar
rails.
"I will leave you," he whispers.
There, on his knees, where the wondering Indians gaze in awe of the face
on the Most Blessed Virgin, Maxime thanks God for this friend raised up
to him in adversity.
He rejoins the missionary on the rose-shaded porch. In friendly commune
he answers every eager query of the padre. The priest finds Maxime
familiar with Paris. It is manna in the wilderness to this lonely man of
God to speak of the beloved scenes of his youth.
After the Angelus, Maxime rests in the swinging hammock. The priest
confers with the Commandante. His face is hopeful on returning. "My poor
boy," he says, "I gained one favor. Don Miguel allows me to keep you
here. He loves not the American. Promise me, my son, on the blessed
crucifix, that you will not escape. You must not aid the American troops
in any way; on this hangs your life."
These words show that under the priest's frock beats yet the gallant
heart of the French gentleman. Maxima solemnly promises. The good father
sits under the vines, a happy man.
Day by day the new friends stroll by the lake. Seated where below them
the valley shines in all its bravery of spring, surrounded with
the sighing pines, Padre Francisco tells of the resentment of the
Californians toward all Americans. They are all "Gringos," "thieving
Yankees."
"Be careful, my son, even here. Our wild vaqueros have waylaid and
tortured to death some foreigners. The Diggers, Utes, and Hill Indians
butcher any wanderer. Keep closely under my protection. Don Miguel
adores Donna Juanita, sweet Christian lady! She will lend me aid; you
are thus safe. If your people leave the Hawk's Peak without a battle,
our cavalry will not take the field; we expect couriers momentarily.
Should fighting begin, Don Miguel will lead his troops. He will then
take you as guide or interpreter; God alone must guard you." The man of
peace crosses himself in sadness. "Meanwhile, I will soften the heart of
Don Miguel."
Maxime learns of the padre's youth. Educated for the Church after a
boyhood spent in Paris, he sailed for Vera Cruz. He has been for years
among the Pacific Indians. He familiarized himself with the Spanish
language and this western life in Mexico. Stout-hearted Padre Francisco
worked from mission to mission till he found his self-chosen field in
California.
The "pathfinder" sees the decadence of priestly influence. Twenty-one
flourishing missions have been secularized by Governor Hijar since 1834.
Now the superior coast tribes are scattered, and the civilizing work
since 1769 is all lost to human progress. In glowing words Padre
Francisco tells of idle farms, confiscated flocks, and ruined works of
utility. Beautiful San Luis Rey is crumbling to decay. Its bells hang
silent. The olive and vine scatter their neglected fruits. The Padres
are driven off to Mexico. The pious fund is in profane coffers. San
Juan Capistrano shines out a lonely ruin in the southern moonlight.
The oranges of San Gabriel now feed only the fox and coyote. Civil
dissension and wars of ambitious leaders follow the seizure of the
missions. Strangers have pillaged the religious settlements. All is
relapsing into savagery. In a few stations, like Monterey, Santa Clara,
Santa Barbara, and Yerba Buena, a lonely shepherd watches a diminished
flock; but the grand mission system is ruined.
"Does not the Government need the missions?" queries Maxime.
"Ah! my son, Sonoma and San Rafael are kept up to watch the Russians at
Fort Ross. Sutter menaces us at New Helvetia. I can see the little cloud
of the future, which will break one day in storm."
"Whence comes it, father?" queries the prisoner.
"From the United States," replies the padre. "Our whole political system
is paralyzed. The Americans have supported the Texans in battle. That
splendid land is dropping away from Mexico. We will lose this glorious
land, and our beloved flag will go down forever. The Government
sleeps, and the people will be ruined. There are two thousand scattered
foreigners here to-day. They gain daily: we weaken hourly. When your
people in numbers follow such leaders as your gallant captain over the
plains, we will lose this land also."
The padre sighed. His years of hard endeavor are wasted, the fruits are
wanting, his labor is vain.
"Why is not your Government more vigorous?" says the stranger.
"My son, our pastoral life builds up no resources of this great land.
The young men will not work; they only ride around. Flocks and herds
alone will not develop this paradise. The distance from Mexico has
broken the force of the laws. In fifty-five years of Spanish rule and
twenty-three more of Mexican, we have had twenty-two different rulers.
The old families have lost their loyalty, and they now fight each other
for supremacy. All is discord and confusion in Alta California."
"And the result?" questions Maxime.
"Either England or the United States will sweep us off forever," mourns
the padre. He addresses himself to his beads. Bright sunlight wakes
Maxime with the birds. The matin bell rings out. He rises refreshed by
the father's hospitality.
During the day Valois measures the generosity of Padre Francisco. A
few treasured books enable Maxime to amuse himself. As yet he dares not
venture out of the garden.
The sound of clattering hoofs causes the prisoner to drop his volume.
He sits enjoying a flask of ripe claret, for he is broken down and needs
recruiting.
A courier spurs his foam-covered horse up to the Commandante's porch.
Panting and staggering, the poor beast shows the abuse of a merciless
rider. The messenger's heels are adorned with two inch spiked wheels,
bloody with spurring the jaded beast.
Peace or war? Maxime's heart beats violently. He prudently withdraws.
The wild soldiery gather on the plaza. His guards are there with his own
weapons, proudly displayed.
The Southerner chafes in helplessness. Could he but have his own horse
and those weapons, he would meet any two of them in the open. They are
now clamoring against the Gringos. Soon the courier reappears. All is
bustle and shouting. Far away, on the rich knolls, Maxime sees fleet
riders gathering up the horses nearest the ranch. When Padre Francisco
arrives from his morning lessons, a troop of vaqueros are arrayed on the
plaza.
"The news?" eagerly queries Maxime.
"Thanks be to God!" says the padre, "Fremont has broken camp after
five days' stay at the Hawk's Peak. He is moving north. There has been
skirmishing, but no battle. Don Miguel is sending a company to watch
their march, and will attack if they menace any of our sentinels. The
Americans may, however, go into Oregon, or back over the mountains. The
Commandante will keep his main force in the valley. If they turn back,
he will dispute their passage. You will be kept here."
Valois gazes on the departure. He takes an informal adieu of those
trusty weapons which have been with him in so many scenes of danger.
The last files sweep down the trail. Lagunitas Lake smiles peacefully
from its bowers. The war clouds have rolled north.
As days glide by, the priest and his youthful charge grow into each
other's hearts. Padre Francisco is young enough still to have some
flowers of memory blossoming over the stone walls of his indomitable
heart. Maxime learns the story of his early life. He listens to the
padre's romantic recitals of the different lands he has strayed over.
Couriers arrive daily with news of Fremont's whirling march northward.
The explorer travels like a Cossack in simplicity. He rides with the
sweep of the old Tartars. Cool, wary and resolute, the "Pathfinder"
manoeuvres to baffle clumsy Castro. He may yet elude his pursuers, or
cut his way out.
Don Miguel steadily refuses to see Maxime. Through the padre, Maxime
receives any necessary messages or questions.
The Louisianian learns that all the foreigners are in commotion.
Peralta's spies bring rumors of war vessels expected, both English and
American.
In New Helvetia, in Sonoma, at Monterey, and in Yerba Buena, guided
by the most resolute, the aliens are quietly arming; they are secretly
organizing.
March wears away into April. The breath of May is wafted down in spicy
odors from the forests.
Fremont is away hiding where the great Sacramento River mountains break
into the gorgeous canyons of its headwaters. Will he never turn?
The padre, now unreservedly friendly, tells Maxime that Castro fears to
attack Fremont in the open field. He has sent Indian runners to stir up
the wild Klamath, Snake River, and Oregon Indians against the Americans.
This is serious. Should the explorers receive a check there, they would
retreat; then the guerillas would cut them off easily.
Padre Francisco fears for the result. He tells Maxime that bands of
fierce vaqueros are riding the roads; they have already butchered
straggling foreigners. A general war of extermination may sweep from
Sonoma to San Diego.
Valois' weary eyes have roved from mountain to valley for many days.
Will he ever regain his liberty? A few morning walks with the padre, and
a stroll by the waters of Lagunitas, are his only liberties.
The priest is busy daily with the instruction of little Dolores. The
child's sweet, dancing eyes belie her mournful name. Valois has passed
quiet Donna Juanita often in the garden walks. A light bending of her
head is her only answer to the young man's respectful salutation. She,
too, fears and distrusts all Americans.
The roses have faded from her cheeks too early. It is the hard lot of
the California lady. Though wealth of lands in broad leagues dotted with
thousands of cattle, horses, and sheep is hers, this daughter of an old
feudal house has dreamed away a lonely life. It is devoid of all social
pleasures since she became the first lady of Lagunitas.
Colorless and sad is her daily life. Denied society by her isolation,
she is yet too proud to associate with her women dependants.
Her lord is away often in the field. His days are spent galloping over
his broad domains. There is no intellectual life, no change of day and
day. The years have silently buried themselves, with no crown of happy
memories. She left her merry home at the Alameda shore of the great
bay to be the lonely lady of this distant domain. Her narrow nature has
settled into imitative and mechanical devotion, a sad, cold faith.
Youthful lack of education has not been repaired by any individual
experience of life. Maternity has been a mere physical epoch of her
dreary womanhood. The current of her days in narrow channels sluggishly
flows toward its close.
Even the laughing child runs away from the young "pathfinder." She
furtively peers at him from the shelter of the graceful vines and rose
bowers of her playground.
Maxime has exhausted the slender library of his friend. In the peaceful
evening hours he listens to weird stories of the lonely land of the Far
West--early discovery, zealous monkish exploration, daring voyages in
trackless unknown seas, and the descent of curious strangers. Bold Sir
Francis Drake, Cabrillo, Viscaino, Portala, the good Junipero Serra of
sainted memory, live again in these recitals.
Day by day passes. No news from the Americans at bay in the wilds of the
Klamath. By courier the Don has heard of Castro's feeble moves. He toils
along with his cavalry, guns, and foot soldiers, whom Fremont defied
from behind the rocky slopes of Hawk's Peak. The foreigners are all
conspiring.
A cloud of government agents are scouring the valleys for aid to send a
column to attack Fremont. It had been a pride of Don Miguel's military
career to assist warlike Vallejo to drive the foreigners from Monterey
in 1840. He is ready for the fray again.
The Commandante gnashed his teeth when he heard, in 1842, at Lagunitas,
that the strangers had returned. He remembers the shameful day of
October 19, 1842, when the Yankee frigates covered Monterey with their
guns, while Commodore Jones hoisted the stars and stripes for a day or
so. Always before the English.
Though it was disowned, this act showed how easily the defenceless coast
could be ravaged. Many times did he thank the Blessed Virgin that his
domain was far away in the inland basin. There his precious herds are
safe from the invader.
There is danger for Valois in the Commandante's scowl when the saddest
May day of his life comes. A rider on relay horses hands him a fateful
despatch.
"Curse the Gringos!" He strikes his table till the glasses ring.
There are five huge Yankee war vessels in Monterey harbor. It is too
true. This time they have come to stay. Padre Francisco softly makes his
exit. He keeps Maxime in cover for a day or so.
Bit by bit, the details come to light. The SAVANNAH, PORTSMOUTH, CYANE,
LEVANT, and CONGRESS bear the flag of Commodore Sloat. This force can
crush any native army. All communication by sea with Mexico is now cut
off. The Californian Government is paralyzed.
Worse and worse, the wild Klamath warriors have failed in their midnight
dash on Fremont. He is now swinging down the valley--a new danger to
Maxime.
What means all this? The perplexed Don knows not what to do. From his
outposts come menacing news. The battery of the PORTSMOUTH commands the
town of Yerba Buena. San Diego, too, is under American guns. The CYANE
is victorious there, and the CONGRESS holds San Pedro. The political
fabric is so slight that its coming fall gives no sign. The veteran
Commandante receives an order to march, with every available man, to
join General Castro. He feels even his own domains are now in danger.
He communes long with the padre. He musters every vaquero for their last
campaign under the Mexican eagle.
Miguel Peralta growls with rage. He learns the English liner COLLINGWOOD
has arrived, a day or so too late--only another enemy. Still, better
temporary English rule than the long reign of the grasping Yankee. The
Don's self-interest, in alarm, is in the logical right this time.
How shall he protect his property? What will he do with his family? He
knows that behind him the great Sierras wall the awful depths of
the Yosemite. The gloomy forests of the big trees appall the stray
traveller. The Utes are merciless in the day of their advantage, and the
American war vessels cut off all escape by sea to Mexico. All the towns
near the ocean are rendezvous of defiant foreigners, now madly exultant.
To the north is the enemy he is going out to fight.
Padre Francisco advises him to leave the rancho in his charge. He begs
him to even let the young American prisoner remain.
Lagunitas may be seized, yet private property will be respected. Young
Valois may be a help to considerate treatment. After council with his
frightened spouse, Don Miguel rides off to the rendezvous near Santa
Clara. He curbs his passion from prudence only, for he was on the point
of making Valois a human tassel for a live-oak limb.
The padre breaths freer.
Day after day elapses. Under a small body-guard both the padre and
Maxime ride the domain in freedom. Juanita Peralta shuts herself up
in the gloomy mansion, where she tells her beads in the shadow of the
coming defeats.
Rich and lovely Lagunitas is yet out of the theatre of action. Its
lonely inhabitants hear of the now rapid march of events, but only
defeated riders wander in with heavy tidings.
Fremont has whirled back once more and controls Suiter's Fort and
Sonoma. The ablest general of California is powerless. Gallant Vallejo
is now a prisoner. His scanty cannons and arms are all taken. Castro's
cavalry are broken up or captured. Everywhere the foreigners gather for
concerted action. It is a partisan warfare.
Don Miguel's sullen bulletins tell of Castro's futile attempt to get
north of the bay. Since Cabrillo was foiled in landing at Mendocino in
1543, the first royal flag floating over this "No Man's Land" was Good
Queen Bess's standard, set up in 1579 by dashing Sir Francis Drake.
He landed from the Golden Hind. In 1602 the Spanish ensign floated on
December 10 at Monterey; in 1822 the third national ensign was unfurled,
the beloved Mexican eagle-bearing banner. It now flutters to its
downfall.
Don Miguel warns the padre that the rude "bear flag" of the revolted
foreigners victoriously floats at Sonoma. It was raised on July 4, 1846.
Castro and Pio Pico are driven away from the coast. They only hold the
Santa Clara valley and the interior. There is but one depot of arms in
the country now; it is a hidden store at San Juan. Far away in Illinois,
a near relative of the painter and hoister of the "bear flag" is a
struggling lawyer. Todd's obscure boyhood friend, Abraham Lincoln, is
destined to be the martyr ruler of the United States. A new star will
shine in the stars and stripes for California, in a bloody civil war,
far off yet in the mystic future.
In the narrow theatre where the decaying Latin system is falling, under
Anglo-Saxon self-assertion, the stern logic of events teaches Don Miguel
better lessons. His wild riders may as well sheathe their useless swords
as fight against fate.
The first blood is drawn at Petaluma. A declaration of independence,
rude in form, but grimly effective in scope, is given out by the "bear
flag" party. Fremont joins and commands them. The Presidio batteries at
San Francisco are spiked by Fremont and daring Kit Carson, The cannon
and arms of Castro are soon taken. On July 7, Captain Mervine, with two
hundred and fifty blue-jackets, raises the flag of the United States
at Monterey. Its hills reecho twenty-one guns in salvo from Sloat's
squadron.
On the 8th, Montgomery throws the national starry emblem to the breeze
at the Golden Gates of San Francisco. The old PORTSMOUTH'S heavy cannon
roar their notes of triumph.
Valois remains lonely and inactive at Lagunitas. His priestly friend
warns him that he would be assassinated at any halting place if he
tried to join his friends. In fact, he conceals his presence from any
wayfaring, Yankee-hunting guerillas.
Don Miguel is bound by his military oath to keep the field. A returning
straggler brings the crushing news that the San Juan military depot has
been captured by a smart dash of the American volunteers under Fremont
and Gillespie. And San Diego has fallen now. The bitter news of the
Mexican War is heard from the Rio Grande. A new sorrow!
Broken-hearted Don Miguel bravely clings to his flag. He marches south
with Castro and Pico, The long weeks wear along. The arrival of General
Kearney, and the occupation of San Diego and Los Angeles, are the
prelude to the last effort made for the honor of the Mexican ensign.
Months drag away. The early winter finds Don Miguel still missing.
Commodore Stockton, now in command of the powerful fleet, reinforces
Fremont and Gillespie. The battles of San Gabriel and the Mesa teach the
wild Californians what bitter foes their invaders can be. The treaty of
Coenga at last ends the unequal strife. The stars and stripes wave over
the yet unmeasured boundaries of the golden West. The Dons are in the
conquerors' hands. After the fatal day of January 16, 1847, defeated
and despairing of the future of his race, war-worn Miguel Peralta,
Commandante no longer, with a few followers rides over the Tehachape. He
descends the San Joaquin to his imperilled domain.
With useless valor he has thrown himself into the fire of the Americans
at the battles near Los Angeles, but death will not come to him. He
must live to be one of the last Dons. The defeats of Mexico sadden and
embitter him. General Scott is fighting up to the old palaces of the
Montezumas with his ever victorious army.
In these stormy winter days, when the sheeted rain drives down from the
pine-clad Sierras, Donna Juanita day by day turns her passive face in
mute inquiry to the padre. She has the sense of a new burden to bear.
Her narrow nature contracts yet a little with a sense of wounded native
pride.
In all her wedded years her martial lord has always returned in victory.
Fandango and feast, "baile" and rejoicings, have made the woodland
echoes ring.
The growing Dolores mopes in the lonely mansion. She demands her absent
father daily.
Before the troopers of Lagunitas return with their humbled chieftain,
a squad of mounted American volunteers ride up and take possession.
For the first time in its history the foreigner is master here, Though
personally unknown to these mixed revolutionists, Maxime Valois is free
to go in safety.
While he makes acquaintance with his fellow "patriots," the advance
riders of Don Miguel announce his home-coming. It is a sad day when the
Commandante dismounts at his own door. There is a sentinel there. He
lives to be only a sullen, brooding protest in the face of an accidental
progress.
Standing on his porch he can see the "mozos," under requisition,
gathering up his choicest horses by the fifties. They are destined for
the necessary remount of the victors.
After greeting his patient helpmeet, henceforth to be the partner of his
sorrows, he sends for the padre and his major-domo. He takes on himself
the only dignity left to his defeated pride, practical self-isolation.
He bears in his bosom this rankling thorn--the hated Fremont he rode
out to bring in a captive, is now "His Excellency John C. Fremont," the
first American governor of California.
With his flocks and herds scattered, his cattle and horses under heavy
requisition, his cup is full. He moodily curses the Gringo, and wishes
that the rifle-ball which wounded him at San Gabriel had reached the
core of his proud old heart.
From all sides come fugitives with news of the Americanization of the
towns. The inland communities are reorganized. His only friend is
the Padre, to whose patient ear he confides the story of the hopeless
campaign. With prophetic pessimism he sees the downfall of the native
families.
Three months have made Larkin, Redding, Ide, Sutter, Semple, Merritt,
Bidwell, Leese, and Lassen the leading men of the day. The victorious
military and naval chiefs, Sloat, Stockton, Montgomery, Fremont,
Kearney, Halleck, and Gillespie are now men of history. All the
functions of government are in the hands of American army or navy
officers. The fall of the beloved Mexican banner is as light and
unmarked as the descent of the drifting pine-needles torn from the
swaying branches of the storm-swept forest kings around him.
His settled gloom casts a shadow over Lagunitas. The padre has lost his
scholars. The converts of the dull Indian tribes have fled to the hills,
leaving the major-domo helpless. All is in domestic anarchy. At last the
volunteers are leaving.
When the detachment is ready to depart, Maxime Valois is puzzled. The
Mexican War raging, prevents his homeward voyage as planned. It will be
months before the war vessels will sail. If allowed to embark on them,
he will be left, after doubling Cape Horn, a stranger in the north,
penniless. Why not stay?
Yet the shelter of Lagunitas is his no more. The maddened Don will not
see an American on the bare lands left to him. His herds and flocks are
levied on to feed the troops.
Many an hour does the youth confer with Franois Ribaut. The priest is
dependent on his patron. The Church fabric is swept away, for Church and
state went down together. With only one friend in the State, Valois must
now quit his place of enforced idleness.
The meagre news tells him the Fremont party is scattered. He has no
claims on the American Government. But Fremont has blossomed into a
governor. He will seek him. Happily, while Maxime Valois deliberates,
the question decides itself. He is offered the hospitality of an escort
back to Santa Clara, from whence he can reach Monterey, San Francisco,
or Los Angeles. In the new State no present avenues are open to a
castaway. His education is practically useless. He is forced to consider
the question of existence. The utmost Padre Francisco can do is to
provide him horse and gear. A few Mexican dollars for the road are not
lacking. The lot of fate is drawn for him by necessity. For the present
he must be a Californian. He cannot leave until the future provides the
means.
When the vigil of the departure comes, the young man is loath to leave
his friend. In their companionship they have grown dear to each other.
The camp of the volunteers is ready for the next day's march. At their
last dinner, the simple cheer of the native wine and a few cigaritos is
all the padre can display.
"Maxime, listen. You are young and talented," the padre begins. "I see
a great community growing up here, This is a land of promise. The
termination of the war ends all tumult. Your fleet holds the coast.
Mexico seems to be under the talons of your eagle. Your nation is
aggressive. It is of high mechanical skill. Your people will pour into
this land and build here a great empire. Your busy Yankees will never
be satisfied with the skeleton wealth of a pastoral life. They will dig,
hew, and build. These bays and rivers will be studded with cities. Go,
my dear friend, to Yerba Buena. I will give you letters to the fathers
of the Mission Dolores. Heaven will direct you after you arrive. You
can communicate with me through them. I shall remain here as long as my
charge continues. If driven out, I shall trust God to safely guide me
to France. When I am worn out, I shall die in peace under the shadows of
Notre Dame."
At the hour of mass Maxime kneels to receive the blessing of the Church.
The volunteers are in the saddle. It is the man, not the priest, who
embraces the freed "pathfinder." Valois' eyes are dim with tears as he
waves the adieu to the missionary. Not a word does Don Miguel vouchsafe
to the departing squad. The aversion of the dwellers in Lagunitas is as
great as their chief's.
Maxime joins the escort on the trail. Runaway sailors, voyageurs, stray
adventurers are they--queer flotsam on the sea of human life. He learns
from them the current stories of the day. He can trace in the mysterious
verbal "order to return," and that never-produced "packet" given to
Fremont by Gillespie, a guiding influence from afar. The appearance of
the strong fleet and the hostilities of Captain Fremont are mysteriously
connected. Was it from Washington these wonders were worked? As they
march, unopposed, over the alamedas of San Joaquin, bearing toward the
Coast Range, they pass under overhanging Mount Diablo. The Louisianian
marvels at the sudden change of so many peaceful explorers into
conquering invaders. Valois suspects Senator Benton of intrigues toward
western conquest. He knows not that somewhere, diplomatically lost
between President Polk and Secretaries Buchanan, Marcy, and Bancroft,
is the true story of this seizure of California. Gillespie's orders were
far in advance of any Mexican hostilities. The fleet and all the actions
of the State, War, and Navy departments prove that some one in high
place knew the Pacific Coast would be subdued and held.
Was it for slavery's added domains these glorious lands were destined?
Maxime is only a pawn in that great game of which the annexation of
Texas, the Mexican War, and California conquest are moves.
Wise, subtle, far-seeing, and not over-scrupulous, the leaders of
southern sentiment, with prophetic alarm, were seeking to neutralize
free-State extension in the Northwest. They wished to link the warmer
climes, newly acquired, to the Union by negro chains. Joying in his
freedom, eager to meet the newer phases of Californian life under the
stars and stripes, Valois rides along. Restored in health, and with the
light heart and high hopes of twenty, he threads the beautiful mountain
passes; for the first time he sees the royal features of San Francisco
Bay, locked by the Golden Gates.
BOOK II.
GOLD FOR ALL.--A NEW STAR IN THE FLAG.
CHAPTER V.
THE GOLDEN MAGNET.--FREE OR SLAVE?
Maxine Valois marvels not that the old navigators missed the Golden
Gate. It was easy to pass the land-locked bay, with its arterial rivers,
the Sacramento and San Joaquin. Fate hung a foggy curtain on the outside
bar. Greenest velvet sward now carpets the Alameda hills. It is a balmy
March day of 1847. The proceeds of his horse and trappings give the
youth less than a hundred dollars--his whole fortune.
The Louisianian exile, with the world before him, is now a picture of
manly symmetry. Graceful, well-knit physique, dark hair and eyes, and
his soft, impassioned speech, betray the Franco-American of the
Gulf States. While gazing on the glories of Tamalpais and the wooded
mountains of Marin, he notes the little mission under the Visitacion
hills. It's a glorious scene. All the world's navies can swing at ease
in this superb bay. The only banner floating here is the ensign at the
peak of the frigate Portsmouth. Interior wanderings give him a glimpse
of the vast areas controlled by this noble sheet of water. Young and
ardent, with a superior education, he may be a ruling spirit of the
new State now about to crystallize. His studies prove how strangely the
finger of Fortune points. It turned aside the prows of Captain Cook, La
Perouse, Vancouver, and the great Behring, as well as the bold
Drake, who tarried within a day's sail at his New Albion. Frenchman,
Englishman, and Russian have been tricked by the fairy goddess of the
mist. The Golden Gates in these later days are locked by the Yankees
from the inside.
Leaping from the boat, Valois tosses his scanty gear on the strand.
It is a deep, curving bay, in later years to be covered with stately
palaces of commerce, far out to where the Portsmouth now lies.
A few huts make up the city of Yerba Buena. Reflecting on his status, he
dares not seek the alcalde, Lieut. Washington Bartlett of the navy.
From his escort he has heard of the many bickerings which have involved
Sloat, Stockton, Fremont, and Kearney.
Trusting to Padre Francisco's letters, he hires a horse of a loitering
half-breed. This native pilots him to the mission.
The priests receive him with open arms. They are glad for news of
their brother of the Sierras. Maxime installs himself as a guest of the
priests. Some current of life will bear him onward--whither he knows
not.
Idle days run into weeks. A motley five or six hundred whites have
gathered. The alcalde begins to fear that the town limits are crowded.
None of the wise men of the epoch dare to dream that in less than three
years two hundred vessels will lie tossing, deserted in the bay; that
the cove will be filled with ships from the four corners of the earth in
five years.
Frowning hills and rolling sand dunes are to be thrown bodily into the
reentrant bay. They are future coverings for sunken hulks. Where for
twenty square miles coyote and fox now howl at night, the covert oaks
and brambles will be shaved off to give way to a city, growing like a
cloud-land vision.
Active and energetic, Valois coasts down to Monterey. He finds Fremont
gone, already on his way east. His soldier wrists are bound with the red
tape of arrest. The puppet of master minds behind the scenes, Fremont
has been a "pathfinder" for others.
Riding moodily, chafing in arrest, at the rear of the overland column,
the explorer receives as much as Columbus, Pizarro, or Maluspina
did--only obloquy. It is the Nemesis of disgrace, avenging the outraged
and conquered Californians.
A dark shade of double dealing hangs around the glories of the capture
of California. The methods used are hardly justified, even by the
national blessings of extension to this ocean threshold of Asian trade.
The descent was planned at Washington to extend the domineering slave
empire of the aspiring South. The secret is out. The way is clear for
the surplus blacks of the South to march in chains to the Pacific under
the so-called "flag of freedom."
Valois discovers at Monterey that no man of the staff of the
"Pathfinder" will be made an official pet, They are all proscribed. The
early fall finds him again under the spell of the bells of the Mission
Dolores. Whither to turn he knows not.
Averse to manual labor, like all Creoles, the lad decides to seek a
return passage on some trader. This will be hardly possible for months.
The Christmas chimes of 1848 sound sadly on his ears.
With no home ties but his uncle, his memories of the parents, lost
in youth, fade away. He feels the bitterness of being a stranger in
a strange land. He is discouraged with an isolated western empire
producing nothing but hides and tallow. He shares the general opinion
that no agriculture can succeed in this rainless summer land of
California. Hardly a plough goes afield. On the half-neglected ranchos
the owners of thousands of cattle have neither milk nor butter. Fruits
and vegetables are unattainable. The mission grapes, olives, and oranges
have died out by reason of fourteen years' neglect. The mechanic arts
are absent. What shall the harvest of this idle land be?
Valois knows the interior Indians will never bear the strain of
development. Lazy and ambitionless, they are incapable of uniting their
tribal forces. Alas for them! They merely cumber the ground.
At the end of January, 1848, a wild commotion agitates the hamlet of San
Francisco. The cry is "Gold! Gold everywhere!" The tidings are at first
whispered, then the tale swells to a loud clamor. In the stampede for
the interior, Maxime Valois is borne away. He seeks the Sacramento, the
Feather, the Yuba, and the American. He too must have gold.
A general hegira occurs. Incoming ships, little settlements, and
the ranches are all deserted, for a wondrous golden harvest is being
gleaned. The tidings go forth over the whole earth. Sail and steam,
trains of creaking wagons, troops of hardy horsemen, are all bent
Westward Ho! Desertion takes the troops and sailors from camp and fleet
pell-mell to the Sacramento valley. A shabby excrescence of tent and
hut swells Yerba Buena to a town. In a few months it leaps into a city's
rank. Over the prairies, toward the sandy Humboldt, long emigrant trains
are crawling toward the golden canyons of the Sierras. The restless
blood of the Mexican War pours across the Gila deserts and the sandy
wastes of the Colorado.
The Creole boy learns that he, too, can work with pick, pan, cradle,
rocker, at the long tom, sluice, and in the tunnel drift. The world is
mad for gold. New York and New Orleans pour shiploads of adventurers in
by Panama and Nicaragua. Sailing vessels from Europe, fleets around the
Horn, vessels from Chile, Mexico, Sandwich Islands, and Australia crowd
each other at the Golden Gates.
In San Francisco six months show ten thousand madmen. Tent, hut, shanty,
shed, even pretentious houses appear. Uncoined nuggets, glittering gold
dust in grains and powder, prove the harvest is real.
The Indians and lazy Californians are crowded out of the diggings. The
superior minds among the priests and rancheros can only explain the long
ignorance of the gold deposits by the absolute brutishness of the
hill tribes. Their knowledge of metals was absolutely nothing. Beyond
flint-headed spears, their bows and arrows, and a few mats, baskets, and
skin robes, they had no arts or useful handicraft. Starving in a land of
plenty, their tribal career never lifted itself a moment from the level
of the brute. And yet gold was the Spaniards' talisman.
The Mexican-descended rancheros should have looked for gold. The
traditions even indicated it. Their hold on the land was only in the
footprints of their horses and cattle.
Had the priests ever examined the interior, had a single military
expedition explored the State with care, the surface gold deposits must
have been stumbled on.
It remains an inexplicable fact, that, as early as 1841, gold was found
in the southern part of the State. In 1843, seventy-five to one hundred
ounces of dust were obtained from the Indians, and sent to Boston via
the Sandwich Island trading ships. Keen old Sir Francis Drake's reports
to good Queen Bess flatly spoke of these yellow treasures. They, too,
were ignored. English apathy! Pouring in from the whole world, bursting
in as a flood of noisy adventurers on the stillness of the lazy land of
the Dons, came the gold hunters of California.
Already, in San Francisco, drinking booth, gambling shop, and haunts of
every villany spring up--the toadstools of a night.
Women throng in to add the incantations of the daughters of Sin to
this mad hurly-burly. Handsome Mexicans, lithe Chilenas, escaped female
convicts, and women of Australia were reinforced by the adventuresses of
New Orleans, Paris, New York, and Liverpool--a motley crowd of Paphian
dames.
Maxime Valois, reaching Suiter's Fort by a launch, falls in with a lank
Missouri lad. His sole property in the world is a rifle and his Pike
county name of Joe Woods. A late arrival with a party of Mexican war
strays, his age and good humor cause the Creole to take him as valuable,
simply because one and one make two. He is a good-humored raw lad.
Together in the broiling sun, half buried under bank or in the
river-beds, they go through the rough evolution of the placer miner's
art.
The two thousand scattered foreigners of the State are ten thousand
before the year is out. Through the canyons, troops of gold seekers now
wander. Sacramento's lovely crystal waters, where the silvery salmon
leap, are tinged with typical yellow colors, deepening every month.
Tents give way to cabins; pack trains of mules and horses wind slowly
over the ridges. Little towns dot the five or six river regions where
the miners toil, and only the defeated are idle.
From San Diego to Sonoma the temporary government is paralyzed. It loses
all control except the fulmination of useless orders.
Local organization occurs by the pressure of numbers. Quaint names and
queer local institutions are born of necessity.
At San Francisco the tower of Babel is duplicated. Polyglot crowds
arrive in the craziest craft. Supplies of every character pour in. Shops
and smiths, workmen of all trades, appear. Already an old steamboat
wheezes on the Sacramento River. Bay Steamers soon vex the untroubled
waters of the harbor. They appear as if by magic.
A fever by day, a revel by night, San Francisco is a caravansera of all
nations. The Argonauts bring with them their pistols and Bibles, their
whiskey and women, their morals and murderers. Crime and intrigues
quickly crop out. The ready knife, and the compact code of Colonel Colt
in six loaded chapters, are applied to the settlement of all quarrels.
While Valois blisters his hands with the pick and shovel, a matchless
strain of good blood is also pouring westward. Young and daring men,
even professional scholars, cool merchants, able artisans, and good
women hopeful of a golden future, come with men finally able to dragoon
these varied masses into order.
Regular communications are established, presses set up, and even
churches appear. Post-office, banks, steamer and freight lines spring up
within the year of the reign of gold. Disease raises its fevered head,
and the physician appears by magic. The human maelstrom settles into an
ebb and flood tide to and from the mines.
All over California keen-eyed men from the West and South begin to
appropriate land. The Eastern and Middle States pilgrims take up trades
and mechanical occupations. All classes contribute recruits to the
scattered thousands of miners. Greedy officials and sly schemers
begin to prey on the vanishing property rights of the Dons. A strange,
unsubstantial social fabric is hastily reared. It clusters around the
western peaks by the Golden Gate.
Missouri, Texas, Arkansas, and Louisiana are sending great contingents.
Mere nearness, with a taste for personal adventure, causes the southern
border element to brave the overland journey. The northwestern overland
travellers are more cautious. They have longer roads to drag over. They
come prepared for farming or trade, as well as rude mining. As soon
as the two lines of Eastern steamers are established, the Eastern and
Middle States send heavy reinforcements. They are largely traders or
permanent settlers. From the first day, the ambitious, overbearing
men of the slave States take the lead in politics. They look to the
extension of their gloomy "institution," negro slavery.
Valois keeps much to himself. Resolutely he saves his golden gleanings.
He avoids the gambling tables and dance-houses. Joe Woods works like a
horse, from mere acquisitiveness. He fondly looks back to a certain
farm in Missouri, where he would fain squire it when rich. Public rumor
announces the great hegira of gold seekers. The rush begins. Horse
stealing, quarrels over claims, personal encounters, rum's lunacy, and
warring opinion cause frequent bloody affrays.
Already scattered mounds rudely marked prove the reign of grim King
Death. His dark empire stretches even here unstayed, unchallenged.
Winter approaches; its floods drive the miners out of the river beds.
Joe Woods has aggregated several Pike County souls, whose claims adjoin
those of the two young associates. Wishing to open communication with
Judge Valois at Belle Etoile, Maxime ceases work. He must recruit for
hardships of the next season. He leaves all in the hands of "partner
Joe," who prefers to camp with his friends, now the "Missouri Company."
Valois is welcome at the Mission Dolores. He can there safely deposit
his splendid savings.
Provided with ample funds of gold dust, in heavy buckskin sacks, to send
up winter supplies, Valois secures his half of the profits. It is in
rudely sealed tin cans of solid gold dust. He is well armed and in good
company. He gladly leaves the human bee-hive by the terrific gorges of
the American River. He has now learned every trick of the mines. By pack
train his treasure moves down to Sacramento. Well mounted, Maxime is
the companion of a score of similarly fortunate returning miners. Name,
nationality, and previous history of these free lances of fortune have
been dropped, like Christian's bundle, on climbing these hills. Every
man can choose for himself a new life here, under the spicy breezes of
the Sierras. He is a law unto himself.
The young gold hunter sees, amazed, a cantonment of ten thousand
people at the bay. He safely conveys his treasure to the priests at
the mission. They are shaken from slumber of their religious routine
by eager Argonauts. Letters from Padre Francisco at Lagunitas prove the
formation of bands of predatory Mexicans. These native Californians
and Indian vagabonds are driving away unguarded stock. They mount their
fierce banditti on the humbled Don's best horses. Coast and valley
are now deserted and ungoverned. The mad rush for gold has led the men
northward.
No one dreams as yet of the great Blue Cement lead, which, from Sierra
to Mariposa, is to unbosom three hundred millions from the beds of the
old, covered geologic rivers. Ten thousand scratch in river bank and
bed for surface gold. Priest and layman, would-be scientist and embryo
experts, ignore the yellow threaded quartz veins buttressing the great
Sierras. He would be a madman now who would think that five hundred
millions will be pounded out of the rusty rocks of these California
hills in less than a score of years.
The toilers have no curiosity as to the origin or mother veins of the
precious metal sought.
Maxime Valois sits under the red-tiled porches of the mission in
January, 1849. He has despatched his first safe consignment of letters
to Belle Etoile. He little cares for the events which have thrown the
exhaustless metal belt of the great West into the reserve assets of the
United States. He knows not it is destined within fifty years to be
the richest land in the world. The dark schemes of slavery's lord-like
statesmen have swept these vast areas into our map. The plotters have
ignored the future colossal returns of gold, silver, copper, and lead.
Not an American has yet caught the real value of the world's most
extensive forests of pine and redwood. They clothe these western slopes
with graceful, unmutilated pageantry of green.
Fisheries and fields which promise great gains are passed unnoticed. It
is a mere pushing out of boundary lines, under the political aggression
of the South.
Even Benton, cheering the departing thousands Westward, grumbles in the
Senate of the United States, on January 26, 1840. As the official news
of the gold discoveries is imparted, the wise senators are blind in
the sunlight of this prosperity. "I regret that we have these mines
in California," Benton says; "but they are there, and I am in favor of
getting rid of them as soon as possible." Wise senator!
Neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet is he. He cannot see that
these slighted mines in the future will be the means of sustaining our
country's credit in a great war. This gold and silver will insure the
construction of the overland railroads. The West and Northwest, sealed
to the Union by bands of steel, will be the mainstay of the land. They
will equalize a broader, grander Union than he ever dreamed of.
Benton little thinks he has found the real solution of the wearying
strife of North and South. Turning the surplus population of these
bitterly opposed sections to the unpeopled West solves the problem. His
son-in-law, Governor Fremont, has been a future peacemaker as well as
a bold pathfinder. For it is on the track of Fremont that thousands
are now tramping west. Their wheels are bearing the household gods.
Civilization to be is on the move. Gold draws these crowds. The gulfs of
the Carribean, even the lonely straits of Magellan and the far Pacific,
are furrowed now by keels seeking the happy land where plentiful gold
awaits every daring adventurer. Martinet military governors cannot
control this embryo empire. Already in Congress bills are introduced to
admit California into the Union. A rising golden star glitters in the
West; it is soon to gild the flag of the Union with a richer radiance.
Great leaders of the sovereign people struggle at Washington in keen
debate, inspired by the hostile sections of the Union. They quarrel over
the slavery interests in the great West. Keen Tom Corwin, loyal Dix,
astute Giddings, Douglass the little giant, and David Wilmot fight
freedom's battle with the great apostle of State rights, Calhoun. He is
supported by President Polk, the facile Secretary of State Buchanan, and
that dark Mississippi man of destiny, Jefferson Davis. The fiery Foote
and all the ardent knights of the day champion the sunny South. Godlike
Daniel Webster pours forth for freedom some of his greatest utterances.
William H. Seward, prophet, seer, statesman, and patriot, with noble
inspirations cheers on freedom's army. Who shall own bright California,
the bond or the free? While these great knights of our country's round
table fight in the tourney of the Senate over this golden prize, Benton
sends back the "pathfinder" Fremont. He is now freed from the army by an
indignant resignation. He bears a letter to Benton's friends in the West
to organize the civil community and prepare a constitution.
While Valois watches for news, the buds and blossoms of early spring
call him back to the American River. The bay whitens with the sails of
arriving thousands. Political combinations begin everywhere. Two years
have made Fremont, Kearney, Colonel Mason, General P. F. Smith, and
General Bennett Riley temporary military governors. Maxime leaves with
ample stores; he rejoins the "Missouri Company," already reaping the
golden harvest of the golden spring.
Sage counsel reaches him from Padre Francisco. He hears with delight of
the youth's success in the mines. The French missionary, with a natural
love of the soil, advises Valois to buy lands as soon as good titles can
be had.
The Mexican War ends in glory to the once despised Gringos. Already the
broad grants of the Dons are coveted by the officials of the military
regency. Several of the officers have already served themselves better
than their country. The entanglements of a new rule amount to practical
confiscation of the lands of the old chieftains. What they saved from
the conqueror is destined later to fatten greedy lawyers.
The spoliated Church is avenged upon the heirs of those who worked its
temporal ruin. For here, while mad thousands delve for the gold of their
desire, the tramping feet of uncontrolled hosts are heard at the gates
of the Sierras. When the fleets give out their hordes of male and
female adventurers, there is no law but that of force or duplicity; no
principle but self-interest. Virtue, worth, and desert meekly bow to
strength. Wealth in its rudest form of sacks of uncoined gold dust rules
the hour.
The spring days lengthen into summer. Maxime Valois recoils from
the physical toil of the rocky bars of the American. His nature is
aristocratic; his youthful prejudices are averse to hand work. Menial
attendance, though only upon himself, is degrading to him. The rough
life of the mines becomes unbearable. A Southerner, par excellence, in
his hatred of the physical familiarity of others, he avails himself of
his good fortune to find a purchaser for his interests. The stream of
new arrivals is a river now, for the old emigrant road of Platte and
Humboldt is delivering an unending human current. Past the eastern
frontier towns of Missouri, the serpentine trains drag steadily west;
their camp fires glitter from "St. Joe" to Fort Bridger; they shine on
the summit lakes of the Sierras, where Donner's party, beset in deepest
snows, died in starvation. They were a type of the human sacrifices of
the overland passage. Skeletons dot the plains now.
By flood and desert, under the stroke of disease, by the Indian tomahawk
and arrow, with every varied accident and mishap, grim Death has taken
his ample toll along three thousand miles. Sioux and Cheyenne, Ute
and Blackfoot, wily Mormon, and every lurking foe have preyed as human
beasts on the caravans. These human fiends emulate the prairie wolf and
the terrific grizzly in thirst for blood.
The gray sands of the burning Colorado desert are whitening with the
bones of many who escaped Comanche and Apache scalping knives, only to
die of fatigue.
By every avenue the crowd pours in. Valois has extended his acquaintance
with the leading miners. He is aware of the political organization about
to be effected. He has now about forty thousand dollars as his share of
gold dust. An offer of thirty thousand more for his claim decides him to
go to San Francisco. He is fairly rich. With that fund he can, as soon
as titles settle, buy a broad rancho. His active mind suggests the
future values of the building lots in the growing city.
He completes the rude formalities of his sale, which consist of signing
a bill of sale of his mining claim, and receiving the price roughly
weighed out in gold. He hears that a convention is soon to organize the
State. On September 1, 1849, at Monterey, the civil fabric of government
will be planned out.
Before he leaves he is made a delegate. Early July, with its tropical
heat, is at hand. The camp on the American is agitated by the necessity
of some better form of government. Among others, Philip Hardin of
Mississippi, a lawyer once, a rich miner now, is named as delegate.
At Sacramento a steamer is loaded to the gunwales with departing
voyagers. Maxime meets some of his fellow delegates already named.
Among them is Hardin of Mississippi. Philip Hardin is a cool, resolute,
hard-faced man of forty. A lawyer of ability, he has forged into
prominence by sheer superiority. The young Creole is glad to meet
some one who knows his beloved New Orleans. As they glide past the
willow-shaded river banks, the two Southerners become confidential over
their cigars.
Valois learns, with surprise, that President Polk sent the polished
Slidell confidentially to Mexico in 1846, and offered several millions
for a cession of California. He also wanted a quit-claim to Texas. This
juggling occurred before General Taylor opened the campaign on the Rio
Grande. In confidential relations with Sidell, Hardin pushed over to
California as soon as the result of the war was evident. Ambitious
and far-seeing, Philip Hardin unfolds the cherished plan of extending
slavery to the West. It must rule below the line of the thirty-sixth
parallel. Hardin is an Aaron Burr in persuasiveness. By the time the
new friends reach San Francisco, Maxime has found his political mentor.
Ambition spurs him on.
Wonders burst upon their eyes. Streets, business houses and hotels,
dwellings and gaudy places of resort, are spread over the rolling
slopes. Valois has written his friends at the mission to hold his
letters. He hastens away to deposit his treasures and gain news of the
old home in the magnolia land.
Hardin has the promise of the young Louisianian to accompany him to
Monterey. A preliminary conference of the southern element in the
convention is arranged. They must give the embryo State a pro-slavery
constitution. He busies himself with gaining a thorough knowledge of the
already forming cabals. Power is to be parcelled out, places are to be
filled. The haughty Mississippian cares more for this excitement than
digging for mere inert treasure. His quick eye catches California's
splendid golden star in the national constellation.
Valois finds he must wait the expected letters. He decides to take no
steps as to investment until the civil power is stable.
With a good mustang he rides the peninsula thoroughly. He visits the
old Presidio on the outskirts of the growing city. He rides far over the
pass of Lake Merced, to where the broken gap in the coast hills leaves a
natural causeway for the railway of the future.
Philip Hardin, fisher of men, is keeping open house near the plaza.
Already his rooms are the headquarters of the fiery chivalry of the
South. Day by day Valois admires the self-assertion of the imperious
lawyer. The Mississippian has already plotted out the situation. He is
concert with leaders like himself, who are looking up and drawing in
their forces for the struggle at the convention.
Valois becomes familiar with the heads of the Northern opposition. Able
and sturdy chiefs are already marshalling the men who come from the
lands of the northern pine to meet in the peaceful political arena the
champions of the palmetto land. Maxime's enthusiasm mounts. The young
Southerner feels the pride of his race burning in his veins.
In his evening hours, under the oaks of the Mission Dolores, he bears
to the calm priests his budget of port and town. He tells of the new
marvellous mines, of the influx of gold hunters. He cannot withhold his
astonishment that the priesthood should not have discovered the gold
deposits. The astute clergy inform him calmly that for years their
inner circles have known of considerable gold in the possession of the
Indians. It was a hope of the Church that some fortunate turn of Mexican
politics might have restored their sway. Alas! It was shattered in 1834
by the relentless Hijar.
"Hijo mio!" says an old padre. "We knew since 1838 that gold was dug
at Franscisquita canyon in the south. If we had the old blessed days of
Church rule, we could have quietly controlled this great treasure
field. But this is now the land of rapine and adventure. First, the old
pearl-fishers in the gulf of California; then the pirates lurking along
the coast, watching the Philippine galleons. When your Americans overran
Texas, and commenced to pour over the plains here, we knew all was
lost. Your people have fought a needless war with Mexico; now they are
swarming in here--a godless race, followed by outcasts of the whole of
Europe. There is no law here but the knife and pistol. Your hordes now
arriving have but one god alone--gold."
The saddened old padre sighs as he gathers his breviary and beads,
seeking his lonely cloister. He is a spectre of a day that is done.
CHAPTER VI.
LIGHTING FREEDOM'S WESTERN LAMP.
Bustling crowds confuse Valois when he rides through San Francisco next
day. One year's Yankee dominion shows a progress greater than the two
hundred and forty-six years of Spanish and Mexican ownership. The
period since Viscaino's sails glittered off Point Reyes has been only
stagnation.
Seventy-three years' droning along under mission rule has ended in
vain repetition of spiritual adjurations to the dullard Indians. To-day
hammer and saw, the shouts of command, the din of trade, the ships of
all nations, and the whistle, tell of the new era of work. The steam
engine is here. The age of faith is past. "Laborare est orare" is the
new motto. Adios, siesta! Enter, speculation.
Dreamy-eyed senoritas in amazement watch the growing town. Hundreds are
throwing the drifted sand dunes into the shallow bay to create level
frontage. Swarthy riders growl a curse as they see the lines of city lot
fences stretching toward the Presidio, mission, and potrero.
Inventive Americans live on hulks and flats, anchored over water lots.
The tide ebbs and flows, yet deep enough to drown the proprietors on
their own tracts, purchased at auction of the alcalde as "water lots."
Water lots, indeed! Twenty years will see these water lots half a mile
inland.
Masonry palaces will find foundations far out beyond where the old CYANE
now lies. Her grinning ports hold Uncle Sam's hushed thunder-bolts. It
is the downfall of the old REGIME.
Shed, tent, house, barrack, hut, dug-out, ship's cabin--everything which
will cover a head from the salt night fog is in service. The Mexican
adobe house disappears. Pretentious hotels and storehouses are quickly
run up in wood. The mails are taking orders to the East for completed
houses to come "around the Horn." Sheet-iron buildings are brought from
England. A cut stone granite bank arrives in blocks from far-off China.
Vessels with flour from Chile, goods from Australia, and supplies from
New York and Boston bring machinery and tools. Flour, saw, and grist
mills are provided. Every luxury is already on the way from Liverpool,
Bordeaux, Havre, Hamburg, Genoa, and Glasgow. These vessels bring swarms
of natives of every clime. They hasten to a land where all are on an
equal footing of open adventure, a land where gold is under every foot.
Without class, aristocracy, history, or social past, California's
"golden days" are of the future.
Strange that in thirty years' residence of the sly Muscovites at Fort
Ross, in the long, idle leisure of the employees of the Hudson Bay
station at Yerba Buena Cove from 1836 to 1846, even with the astute
Swiss Captain Sutter at New Helvetia, all capacities of the fruitful
land have been so strangely ignored.
The slumber of two hundred and fifty years is over. Frenchman, Russian,
Englishman, what opiate's drowsy charms dulled your eager eyes so
long here? Thousands of miles of virgin lands, countless millions of
treasures, royal forests and hills yet to grow under harvest of olive
and vine--all this the mole-like eyes of the olden days have never seen.
Even the Mormons acted with the supine ignorance of the foreigners. They
scorned to pick this jewel up. Judicious Brigham Young from the Great
Salt Lake finally sends emissaries to spy and report. Like the wind
his swift messengers go east to divert strong battalions of the Mormon
converts from Europe, under trusted leaders, to San Francisco. Can he
extend his self-built empire to the Pacific Slope? Brigham may be a new
Mahomet, a newer Napoleon, for he has the genius of both.
Alas! when the Mormon bands arrive, Sam Brannard, their leader, abandons
the new creed of "Mormon" for the newer creed of "Mammon." He becomes a
mercantile giant. The disciples scatter as gold-seekers. California is
lost to the Mormons. Even so! Fate, providence, destiny, or some cold
evolution of necessary order, draws up the blue curtains of the West.
It pins them to our country's flag with a new, glittering star,
"California."
With eager interest Valois joins Philip Hardin. There is a social
fever in the air. His friends are all statesmen in this chrysalis of
territorial development. They are old hands at political intrigue. They
would modestly be senators, governors, and rulers. They would cheerfully
serve a grateful State.
A band of sturdy cavaliers, they ride out, down the bay shores. They
cross the Santa Clara and Salinas valleys toward Monterey.
Valois' easy means enable him to be a leader of the movement. It is to
give a constitution and laws to the embryo State.
Hardy men from the West and South are taking up lands. Cool traders are
buying great tracts. Temporary officials have eager eyes fixed on
the Mexican grants. At all the landings and along the new roads, once
trails, little settlements are springing up, for your unlucky argonaut
turns to the nearest avocation; inns, stables, lodging-houses and
trading-tents are waited on by men of every calling and profession. Each
wanderer turns to the easiest way of amassing wealth. The settlers must
devise all their own institutions. The Mexicans idly wrap their serapes
around them, and they avoid all contact with the hated foreigner. Beyond
watching their flocks and herds, they take no part in the energetic
development. Cigarito in mouth, card playing or watching the sports of
the mounted cavaliers are their occupations. Dismounted in future years,
these queer equestrian natures have never learned to fight the battle of
life on foot. The law of absorption has taken their sad, swarthy visages
out of the social arena.
The cavalcade of Southerners sweeps over the alamedas. They dash across
the Salinas and up to wooded Monterey. There the first constitutional
convention assembles.
Their delighted eyes have rested on the lovely Santa Cruz mountains, the
glorious meadows of Santa Clara, and the great sapphire bay of Monterey.
The rich Pajaro and Salinas valleys lie waiting at hand. Thinking
also of the wondrous wealth of the Sacramento and San Joaquin, of the
tropical glories of Los Angeles, Philip Hardin cries: "Gentlemen, this
splendid land is for us! We must rule this new State! We must be true to
the South!"
To be in weal and woe "true to the South" is close to the heart of every
cavalier in Philip Hardin's train.
The train arrives at Monterey, swelled by others faithful to that
Southern Cross yet to glitter on dark fields of future battle.
The treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo closed a bloody Conflict on February 2,
1848. It is the preamble to a long struggle. It is destined in the West
to be bloodless until the fatal guns trained on Fort Sumter bellow out
their challenge to the great Civil War. It is only then the mighty pine
will swing with a crash against the palm.
Hardin knows that recruits, true of blood, are hastening to the new land
of El Dorado. As he leads his dauntless followers into Monterey his
soul is high. He sees the beloved South sweeping in victory westward
as proudly as her legions rolled over the fields of Monterey and Buena
Vista.
The convention assembles. All classes are represented on September 1,
1849. The first legal civil body is convoked west of the Rockies. Men of
thought are here. Men destined to be world-famous in the unknown future.
Settlers, hidalgos, traders, argonauts, government officials of army
and navy, and transient adventurers of no mean ability. A little press
already works with its magical talking types. A navy chaplain is the
Franklin of the West. Some order and decorum appear. The calm voice of
prayer is heard. The mingled amens of the conquerors thank God for a
most unjustifiable acquisition of the lands of others. They are ours
only by the right of the strong against the weak--the world's oldest
title.
The South leads in representative men. Ready to second the secret
desires of Polk, Buchanan, and Calhoun is the astute and courtly Gwin,
yet to be senator, duke of Sonora, and Nestor of his clan. Moore of
Florida, Jones of Louisiana, Botts, Burnett, and others are in line.
On the Northern side are Shannon, an adopted citizen; wise Halleck;
polished McDougall; gifted Edward Gilbert, and other distinguished
men--men worthy of the day and hour.
As independent members, Sutter, General Vallejo, Thomas O. Larkin, Dr.
Semple, Wright, Hastings, Brown, McCarver, Rodman S. Price, Snyder, and
others lend their aid. From the first day the advocates of slavery and
freedom battle in oratorical storm. The forensic conflict rages for
days; first on the matter of freedom, finally on that of boundary.
Freedom's hosts receive a glorious reinforcement in the arrival of John
C. Fremont.
After bitter struggles the convention casts the die for freedom. The
Constitution of the State is so adopted. While the publicists, led by
Fremont and Gwin, seek to raise the fabric of state, the traders and
adventurers, the hosts of miners springing to life under the chance
touch of James W. Marshall's finger, on January 24, 1848, are delving or
trading for gold.
Poor, ill-starred Marshall! He wanders luckless among the golden fields.
He gains no wealth. He toils as yet, unthinking of his days of old
age and lonely poverty. He does not look forward to being poor at
seventy-three years, and dying in 1885 alone. The bronze monument over
his later grave attests no fruition of his hopes. It only can show the
warm-hearted gratitude of children yet unborn, the Native Sons of the
Golden West. Cool old borderers like Peter Lassen, John Bidwell, P. B.
Redding, Jacob P. Leese, Wm. B. Ide, Captain Richardson, and others are
grasping broad lands as fair as the banks of Yarrow. They permit the
ill-assorted delegates to lay down rules for the present and laws for
the future. The State can take care of itself. Property-holders appear
and aid. Hensley, Henley, Bartlett, and others are cool and able. While
the Dons are solemnly complimented in the convention, their rights are
gracefully ignored.
The military governor, General Bennett Riley, stands back. He justly
does not throw his sword into the scales. Around him are rising men
yet to be heroes on a grander field of action than the mud floors of
a Monterey adobe. William T. Sherman, the only Northern American
strategist, is a lieutenant of artillery. Halleck, destined to be
commander-in-chief of a million men, is only a captain of engineers and
acting Secretary of State. Graceful, unfortunate, accomplished Charles
P. Stone is a staff officer. Ball's Bluff and Fort Lafayette are far in
the misty unknown.
The convention adjourns SINE DIE in October 13, 1849. It has settled the
great point of freedom on the Pacific Coast. It throws out the granite
Sierras as an eternal bulwark against advancing slavery. The black shame
is doomed never to cross the Rockies, and yet the great struggle for the
born nobility of manhood has been led by Shannon, an alien Irishman. The
proudest American blood followed Dr. Gwin's pro-slavery leading. The two
senators named are Gwin and the hitherto unrewarded Fremont. Wright and
Gilbert are the two congressmen. Honest Peter H. Burnett, on November
13, is elected the first governor of California. He is chosen by the
people, and destined to live to see nearly fifty years of peaceful
prosperity on the golden coast.
While this struggle is being waged on the Pacific, at Washington the
giant statesmen of those famous ante-bellum days close in bitter strife.
The political future of the great West, now known to be so rich, is
undecided. It is the desperate desire of the South to keep California
out of the Union, unless the part falling under the Wilmot proviso act
south of 36 deg 30 min is given to slavery.
The national funds to pay for the "Gadsden purchase" will be withheld
unless slavery can be extended. The great struggle brings out all the
olden heroes of the political arena. Benton, Webster, Clay, Calhoun,
Davis, King, Sam Houston, Foote, Seward, John Bell, and Douglas, are
given a golden prize to tourney for. In that press of good knights, many
a hard blow is struck. The victor and vanquished stand to-day, looming
gigantic on the dim horizon of the past. It is the dark before the dawn
of the War of the Rebellion.
It was before these days of degenerated citizenship, when the rising
tide of gold floats the corrupt millionnaire and syndicate's agent
into the Senate. The senator's toga then wrapped the shoulders of our
greatest men. No bonanza agents--huge moral deformities of heaped-up
gold--were made senatorial hunchbacks by their accidental millions.
No vulgar clowns dallied with the country's interests in those old days
when Greek met Greek. It was a gigantic duel of six leaders: Webster,
Seward, and Clay, pitted against Calhoun, Davis, and Foote. Pausing
to refresh their strength for the final struggle, the noise of battle
rolled away until the early days of 1850. California was kept out.
The delegates at Monterey hastened home to their exciting callings.
Philip Hardin saw the wished-for victory of the South deferred. Gnashing
his teeth in rage, he rode out of Monterey. Maxime Valois now is the
ardent "Faust" to whom he plays "Mephisto." His following had fallen
away. Hardin, cold, profound, and deep, was misunderstood at the
Convention. He wished to gain local control. He knew the overmastering
power of the pro-slavery administration would handle the main issue
later--if not in peace, then in war.
As the red-tiled roofs of Monterey fade behind them, Hardin unbosoms
himself to his young comrade. Maxime Valois has been a notable leader
in the Convention. He was eager and loyal to the South. He extended
many acquaintances with the proud chivalry element of the new State. His
short experience of public life feeds his rising ambition. He determines
to follow the law; the glorious profession which he laid aside to become
a pathfinder; the pathway to every civic honor.
"Valois," says Hardin, "these people are too short-sighted. Our
Convention leaders are failures. We should have ignored the slavery
fight as yet. Thousands of Southern voters are coming to us within six
months from the border States. Our friends from the Gulf are swarming
here. The President will fill all the Federal offices with sound
Southern Democrats. The army and navy will be in sympathy with us. With
a little management we could have got slavery as far as 36 deg 30 sec.
We could work it all over the West with the power of our party at the
North. We could have controlled the rest of this coast by the Federal
patronage, keeping the free part out of the Union as territories. Then
our balance of power would be stable. It is not a lost game. Wait! only
wait!"
Maxime agrees. Philip Hardin opens the young politician's eyes with a
great confidence.
"Maxime, I have learned to like you and depend on you. I will give you
a proof of it. We of the old school are determined to rule this country.
If Congress admits California as a free State, there will yet be a Lone
Star republic covering this whole coast. The South will take it by force
when we go out."
The Louisianian exclaims, "Secession!"
"Yes, war even. Rather war than the rule of the Northern mud-sill!"
cries Hardin, spurring his horse, instinctively. "Our leading men at
home are in thorough concert day by day. If the issue is forced on us
the whole South will surely go out. But we are not ready yet. Maxime,
we want our share of this great West. We will fill it with at least even
numbers of Southern men. In the next few years the West will be entirely
neutral in case of war or unless we get a fair division. If we re-elect
a Democrat as President we will save the whole West."
"War," muses Valois, as they canter down the rich slopes toward the
Salinas River, "a war between the men who have pressed up Cerro
Gordo and Chepultepec together! A war between the descendants of the
victorious brothers of the Revolution!" It seems cold and brutal to the
young and ardent Louisianian. An American civil war! The very idea seems
unnatural. "But will the Yankees fight?" queries Valois. Hardin replies
grimly: "I did not think we would even be opposed in this Convention.
They seemed to fight us pretty well here. They may fight in the
field--when it comes."
For Philip Hardin is a wise man. He never under-estimates his untried
enemy.
Valois smiles. He cannot control a sneer. The men who are lumber-hewers,
dirt-diggers, cod-fishers and factory operatives will never face the
Southern chivalry. He despises the sneaking Yankees. Traders in a
small way arouse all the arrogance of the planter. He cannot bring any
philosophy of the past to tell him that the straining, leaky Mayflower
was the pioneer of the stately American fleets now swarming on every
sea. The little wandering Boston bark, Otter, in 1796 found her way to
California. She was the harbinger of a mighty future marine control. The
lumbering old Sachem (of the same Yankee borough) in 1822 founded the
Pacific hide and tallow trade as an earnest of the sea control. Where
one Yankee shows the way thousands may follow, yet this Valois ignored
in his scorn of the man who works.
Maxime could not dream that the day could ever come when thousands of
Yankees would swarm over entrenchments, vainly held by the best blood of
the sunny South.
As the two gentlemen ride on, Hardin uses the confidential loneliness
of the trip to prove to the Creole that war and separation must finally
come.
"We want this rich land for ourselves and the South." The young man's
blood was up.
"I know the very place I want!" cries Valois.
He tells Hardin of Lagunitas, of its fertile lands sweeping to the San
Joaquin. He speaks of its grassy, rolling hills and virgin woods.
Philip Hardin learns of the dashing waters of the Merced and Mariposa on
either side. He hears of the glittering gem-like Lagunitas sparkling in
the bosom of the foot-hills. Valois recounts the wild legends, caught
up from priest and Indian, of that great, terrific gorge, the Yosemite.
Hardin allows much for the young man's wild fancy. The gigantic groves
of the big trees are only vaguely described. Yet he is thrilled.
He has already seen an emigrant who wandered past Mono Lake over the
great Mono notch in the Sierras. There it rises eleven thousand feet
above the blue Pacific--with Castle Dome and Cathedral Peak, grim
sentinels towering to the zenith.
"It must really be a paradise," muses Hardin.
"It is," cries the Creole; "I intend to watch that region. If money can
make it mine, I will toil to get it."
Philip Hardin, looking through half-closed eyes at Valois, decides to
follow closely this dashing adventurer. He will go far.
"Valois," he slowly says, "you have seen these native land-barons at the
Convention. A few came in to join us. The rest are hostile and bitter.
They can never stand before us. The whole truth is, the Mexican must go!
We stopped the war a little too soon here. They are now protected by the
treaty, but we will litigate them out of all their grants. Keep your
eye on Lagunitas. It may come into the market. Gold will be the fool's
beacon here for some time. These great valleys will yet be the real
wealth of the new State. Land is the rock of the wealth to come. Get
land, my boy!" he cries, with the lordly planter's instinct.
Valois admires the cold self-confidence of the sardonic Hardin. He opens
his heart. He leans upon the resolute Mississippian.
It takes little to make Maxime joyfully accept Philip Hardin's
invitation to share his office. They will follow the fortunes of the
city by the Golden Gates.
On riding down the Visitacion valley their eyes are greeted with the
sight of the first ocean steamers. A thousand new-comers throng the
streets.
Maxime finds a home in the abode of Hardin. His cottage stands on a
commanding lot, bought some time before.
Letters from "Belle Etoile" delight the wanderer. He learns of the
well-being of his friends. Judge Valois' advice to Maxime decides him to
cast his lot in with the new State. It is soon to be called California
by legal admission.
Philip Hardin is a leader of the embryo bar of the city. Courts, books,
two newspapers and the elements of a mercantile community are the newest
signs of a rapid crystallization toward order. With magic strides the
boundaries of San Francisco enlarge. Every day sees white-winged sails
fluttering. Higher rises the human tumult. From the interior mines,
excited reports carry away half the arrivals. They are eager to scoop
up the nuggets, to gather the golden dust. New signs attract the eye:
"Bank," "Hotel," "Merchandise," "Real Estate." Every craft and trade is
represented. It is the vision of a night.
Already a leader, Hardin daily extends his influence as man, politician,
and counsellor.
The great game is being played at the nation's capital for the last
sanction to the baptism of the new star in the flag.
California stands knocking at the gates of the Union, with
treasure-laden hands. In Congress the final struggle on admission drags
wearily on. Victorious Sam Houston of Texas, seconded by Jefferson
Davis, fresh laurelled from Buena Vista, urges the claims of slavery.
Foote "modestly" demands half of California, with a new slave State cut
out from the heart of blood-bought Texas. But the silver voice of Henry
Clay peals out against any extension of slave territory. Proud King of
Alabama appeals in vain to his brethren of the Senate to discipline the
two ambitious freemen of the West, by keeping them out of the Union.
Great men rally to the bugle notes of their mighty leaders.
The gallant son of the South, General Taylor, finds presidential honors
following his victories. In formal message he announces on February 13,
1850, to Congress that the new State waits, with every detail of first
organization, for admission.
Stern Calhoun, chief of the aspiring Southerners, proudly claims a
readjustment of the sectional equality thus menaced. Who shall dare to
lift the gauntlet thrown down by South Carolina's mighty chieftain?
In the hush of a listening Senate, Daniel Webster, the lion of the
North, sounds a noble defiance. "Slavery is excluded from California by
the law of nature itself," is his warning admonition.
With solemn brow, and deep-set eyes, flashing with the light of genius,
he appeals to the noblest impulses of the human heart. Breathless
senators thrill with his inspired words. "We would not take pains to
reaffirm an ordinance of nature," he cries, and, as his grave argument
touches the listeners, he reverently adds, "nor to re-enact the will of
God."
Mighty Seward rises also to throw great New York's gauntlet in the teeth
of slavery.
Taunted with its legal constitutional sanction, he exclaims grandly,
"There is a higher law than the Constitution."
Long years have passed since both the colossus of the North and the
great Governor entered into the unbroken silence of the grave. Their
immortal words ring still down the columned years of our country's
history. They appeal to noble sons to emulate the heroes of this great
conflict. Shall the slave's chains clank westward? No! Above the din
of commoner men, the logic of John Bell, calm and patriotic, brings
conviction. The soaring eloquence of Stephen A. Douglas claims the
Western shores for freedom.
Haughty Foote and steadfast Benton break lances in the arena.
Kentucky's greatest chieftain, whose gallant son's life-blood reddened
Buena Vista's field, marshals the immortal defenders of human liberty.
Henry Clay's paternal hand is stretched forth in blessing over the young
Pacific commonwealth. All vainly do the knights of the Southern Cross
rally around mighty Calhoun, as he sits high on slavery's awful throne.
Cold Davis, fiery Foote, ingenious Slidell, polished and versatile
Soule, ardent King, fail to withstand that mighty trio,
"Webster, Seward, and Clay," the immortal three. The death of the
soldier-President Taylor calms the clamor for a time. The struggle
shifts to the House. Patriotic Vinton, of Ohio, locks the door on
slavery. On the 9th day of September, 1850, President Millard Fillmore
signs the bill which limits the negro hunter to his cotton fields and
cane brakes at home. The representatives of the new State are admitted.
A new golden star shines unpolluted in the national constellation.
Westward the good news flies by steamer. All the shadows on California's
future are lifted.
While wearied statesmen rest from the bitter warfare of two long years,
from North and South thousands eagerly rush to the golden land.
The Southern and Border States send hosts of their restless youths.
From the Northwest sturdy freemen, farmers with families, toil toward
new homes under freedom's newest star. The East and Middle States are
represented by all their useful classes.
The news of California's admission finds Hardin and Valois already men
of mark in the Occidental city.
Disappointed at the issue, Hardin presses on to personal eminence; he
turns his energies to seeking honors in the legal forum.
Maxime Valois, quietly resuming his studies for the bar, guards his
funds, awaiting opportunity for investment. He burns the midnight oil in
deep studies. The two men wander over the growing avenues of the Babel
of the West. Every allurement of luxury, every scheme of vice, all the
arts of painted siren, glib knave, and lurking sharper are here; where
the game is, there the hunter follows. Rapidly arriving steamers pour
in hundreds. The camp followers of the Mexican war have streamed over
to San Francisco. The notable arrival of the steamer California brings
crowds of men, heirs to future fame, and good women, the moral salt of
the new city. It also has its New York "Bowery Boys," Philadelphia "Plug
Uglies," Baltimore "Roughs," and Albany "Strikers."
By day, new occupations, strange callings, and the labor of organizing
a business community, engage all men. The ebb and flow of going and
returning miners excite the daylight hours. From long wharves,
river steamers, laden to the gunwales, steam past the city shores to
Sacramento. At night, deprived of regular homes, the whole city wanders
in the streets, or crowds flashy places of amusement. Cramped on the
hilly peninsula, there are no social lines drawn between good and bad.
Each human being is at sea in a maelstrom of wild license.
The delegated representatives of the Federal Government soon arrive.
Power is given largely to the Southern element. While many of the
national officials are distinguished and able, they soon feel the
inspiring madness of unrebuked personal enjoyment.
Money in rough-made octagonal fifty-dollar slugs flows freely. Every
counter has its gold-dust scales. Dust is current by the ounce, half
ounce, and quarter ounce. The varied coins of the whole world pass
here freely. The months roll away to see, at the end of 1850, a wider
activity; there is even a greater excitement, a more pronounced madness
of dissipation. Speculation, enterprise, and abandonment of old creeds,
scruples, and codes, mark the hour.
The flying year has brought the ablest and most daring moral refugees
of the world to these shores, as well as steady reinforcements of worthy
settlers. Pouring over the Sierras, and dragging across the deserts, the
home builders are spreading in the interior. The now regulated business
circles, extending with wonderful elasticity, attract home and foreign
pilgrims of character. Though the Aspasias of Paris, New Orleans, and
Australia throng in; though New York sends its worthless womanhood
in floods, there are even now worthy home circles by the Golden Gate.
Church, school, and family begin to build upon solid foundations. All
the government bureaus are in working order. The Custom House is already
known as the "Virginia Poor House." The Post-Office and all Federal
places teem with the ardent, haughty, and able ultra Democrats of the
sunny South. The victory of the Convention bids fair to be effaced
in the high-handed control of the State by Southern men. As the rain
falleth on the just and unjust, so does the tide of prosperity enrich
both good and bad. Vice, quickly nourished, flaunts its early flowers.
The slower growth of virtue is yet to give golden harvest of gathered
sheaves in thousands of homes yet to be in the Golden State. Long after
the maddened wantons and noisy adventurers have gone the way of all
"light flesh and corrupt blood," the homes will stand. Sailing vessels
stream in from the ports of the world. On the narrow water-front,
Greek and Lascar, Chinaman and Maltese, Italian and Swede, Russian and
Spaniard, Chileno and Portuguese jostle the men of the East, South, and
the old country. Fiery French, steady German, and hot-headed Irish are
all here, members of the new empire by the golden baptism of the time.
Knife and revolver, billy and slung-shot, dirk and poniard, decide the
ARGUMENTUM AD HOMINEM.
In the enjoyment of fraternal relations with the leaders of the dominant
party East, Philip Hardin becomes a trusted counsellor of the leading
officials. He sees the forum of justice opened in the name of Union and
State. He ministers at the altars of the Law. He gains, daily, renown
and riches in his able conduct of affairs.
Hardin's revenue rises. He despises one of the State judgeships easily
at his hand. As his star mounts, his young neophyte, Maxime Valois,
shares his toils and enjoys his training. Under his guidance he launches
out on the sea of that professional legal activity, which is one
continued storm of contention.
Valois has trusted none of the mushroom banks. He keeps his gold with
the Padres. He makes a number of judicious purchases of blocks and lots
in the city, now growing into stable brick, stone, and even iron.
CHAPTER VII.
THE QUEEN OF THE EL DORADO.--GUILTY BONDS.
In the dreary winter of 1850-51, there are luxurious resting places for
the crowds driven at night from the narrow plank sidewalks of the Bay
City. Rain torrents make the great saloons and gambling houses the only
available shelter.
Running east and west, Sacramento, Clay, Washington, and Jackson Streets
rise in almost impracticable declivity to the hills. Their tops, now
inaccessible, are to be the future eyries of self-crowned railroad nobs
and rude bonanza barons.
Scrubby chaparral, tenanted by the coyote, fox, and sand rabbit,
covers these fringing sand hills. North and south, Sansome, Montgomery,
Kearney, Dupont, Stockton, and a faint outline of Powell Street, are
roadways more or less inchoate. An embryo western Paris.
Around the plaza, bounded by Clay, Washington, Dupont, and Kearney, the
revelry of night crystallizes. It is the aggregating sympathy of birds
of a feather.
The peculiar unconquered topography makes the handcart, wheelbarrow, and
even the Chinaman's carrying poles, necessary vehicles of transit.
Water, brought in iron boats from Sausalito, is dragged around these
knobby hills in huge casks on wheels. The precious fluid is distributed
in five-gallon tin buckets, borne on a yoke by the dealer, who gets a
dollar for two bucketfuls. No one finds time to dig for water. All have
leisure to drink, dance, and gamble. They face every disease, danger,
and hardship. They breast the grizzly-bear-haunted canyons in search of
gold. No one will seek for water. It is the only luxury. The incoming
and outgoing merchandise moves only a few rods from the narrow level
city front. At the long wharves it is transshipped from the deep-water
vessels, across forty feet of crazy wooden pier, to the river steamers.
Lighters in the stream transfer goods to the smaller vessels beginning
to trade up and down the coast.
In the plaza, now dignified by the RAFFINE name of "Portsmouth Square,"
the red banners of vice wave triumphant over great citadels of sin.
Virtue is pushed to the distant heights and knolls. The arriving
families, for sheer self-protection, avoid this devil's maelstrom. It
sucks the wide crowd into the maddened nightly orgies of the plaza.
In the most pretentious buildings of the town, the great trinity of
unlawful pleasures holds high carnival. Day and night are the same:
drink, gaming, and women are worshipped. For the average resident there
is no barrier of old which has not been burned away in the fever of
personal freedom and the flood of gold.
A motley mass of twenty thousand men and women daily augments. They
are all of full capacity for good and evil. They are bound by no
common ties. They serve no god but pleasure. They fear no code. With no
intention to remain longer than the profit of their adventures or the
pleasures of their wild life last, they catch the passing moment.
Immense saloons are made attractive by displays of gaudy luxuries, set
out to tempt the purses of the self-made autocrats of wealth. Gambling
houses here are outvying in richness, and utter wantonness of wasted
expense, anything yet seen in America. They are open always. Haunts
abound where, in the pretended seclusion of a few yards' distance, rich
adventurers riot with the beautiful battalions of the fallen angels. It
were gross profanation to the baleful memories of Phryne, Aspasia, and
Messalina to find, from all the sin-stained leaves of the world's past,
prototypes of these bold, reckless man-eaters. They throng the softly
carpeted, richly tapestried interiors of the gilded hells of Venus.
Drink and play. Twins steeds of the devil's car on the road to ruin.
They are lashed on by wild-eyed, bright, beautiful demons. All follow
the train of the modern reigning star of the West, Venus.
Shabby dance-halls, ephemeral Thespian efforts, cheap dens of the
most brutal vice, and dark lairs abound, where sailors, laborers,
and crowding criminals lurk, ready for their human prey. Their female
accomplices are only the sirens watching these great strongholds
of brazen vice. A greater luxury only gilds a lower form of human
abasement. The motley horde, wallowing on the "Barbary Coast" and in the
mongrel thieves' haunts of "Pacific Street," the entrenched human devils
on "Telegraph Hill" are but natural prey of the coarsest vices.
The ready revolver, Colt's devilish invention, has deluged the West and
South with blood. Murder's prime minister hangs in every man's belt.
Colonel James Bowie's awful knife is a twin of this monstrous birth. In
long years of dark national shame our country will curse the memory
of the "two Colonels." They were typical of their different sectional
ideas. These men gave us the present coat of arms of San Francisco: the
Colt's revolver and the Bowie knife.
Yes, thousands of yet untenanted graves yawn for the future victims of
these mechanical devices. The skill of the Northern inventor, and the
devilish perfection of the heart-cleaving blade of the Southern duellist
are a shame to this wild age.
The plaza with impartial liberality yields up its frontages to saloon,
palace of play, and hotels for the fair ministers of His Satanic
Majesty. It is the pride of the enterprising "sports" and "sharpers,"
who represent the baccalaureate degree of every known vice. On the
west, the "Adelphi" towers, with its grand gambling saloon, its
splendid "salle a manger," and cosey nooks presided over by attractive
Frenchwomen. Long tables, under crystal chandeliers, offer a choice of
roads to ruin. Monte, faro, rouge et noir, roulette, rondo and
every gambling device are here, to lure the unwary. Dark-eyed subtle
attendants lurk, ready to "preserve order," in gambling parlance. At
night, blazing with lights, the superb erotic pictures on the walls
look down on a mad crowd of desperate gamesters. Paris has sent its
most suggestive pictures here, to inflame the wildest of human passions.
Nymph and satyr gleam from glittering walls; Venus approves with melting
glances, from costliest frames, the self-immolation of these dupes of
fortune. Every wanton grace of the artist throws a luxurious refinement
of the ideal over the palace of sin and shame.
Long counters, with splendid mirrors, display richest plate. They groan
with costliest glass, and every dark beverage from hell's hottest
brew. Card tables, and quiet recesses, richly curtained, invite to
self-surrender and seclusion. The softest music breathes from a full
orchestra. Gold is everywhere, in slugs, doubloons, and heaps of
nuggets. Gold reigns here. Silver is a meaner metal hardly attainable.
Bank notes are a flimsy possibility of the future. Piles of yellow
sovereigns and the coinage of every land load the tables. Sallow,
glittering-eyed croupiers sweep in, with affected nonchalance, this
easy-gained harvest of chance or fraud.
As the evening wears on, these halls fill up with young and old. The
bright face of youth is seen, inflamed with every burning passion, let
loose in the wild uncontrolled West. It is side by side with the haggard
visage of the veteran gamester. Every race has its representatives.
The possession of gold is the cachet of good-fellowship. Anxious crowds
criticise rapid and dashing play. The rattle of dice, calls of the
dealers, shouts of the attendants ring out. The sharp, hard, ringing
voices of the fallen goddesses of the tables rise on the stifling air,
reeking of smoke and wine. Dressed with the spoils of the East, bare of
bosom, bright of eye, hard of heart, glittering in flashing gems, and
nerved with drink, are these women. The painted sirens of the Adelphi
smile, with curled carmine lips which give the lie to the bold glances
of the wary eyes of those she-devils.
With a hideous past thrown far behind them, they fear no future.
Desperate as to the present, ministering to sin, inciting to violence,
conspiring to destroy body and soul, these beautiful annihilators of all
decency vie in deviltry only with each other.
They flaunt, by day, toilettes like duchesses' over the muddy streets;
their midnight revels outlast the stars sweeping to the pure bosom
of the Pacific. The nightly net is drawn till no casting brings new
gudgeons. An unparalleled display of wildest license and maddest
abandonment marks day and night.
Across the square the Bella Union boasts similar glories, equal
grandeur, and its own local divinities of the Lampsacene goddess.
It is but a stone's throw to the great Arcade. From Clay to Commercial
Street, one grand room offers every allurement to hundreds, without any
sign of overcrowding. The devil is not in narrow quarters.
On the eastern front of the plaza, the pride of San Francisco towers up:
the El Dorado. Here every glory of the Adelphi, Arcade, and Bella Union
is eclipsed. The unrivalled splendor of rooms, rich decorations, and
unexcelled beauty of pictures excite all. The rare liveliness of the
attendant wantons marks them as the fairest daughters of Beelzebub. The
world waves have stranded these children of Venus on the Pacific shores.
Music, recalling the genius of the inspired masters, sways the varying
emotions of the multitude. The miners' evenings are given up to roaming
from one resort to another. Here, a certain varnish of necessary
politeness restrains the throng of men; they are all armed and in the
flush of physical power; they dash their thousands against impregnable
and exciting gambling combinations at the tables. With no feeling of
self-abasement, leading officials, merchants, bankers, judges, officers,
and professional men crowd the royal El Dorado. Here they relax the
labors of the day with every distraction known to human dissipation.
Staggering out broken-hearted, in the dark midnight, dozens of ruined
gamesters have wandered from these fatal doors into the plaza.
The nearest alley gives a shelter; a pistol ball crashes into the
half-crazed brain.
Suicide!--the gambler's end! Already the Potter's Field claims many of
these victims. The successful murderers and thugs linger in the dark
shadows of Dupont Street. They crowd Murderer's Alley, Dunbar's Alley,
and Kearney Street.
When the purse is emptied, so that the calculating women dealers scorn
to notice the last few coins, they point significantly to the outer
darkness. "Vamos," is the word. A few rods will bring the plucked fool
to the "Blue Wing," the "Magnolia," or any one of a hundred drinking
dens. Here the bottle chases away all memories of the night's play.
In utter defiance of the decent community, these temples of pleasure,
with their quick-witted knaves, and garrisons of bright-eyed bacchanals,
ignore the useful day; at night, they shine out, splendid lighthouses on
the path to the dark entrance of hell. By mutual avoidance, the good and
bad, the bright and dark side of human effort rule in alternation the
day and night. Sin rests in the daytime.
In the barracks, where the serried battalions of crime loll away the
garish day, silence discreetly rules. Sleep and rest mark the sunlit
hours. The late afternoon parade is an excitant.
All over San Francisco, in its queerly assorted tenancy, church and
saloon, school and opium den, thieves' resort and budding home, are
placed side by side. Vigorous elbowing of the criminal and base classes
finally forces all that is decent into a semi-banishment. Decency is
driven to the distant hills, crowned with their scrubby oaks. Vice needs
the city centre. It always does.
Philip Hardin is cynical and without family ties. Able by nature,
skilled in books, and a master of human strategy he needs some broader
field for the sweep of his splendid talents than the narrowed forum of
the local courts. Ambition offers no immediate prize to struggle for.
The busy present calls on him for daily professional effort. Political
events point to an exciting struggle between North and South in the
future; but the hour of fate is not yet on the dial.
In the Southerner's dislike of the contact of others, looking to his
place as a social leader of the political element, Philip Hardin lives
alone; his temporary cottage is planted in a large lot removed from the
immediate danger of fires. His quick wit tells him they will some day
sweep the crowded houses in the eastern part of the city, as far as the
bay. The larger native oaks still afford a genial shade. Their shadows
give the tired lawyer a few square rods of breathing space. Books and
all the implements of the scholar are his; the interior is crowded with
those luxuries which Hardin enjoys as of right. Deeply drinking the
cup of life, even in his social vices, Philip Hardin aims at a certain
distinction.
Around his table gather the choicest knights-errant of the golden quest.
Maxime Valois here develops a social talent as a leader of men, guided
by the sardonic Mephisto of his young life.
Still the evening hours hang heavily on the hands of the two lawyers.
When the rapidly arriving steamers bring friends, with letters or
introductions, they have hospitality to dispense. The great leaders of
the South are now systematically colonizing California. Guests abound
at these times at Hardin's board. Travel, mining, exploration, and
adventure carry them away soon; extensive tours on official duty draw
them away. As occupations increase, men grow unmindful of each other and
meet more rarely.
For the saloons, rude hotels, gaming palaces, and resorts of covert
pleasures are the usual rendezvous of the men of fortune and power. In
such resorts grave intrigues are planned; future policies are mapped
out; business goes on under the laughter of wild-eyed Maenads; secrets
of state are whispered between glass and glass.
Family circles, cooped up, timid and distant, keep their doors closed
to the general public. No one has yet dared to permanently set up here
their Lares and Penates. The subordination of family life to externals,
and insincerity of social compacts, are destined to make California a
mere abiding place for several generations. The fibres of ancestry must
first knit the living into close communion with their parents born on
these Western shores. Hardin's domineering nature, craving excitement
and control over others, carries him often to the great halls of play;
cigar in mouth, he stands unmoved; he watches the chances of play.
Nerved with the cognac he loves, he moves quickly to the table; he
astonishes all by the deliberate daring of his play. His iron nerve
is unshaken by the allurements of the painted dancers and surrounding
villains. Towering high above all others, the gifted Mississippian
nightly refreshes his jaded emotions. He revels in the varying fortunes
of the many games he coolly enjoys. Unheeding others, moving neither
right nor left at menace or danger, Hardin scorns this human circus,
struggling far below his own mental height.
Heartless and unmoved, he smiles at the weaknesses of others. The strong
man led captive in Beauty's train, the bright intellect sinking under
the craze of drink, the weak nature shattered by the loss of a few
thousands at play--all this pleases him. He sees, with prophetic eye,
hundreds of thousands of future dwellers between the Sierras and the
sea. His Southern pride looks forward to a control of the great West by
the haughty slave-owners.
This Northern trash must disappear! To ride on the top wave of the
future successful community, is his settled determination. Without
self-surrender, he enjoys every draught of pleasure the cup of life can
offer. Without scruple, void of enthusiasm, his passionless heart is
unmoved by the joys or sorrows of others. His nature is as steady as
the nerve with which he guides his evening pistol practice. The welcome
given to Maxime Valois by him arises only from a conviction of that
man's future usefulness. The general acceptability of the young
Louisianian is undoubted. His blood, creed, and manners prove him worthy
of the old Valois family. Their past glories are well known to Philip
Hardin. "Bon sang ne peut mentir." Hardin's legal position places him
high in the turmoils of the litigations of the great Mexican grants.
Already, over the Sonoma, Napa, Santa Clara, San Joaquin and Sacramento
valleys all is in jeopardy. The old Dons begin to seek confirmations
of the legal lines, to keep the crowding settlers at bay. The mining,
trading, and land-grabbing of the Americans are pushed to the limits of
the new commonwealth. A backward movement of the poor Mexican natives
carries them between the Americans and the yet powerful land barons
of their own race. Harassed, unfit to work, unable to cope with the
intruders, the native Californians become homeless rovers. They are
bitter at heart. Many, in open resentment, rise on the plains or haunt
the lonely trails. They are now bandits, horse-thieves, footpads and
murderers. True to each other, they establish a chain of secret refuges
from Shasta to San Diego. Every marauder of their own blood is safe
among them from American pursuers.
Every mining camp and all the settlements are beginning to send refugees
of the male foreign criminal classes to join these wandering Mexican
bands.
With riot in the camps, licentiousness ruling the cities, and murder
besetting every path, there is no safety for the present. California
sees no guarantee for the future. Judge Lynch is the only recognized
authority. He represents the rough justice of outraged camps and
infuriated citizens. Unrepressed violent crimes lead to the retaliatory
butchery of vigilance committees. Innocent and guilty suffer without
warrant of law. Foreign criminal clans herd together in San Francisco
for mutual aid. The different Atlantic cities are separately represented
in knots of powerful villains. Politics, gambling, and the elements
of wealth flourishing in dens and resorts, are controlled by organized
villains. They band together against the good. Only some personal brawl
throws them against each other.
Looking at the dangerous mass of vicious men and women, Valois
determines that the real strength of the land will lie in the arrivals
by the overland caravans. These trains are now filling the valleys with
resolute and honest settlers.
His determination holds yet to acquire some large tract of land where
he may have a future domain. On professional visits to Sacramento,
Stockton, and San Jose he notes the rising of the agricultural power in
the interior. In thought he yearns often for the beauties of splendid
Lagunitas. Padre Ribaut writes him of the sullen retirement of Don
Miguel. He grows more morose daily. Valois learns of the failing of the
sorrow-subdued Donna Juanita. The girlish beauty of young Dolores is
pictured in these letters. She approaches the early development of her
rare beauty. Padre Francisco has his daily occupation in his church and
school. The higher education of pretty Dolores is his only luxury. Were
it not for this, he would abandon the barren spiritual field and return
to France. Already in the canyons of the Mariposa, Fresno, and in the
great foot-hills, miners are scratching around the river beds. Hostile
settlers are approaching from the valley the Don's boundaries. These
signs are ominous.
Padre Francisco writes that as yet Don Miguel is sullenly ferocious.
He absolutely refuses any submission of his grant titles to the
cursed Gringos. Padre Francisco has not been able to convince the
ex-commandante of the power of the great United States. He knows not it
can cancel or reject his title to the thousands of rich acres where his
cattle graze and his horses sweep in mustang wildness. Even from his
very boundaries the plough can now be seen breaking up the breast of the
virgin valley. The Don will take no heed. He is blinded by prejudice.
Maxime promises the good priest to visit him. He wonders if the savage
Don would decline a word. If the frightened, faded wife would deign to
speak to the Americano. If the budding beauty would now cast roses slyly
at him from the bowers of her childhood.
Maxime's heart is young and warm. He is chilled in his affections. The
loss of his parents made his life lonely. Judge Valois, his uncle,
has but one child, a boy born since Maxime's departure on the Western
adventure. Between Hardin and himself is a bar of twenty years of cool
experience. It indurates and blunts any gracefulness Hardin's youth ever
possessed. If any man of forty has gained knowledge of good and evil, it
is the accomplished Hardin. He is a law unto himself.
Fearing neither God nor man, insensible to tenderness, Philip Hardin
looks in vain to refresh his jaded emotions by the every-day diversions
of the city by the sea. The daily brawls, the excited vigilance
committee of the first winter session of popular justice, and partial
burning of the city, leave Hardin unmoved. It is a dismal March night
of 1851 when he leaves his residence for a stroll through the resorts of
the town. Valois listlessly accompanies him. He does not gamble. To the
El Dorado the two slowly saunter. The nightly battle over the heaps of
gold is at its height. At the superb marble counter they are served with
the choicest beverages and regalias of Vuelta Abajos' best leaf. The
human mob is dense. Wailing, passionate music beats upon the air.
There is the cry of lost souls in its under-toned pathos. Villany and
sentiment go hand in hand at the El Dorado. The songs of old, in voice
and symphony, unlock the gates of memory. They leave the lingerers,
disarmed, to the tempting allurements of beauty, drink, and gaming.
There is an unusual crowd in the headquarters of gilded folly. Maxime,
wandering alone for a few minutes, finds a throng around a table of
rouge et noir. It is crowded with eager gamesters. Nodding to one and
another, he meets many acquaintances--men have no real friends as yet
in this egoistic land. The Louisianian moves toward the goal whither
all are tending. Jealous glances are cast by women whose deserted tables
show their charms are too well known. All swarm toward a new centre of
attraction. Cheeks long unused to the blush of shame are reddened with
passion, to see the fickle crowd surge around the game presided over
by a new-comer to the sandy shores of San Francisco. She is an unknown
goddess.
"What's all this?" asks Maxime, of a man he knows. He is idling now,
with an amused smile. He catches a glimpse of the tall form of Philip
Hardin in the front row of players, near the yellow bulwarks of gold.
"Why, Valois, you are behind the times!" is the reply. "Don't you know
the 'Queen of the El Dorado'?"
"I confess I do not," says the Creole. He has been absent for some time
from this resort of men with more gold than brains. "Who is she? What is
she?" continues Maxime.
His friend laughs as he gaily replies, "As to what she is, walk up to
the table. Throw away an ounce, and look at her. It's worth it. As to
who she is, she calls herself Hortense Duval." "I suppose she has as
much right to call herself the daughter of the moon as to use that
aristocratic name." "My dear boy, she is, for all that--" "Queen
Hortense?" "Queen of the El Dorado." He saunters away, to allow Valois
a chance to edge his way into the front row. There the dropping gold is
raked in by this fresh siren who draws all men to her.
Dressed in robes of price, a young woman sits twirling the arrow of
destiny at the treasure-laden table. Her exquisite form is audaciously
and recklessly exposed by a daring costume. Her superb arms are bared to
the shoulder, save where heavy-gemmed bracelets clasp glittering badges
of sin around her slender wrists. An indescribable grace and charm is in
every movement of her sinuous body. Her well-poised head is set upon a
neck of ivory. The lustrous dark eyes rove around the circle of eager
betters with languishing velvety glances. A smile, half a sneer, lingers
on the curved lips. Her statuesque beauty of feature is enhanced by the
rippling dark masses of hair crowning her lovely brows. In the silky
waves of her coronal, shines one diamond star of surpassing richness. In
all the pride and freshness of youth her loveliness is unmarred by the
tawdry arts of cosmetic and make-up. Unabashed by the admiration she
compels, she calmly pursues her exciting calling. The new-comer is well
worthy the rank, by general acclaim, of "Queen of the El Dorado." In no
way does she notice the eager crowd. She is an impartial priestess of
fortune. Maxime waits only to hear her speak. She is silent, save the
monosyllabic French words of the game. Is she Cuban, Creole, French,
Andalusian, Italian, or a wandering gypsy star? A jewelled dagger-sheath
in her corsage speaks of Spain or Italy. Maxime notes the unaccustomed
eagerness with which Hardin recklessly plays. He seems determined to
attract the especial attention of the divinity of the hour. Hardin's
color is unusual. His features are sternly set. Near him stands "French
Charlie," one of the deadliest gamesters of the plaza. Equally quick
with card, knife, or trigger, the Creole gambler is a man to be avoided.
He is as dangerous as the crouching panther in its fearful leap.
Hardin, betting on black, seems to win steadily. "French Charlie" sets
his store of ready gold on the red. It is a reckless duel of the two
men through the medium of the golden arrow, twirled by the voluptuous
stranger.
A sudden idea strikes Valois. He notes the ominous sparkle of "French
Charlie's" eye. It is cold as the depths of a mountain-pool. Is Hardin
betting on the black to compliment the presiding dark beauty? Murmurs
arise among the bystanders. The play grows higher. Valois moves away
from the surging crowd, to wait his own opportunity. A glass of wine
with a friend enables him to learn her history. She has been pursued by
"French Charlie" since her arrival from Panama by steamer. No one knows
if the reigning beauty is Havanese or a French Creole. Several aver she
speaks French and Spanish with equal ease. English receives a dainty
foreign accent from the rosebud lips. Her mysterious identity is guarded
by the delighted proprietors. The riches of their deep-jawed safes tell
of her wonderful luck, address, or skill.
Charlie has in vain tried to cross the invisible barrier which fences
her from the men around her. To-night he is as unlucky in his heavy
play, as in arousing any passion in that wonderful beauty of unexplained
identity. The management will answer no questions. This nightly
excitement feeds on itself. "French Charlie" has been drinking deeply.
His play grows more unlucky. Valois moves to the table, to quietly
induce Hardin to leave. Some inner foreboding tells Valois there is
danger in the gambling duel of the two men he watches. As he forces his
way in, Charlie, dashing a last handful of gold upon the red, turns his
ferocious eyes on Hardin. The lawyer calmly waits the turn of the arrow.
Some quick presentiment reaches the mind of the woman. Her nerves are
shaken with the strain of long repression. The arrow trembles on the
line in stopping. The queen's eyes, for the first time, catch the
burning glances of Philip Hardin. "French Charlie," with an oath, grasps
the hand of the woman. She is raking in his lost coins before paying
Hardin's bet. It is his last handful of gold.
Maddened with drink and his losses, Charlie yields to jealousy of his
victorious neighbor. "French Charlie" roughly twists the wrist of the
woman. With a sharp shriek, she snatches the dagger from her bosom. She
draws it over the back of the gambler's hand. He howls with pain. Like
a flash he tears a knife from his bosom. He springs around the table
toward the woman. With a loud scream, she jumps back toward the wall.
She seeks to save herself, casting golden showers on the floor, in a
rattling avalanche. Before the ready hireling desperadoes of the haunt
can seize Charlie, the affrighted circle scatters. Valois' eye catches,
the flash of a silver-mounted derringer. Its barking report rings out
as "French Charlie's" right arm drops to his side. His bowie-knife falls
ringing on the floor. A despairing curse is heard. The Creole gambler
snatches, with the other hand, a pistol. He springs like a lion on
Philip Hardin. One step back Hardin retreats. No word comes from his
closed lips. The mate of the derringer rings out loudly Charlie's death
warrant. The gambler crashes to the floor. His heart's blood floods the
scattered gold. The pistol is yet clenched in his stiffened left hand.
Valois rushes to Hardin. He brushes him aside, and springs to the side
of the "Queen of the El Dorado." She falls senseless in his arms. In a
few moments the motley crowd has been hurried from the doors. The
great entrances are barred. The frightened women dealers seek their
dressing-rooms. All fear the results of this brawl. Their cheeks are
ashy pale under paint and powder. The treasures are swiftly swept from
the gaming tables by the nimble-witted croupiers. Hardin and Valois
are left with the unconscious fallen beauty. A couple of the lately
organized city police enter and take charge. Even the blood stained gold
is gathered from the floor. Light after light is turned out. The main
hall has at last no tenants but the night watchman and the police,
waiting by the dead gambler. He lies prone on the floor, awaiting his
last judge, the city coroner. This genial official is sought from
his cards and cups, to certify the causes of death of the outcast of
society. A self-demonstrating problem. The gaping wound tells its story.
Valois is speechless and stunned with the quickness of the deadly
quarrel. He gloomily watches Hardin supporting the fainting woman.
Slowly her eyes unclose. They meet Hardin's in one long, steadfast,
inscrutable glance. She shudders and says, "Take me away." She covers
her siren face with her jewelled hands, to avoid the sight of the waxy
features and stiffening form of the thing lying there. Ten minutes ago
it was the embodiment of wildest human passion and tiger-like activity.
Vale, "French Charlie."
Hardin has quickly sent for several influential friends. On their
arrival he is permitted to leave, escorted by a policeman. The shaken
sorceress, whose fatal beauty has thrown two determined men against each
other in a sudden duel to the death, walks at his side. There is a bond
of blood sealed between them. It is the mere sensation of a night; the
talk of an idle day. On the next evening the "El Dorado" is thronged
with a great multitude. It is eager to gaze on the wondrous woman's
face, for which "French Charlie" died. Their quest is vain. Another
daughter of the Paphian divinity presides at the shrine of rouge et
noir. The blood-stains are effaced from the floor. A fresh red mound in
the city cemetery is the only relic of French Charlie. Philip Hardin,
released upon heavy bail, awaits a farcical investigation. After a few
days he bears no legal burden of this crime. Only the easy load upon his
conscience. Although the mark of Cain sets up a barrier between him
and his fellows, and the murder calls for the vengeance of God, Philip
Hardin goes his way with unclouded brow. His eyes have a strange new
light in them.
The "Queen of the El Dorado" sits no more at the wheel of fortune. Day
succeeds to day. Nightly expectation is balked. Her absent charms are
magnified in description. The memory of the graceful, dazzling Hortense
Duval fades from the men who struggle around the gaming boards of the
great "El Dorado." She never shows her charming face again in the hall.
The secret of the disappearance of this mysterious sovereign of chance
is known to but few. It is merely surmised by others. To Maxime Valois
the bloody occurrence has borne fruits of importance. As soon as some
business is arranged, the shadowy barrier of this tragedy divides the
two men. Though slight, it is yet such that Valois decides to go to
Stockton. The San Joaquin valley offers him a field. Land matters
give ample scope to his talents. The investment in lands can be better
arranged from there. The Creole is glad to cast his lot in the new
community. By sympathy, many Southerners crowd in. They gain control
of the beautiful prairies from which the herds of elk and antelope are
disappearing.
Philip Hardin's safety is assured. With no open breach of friendship
between them, Maxime still feels estranged. He visits the scene of
his future residence. His belongings follow him. It was an intuition
following a tacit understanding. Man instinctively shuns the murderer.
Maxime never asked of the future of the vanished queen of the El Dorado.
In his visits to San Francisco he finds that few cross Philip Hardin's
threshold socially. Even these are never bid to come again. Is there a
hidden queen in the house on the hill? Rumor says so.
Rising in power, Philip Hardin steadily moves forward. He asks no
favors. He seeks no friends. All unmindful is he of the tattle that a
veiled lady of elegant appearance sometimes walks under the leafy bowers
shading his lovely home.
The excitable populace find new food for gossip. There are more
residences than one in San Francisco, where dreamy luxury is hidden
within the unromantic wooden boxes called residences.
Fair faces gleam out furtively from these casements. At open doors,
across whose thresholds no woman of position ever sets a foot, wealth
stands on guard. Silence seals the portals. The vassals of gold wait in
velvet slippers. The laws of possession are enforced by the dangers of
any trespass on these Western harems.
While the queen city of the West rises rapidly it is only a modern
Babylon on the hills of the bay. The influx augments all classes. Every
element of present and future usefulness slowly makes headway against
the current of mere adventure. Natural obstacles yield to patient,
honest industry. California begins in grains, fruits, and all the rich
returns of nature, to show that Ceres, Flora, and Pomona are a trinity
of witching good fairies. They beckon to the world to wander hither, and
rest under these blue-vaulted balmy skies. Near the splendid streams,
picturesque ridges, and lovely valleys of the new State, health and
happiness may be found, even peace.
The State capital is located, drawn by the golden magnet, at Sacramento.
The only conquest left for the dominating Americans, is the development
of this rich landed domain. Here, where the Padres dreamed over their
monkish breviaries, where the nomad native Californians lived only on
the carcasses of their wild herds, the richest plains on earth invite
the honest hand of the farmer.
The era of frantic dissipation, wildest license, insane speculation, and
temporary abiding wears away. Bower and blossom, bird and bee, begin to
adorn the new homes of the Pacific.
Mighty-hearted men, keen of vision, strong of purpose, appear. The face
of nature is made to change under the resolute attacks of inventive man.
Roads and bridges, wharves and storehouses, telegraph lines, steamer
routes, express and stage systems, banks and post-offices, courts,
churches, marts and halls, all come as if at magic call. The
school-master is abroad. Public offices and records are in working
order. Though the fierce hill Indians now and then attack the miners,
they are driven back toward the great citadel of the Sacramento River.
The huge mountain ranges on the Oregon border are their last fastnesses.
In every community of the growing State, the law is aided by quickly
executed decrees of vigilance committees. Self-appointed popular
leaders, crafty politicians, scheming preachers, aspiring editors,
and ambitious demagogues crop up. They are the mushroom growth of the
muck-heap of the new civilization.
Hardin gathers up with friendships the rising men of all the counties.
At the newly formed clubs of the city his regular entertainments are
a nucleus of a socio-political organization to advance the ambitious
lawyer and the cause of the South.
Men say he looks to the Senate, or the Supreme Bench. Maxime Valois,
rising in power at Stockton, retains the warmest confidence of Hardin.
He knows the crafty advocate is the arch-priest of Secession. Month by
month, he is knitting up the web of his dark intrigues. He would unite
the daring sons of the South in one great secret organization, ready to
strike when the hour of destiny is at hand. It comes nearer, day by day.
Here, in this secret cause of the South, Valois' heart and soul go out
to Hardin. He feels the South was juggled out of California. Both he
and his Mephisto are gazing greedily on the wonderful development of
the coast. Even adjoining Arizona and New Mexico begin to fill up. The
conspirators know the South is handicapped in the irrepressible conflict
unless some diversion is made in the West. They must secure for the
states of the Southern Republic their aliquot share of the varied
treasures of the West. The rich spoil of an unholy war.
Far-seeing and wise is the pupil of Calhoun and Slidell. He is the
coadjutor of the subtle Gwin. Hardin feeds the flame of Maxime Valois'
ardor. The business friendship of the men continues unabated. They need
each other. With rare delicacy, Valois never refers to the blood-bought
"beauty of the El Dorado." Her graceful form never throws its shadow
over the threshold of the luxurious home of the lawyer. On rare visits
to the residence of his friend, Valois' quick eye notes the evidence of
a reigning divinity. A piano and a guitar, a scarf here, a few womanly
treasures there, are indications of a "manage a deux." They prove
to Maxime that the Egeria of this intellectual king lingers near her
victim. He is still under her mystic spell. Breasting the tide of
litigation in the United States and State courts, popular and ardent,
the Louisianian thrives. He rises into independent manhood. He is
toasted in Sacramento, where in legislative halls his fiery eloquence
distinguishes him. He is the king of the San Joaquin valley.
Preserving his friendship with the clergy, still warmly allied to Padre
Francisco, Maxime Valois gradually gains an unquestioned leadership.
His friends at New Orleans are proud of this young pilgrim from "Belle
Etoile." Judge Valois hopes that the coming man will return to Louisiana
in search of some bright daughter of that sunny land, a goddess to share
the honors of the younger branch of the old Valois family. Rosy dreams!
Maxima, satisfied, yet not happy, sees a great commonwealth grow up
around him. Looking under the tides of the political struggles, he can
feel the undertow of the future. It seems to drag him back to the old
Southern land of his birth, "Home to Dixie."
CHAPTER VIII.
JOAQUIN, THE MOUNTAIN ROBBER.--THE DON'S PERIL.
The leaders of the San Joaquin meet at the office of Counsellor Maxime
Valois. He is the rising political chief. While multitudes yet delve
for gold, Valois wisely heads those who see that the miners are merely
nomadic. They are all adventurers. The great men of the coast will be
those who control its broad lands, and create ways of communication.
The men who develop manufactures, start commercial enterprises, and
the farmers, will develop resources of this virgin State. The thousand
vocations of civilization are building up a solid fabric for future
generations.
True, the poet, the story-writer, and the careless stranger will be
fascinated by the heroes of camp and glen. High-booted, red-shirted,
revolver-carrying, bearded argonauts are they, braving all hardships,
enjoying sudden wealth, and leading romantic lives. Stories of camp and
cabin, with brief Monte-Cristo appearances at San Francisco, are the
popular rage. These rough heroes are led captive, even as Samson was
betrayed by Delilah. The discovery of quartz mining leads Valois to
believe that an American science of geologic mining will be a great
help in the future. Years of failure and effort, great experience, with
associated capital, will be needed for exploring the deep quartz veins.
Their mysterious origin baffles the scientist.
Long after the individual argonauts have laid their weary brows upon
the drifted pine needles in the deep eternal sleep of Death, the problem
will be solved. When their lonely graves are landmarks of the Sierras;
when the ephemeral tent towns have been folded up forever, the broad
lands of California will support great communities. To them, these early
days will be as unreal as the misty wreaths clinging around the Sierras.
The romance of the Gilded Age! Each decade throws a deeper mantle of the
shadowy past over the struggles of fresh hearts that failed in the mad
race for gold.
Their lives become, day by day, a mere disjointed mass of paltry
incident. Their careers point no moral, even if they adorn the future
tale. The type of the argonaut itself begins to disappear. Those who
returned freighted with gold to their foreign homes are rich, and
leading other lives far away. Those who diverted their new-found wealth
into industries are prospering. They will leave histories and stable
monuments of their life-work. But the great band of placer hunters have
wandered into the distant territories of the great West. They leave
their bones scattered, under the Indian's attack, or die on distant
quests. They drop into the stream of unknown fate. No moral purpose
attended their arrival. No high aim directed their labors. As silently
as they came, the rope of sand has sifted away. Their influence is
absolutely nothing upon the future social life of California. Even later
Californian society owes nothing of its feverish strangeness to these
gold hunters. They toiled in their historic quest. The prosaic results
of the polyglot settlement of the new State are not of their direction.
The bizarre Western character is due to an admixture of ill-assorted
elements. Not to gold itself or the lust of gold. The personal history
of the gold hunters is almost valueless. No hallowed memory clings to
the miner's grave. No blessing such as hovers over the soldier, dead
under his country's banner.
The early miners fell by the way, while grubbing for gold. Their ends
were only selfish gain. Their gold was a minister of vilest pleasures. A
fool's title to temporary importance.
Among them were many of high powers and great capacity, worthy of deeds
of derring-do, yet it cannot be denied that the narrowest impulses of
human action drove the impetuous explorers over the high Sierras. Gain
alone buried them in the dim ca¤ons of the Yuba and American. The sturdy
citizens pouring in with their families, seeking homes; those who laid
the enduring foundations of the social fabric, the laws and enterprises
of necessity, pith, and moment, are the real fathers of the great
Golden State. In the rapidity of settlement, all the manifold labors
of civilization began together. Laus Deo! There were hands, brains, and
hearts for those trying hours of the sudden acquisition of this royal
domain.
The thoughtful scholar Nevins, throwing open the first public
school-room to a little nursery-like brood, planted the seeds of a
future harvest, far richer than the output of the river treasuries.
A farmer's wife toiling over the long plains, caring for two beehives,
mindful of the future, introduced a future wealth, kinder in prophetic
thought, than he who blindly stumbled on a bonanza.
Humble farmer, honest head of family, intelligent teacher, useful
artisan, wise doctor, and skilled mechanic, these were the real fathers
of the State.
The sailor, the mechanic, and the good pioneer women, these are
the heroes and heroines gratefully remembered now. They regulated
civilization; they stood together against the gold-maddened floating
miners; they fought the vicious camp-followers.
Maxime Valois, learned in the civil law of his native State, speaking
French and Spanish, soon plunged in the vexatious land litigation of
his generation. Mere casual occupancy gave little color of title to the
commoner Mexicans. Now, the great grant owners are, one by one, cited
into court to prove their holdings; many are forced in by aggressive
squatters.
While gold still pours out of the mines, and the young State feels a
throbbing life everywhere, the native Californians are sorely pressed
between the land-getting and the mining classes. Wild herds no longer
furnish them free meat at will. The mustangs are driven away from their
haunts. Growing poverty cuts off ranch hospitality. Without courage to
labor, the poorer Mexicans, contemptuously called Greasers, go to the
extremes of passive suffering. All the occupations of the vaqueros are
gone. These desperate Greasers are driven to horse-stealing and robbery.
Expert with lasso, knife, and revolver, they know every trail. These
bandits mount themselves at will from herds of the new-comers.
The regions of the north, the forests of the Sierras, and the lonely
southern valleys give them safe lurking-places. Wherever they reach a
ranch of their people, they are protected; the pursuers are baffled;
they are misled by the sly hangers-on of these gloomy adobe houses.
In San Joaquin, the brigands hold high carnival; they sally out on wild
rides across the upper Sacramento. The mining regions are in terror.
Herds of stolen horses are driven by the Livermore Pass to the south.
Cattle and sheep are divided; they are used for food. Sometimes the
brands are skilfully altered by addition or counterfeit.
Suspicious Mexicans are soon in danger. Short shrift is given to
the horse-thief. The State authorities are powerless in face of the
duplicity of these native residents. They feel they have been enslaved
by the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. The roads became unsafe. Travellers
are subject to a sudden volley from ambush. The fatal lasso is one
trick; the midnight stab, when lodging in Mexican wayside houses, is
another. There is no longer safety save in the large towns. From San
Diego to Shasta, a chain of criminals leaves a record of bloody deeds.
There are broader reasons than the mere friction of races. The native
Californians are rudely treated in the new courts; their personal rights
are invaded; their homes are not secure; their women are made the prey
of infamous attack.
A deadly feud now rises between the Mexicans and Americans. These brutal
encroachments of the new governing race bring reprisals in chance
duels and secret crimes. This organized robbery is a return blow. The
Americans are forced to travel in posses. They reinforce their sheriffs.
They establish armed messengers. In town and county they execute
suspects by a lively applied Lynch law.
All that is needed to create a general race-war is a determined leader.
As months roll on, the record of violence becomes alarming. Small
stations are attacked, many desperate fights occur. Dead men are
weltering in their blood, on all the trails. A scheming intelligence
seems now to direct the bandits. Pity was never in the Mexican heart.
But now unarmed men are butchered while praying for mercy. Their bodies
are wantonly gashed. Droves of poor, plodding, unarmed Chinese miners
are found lying dead like sheep in rows. Every trail and road is unsafe.
Different bodies of robbers, from five to twenty, operate at the same
time. There is no telegraph here as yet, to warn the helpless settlers.
The following of treasure trains shows that spies are aiding the
bandits.
The leading men of the new State find this scourge unbearable. Lands
are untenanted, cattle and herds are a prey to the robbers. Private
and public reward has failed to check this evil. Sheriff's posses and
occasional lynching parties shoot and hang. Still the evil grows. It is
an insult to American courage. As 1852 is ushered in, there are nearly
two hundred and fifty thousand dwellers in the new State. Still the
reign of terror continues. One curious fact appears. All of the bandits
chased south toward Monterey or Los Angeles are finally driven to
bay, killed, or scattered as fugitives. In the middle regions, the
organization of the Mexican murderers seems to be aided by powerful
friends. They evidently furnish news, supplies, and give concealment to
these modern butchers. They are only equalled by the old cutthroats of
the Spanish main.
A meeting of citizens is called at Stockton. It is privately held, for
fear of betrayal. Maxime Valois is, as usual, in the van. His knowledge
of the country and his renown as a member of Fremont's party fit him to
lead. A secret organization is perfected. The sheriff of the county is
made head of it. He can use the power of posse and his regular force.
The plundered merchants agree to furnish money as needed. Maxime Valois
is needed as the directing brain. In study over news and maps, the
result proves that the coast and south are only used for the sale of
stock or for refuge.
The extreme north of the State shows no prey, save the starving Klamath
Indians. It is true the robbers never have cursed the upper mountains.
Their control sweeps from Shasta to Sonoma, from Marysville and Nevada
as far as the gates of Sacramento, and down to the Livermore Pass.
Mariposa groans under their attacks.
Valois concludes this bloody warfare is a logical result of the
unnecessary conquest of California. To lose their nationality is
galling. To see Mexico, which abandoned California, get $15,000,000 in
compensation for the birthright of the Dons is maddening. It irritates
the suspicious native blood. To be ground down daily, causes continual
bickering. Ranch after ranch falls away under usury or unjust decisions.
In this ably planned brigandage, Valois discerns some young resentful
Californian of good family has assisted. The terrific brutality points
also to a relentless daring nature, aroused by some special wrong.
Valois muses at night in his lonely office. His ready revolvers are at
hand. Even here in Stockton a Mexican, friendly to the authorities, has
been filled with bullets by a horseman. The assailant was swathed to
his head in his scrape. He dashed away like the wind. There is danger
everywhere.
The young lawyer pictures this, the daring bravo--hero by nature--made
a butcher and a fiend by goading sorrows. It must be some one who knows
the Americans, who has travelled the interior, and has personal wrongs
to avenge.
These dark riders strike both innocent and guilty. They kill without
reason, and destroy in mere wantonness. The band has never been met in
its full muster. The general operations are always the same. It seems to
Valois that there are two burning questions:
First--Who is the leader?
Second--Where is the hiding-place or stronghold?
To paralyze the band, this master intelligence must be neutralized by
death. To finish the work, that stronghold must be found or destroyed.
There is as yet no concurrent voice as to their leader. Maxime Valois
is positive, however, that the stronghold is not far from the slopes
of Mariposa. The deadly riders seem to disappear, when driven towards
Stockton. They afterwards turn up, as if sure shelter was near.
But who will hound this fiend to his lair? Valois sends for the sheriff.
They decide to organize a picked corps of men. They will ride the roads,
with leaders selected from veteran Indian fighters. Others are old
soldiers of the Mexican war. The heaviest rewards are offered, to
stimulate the capture of the bandit chiefs. Valois knows, though,
that money will never cause a Mexican to betray any countryman to the
Americans. A woman's indiscretion, yes, a jealous sweetheart's bitter
hatred might lead to gaining the bandit chief's identity. But gold.
Never! The Mexicans never needed it, save to gamble. Judas is their
national scapegoat.
The sheriff has collated every story of attack. Valois draws out the
personality of the leading actor in this revelry of death. A superb
horseman, of medium size, who handles his American dragoon revolvers
with lightning rapidity. A young man in a yellow, black-striped scrape.
He is always superbly mounted. He has curling blackest hair. Two dark
eyes, burning under bushy brows, are the principal features. This man
has either led the murderers or been present at the fiercest attacks. In
many pistol duels, he has killed some poor devil in plain sight of his
comrades.
Valois decides to search all towns where Spanish women abound, for such
a romantic figure. This bandit must need supplies and ammunition. He
must visit women, the fandango, and the attractions of monte. He must
have friends to give him news of treasure movements. Valois watches
secretly the Spanish quarters of all the mountain towns and the great
ranchos.
The Louisianian knows that every gambling-shop and dance-house is a
centre of spies and marauders. The throngs of unnoticed Mexicans, in
a land where every traveller is an armed horseman, enable these robber
fiends to mingle with the innocent. The common language, hatred of
the Americans, the hospitality to criminals of their blood, and
the admiration of the sullen natives for these bravos, prevent any
dependence on the Mexican population.
The pursuers have often failed because of lack of supplies, and worn-out
steeds. The villains are secretly refitted by those who harbor them. An
hour suffices to drive up the "caballada," and remount the bandits at
any friendly interior ranch.
Obstinate silence is all the roadside dwellers' return to questions.
Valois cons over the bloody record of the last two years. The desperate
crimes begin with Andres Armijo and Tomas Maria Carrillo. They were
unyielding ex-soldiers. Both of these have been run to earth. Salamon
Pico, an independent bandit, of native blood, follows the same general
career. John Irving, a renegade American, has held the southern part of
the State. With his followers, he murdered General Bean and others. He
was only an outcast foreigner.
Maxime Valois knows that Irving and his band have been butchered by
savage Indians near the Colorado. Yet none of these have killed for
mere lust of blood. This mysterious chieftain who murders for personal
vengeance, is soon known to the determined Louisianian. In the long
trail of tiger-like assassinations, the robber is disclosed by his
unequalled thirst for blood.
"Joaquin Murieta, Joaquin the Mountain Robber, Joaquin the Yellow
Tiger." He flashes out from the dark shades of night, or the depths of
chaparral and forest. His insane butchery proves Valois to be correct.
Dashing through camps, lurking around towns, appearing in distant
localities, he robs stages, plunders stations, and personally murders
innocent travellers. Express riders are ambushed. The word "Joaquin,"
scrawled on a monte card, and pinned to the dead man's breast, often
tells the tale. Lonely men are found on the trails with the fatal
bullet-hole in the back of the head, shot in surprise. Sometimes he
appears with followers, often alone. Now openly daring individual
conflict, then slinking at night and in silence. Sneak, bravo, and
tiger. He is a Turpin in horsemanship. A fiend in his thirst for blood.
A charmed life seems his. On magnificent steeds, he rides down the
fleeing traveller. He coolly murders the exhausted "Gringo," taunting
his hated race with cowardice. Sweeping from north to south, five
hundred miles, this yellow-clad fiend always keeps the Sacramento or San
Joaquin between him and the coast. Men shudder at the name of Joaquin
Murieta.
Valois sees that the robber chief's permanent haunt is somewhere in the
Sierras. This must be found. The sheriffs of Placer, Nevada, Sierra, El
Dorado, Tuolumne, Calaveras, and Mariposa counties are in the field with
posses. Skirmish after skirmish occurs. All doubtful men are arrested.
Yet the red record continues. Doubling on the pursuers, hiding, the
bandit whirls from Shasta to Tehama, from Oroville to Sacramento, from
Marysville to Placerville. Stockton, San Andreas, Sonora, and Mariposa
are terrorized. Plundered pack-trains, murdered men, and robbed
wayfarers prove that Joaquin Murieta is ever at work. His swoop is
unerring. The yellow serape, black banded, the dark scowling face, and
the battery of four revolvers, two on his body, two on his saddle, soon
make him known to all the State.
The Governor offers five thousand dollars State reward for Joaquin's
head. County rewards are also published. Valois watches all the leading
Mexican families. Some wild son or member must be unaccounted for. No
criminal has yet appeared of good blood, save Tomas Maria Carrillo. But
he has been dead a year, shot in his tracks by a brave man. The bandits
hover around Stockton. The Americans go heavily armed, and only travel
in large bodies. Public rage reaches its climax, when there is found
pinned on the body of a dead deputy-sheriff a printed proclamation of
the Governor of $5,000 for Joaquin's head.
Under the printed words is the scrawl:
"I myself will give ten thousand.
"JOAQUIN."
The passions of the Americans break loose. Innocent Mexicans are shot
and hanged; all stragglers driven out.
The San Joaquin valley becomes a theatre of continued conflict.
"Claudio," another dark chief, ravages the Salinas. He is the robber
king of the coast. The officers find a union between the coast and
inland bandits. Now the manly settlers of the San Joaquin rise in wrath.
Texan rangers, old veterans, heroes of Comanche and Sioux battles, all
swear to hunt Joaquin Murieta to death.
Maxime Valois takes the saddle. He posts strong forces in the defiles
opening to the coast. A secret messenger leaves for Monterey. A vigorous
attack on the coast bandits drives them toward the inland passes.
"Claudio" and his followers are killed, after a bitter hand-to-hand
duel. One or two are hanged. Sheriff Cocks is the hero of the coast.
Maxime Valois calls his ablest men together.
Dividing the main forces into several bodies, a leader is selected for
each squad. Scouts are thrown out. They report daily to the heads of
divisions. The moving forces are ready to close in and envelop their
hated enemy.
Learning of the death of "Claudio," and that a strong body of Southern
settlers is also in the field, Maxime Valois feels the band of Joaquin
is cut off in the square between Placerville and Sonora, Stockton and
the Sierras. It is agreed that the fortunate division striking the
robbers, shall follow the warm trail to the last man and horse.
Reinforcements will push after them.
The sheriff has charge of one, Maxime Valois of another, Captain
Harry Love, a swarthy long-haired Texan ranger, of the third. Love's
magnificent horsemanship, his dark features, drooping mustache and
general appearance, might class him as a Spaniard. Blackened with the
burning sun of the plains, the deserts, and tropic Mexico, his cavalier
locks sweep to his shoulders. The heavy Kentucky rifle, always carried
across his saddle, proves him the typical frontiersman and ranger. He is
a dead shot. Many a Comanche and guerilla have fallen under the unerring
aim of Harry Love. His agile frame, quickness with the revolver, and
nerve with the bowie-knife, have made him equally feared at close
quarters.
In the dark hours of a spring morning of 1854, the main command breaks
into its three divisions. The sheriff covers the lines towards the
north and San Andreas. Maxime skirts the Sierras. Harry Love, marching
silently and at night, hiding his command by day, marches towards
Sonora. He sweeps around and rejoins Valois' main body. The net is
spread.
Scouts are distributed over this region. The mad wolf of the Sierras is
at last to be hunted to his lair.
The unknown retreat must be in the Sierras. He determines to throw his
own command over the valley towards the unvisited Lagunitas rancho.
Padre Francisco will be there, a good adviser. Valois, the rich and
successful lawyer, is another man from the penniless prisoner of seven
years before. Knowing the hatred of Don Miguel for the Americans, he has
never revisited the place. Still he would like to meet the beloved padre
again. He will not uselessly enrage the gloomy lord of Lagunitas. Don
Miguel is a hermit now.
Three days' march, skilfully concealed, brings him to the notched pass,
where Lagunitas lies under its sentinel mountains.
Brooding over the past, thinking of the great untravelled regions behind
the grant, stories from the early life of Don Miguel haunt the sleepless
hours of the anxious young Southern leader. He lies under the stars,
wrapped in his blankets. Lagunitas, once more!
Up before day, filing through light forest and down the passes of
the foothills, the command threads its way. Valois calls his leading
subordinates together. He arranges the visit to the ranch. He sends a
squad of five to ride down the roads a few miles, and meet any scouts
or vedettes of the other Southern party. Valois directs his men where
to rejoin him. He points out, a few miles ahead, a rocky cliff, behind
which the rolling hills around Lagunitas offer several hidden approaches
to the rancho. Cautiously leading his men, to avoid a general alarm, he
skirts the woods. The party rides in Indian file, to leave a light trail
only.
Before the frowning cliff is neared, Valois' keen eye sees his scouts
straggling back. They are galloping at rapid speed, making for the
cliff. The whole command, with smoking steeds, soon joins the scouts.
With them are two of Love's outriders. The bandits are near at hand. For
the scouts, riding up all night from Love's body, have taken the main
road. Within ten miles they find several dead men--the ghastly handiwork
of Joaquin. Their breathless report is soon over. Detaching ten fresh
men, with one of the news-bearers, to join Love and bring him up
post-haste, Maxime Valois orders every man to prepare his girths and
arms for action. Guided by the other scouts, the whole command pricks
briskly over to the concealment of a rolling valley. There is but one
ridge between it, now, and Lagunitas.
Maxime calls up his aids. He gives them his rapid directions. Only the
previous knowledge of the ex-pathfinder enabled him to throw his men
behind the sheltering ridge, unseen from the old Don's headquarters.
In case of meeting any robbers, the subordinates are to seize and hold
the ranch with ten determined men. He throws the rest out in a strong
line, to sweep east and south, till Love's column is met. Winding into
the glen, Valois takes five men and mounts the ridge.
He now skilfully nears the crest of the ridge. The main command is
moving slowly, a few hundred yards below. With the skill of the old
scout of the plains, he brings his little squad up to the shoulder
of the ridge to the south of the rancho. Dismounting, Indian-like, he
crawls up to the summit, from which the beautiful panorama of glittering
Lagunitas lies before him. By his side is a tried friend. A life and
death supporter.
Lagunitas again! It is backed by the forest, where swaying pines are
singing the same old song of seven long years ago. His eye sweeps over
the scene.
Quick as a flash, Valois springs back to the horses. Two mounted
cavaliers, followed by a serving man, can be seen smartly loping away to
the southeast. They are bending towards the region where Love's course,
the trail of the bandits, and Maxime's march intersect. Is it treachery?
Some one to warn the robbers!
Not a moment to lose! "Harris," cries Valois to his companion, "lead the
main command over to that mountain. Be ready to strike any moment. Send
Hill and ten men to capture the ranch by moving over the ridge. Keep
every one there. Hold every human inmate. I'll cut these men off." Away
gallops Harris. Valois leads the four over the other spur. They drop
down the eastern slope of the point. The riders have to pass near. In
rapid words he orders them to throw themselves quickly, at a dead run,
ahead of the travellers. He waits till, six or eight hundred yards away,
the strange horsemen pass the lowest point of the ridge. The first
three scouts are now well across the line of march of the quick-moving
strangers. Then, with a word, "Now, boys, remember!" Valois spurs his
roan out into the open. At a wild gallop he cuts off the retreat of the
horsemen.
Ha! one turns. They are discovered. In an instant the wild mustangs are
racing south. Valois dashes along in pursuit. He has warned his men
to use no firearms till absolutely necessary. He shouts to his two
followers to wait till the last. He would capture, not kill, these three
spies.
Out from the slopes below, the main column, at a brisk trot, cross the
valley. They are led by the quick-eyed scout, who knows how to throw
them on the narrowing suspected region. Love's men and the band of
Joaquin, if here, must soon meet. The three men in advance ride up at
different points. They have seen pursuer and pursued galloping madly
towards them. Instantly the man following the first rider darts
northward, and spurring up a ridge disappears, followed by two of the
three scouts in advance. The other rider draws up and stands his ground
with his servant. As Valois and his companions ride up, the crack,
crack, crack, of heavy dragoon revolvers is wafted over the ridge. It
is now too late for prudence. The horseman at bay has wheeled. Maxime
recognizes the old Don.
Miguel Peralta is no man to be bearded in his own lair, unscathed. He
spurs his horse back towards the ranch. He fires rapidly into the three
pursuers as he darts by. He is a dangerous foe yet.
Valois feels a sharp pang in his shoulder. He reels in his saddle. His
revolver lies in the dust. The ringing reports of his body-guard peal
out as they empty their pistols at fleeing horse and man, The servant
runs up, thoroughly frightened.
Don Miguel's best horse has made its last leap. It crashes down,
pinioning the old soldier to the ground. A bullet luckily has pierced
its brain.
Before the old ranchero can struggle to his feet, his hands are twisted
behind his back. A couple of turns of a lariat clamp his wrists with no
fairy band. A cocked pistol pressed against his head tells him that the
game is up.
Valois drops, half fainting, from his horse, while his men disarm and
bind the sullen old Mexican. The blood pouring from Valois' shoulder
calls for immediate bandaging. The two pursuers of the other fugitive
now ride smartly back.
One lags along, with a torn and shattered jaw. His companion is unhurt.
He bears across his saddle bow a well-known emblem, the yellow and black
scrape of Joaquin Murieta. Several ball holes prove it might have been
his shroud. Valois quickly interrogates the two; after a hasty pistol
duel, in which the flowing serape misled the two practised shots, the
fugitive plunged down a steep slope, with all the recklessness of a
Californian vaquero. It was Joaquin!
When the pursuers reached the trail, it was marked by the abandoned
blanket. A heavy saddle also lay there, cut loose. Joaquin Murieta was
riding away on the wings of the wind, but unwittingly into the jaws of
death. Two or three from the main body took up the trail. The whole body
pushed ahead on the track of the flying bandit--ready for fight.
With failing energies, Valois directs the unwounded pursuer to rejoin
the column. He sends stern orders to Harris, to spare neither man nor
beast, to follow the trail to the last. Even to the heart of the gloomy
forests, this great human vampire must be hounded on his lonely ride to
death.
In the saddle, held up by his men, Maxime Valois toils slowly towards
Lagunitas. Beside him the wounded scout, pistol in hand, rides as a
body-guard. In charge of growling old Don Miguel, a man leads him,
dismounted, by a lariat. His horse and trappings lie on the trail, after
removing all the arms. He is sullen and silent. His servant is a mere
human animal. Cautiously approaching, the plaza lies below them. In
the square, the horses of the captors can be seen peacefully grazing.
Sentinels are mounted at several places. Valois at last reenters the old
hacienda, wounded, but in pride, as a conqueror.
He is met at the priest's door by Padre Francisco. Don Miguel Peralta,
the last of the land barons of the San Joaquin, is now a prisoner in the
sacristy of the church. Time has its revenges. The turns of fortune's
wheel. Padre Francisco assembles the entire population of the home
ranch by the clanging of the church bell. In a few words he explains
the reasons of the occupancy. He orders the hired men to remain in the
enclosure under the guard of the sentinels. He dresses skilfully the
wound of Maxime. He patches up the face of the wounded scout, whose
proudest future boast will be that Joaquin Murieta gave him those
honorable scars.
Maxime, worn and faint, falls into a fevered sleep. His subordinate
holds the ranch, with all the force ready for any attack. The afternoon
wears on. In sleep Valois forgets both the flying bandit and his fate.
The old Don, his eyes filled with scalding tears, rages in his bonds.
Pale, frightened Donna Juanita clasps her hands in the agony of prayer
before the crucifix in the chapel. Beside her stands Dolores, now a
budding beauty, in radiant womanhood. The dark-eyed young girl is mute.
Her pathetic glances are as shy as a wounded deer's dying gaze. "The
dreaded Americanos."
Over the beautiful hills, fanned by the breezes of sunset, the softened
shadows fall. Twilight brings the hush and rest of early evening. The
stars mirror themselves in the sparkling bosom of Lagunitas.
Watching the wounded leader, Padre Francisco's seamed, thoughtful face
is very grave. His thin fingers tell the beads of the rosary. Prayer
after prayer passes his moving lips.
The shadow of sorrow, sin, and shame is on Lagunitas. He fears for
the future of the family. There has been foul play. There the tiger of
Sonora has made his lair in the trackless ca¤ons and rich valleys of the
foot-hills. The old Don must have known all.
Prayers for the dead and dying fall on the silence of the night. They
are roughly broken by the trampling of horses' feet. The priest is
called out by the sentinel. By the dim light of the stars, he sees two
score shadowy horsemen. Between their lines, several poor wretches are
bound and shivering in captivity.
A swarthy figure swings from the saddle. Captain Harry Love springs
across the threshold. Unmindful of the warning of the priest, he rouses
Valois. He cries exultantly, "We have him this time, squire!" Lying
on the portico, tied in the sack, in which it swung at the ranger's
saddle-horn, is the head of Joaquin Murieta. Valois struggles to his
feet. Surrounded by the victors, by the light of a torch, he gazes on
the awful token of victory. As the timid priest sees the fearful object,
he cries, "Joaquin Carrillo!"
It is indeed he. The disgraced scion of an old and proud line. The good
priest shudders as Harry Love, leaning on the rifle which sent its ball
into Joaquin's heart, calmly says, "That thing is worth ten thousand
dollars to me to-night, Valois!"
Already, swift riders are bringing up the forces of the sheriff. In the
morning the history is known. The converging columns struck the bandits,
who scattered. The work of vengeance was quick. "Three-fingered Jack,"
the murderous ancient of the bandit king, is killed in the camp. Several
fugitives are captured. Several more hung. Joaquin Murieta, exhausted in
the flight of the morning, his horse tired and wounded, drops from the
charger, at a snap shot of the intrepid ranger, Love. The robber has
finished his last ride.
Valois recovers rapidly. He has much to do to stem the resentment of the
pursuers. The head of Joaquin and the hand of Three-fingered Jack are
poor, scanty booty. Not as ghastly as the half-dozen corpses swinging
on Lagunitas' oaks, and ghastly trophies of a chase of months. The
prisoners are lynched. Far and wide, cowardly avengers butcher suspected
Mexicans. California breathes freely now. Joaquin Murieta Carrillo will
weave no more guerilla plots.
The padre and Valois commune with the frightened lady of the hacienda.
Donna Juanita implores protection. Shy Dolores puts her slender hand in
his, and begs him to protect her beloved father.
Maxime, in pity for the two women, conceals the history gathered from
honorable Franois Ribaut. Joaquin played skilfully upon Don Miguel's
hatred of the Americans. He knew of the lurking places behind Lagunitas.
From these interior fastnesses, known to Don Miguel from early days,
Joaquin could move on several short lines. He thus appeared as if by
magic. With confederates at different places, his scattered bands had
a rendezvous near Lagunitas. His followers mingled with different
communities, and were picked up here and there on his raids. Special
attacks were suggested by treasure movements. The murdering was not
executed by the general banditti, but by Joaquin alone, and one or two
of his special bravos. Examining the captives, Padre Francisco, by the
agency of the Church, learned that, a few years before, a lovely Mexican
girl, to whom Joaquin was bound by a desperate passion, was the
victim of foul outrage by some wandering American brutes. Her death,
broken-hearted, caused the desperado to swear her grave should be
watered with American blood. Pride of race, and a bitter thirst for
revenge, made Joaquin Murieta what he was,--a human scourge. His
boyhood, spent roaming over the interior, rendered him matchless in
local topography.
It was possible to disguise the fact of supplies being drawn from
Lagunitas. Don Miguel was a great ranchero. As days rolled on, the
plunder of the bandits was brought to the rancho. Joaquin's mutilated
body was a prey to the mountain wolf. The ghastly evidences of victory
were sent to San Francisco, where they remained for years, a reminder of
bloody reprisal.
Padre Francisco saw with fear the rising indignation against Don
Miguel. A clamor for his blood arose. Maxime Valois plead for the old
Commandante. He had really imagined Joaquin's vendetta to be a sort of
lawful war.
The forces began to leave Lagunitas. Only a strong escort body remained.
Valois prepares his departure.
In a last interview, with Padre Francisco present, the lawyer warned Don
Miguel not to leave his hacienda for some time. His life would surely be
sacrificed to the feelings of the Americans. Thankful for their safety,
the mother and sweet girl Dolores gratefully bid adieu to Maxime. He
headed, himself, the last departing band of the invaders. The roads were
safe to all. No trace of treasures of Joaquin was found. Great was the
murmuring of the rangers. Were these hoards concealed on the rancho?
Search availed nothing. Valois spurs down the road. Lagunitas! He
breathes freer, now that the avengers are balked, at Lagunitas. They
would even sack the rancho. Camping twenty miles away, Maxime dreams of
his Southern home, as the stars sweep westward.
In the morning, a rough hand rouses him. It is the sentinel.
"Captain, wake up!"
He springs to his feet. "What is it?" he cries.
"Half the men are gone, sir. They have stolen back to hang the old
Spaniard. They think he has concealed Joaquin's treasures."
Valois rouses several tired friends.
"My horse!" he yells.
As he springs to the saddle, the sentinel tells him a friend disclosed
the plot. Fear kept him silent till the mutineers stole away.
"There are yet two hours to day. Is there time?" Maxime stretches out in
the gallop of a skilled plainsman. He must save the priest and the women
at least.
The mutineers will wait till daylight for their swoop. They are mad with
the thirst for the lost treasures of Joaquin.
On, on, with the swing of the prairie wolf, the young leader gallops. He
rides down man after man. As he gallops he thinks of Se¤ora Juanita,
the defenceless priest, the wounded old Commandante, and the sweet
blossoming beauty of the Sierras, star-eyed young Dolores. They must be
saved. On, on!
Day points over the hills as Maxime dashes into the unguarded plaza
of the ranch. There are sounds of shots, yells, and trampling feet. He
springs from his exhausted steed. The doors of the ranch-house give
way. He rushes to the entrance, to find the rooms empty. In a moment he
realizes the facts. He reaches the priest's house. Beating on the door,
he cries: "Open quick! It is Valois." Springing inside he finds
Padre Francisco, his eyes lit up with the courage of a gallant French
gentleman.
"They are all here," he gasps. "Safe?" queries Valois. "Yes." "Thank
God!" Maxime cries. "Quick! Hurry them into the church. Hold the
sacristy door."
Maxime's two or three friends have followed him. The doors are closed
behind them. The heavy adobe walls are shot-proof. The refuge of the
church is gained none too soon.
The mutineers spread through the padre's house. Pouring in through the
sacristy passage, they are faced in the gray dawn by Valois, his eyes
blazing. He holds a dragoon revolver in each hand. He is a dead shot.
Yet the mutineers are fearless.
"Give up the Greaser robber!" is their mad yell.
"Never!" cries Valois. "He is old and foolish, but he shall not be
abused. Let him answer to the law."
"Captain," cries one, "we don't want to hurt you, but we are going to
find Joaquin's plunder."
"The first man who moves over this threshold is a dead man!" cries
Valois.
No one cares to be first, but they rage wildly. They all gather for a
rush. Weapons are ominously clicking. As they come on, Padre Francisco
stands before them, pale and calm in the morning light.
"Kill me first, my friends," he says. His body covers Valois.
The knot of desperate men stand back. They cannot shoot an unarmed
priest, yet growling murmurs are heard: "Burn them out," "Go ahead."
"Shoot the old Greaser."
A sound of trampling hoofs drowns their cries. The main body of the
detachment, stung with shame, have galloped back to rescue Valois. It is
over. The mutineers sullenly retire in a body.
Three hours later the detachment rides off. The rebels have wandered
away. Guarded by the friends of the wild night-ride, Valois remains at
Lagunitas.
Under questioning of the padre, whose honorable French blood boils at
the domain being made a nest of assassins, the Don describes Joaquin's
lurking-places. With one or two mozos, Valois visits all the old camps
of the freebooters, within seventy-five miles. He leaves his men
at Lagunitas for safety. He threads the fastnesses of the inviolate
forests. They stretch from Shasta to Fresno, the great sugar pines and
redwoods of California.
The axe of man has not yet attacked them. No machinery, no tearing saws
are in these early days destroying their noble symmetry. But they are
doomed. Fires and wanton destruction are yet to come, to leave blackened
scars over once lovely areas. Man mutilates the lovely face of Nature's
sweetest sylvan retreats. Down the great gorge of the Yosemite,
Valois rides past the giant Big Trees of Calaveras. He finds no hidden
treasures, no buried deposits. The camps near Lagunitas disclose only
some concealed supplies. No arms, valuables, and treasures, torn from
the murdered travellers, in the two years' red reign of Joaquin, the
Mountain Tiger.
Valois concludes that Joaquin divided the gold among his followers.
He must have used it largely to purchase assistance from his spies,
scattered through the interior.
The stolen animals were undoubtedly all scattered over the State. The
weapons, saddlery, and gear, booty of the native horse-thief bands, have
been sent as far as Chihuahua in Mexico. Valuable personal articles
were scarce. Few trophies were ever recovered. The gold-dust was
unrecognizable. Valois reluctantly gives up the search. He returns
convinced that mere lust of blood directed Joaquin Murieta Carrillo.
The bandits under him represented the native discontent. Their acts were
a protest against the brutal Americans. They were goaded on by the loss
of all property rights. This harshness drove the Indians, decimated,
drunken, and diseased, from their patrimonial lands. It has effected the
final ruin of the native Californians. Frontier greed and injustice have
done a shameful work.
Maxime Valois blushes for his own nation. He realizes that indigenous
dwellers must go to the wall in poverty, to their death. They go down
before the rush of the wolf pack, hunting gold, always gold.
Taking the precaution to leave men to bear to him any messages from
the padre, Maxime leaves Lagunitas for Stockton. The affairs of the
community call him home. Property, covered by his investments, has been
exposed to fire and flood at Sacramento. Sari Francisco has been half
destroyed by a great conflagration. These calamities make thousands
penniless.
Before he rides away, old Don Miguel comes to say adieu to his savior,
once his prisoner. "Se¤or Americano," he murmurs, "be pleased to come to
my house." Followed by the padre, Valois enters. There Don Miguel bids
Donna Juanita and Dolores thank the man who saved his life.
"I shall not be here long, Se¤or Abogado," he says; "I wish you and the
padre to watch over my wife and child. YOU are a 'caballero' and 'buen
Cristiano.'"
Padre Francisco has proved that the young leader is a true child of the
Church.
The finest horse on the rancho is led to the door. It is trapped with
Don Miguel's state equipment. With a wave of the hand, he says:
"Se¤or, vayase V. con Dios. That horse will never fail you. It is the
pride of the Lagunitas herds."
Maxime promises to aid in any future juncture. He rides out from lonely
Lagunitas, near which tradition to-day locates those fabulous deposits,
the vanished treasures of Joaquin, the mountain robber.
A generation glides away. The riches, long sought for, are never found.
This blood-stained gold may lie hidden beneath the soil of Mariposa, but
it is beyond human ken.
There are wild rejoicings at Stockton. Harry Love, splendid in gayest
trappings, is the hero of the hour. The dead mountain tiger was the last
leader of resistance to the Americans. The humbled Mexicans sink into
the condition of wandering helots. The only possession left is their
unconquerable pride, and the sadness which wraps them in a gloomy
mantle.
CHAPTER IX.
THE STRANGER'S FOOT AT LAGUNITAS. VALOIS' SPANISH BRIDE.
Through the mines runs a paean of rejoicing. The roads are free; Joaquin
is slain at last. Butcher bravos tire of revenging past deeds of blood.
They slay the helpless Indians, or assassinate the frightened native
Californians. This rude revenge element, stirred up by Harry Love's
exploit, reaches from Klamath to the Colorado. Yet the unsettled
interior is destined to keep up the sporadic banditti of the valleys
for years. Every glen offers an easy ambush. In the far future only, the
telegraph and railway will finally cut up the great State into localized
areas of civilization.
All the whiskey-drinking and revolver-carrying bravos must be swept into
obscure graves before crime can cease. It becomes, however, occasional
only. While bloody hands are ready, the plotting brain of Joaquin
Murieta never is equalled by any future bandit.
Coming years bring Francisco Garcia, Sebastian Flores, and the "Los
Manilas" gang, whose seventeen years of bloodshed end finally at the
gallows of Los Angeles. Varrella and Soto, Tiburcio Vasquez, Santos
Lotello, Chavez, and their wild Mexican brothers, are all destined to
die by shot or rope.
"Tom Bell," "Jack Powers," and other American recruits in the army of
villany, have only changed sides in their crimes. All these wretches
merit the deaths awaiting them. The last purely international element of
discord vanishes from the records of crime.
Wandering Americans aptly learn stage-robbing. They are heirs of the
old riders. The glories of "Black Bart," the lone highwayman of eighty
stage-robberies, and the "train robbers," are reserved for the future.
But Black Bart never takes life. He robs only the rich.
Valois appreciates that the day has arrived when legal land spoliation
of the Mexicans will succeed these violent quarrels. Nothing is left to
steal but their land. That is the object of contention between lawyers,
speculators, squatters, and the defenceless owners. Their domains narrow
under mortgage, interest, and legal (?) robbery.
"Vae victis!" The days of confiscation follow the conquest.
Hydraulic mining, quartz processes, and corporate effort succeed the
earlier mining attempts. Two different forces are now in full energy of
action.
Hills are swept bodily into the river-beds, in the search for the
underlying gold. Rivers and meadows are filled up, sand covered, and
ruined. Forests are thrown down, to rot by wholesale. Tunnels are
blasted out. The face of nature is gashed with the quest for gold.
Banded together for destruction, the miners leave no useful landmark
behind them. All is washed away and sent seaward in the choking
river-channels.
The home-makers, in peaceful campaigns of seed-time and harvest, develop
new treasures. Great interests are introduced. The gold of field,
orchard, and harvest falls into the hands of the industrious farmers.
These are the men whose only weapons are scythe and sickle. They are the
real Fathers of the Pacific. Roving over the interior, the miners leave
a land as nearly ruined as human effort can render it. In the wake of
these nugget-hunters, future years bring those who make the abandoned
hills lovely with scattered homes. They are now hidden by orchards,
vineyards, and gardens. Peaceful flocks and herds prove that the
Golden Age of California is not to be these wild days of the barbaric
Forty-niner.
Maxime Valois sees the land sweeping in unrivalled beauty to the
Colorado. Free to the snowy peaks of the Sacramento, the rich plains
roll. He knows that there will be here yet,
"Scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them
shine, With fields which promise corn and wine."
He realizes that transient California must yield to stable conditions.
Some civilized society will succeed the masses as lacking in fibre as a
rope of sand. Already the days of roving adventure are over. There are
wanderers, gamblers, fugitives, ex-criminals, and outcasts enough within
the limits of the new land. Siren and adventuress, women of nameless
history and gloomy future, yet abound. They throng the shabby temporary
camps or tent cities. He knows there is no self-perpetuation in the mass
of men roving in the river valleys. Better men must yet rule.
A visit to San Francisco and other large places proves that the social
and commercial element is supplied from the Northern, Eastern, and
Middle States. Their professional men will be predominant also.
In the interior, the farmers of the West and the sagacious planters of
the South control.
As May-day approaches, Valois, at San Francisco in 1853, sees a
procession of growing children. There, thousands of happy young faces of
school-children, appear bearing roses in innocent hands.
Philip Hardin gives him the details of the coming struggle of North
and South. It is a battle for the coast from Arizona to Oregon. Lost
to England, Russia, and France, lost to the Mormons by stupidity or
neglect, this West is lost to the South by the defeat of slavery.
Industrious farmers come, in fairly equal numbers, from the Northern
and Southern agricultural States. The people of the Atlantic free
States come with their commerce, capital, and institutions. The fiat of
Webster, Clay, and Seward has placed the guardian angel of freedom at
the gates and passes of California. The Southerner cannot transfer his
human slave capital to the far West. The very winds sing freedom's song
on the wooded heights of the Sierras.
Philip Hardin sighs, as he drains his glass, "Valois, our people have
doomed the South to a secondary standing in the Union. This fatal
blunder in the West ruins us. Benton and Fremont's precipitancy thwarted
our statesmen. This gold, the votes of these new States, the future
commerce, the immense resources of the West, all are cast in the balance
against us. We must work for a Western republic. We must wait till we
can fight for Southern rights. We will conquer these ocean States. We
will have this land yet."
The legal Mephisto and his pupil are true to the Southern cause. Neither
of them can measure the coming forces of Freedom. Rosalie Leese, the
pioneer white child of California, born in 1838, at Yerba Buena, was
the first of countless thousands of free-born American children. In the
unpolluted West the breath of slavery shall never blight a single human
existence. Old Captain Richardson and Jacob Leese, pioneers of the
magic city of San Francisco, gaze upon the beautiful ranks of smiling
school-children, in happy troops. They have no regrets, like the knights
of slavery, to see their places in life filled by free-born young
pilgrims of life. All hail the native sons and daughters of the Golden
West!
But the Southern politicians forge to the front. The majority is still
with them. They carry local measures. Their hands are only tied by the
admission of California, as a free State. Too late! On the far borders
of Missouri, the contest of Freedom and Slavery begins. It excites all
America. Bleeding Kansas! Hardin explains that the circle of prominent
Southerners, leading ranchers, Federal officials, and officers of the
army and navy, are relied on for the future. The South has all the
courts. It controls the legislature. It seeks to cast California's voice
against the Union in the event of civil war. As a last resort they will
swing it off in a separate sovereignty--a Lone Star of the West.
"We must control here as we did in Texas, Valois. When the storm arises,
we will be annexed to the Southern Confederacy."
Even as he spoke, the generation of the War was ripening for the sickle
of Death. Filled with the sectional glories of the Mexican war, Hardin
could not doubt the final issue.
"Get land, Valois," he cries. "Localize yourself. When this State is
thrown open to slavery, you will want your natural position. Maxime, you
ought to have a thousand field-hands when you are master at Lagunitas.
You can grow cotton there."
Valois muses. He revolves in his mind the "Southern movement." Is it
treason? He does not stop to ask. As he journeys to Stockton he ponders.
Philip Hardin is about to accept a place on the Supreme Bench of the
State. Not to advance his personal fortunes, but to be useful to his
beloved South.
While the banks, business houses and factories are controlled by
Northern men: while the pothouse politicians of Eastern cities struggle
in ward elections, the South holds all the Federal honors. They govern
society, dominate in the legislature and in the courts. They dictate
the general superior intercourses of men. The ardent Southrons rule with
iron hand. They are as yet only combated by the pens of Northern-born
editors, and a few fearless souls who rise above the meekly bowing men
of the free States.
All see the approaching downfall of lawless pleasure and vicious license
in San Francisco. Slowly the tide of respectable settlement rises. It
bears away the scum of vice, swept into the Golden Gates in the first
rush. The vile community of escaped convicts and mad adventurers cannot
support itself. "The old order changeth, yielding slowly to the new."
At the head of all public bodies, the gentleman of the South, quick to
avenge his personal honor, aims, with formal "code," and ready
pistol, to dragoon all public sentiment. He is sworn to establish the
superiority of the cavalier.
The first Mayor of San Francisco, a Congressman elect, gifted editor
Edward Gilbert, has already fallen in an affair of honor. The control
of public esteem depends largely on prowess in the duelling field. Every
politician lives up to the code.
Valois ponders over Hardin's advice. Averse to routine business, fond
of a country life, he decides to localize himself. His funds have
increased. His old partner, Joe Woods, is now a man of wealth at
Sacramento. Maxime has no faith in quartz mines. He has no desires to
invest in ship, or factory. He ignores commerce. To be a planter, a man
of mark in the legislature, to revive the glories of the Valois family,
is the lawyer's wish. While he passes the tule-fringed river-banks,
fate is leading him back to Lagunitas. He has led a lonely life, this
brilliant young Creole. In the unrest of his blood, under the teachings
of Hardin, Valois feels the future may bear him away to unfought fields.
The grandsons of those who fought at New Orleans, may win victories,
as wonderful, over the enemies of that South, even if these foes are
brothers born.
Gliding towards his fate, the puppet of the high gods, Maxime Valois may
dream of the surrender of Fort Sumter, and of the Southern Cross soaring
high in victory. Appomattox is far hidden beyond battle-clouds of fields
yet to come! The long road thither has not yet been drenched with the
mingled blood of warring brethren. Dreams! Idle dreams! Glory! Ambition!
Southern rights!
At Stockton, Valois receives tidings from Padre Francisco. Clouds
are settling down on Lagunitas. Squatters are taking advantage of the
defenceless old Mexican. If the Don would save his broad acres, he must
appear in the law-courts of the conquerors.
Alas! the good old days are gone, when the whole State of California
boasted not a single lawyer. These are new conditions. The train of
loyal retainers will never sweep again out of the gates of Lagunitas,
headed by the martial Commandante, in all the bravery of rank and
office. It is the newer day of gain and greed.
Prospecting miners swarm over Mariposa. The butterflies are driven from
rocky knoll and fragrant bower by powder blasts. The woods fall under
the ringing axe of the squatter. Ignorant of new laws and strange
language; strong only in his rights; weak in years, devoid of friends,
Don Miguel's hope is the sage counsel of Padre Francisco. The latter
trusts to Valois' legal skill.
As adviser, Valois repairs to Lagunitas. Old patents, papers heavy with
antique seal and black with stately Spanish flourish, are conned over.
Lines are examined, witnesses probed, defensive measures taken.
Maxime sits; catechizes the Don, the anxious Donna Juanita, and the
padre. Wandering by the shores of Lagunitas, Valois notes the lovely
reflection of the sweet-faced Dolores in the crystal waters. The girl is
fair and modest. Franois Ribaut often wonders if the young man sees the
rare beauty of the Spanish maiden. If it would come to pass!
Over his beads, the padre murmurs, "It may be well. All well in time."
The cause drags on slowly. After months, the famous case of the
Lagunitas rancho is fought and won.
But before its last coil has dragged out of the halls of justice,
harassed and broken in spirit, Don Miguel closes his eyes upon the ruin
of his race. Born to sorrow, Donna Juanita is a mere shade of womanly
sorrow. She is not without comfort, for the last of the Peraltas has
placed his child's hand in that of Maxime Valois and whispered his
blessing.
"You will be good to my little Dolores, amigo mio," murmurs the old man.
He loves the man whose lance has been couched in his behalf. The man who
saved his life and lands.
Padre Francisco is overjoyed. He noted the drawing near of the young
hearts. A grateful flash, lighting the shining eyes of Dolores, told
the story to Maxime. His defence of her father, his championship of
the family cause, his graceful demeanor fill sweet Dolores' idea of the
perfect "caballero."
The priest with bell, book, and candle, gives all the honors of the
Church to the last lord of Lagunitas. Hard by the chapel, the old
ranchero rests surrounded by the sighing forest. It is singing the same
unvarying song, breathing incense from the altars of nature over the
stout soldier's tomb.
He has fought the fight of his race in vain. When the roses' leaves
drift a second time on the velvet turf, Maxime Valois receives the hand
of Dolores from her mother. The union is blessed by the invocation of
his priestly friend. It is a simple wedding. Bride and groom are all in
all to each other. There are none of the Valois, and not a Peralta to
join in merrymaking.
Padre Francisco and Donna Juanita are happy in the knowledge that the
shy bird of the mountains is mated with the falcon-eyed Creole. He can
defend the lordly heritage of Lagunitas. So, in the rosy summer time,
the foot of the stranger passes as master over the threshold of the
Don's home. The superb domain passes under the dominion of the American.
One by one the old holdings of the Californian families pass away. The
last of the Dons, sleeping in the silence of the tomb, are spared the
bitterness of seeing their quaint race die out. The foreigner is ruling
within their gates. Their unfortunate, scattered, and doomed children
perish in the attrition of a newer civilization.
Narrow-minded, but hospitable; stately and loyal; indifferent to the
future, suspicious of foreigners, they are utterly unable to appreciate
progress. They are powerless to develop or guard their domains.
Abandoned by Mexico, preyed on by squatters, these courtly old rancheros
are now a memory of the past.
This wedding brings life to Lagunitas. The new suzerain organizes a
working force. It is the transition period of California. Hundreds of
thousands of acres only wait for the magic artesian well to smile in
plenty. Valois gathers up the reins. Only a few pensioners remain. The
nomadic cavalry of the natives has disappeared. The suggestion of "work"
sets them "en route." They drift towards the Mexican border. The flocks
and herds are guarded by corps of white attendants. The farm succeeds
the ranch.
Maxime Valois gives his wife her first sight of the Queen City. The
formalities of receiving the "patent" call him to San Francisco.
Padre Francisco remains with Donna Juanita. The new rule is represented
by "Kaintuck," an energetic frontiersman, whose vast experience in
occasional warfare and frequent homicide is a guarantee of finally
holding possession. This worthy left all his scruples at home in
Kentucky, with his proper appellation. He is a veteran ranger.
As yet the lands yield no regular harvests. The ten-leagues-square
tract produces less fruit, garden produce, and edibles, than a ten-acre
Pennsylvania field in the Wyoming. But the revenue is large from the
cattle and horses. The cattle are as wild as deer. The horses are
embodiments of assorted "original sin," and as agile as mountain
goats. Valois knows, however, the income will be ample for general
improvements.
His policy matures. He encourages the settlement of Southerners. He
rents in subdivisions his spare lands.
The Creole, now a landlord, hears the wails of short-sighted men. They
mourn the green summers, the showery months of the East. Moping in
idleness, they assert that California will produce neither cereal crops,
fruits, nor vegetables. Prophets, indeed! The golden hills look bare and
drear to strangers' eyes. The brown plains please not.
In the great realm, apples, potatoes, wheat, corn, the general cereals
and root crops are supposed to be impossible productions. Gold, wild
cattle, and wilder mustangs are the returns of El Dorado. Cultivation is
in its infancy.
The master departs with the dark-eyed bride. She timidly follows
his every wish. Dolores has the education imparted by gentle Padre
Francisco. It makes her capable of mentally expanding in the experiences
of the first journey. The gentle refinement of her race completes her
charms.
To the bride, the steamer, the sights of the bay, crowded with shipping,
and the pageantry of the city are dazzling. The luxuries of city life
are wonders. Relying on her husband, she glides into her new position.
Childishly pleased at the jewels, ornaments, and toilets soon procured
in the metropolis, Donna Dolores Valois is soon one of Eve's true
daughters, arrayed like the lily.
Months roll away. The stimulus of a brighter life develops the girl wife
into a sweetly radiant woman.
Maxime Valois rejoins Philip Hardin. He is now a judge of the Supreme
Court. Stormy days are these of 1855 and the spring of 1856.
Deep professional intrigues busy Valois. Padre Francisco and "Kaintuck"
announce the existence of supposed quartz mines on the rancho. Valois
will not pause in his occupations to risk explorations.
For the Kansas strife, the warring of sections, and the growing
bitterness of free and slave State men make daily life a seething
cauldron. Southern settlers are pouring into the interior. They shun the
cities. In city and country, squatter wars, over lot and claim, excite
the community. San Francisco is a hotbed of politicians and roughs of
the baser sort. While the Southerners generally control the Federal and
State offices, Hardin feels the weakness in their lines has been
the journalistic front of their party. Funds are raised. Pro-slavery
journals spring into life. John Nugent, Pen Johnston, and O'Meara write
with pens dipped in gall, and the ready pistol at hand. Tumult and
fracas disgrace bench, bar, legislature, and general society. The great
wars of Senators Gwin and Broderick precede the separation of Northern
and Southern Democrats. As the summer of 1856 draws on, corruption,
violence, and sectional hatred bitterly divide all citizens. School and
Church, journal and law-giver, work for the right. The strain on the
community increases. While the coast and interior is dotted with cities
and towns, and the Mint pours out floods of ringing gold coins, there
is no confidence. Farm and factory, ship and wagon train, new streets,
extension of the city and material progress show every advancement. But
a great gulf yawns between the human wave of old adventurers, and the
home-makers, now sturdily battling for the inevitable victory.
The plough is speeding in a thousand furrows everywhere. Cattle and
flocks are being graded and improved. Far-sighted men look to franchise
and public association. The day dawns when the giant gaming hells,
flaunting palaces of sin, and the violent army of miscreants must be
suppressed.
Everywhere, California shows the local irritation between the buccaneers
of the first days, and the resolute, respectable citizens. The latter
are united in this local cause, though soon to divide politically on the
battle-field.
Driven from their lucrative vices of old, the depraved element, at
the polls, overawes decency. San Francisco's long wooden wharves, its
precipitous streets, its crowded haunts of the transient, and its flashy
places of low amusement harbor a desperate gang. They are renegades,
deserters, and scum of every seaport--graduates of all human villany.
Aided by demagogues, the rule of the "Roughs" nears its culmination.
Fire companies, militia, train bands, and the police, are rotten to
the core. In this upheaval, affecting only the larger towns, the higher
classes are powerless.
Cut off, by the great plains, from the central government, the State
is almost devoid of telegraphs and has but one little railroad. It has
hostile Indians yet on its borders. The Chinese come swarming in like
rats. The situation of California is critical.
Personal duels and disgraceful quarrels convulse high life. The lower
ranks are ruled only by the revolver. The criminal stalks boldly,
unpunished, in the streets.
The flavor of Americanism is no leaven to this ill-assorted population.
The exciting presidential campaign, in which Fremont leads a new party,
excites and divides the better citizens of the commonwealth.
Though the hills are now studded with happy homes and the native
children of the Golden West are rising in promise, all is unrest. A
local convulsion turns the anger of better elements into the revolution
of the Vigilance Committee of 1856. James Casey's pistol rang out
the knell of the "Roughs" when he murdered the fearless editor of the
leading journal.
Valois, uninterested in this urban struggle, returns to Lagunitas. His
domain rewards his energy.
All is peace by the diamond lake. Senora Dolores, her tutor, Padre
Francisco, and the placid Duenna Juanita make up a pleasant home circle.
It is brightened by luxuries provided by the new lord. Maxime Valois'
voice is heard through the valleys. He travels in support of James
Buchanan, the ante-bellum President. For is not John C. Breckinridge,
the darling son of the South, as vice-president also a promise of
Southern success?
San Francisco throws off its criminals by a spasmodic effort. The
gallows tree has borne its ghastly fruit. Fleeing "Roughs" are
self-expatriated. Others are unceremoniously shipped abroad. The
Vigilance Committee rules. This threshing out of the chaff gives the
State a certain dignity. At least, an effort has been made to purge the
community. All in all, good results--though a Judge of the Supreme Court
sleeps in a guarded cell as a prisoner of self-elected vindicators of
the law.
When the excitement of the presidential election subsides, Maxime Valois
joins the banquets of the Democratic victors. The social atmosphere
is purer. Progress marks the passing months. The State springs forward
toward the second decade of its existence. There is local calm, while
the national councils potter over the Pacific railways. Valois knows
that the great day of Secession approaches. The Sons of the South will
soon raise the banner of the Southern Cross. He knows the purposes of
the cabinet, selected by the conspirators who surround Buchanan. Spring
sees the great departments of the government given over to those who
work for the South. They will arrange government offices, divide the
army, scatter the navy, juggle the treasury and prepare for the coming
storm. The local bitterness heightens into quarrels over spoils.
Judge Philip Hardin, well-versed in the Secession plots, feeds the
ever-burning pride of Valois. From Kansas, from court and Congress, from
the far East, the murmur of the "irrepressible conflict" grows nearer.
Maxime Valois is in correspondence with the head of his family. While at
Lagunitas, the Creole pushes on his works of improvement. He dreams at
night strange dreams of more brilliant successes. Of a new flag and the
triumph of the beloved cause. He will be called as a trusted Southron
into the councils of the coast. Will they cut it off under the Lone Star
flag? This appeals to his ambition.
There are omens everywhere. The Free-State Democrats must be suppressed.
The South must and shall rule.
He often dreams if war and tumult will ever roll, in flame and fire,
over the West. The mists of the future veil his eyes. He waits the
signal from the South. All over California, the wealth of the land peeps
through its surface gilding. There are no clouds yet upon the local
future. No burning local questions at issue here, save the aversion of
the two sections, distrustful of each other.
It needs only the mad attack of John Brown upon Virginia's slave-keepers
to loose the passions of the dwellers by the Pacific. Martyr or
murderer, sage or fanatic, Brown struck the blows which broke the bonds
of the brotherhood of the Revolution. From the year 1858, the breach
becomes too great to bridge. Secretly, Southern plans are perfected to
control the West. While the conspiracy slowly moves on, the haughtiness
of private intercourse admits of no peaceable reunion. Active
correspondence between officials, cool calculations of future resources,
and the elevation to prominent places of men pledged to the South, are
the rapid steps of the maturing plans. On the threshold of war.
For the senators, representatives, and agents in Washington
confidentially report that the code of honor is needed to restrain the
Northerners under personal dragooning. Yankee self-assertion comes at
last.
Around the real leaders of thought their vassals are ranged. Davis,
Toombs, Breckinridge, Yancey, Pryor, Wigfall, Wise, and others direct.
Herbert, Keith, Lamar, Brooks, and a host of cavaliers are ready with
trigger and cartel. The tone at Washington gives the keynote to the
Californian agents of the Southern Rights movement. There are not enough
Potters, Wades, and Landers, as yet. The Northern mind needs time to
realize the deliberation of Secession.
The great leaders of the free States are dead or in the gloomy
retirement of age. Webster and Clay are no more. There are yet men of
might to fight under the banners streaming with the northern lights of
freedom. Douglas, Bell, Sumner, Seward, and Wade are drawing together.
Grave-faced Abraham Lincoln moves out of the background of Western woods
into the sunrise glow of Liberty's brightest day.
On the Pacific coast, restraint has never availed. Here, ancestry and
rank go for naught. Here, men meet without class pride. The struggle is
more equal.
California's Senator, David C. Broderick, was the son of an humble New
York stone-cutter. He grapples with his wily colleague, Senator Gwin.
It is hammer against rapier. Richard and Saladin. Beneath the banners of
the chieftains the free lances of the Pacific range themselves. Neither
doubts the courage of the opposing forces. The blood of the South has
already followed William Walker, the gray-eyed man of destiny, to Sonora
and Nicaragua. They were a splendid band of modern buccaneers. Henry A.
Crabbe found that the Mexican escopetas are deadly in the hands of the
maddened inhabitants of Arispe. Raousset de Boulbon sees his Southern
followers fall under machete and revolver in northern Mexico. The
Southern filibusters are superbly reckless. All are eager to repeat the
glories of Texas and Mexico. They find that the Spanish races of Central
America have learned bitter lessons from the loss of Texas. They know of
the brutal conquest of California. The cry of "Muerte los Americanos!"
rings from Tucson to Darien. The labors of conquest are harder now for
the self-elected generalissimos of these robber bands. "Extension of
territory" is a diplomatic euphemism for organized descents of desperate
murderers. The wholesome lessons of the slaughter in Sonora, the piles
of heads at Arispe, and the crowded graves of Rivas and Castillo, with
the executions in Cuba, prove to the ambitious Southrons that they will
receive from the Latins a "bloody welcome to hospitable graves."
As the days glide into weeks and months, the thirst for blood of the
martial generation overcrowding the South is manifest. On the threshold
of grave events the leaders of Southern Rights restrain further foreign
attempts. The chivalry is now needed at home. Foiled in Cuba and Central
America, restrained by the general government from a new aggressive
movement on Mexico, they decide to turn their faces to the North. They
will carve out a new boundary line for slavery.
The natural treasury of the country is an object of especial interest.
To break away peaceably is hardly possible. But slavery needs more
ground for the increasing blacks. It must be toward the Pacific that
the new Confederacy will gain ground. Gold, sea frontage, Asiatic trade,
forests and fisheries,--all these must come to the South. It is the
final acquisition of California. It was APPARENTLY for the Union, but
REALLY for the South, that the complacent Polk pounced upon California.
He waged a slyly prepared war on Mexico for slavery.
As the restraints of courtesy and fairness are thrown off at Washington,
sectional hostilities sweep over to the Western coast. The bitterness
becomes intense. Pressing to the front, champions of both North and
South meet in private encounters. They admit of neither evasion nor
retreat.
Maxime Valois is ready to shed his blood for the land of the palmetto.
But he will not degrade himself by low intrigue or vulgar encounter.
He learns without regret of the extinction of the filibusters in Sonora,
on the Mexican coast, Cuba, and Central America. He knows it is mad
piracy.
Valois sorrows not when William Walker's blood slakes the stones of the
plaza at Truxillo. A consummation devoutly to be wished.
It is for the whole South he would battle. It is the glorious half of
the greatest land on the globe. For HER great rights, under HER banner,
for State sovereignty he would die. On some worthy field, he would lead
the dauntless riflemen of Louisiana into the crater of death.
THERE, would be the patriot's pride and the soldier's guerdon of valor.
He would be in the van of such an uprising. He scorns to be a petty
buccaneer, a butcher of half-armed natives, a rover and a robber.
In every scene, through the days of 1859, Valois bears himself as a
cavalier. Personal feud was not his object.
In the prominence of his high position, Valois travels the State. He
confers with the secret councils at San Francisco. He is ready to lead
in his regions when needed. The dark cabal of Secession sends out trusty
secret agents, even as Gillespie and Larkin called forth the puppets of
Polk, Buchanan and Marcy to action. Valois hopes his friends can seize
California for the South. Fenced off from Oregon and the East by the
Sierras, there is the open connection with the South by Arizona.
A few regiments of Texan horse can hold this great gold-field for the
South. Valois deems it impossible for California to be recaptured if
once won. He knows that Southern agents are ready to stir up the great
tribes of the plains against the Yankees. The last great force, the
United States Navy, is to be removed. Philip Hardin tells him how the
best ships of the navy are being dismantled, or ordered away to foreign
stations. Great frigates are laid up in Southern navy-yards. Ordnance
supplies and material are pushed toward the Gulf. Appropriations are
expended to aid these plans. The leaders of the army, now scattered
under Southern commanders, are ready to turn over to the South the whole
available national material of war. Never dreaming of aught but success,
Valois fears only that he may be assigned to Western duties. This will
keep him from the triumphal marches over the North. He may miss the
glories of that day when Robert Toombs calls the roll of his blacks
at Bunker Hill Monument. In the prime of life and vigor of mind, he is
rich. He has now a tiny girl child, gladdening sweet Senora Dolores. His
domain blossoms like the rose. Valois has many things to tie him to San
Joaquin. His princely possessions alone would satisfy any man. But he
would leave all this to ride with the Southern hosts in their great
northward march. Dolores sits often lonely now, on the porch of the
baronial residence which has grown up around the Don's old adobe
mansion. Her patient mother lies under the roses, by the side of Don
Miguel.
Padre Francisco, wearied of the mental death in life of these lonely
hills, has delayed his return to France only by the appeals of Maxime
Valois. He wants a friend at Lagunitas if he takes the field. If he
should be called East, who would watch over his wife and child? Franois
Ribaut, a true Frenchman at heart, looks forward to some quiet cloister,
where he can see once more the twin towers of Notre Dame. The golden
dome of the Invalides calls him back. He sadly realizes that his life
has been uselessly wasted. The Indians are either cut off, chased away,
or victims of fatal diseases. The Mexicans have fallen to low estate.
Their numbers are trifling. He has no flock. He is only a lonely
shepherd. With the Americans his gentle words avail nothing. The
Catholics of the cities have brought a newer Church hierarchy with them.
"Home to France," is his longing now.
In the interior, quarrels bring about frequent personal encounters
between political disputants. The Northern sympathizers, stung by jeer,
and pushed to the wall, take up their weapons and stand firm--a new fire
in their eyes. The bravos of slavery meet fearless adversaries. In the
cities, the wave of political bitterness drowns all friendly impulses.
Every public man takes his life in his hand. The wars of Broderick and
Gwin, Field and Terry, convulse the State. Lashed into imprudence by
each other's attacks, David C. Broderick and David S. Terry look into
each other's pistols. They stand face to face in the little valley by
Merced Lake. Sturdy Colton, and warm-hearted Joe McKibbin, second the
fearless Broderick. Hayes and the chivalric Calhoun Benham are the aids
of the lion-hearted Terry. It is a meeting of giants. Resolution against
deadly nerve. Brave even to rashness, both of them know it is the first
blood of the fight between South and North. Benham does well as, with
theatrical flourish, he casts Terry's money on the sod. The grass is
soon to be stained with the blood of a leader. This is no mere money
quarrel. It is a duel to the death; a calm assertion of the fact that
neither in fray, in the forum, nor on the battle-field, will the North
go back one inch. It is high time.
Broderick, the peer of his superb antagonist, knows that the pretext of
Terry's challenge is a mere excuse. It is first blood in the inevitable
struggle for the western coast. With no delay, the stout-hearted
champions, friends once, stand as foes in conflict. David Terry's
ball cuts the heart-strings of a man who had been his loving political
brother. His personal friend once and a gallant comrade. Broderick's
blood marks the fatal turning-off of the Northern Democrats from their
Southern brothers. As Terry lowers his pistol, looking unpityingly at
the fallen giant, he does not realize he has cut the cords tying the
West to the South. It was a fatal deed, this brother's murder. It was
the mistake of a life, hitherto high in purpose. The implacable Terry
would have shuddered could he have looked over the veiled mysteries
of thirty years to come. It was beyond human ken. Even he might have
blenched at the strange life-path fate would lead him over. Over
battle-fields where the Southern Cross rises and falls like Mokanna's
banner, back across deserts, to die under the deadly aim of an obscure
minion of the government he sought to pull down. After thirty years,
David S. Terry, judge, general, and champion of the South, was destined
to die at the feet of his brother-judge, whose pathway inclined
Northwardly from that ill-starred moment.
Maxime Valois saw in the monster memorial meeting on the plaza, that the
cause of the South was doomed in the West. While Baker's silver voice
rises in eulogy over Broderick, the Louisianian sees a menace in the
stern faces of twenty thousand listeners. The shade of the murdered
mechanic-senator hovers at their local feast, a royal Banquo, shadowy
father of political kings yet to be.
The clarion press assail the awful deed. Boldly, the opponents of
slavery draw out in the community. There is henceforth no room for
treason on the Western coast. Only covert conspiracy can neutralize the
popular wave following Broderick's death. Dissension rages until the
fever of the Lincoln campaign excites the entire community. The pony
express flying eastward, the rapidly approaching telegraph, the southern
overland mail with the other line across the plains, bring the news of
Eastern excitement. Election battles, Southern menace, and the tidings
of the triumph of Republican principles, reach the Pacific. Abraham
Lincoln is the elected President.
Valois is heavy-hearted when he learns of the victory of freedom at
the polls. He would be glad of some broad question on which to base the
coming war. His brow is grave, as he realizes the South must now bring
on at moral disadvantage the conflict. The war will decide the fate
of slavery. Broderick's untimely death and the crushing defeat of the
elections are bad omens. It is with shame he learns of the carefully
laid plots to seduce leading officers of the army and navy. The South
must bribe over officials, and locate government property for the use of
the conspirators. It labors with intrigue and darkness, to prepare for
what he feels should be a gallant defiance. It should be only a solemn
appeal to the god of battles.
He sadly arranges his personal affairs, to meet the separations of
the future. He sits with his lovely, graceful consort, on the banks of
Lagunitas. He is only waiting the throwing-off of the disguise which
hides the pirate gun-ports of the cruiser, Southern Rights. The hour
comes before the roses bloom twice over dead Broderick, on the stately
slopes of Lone Mountain.
BOOK III
GOING HOME TO DIXIE: STARS AND STRIPES, OR STARS AND BARS?
CHAPTER X
A LITTLE DINNER AT JUDGE HARDIN'S.--THE KNIGHTS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE.
The rain drips drearily around Judge Hardin's spacious residence in
San Francisco. January, 1861, finds the sheltering trees higher. The
embowered shade hides to-night an unusual illumination. Winter breezes
sigh through the trees. Showers of spray fall from acacia and vine. As
the wet fog drives past, the ship-lights on the bay are almost hidden.
When darkness brings out sweeping lines of the street-lamps, many
carriages roll up to the open doors.
A circle of twenty or thirty intimates gathers in the great dining-room.
At the head of the table, Hardin welcomes the chosen representatives of
the great Southern conspiracy in the West. His residence, rarely thrown
open to the public, has grown with the rise of his fortunes. Philip
Hardin must be first in every attribute of a leading judge and
publicist. Lights burn late here since the great election of 1860.
Men who are at the helm of finance, politics, and Federal power are
visitors. Editors and trusted Southrons drop in, by twos and threes,
secretly. There is unwonted social activity.
The idle gossips are silent. These visitors are all men, unaccompanied
by their families. Woman's foot never crosses this threshold. In the
wings of the mansion, a lovely face is sometimes seen at a window. It is
a reminder of the stories of that concealed beauty who has reigned years
in the mansion on the hill.
Is it a marriage impending? Is it some great scheme? Some new monetary
institution to be launched?
These vain queries remain unanswered. There is a mystic password given
before joining the feast. Southerners, tried and true, are the diners.
Maxime Valois sits opposite his associate. It is not only a hospitable
welcome the Judge extends, but the mystic embrace of the Knights of the
Golden Circle. In feast and personal enjoyment the moments fly by. The
table glitters with superb plate. It is loaded with richest wines and
the dainties of the fruitful West. The board rings under emphatic blows
of men who toast, with emphasis, the "Sunny South." In their flowing
cups, old and new friends are remembered. There is not one glass raised
to the honor of the starry flag which yet streams out boldly at the
Golden Gate.
The feast is of conspirators who are sworn to drag that flag at their
horses' heels in triumph. Men nurtured under it.
Judge Hardin gives the signal of departure for the main hall. In an hour
or so they are joined by others who could not attend the feast.
The meeting of the Knights of the Golden Circle proceeds with mystic
ceremony. The windows, doors, and avenues are guarded. In the grounds
faithful brothers watch for any sneaking spy. Every man is heavily
armed. It would be short shrift to the foe who stumbles on this meeting
of deadly import.
It is the supreme moment to impart the last orders of the Southern
leaders. The Washington chiefs assign the duties of each, in view of the
violent rupture which will follow Lincoln's inauguration.
Fifty or sixty in number, these brave and desperate souls are ready to
cast all in jeopardy. Life, fortune, and fame. They represent every city
and county of California.
Hardin, high priest of this awful propaganda, opens the business of the
session with a cool statement of facts. Every man is now sworn and under
obligation to the work. Hardin's eye kindles as he sees these brothers
of the Southern Cross. Each of them has a dozen friends or subordinates
under him. To them these tidings will be only divulged under the awful
seal of the death penalty. There are scores of army and navy officers
with high civil officials on the coast whose finely drawn scruples will
keep them out until the first gun is fired, Then these powerful allies,
freed by resignation, can come in. They are holding places of power and
immense importance to the last. The Knights are wealthy, powerful, and
desperate.
As Valois hears Hardin's address, he appreciates the labor of years, in
weaving the network which is to hold California, Arizona, and New
Mexico for the South. Utah and Nevada are untenanted deserts. The Mormon
regions are neutral and only useful as a geographical barrier to
Eastern forces. Oregon and Washington are to be ignored. There the hardy
woodsmen and rugged settlers represent the ingrained "freedom worship"
of the Northwest. They are farmers and lumbermen. All acknowledge it
useless to tempt them out of the fold. Oregon's star gleams now firmly
fixed in the banner of Columbia. And the great Sierras fence them off.
The speaker announces that each member of the present circle will be
authorized, on returning, to organize and extend the circles of the
Order. Notification of matters of moment will be made by qualified
members, from circle to circle. Thus, orders will pass quickly over the
State. The momentous secrets cannot be trusted to mail, express, or the
local telegraphs.
Hardin calls up member after member, to give their views. The general
plan is discussed by the circle. Keen-eyed secretaries note and arrange
opinions and remarks.
Hardin announces that all arrangements are made to use all initiated
members going East as bearers of despatches. They are available for
special interviews, with the brothers who are in every large Northern
city and even in the principal centres of Europe.
Ample funds have been forthcoming from the liberal leaders of the local
movement. Millions are already promised by the branches at the East.
Wild cheers hail Judge Hardin's address. He outlines the policy, so
artfully laid out, for the cut-off Western contingent. In foaming wine,
the fearless coterie pledges the South till the rafters ring again. The
"Bonnie Blue Flag" rings out, as it does in many Western households,
with "Dixie's" thrilling strains.
The summing up of Hardin is concise: "We are to hold this State until
we have orders to open hostilities. Our numbers must not be reduced by
volunteers going East. Our presence will keep the Yankee troops from
going East. We want the gold of the mines here, to sustain our finances.
We have as commanding General, Albert Sidney Johnston, the ideal soldier
of America, who will command the Mississippi. Lee, Beauregard, and Joe
Johnston will operate in the East. The fight will be along the border
lines. We will capture Washington, and seize New York and Philadelphia.
A grand Southern army will march from Richmond to Boston. Another from
Nashville to Cincinnati and Chicago. Johnston will hold on here, until
forced to resign. Many officers go with him. We shall know of this, and
throw ourselves on the arsenals and forts here, capturing the stores and
batteries. The militia and independent companies will come over to us at
once. With Judge Downey, a Democratic governor, no levies will be called
out against us. The navy is all away, or in our secret control. Once in
possession of this State, we will fortify the Sierra Nevada passes.
We are prepared. Congress has given us $600,000 a year to keep up the
Southern overland mail route. It runs through slave-holding territory to
Arizona. Every station and relay has been laid out to suit us. We will
have trusty friends and supplies, clear through Arizona and over the
Colorado. At the outbreak, we will seize the whole system. It is the
shortest and safest line."
Hardin, lauding the skilful plans of a complacent Cabinet officer, did
not know that the Southern idea was to connect Memphis direct with Los
Angeles.
It was loyal John Butterfield of New York, who artfully bid for a DOUBLE
service from Memphis and St. Louis, uniting at Fort Smith, Arkansas, and
virtually defeated this sly move of slavery.
Judge Hardin, pausing in pride, could not foresee that Daniel
Butterfield, the gallant son of a loyal sire, would meet the chivalry
of the South as the Marshal of the greatest field of modern times--awful
Gettysburg!
While Hardin plotted in the West, Daniel Butterfield in the East
personally laid out every detail of this great service, so as to
checkmate the Southern design, were the Mississippi given over to loyal
control.
The afterwork of Farragut and Porter paralyzed the Southern line
of advance; and on the Peninsula, at Fredericksburg, at Resaca and
Chancellorsville, Major-General Daniel Butterfield met in arms many of
the men who listened to Hardin's gibes as to the outwitted Yankee mail
contractors.
Hardin, complacent, and with no vision of the awful fields to come,
secure in his well-laid plans, resumes:
"Thus aided through Arizona we will admit a strong column of Texan
dragoons. We shall take Fort Yuma, Fort Mojave, and the forts in
Arizona, as well as Forts Union and Craig in New Mexico. We will then
be able to control the northern overland road. We will hold the southern
line, and our forces will patrol Arizona. Mexico will furnish us ports
and supplies.
"Should the Northerners attempt to push troops over the plains, we will
attack them, in flank, from New Mexico. We can hold, thus, New Mexico,
Arizona, southern Utah, and all of California, by our short line from El
Paso to San Diego. We are covered on one flank by Mexico."
The able brethren are ready with many suggestions. Friendly spies in the
Department at Washington have announced the intended drawing East of the
regular garrisons. It is suggested that the forts, and in fact the whole
State, be seized while the troops are in transit.
Another proposes the fitting out of several swift armed steam
letters-of-marque from San Francisco, to capture the enormous Yankee
tonnage now between China, Cape Horn, Australia, and California. The
whaling fleet is the object of another. He advises sending a heavily
armed revenue cutter, when seized, to the Behring Sea to destroy the
spring whalers arriving from Honolulu too late for any warning, from
home, of the hostilities.
A number of active committees are appointed. One, of veteran rangers,
to select frontiersmen to stir up the Indians to attack the northern
overland mail stations. Another, to secretly confer with the officers
of the United States Mint, Custom-House, and Sub-Treasury. Another, to
socially engage the leading officers of the army and navy, and win them
over, or develop their real feelings. Every man of mark in the State is
listed and canvassed.
The "high priest" announces that the families of those detailed for
distant duty will be cared for by the general committee. Each member
receives the mystic tokens. Orders are issued to trace up all stocks of
arms and ammunition on the coast.
The seizure of the Panama Railroad, thus cutting off quick movement of
national troops, is discussed. Every man is ordered to send in lists
of trusty men as soon as mustered into the new mystery. Convenient
movements of brothers from town to town are planned out. Only true sons
of the sunny South are to be trusted.
In free converse, the duty of watching well-known Unionists is enjoined
upon all. Name by name, dangerous men of the North are marked down for
proscription or special action. "Removal," perhaps.
With wild cheers, the Knights of the Golden Circle receive the news
that the South is surely going out. The dream long dear to the Southern
heart! Any attempt of the senile Buchanan to reinforce the garrisons of
the national forts will be the signal for the opening roar of the stolen
guns. They know that the inauguration of Lincoln on March 4, 1861, means
war without debate. He dare not abandon his trust. He will be welcomed
with a shotted salute across the Potomac.
When the move "en masse" is made, the guests, warmed with wine and full
of enthusiasm, file away. Hardin and Valois sit late. The splashing rain
drenches the swaying trees of the Judge's hillside retreat.
Lists and papers of the principal men on both sides, data and statistics
of stock and military supplies, maps, and papers, are looked at. The
deep boom of the Cathedral bell, far below them, beats midnight as the
two friends sit plotting treason.
There is something mystical in the exact hour of midnight. The rich note
startles Hardin. Cold, haughty, crafty, and able, his devotion to the
South is that of the highest moral courage. It is not the exultation
which culminates rashly on the battle-field. These lurid scenes are for
younger heroes.
His necessary presence in the West, his age and rank, make him
invaluable, out of harness. His scheming brain is needed, not his ready
sword.
He pours out a glass of brandy, saying, "Valois, tell me of our
prospects here. You know the interior as well as any man in the State."
Maxime unburdens his mind. "Judge, I fear we are in danger of losing
this coast. I have looked over the social forces of the State. The
miners represent no principle. They will cut no figure on either side.
They would not be amenable to discipline. The Mexicans certainly will
not sympathize with us. We are regarded as the old government party. The
Black Republicans are the 'liberals.' The natives have lost all, under
us. We will find them fierce enemies. We cannot undo the treatment of
the Dons." Hardin gravely assents.
"Now, as to the struggle. Our people are enthusiastic and better
prepared. The nerve of the South will carry us to early victory. The
North thinks we do not mean fight. Our people may neglect to rush troops
from Texas over through Arizona. We should hold California from the very
first. I know the large cities are against us. The Yankees control the
shipping and have more money than we. We should seize this coast, prey
on the Pacific fleets, strike a telling blow, and with Texan troops (who
will be useless there) make sure of the only gold-yielding regions of
America. Texas is safe. We hold the Gulf at New Orleans. Yankee gunboats
cannot reach the shallow Texas harbors. Unless we strike boldly now, the
coast is lost forever. If our people hold the Potomac, the Ohio, and
the Missouri (after a season's victories), without taking Cincinnati and
Washington, and securing this coast, we will go down, finally, when the
North wakes up. Its power is immense. If Europe recognizes us we are
safe. I fear this may not be."
"And you think the Northerners will fight," says Hardin.
"Judge," replies Valois, "you and I are alone. I tell you frankly we
underestimate the Yankees. From the first, on this coast we have lost
sympathy. They come back at us always. Broderick's death shows us these
men have nerve." Valois continues: "That man is greater dead than alive.
I often think of his last words, 'They have killed me because I was
opposed to a corrupt administration and the extension of slavery.'"
Hardin finishes his glass. "It seems strange that men like Broderick and
Terry, who sat on the bench of the Supreme Court (a senator and a great
jurist), should open the game. It was unlucky. It lost us the Northern
Democrats. We would have been better off if Dave Terry had been killed.
He would have been a dead hero. It would have helped us."
Valois shows that, in all the sectional duels and killings on the coast,
the South has steadily lost prestige. The victims were more dangerous
dead than alive. Gilbert, Ferguson, Broderick, and others were costly
sacrifices.
Hardin muses: "I think you are right, Maxime, in the main. Our people
are in the awkward position of fighting the Constitution, and the old
flag is a dead weight against us. We must take the initiative in an
unnecessary war. This Abe Lincoln is no mere mad fool. I will send a
messenger East, and urge that ten thousand Texan cavalry be pushed right
over to Arizona. We must seize the coast. You are right! There is one
obstacle, Valois, I cannot conquer."
"What is that?" says Maxime.
"It is Sidney Johnston's military honor," thoughtfully says Hardin. "He
is no man to be played with. He will not act till he has left the old
army regularly. He will wait his commission from our confederacy. He
will then resign and go East."
"It will be too late," cries Valois. "We will be forgotten, and so lose
California."
"The worst is that the coast will stand neutral," says Hardin.
"Now, Judge," Valois firmly answers, "I have heard to-night talk of
running up the 'bear flag,' 'the lone star,' 'the palmetto banner,' or
'the flag of the California Republic,' on the news of war. I hope they
will not do so rashly."
"Why?" says Hardin.
"I think they will swing under the new flags on the same pole," cries
Valois, pacing the room. "If there is failure here, I shall go East.
Judge Valois offers me a Louisiana regiment. If this war is fought out,
I do not propose to live to see the Southern Cross come down."
The Creole pauses before the Judge, who replies, "You must stay here; we
must get California out of the Union."
"If we do not, then the cause lies on Lone Mountain," says Valois,
pointing westward toward the spot where a tall shaft already bears
Broderick's name.
Hardin nods assent. "It was terrific, that appeal of Baker's," he
murmurs.
Both felt that Baker (now Senator from Oregon) would call up the mighty
shade of the New York leader. Neither could foresee the career of the
eulogist of Broderick, after his last matchless appeals to an awakening
North. That denunciation in the Senate sent the departing Southern
senators away, smarting under the scorpion whip of his peerless
invective. Baker was doomed to come home cold in death from the red
field of Ball's Bluff, and lie on the historic hill, beside his murdered
friend.
The plotters in the cold midnight hours then, the glow of feeling fading
away, say "Good-night." They part, looking out over twinkling lights
like the great camps soon to rise on Eastern plain and river-bank. Will
the flag of the South wave in TRIUMPH HERE? Ah! Who can read the future?
Cut off from the East, the excited Californians burn in high fever. The
grim dice of fate are being cast. Slowly, the Northern pine and Southern
palm sway toward the crash of war. As yet only journals hurl defiance
at each other. Every day has its duties for Hardin and Valois; they know
that every regimental mess-room is canvassed; each ship's ward-room is
sounded; officers are flattered and won over; woman lends her persuasive
charms; high promised rank follows the men who yield.
In these negotiations, no one dares to breed discontent among the common
soldiers and sailors. It is madness to hope to turn the steady loyalty
of the enlisted men. They are as true in both services as the blue they
wear. Nice distinctions begin at the epaulet. Hardin and Valois are
worn and thoughtful. The popular tide of feelings is not for the South.
Separation must be effective, to rouse enthusiasm. The organization
of the Knights of the Golden Circle proceeds quickly, but events are
quicker.
The seven States partly out of the Union; the yet unfinished ranks of
the Southern Confederacy; the baffling questions of compromise with the
claims and rights of the South to national property are agitated. The
incredulous folly of the North and the newspaper sympathy of the great
Northern cities drag the whole question of war slowly along. In the
West (a month later in news), the people fondly believe the bonds of the
Union will not be broken.
Many think the South will drop out quietly. Lincoln's policy is utterly
unknown. Distance has dulled the echo of the hostile guns fired at the
STAR OF THE WEST by armed traitors, on January 9, at Charleston.
Jefferson Davis's shadowy Confederacy of the same fatal date is regarded
as only a temporary menace to the Union. The great border States are not
yet in line.
Paltering old President Buchanan has found no warrant to draw the
nation's sword in defence of the outraged flag.
Congress is a camp of warring enemies. Even the conspirators cling to
their comfortable chairs.
It is hard to realize, by the blue Pacific, that the flag is already
down. No one knows the fatal dead line between "State" and "Union."
So recruits come in slowly to the Knights of the Golden Circle, in
California. Secession is only a dark thunder-cloud, hanging ominously in
the sky. The red lightning of war lingers in its sulphury bosom.
Hardin, Valois, and the Knights toil to secure their ends. They know not
that their vigorous foes have sent trusted messengers speeding eastward
to secure the removal of General Albert Sidney Johnston. There is a
Union League digging under their works!
The four electoral votes of California cast for Lincoln tell him the
State is loyal. An accidental promotion of Governor Latham to the
Senate, places John G. Downey in the chair of California. If not a
"coercionist," he is certainly no "rebel." The leaders of the Golden
Circle feel that chivalry in the West is crushed, unless saved by
a "coup de main." McDougall is a war senator. Latham, ruined by his
prediction that California would go South or secede alone, sinks into
political obscurity. The revolution, due to David Terry's bullet,
brought men like Phelps, Sargent, T. W. Park, and John Conness to the
front. Other Free-State men see the victory of their principles with
joy. Sidney Johnston is the last hope of the Southern leaders. The old
soldier's resignation speeds eastward on the pony express. Day by day,
exciting news tells of the snapping of cord after cord. Olden amity
disappears in the East. The public voice is heard.
The mantle of heroic Baker as a political leader falls upon the boy
preacher, Thomas Starr King. He boldly raises the song of freedom. It is
now no time to lurk in the rear. Men, hitherto silent; rally around the
flag.
The "Union League" grows fast, as the "Golden Circle" extends. All over
California, resolute men swear to stand by the flag. Stanford and Low
are earning their governorships. From pulpit and rostrum the cry of
secession is raised by Dr. Scott and the legal meteor Edmund Randolph,
now sickening to his death. Randolph, though a son of Virginia, with,
first, loyal impulses, sent despatches to President Lincoln that
California was to be turned over to the South. He disclosed that
Jefferson Davis had already sent Sidney Johnston a Major-General's
commission. Though he finally follows the course of his native State,
Randolph rendered priceless service to the Union cause in the West.
General Edward V. Sumner is already secretly hurrying westward. He is
met at Panama by the Unionist messengers. They turn back with him. In
every city and county the Unionists and Southerners watch each other.
While Johnston's resignation flies eastward, Sumner is steaming up the
Mexican coast, unknown to the conspirators.
In the days of March and April, 1861, one excited man could have plunged
the Pacific Coast into civil warfare. All unconscious of the deadly gun
bellowing treason on April 12th at Charleston, as the first shell
burst over Sumter, the situation remained one of anxious tension in
California. The telegraph is not yet finished. On April 19th, General
Sumner arrived unexpectedly. He was informed of local matters by the
loyalists. General Sidney Johnston, astonished and surprised, turned
over his command at once. Without treasonable attempt, he left the
Golden Gate. When relieved, he was no longer in the service. Speeding
over the Colorado deserts to Texas, the high-minded veteran rode out to
don the new gray uniform, and to die in the arms of an almost decisive
victory at Shiloh.
Well might the South call that royal old soldier to lead its hosts.
Another half hour of Albert Sidney Johnston at Shiloh, and the history
of the United States might have been changed by his unconquered sword.
Lofty in his aims, adored by his subordinates, he was a modern Marshal
Ney. The Southern cypress took its darkest tinge around his untimely
grave. Sidney Johnston had all the sterling qualities of Lee, and even a
rarer magnetism of character.
Honor placed one fadeless wreath upon his tomb. He would not play the
ignoble part of a Twiggs or a Lynde. He offered a stainless sword to the
Bonnie Blue Flag.
The gravity of his farewell, the purity of his private character, the
affection of his personal friends, are tributes to the great soldier.
He nearly crushed the Union army in his tiger-like assault at Shiloh.
By universal consent, the ablest soldier of the "old army," he was
sacrificed to the waywardness of fate. Turns of Fortune's wheel.
California was stunned by the rapidity of Sumner's grasp of the reins of
command. Before the Knights of the Golden Circle could move, the control
of the State and the coast was lost to them forever. Forts and arsenals,
towns and government depositories, navy-yards and vessels, were guarded.
Following this action of Sumner, on May 10th the news of Sumter, and
the uprising of the North, burst upon friend and foe in California. The
loyal men rallied in indignation, overawing the Southern element. The
oath of fealty was renewed by thousands. California's star was that
day riveted in the flag. An outraged people deposed Judge Hardy, who
so feebly prosecuted the slayer of Broderick. Every avenue was guarded.
Conspiracy fled to back rooms and side streets. Here were no Federal
wrongs to redress. On the spot where Broderick's body lay, under Baker's
oratory, the multitude listened to the awakened patriots of the West.
The Pacific Coast was saved.
The madness of fools who fluttered a straggling "bear flag," "palmetto
ensign," or "lone star," caused them to flee in terror.
Stanley, Lake, Crockett, Starr King, General Shields, and others, echoed
the pledges of their absent comrades in New York. Organization, for the
Union, followed. Even the maddest Confederate saw the only way to serve
the South was to sneak through the lines to Texas. The telegraph was
completed in October, 1861. The government had then daily tidings from
the loyal sentinels calling "All's well," on fort and rampart, from San
Juan Island to Fort Yuma.
Troops were offered everywhere. The only region in California where
secessionists were united was in San Joaquin.
While public discussion availed, Hardin and Valois listened to Thornton,
Crittenden, Morrison, Randolph, Dr. Scott, Weller, Whitesides, Hoge, and
Nugent. But the time for hope was past. The golden sun had set for ever.
Fifteen regiments of Californian troops, in formation, were destined
to hold the State. They guarded the roads to Salt Lake and Arizona. The
arsenals and strongholds were secured. The chance of successful invasion
from Texas vanished. It was the crowning mistake of the first year of
secession, not to see the value of the Pacific Coast. From the first
shot, the Pacific Railroad became a war measure. The iron bands tied
East and West in a firm union.
Gwin's departure and Randolph's death added to the Southern
discomfiture. No course remained for rebels but to furtively join the
hosts of treason. Flight to the East.
In the wake of Sidney Johnston went many men of note. Garnett, Cheatham,
Brooks, Calhoun, Benham, Magruder, Phil Herbert, and others, with Dan
Showalter and David Terry, each fresh from the deadly field of honor.
Kewen, Weller, and others remained to be silenced by arrest. All over
the State a hegira commenced which ended in final defeat. Many graves
on the shallow-trenched battle-fields were filled by the Californian
exiles. Not in honor did these devoted men and hundreds of their friends
leave the golden hills. Secretly they fled, lest their romantic quest
might land them in a military prison. Those unable to leave gave aid
to the absent. Sulking at home, they deserted court and mart to avoid
personal penalties.
It was different with many of the warm-hearted Californian sons of the
South who were attached to the Union. Cut off in a distant land, they
held aloof from approving secession. Grateful for the shelter of the
peaceful land in which their hard-won homes were made, it was only after
actual war that the ties of blood carried them away and ranged them
under the Stars and Bars. When the Southern ranks fell, in windrows, on
the Peninsula, hundreds of these manly Californians left to join their
brethren. They had clung to the Union till their States went out one by
one. They sadly sought the distant fields of action, and laid down their
lives for the now holy cause.
The attitude of these gallant men was noble. They scorned the burrowing
conspirators who dug below the foundations of the national constitution.
These schemers led the eager South into a needless civil war.
The holiest feelings of heredity dragged the Southerners who lingered
into war. It was a sacrifice of half of the splendid generation which
fought under the Southern Cross.
When broken ranks appealed for the absent, when invaded States and
drooping hopes aroused desperation, the last California contingents
braved the desert dangers. Indian attack and Federal capture were
defied, only to die for the South on its sacred soil. "Salut aux
braves!" The loyalists of California were restrained from disturbing
the safe tenure of the West by depleting the local Union forces. Abraham
Lincoln saw that the Pacific columns should do no more than guard the
territories adjacent. To hold the West and secure the overland roads
was their duty. To be ready to march to meet an invasion or quell an
uprising. This was wisdom.
But the country called for skilled soldiers and representative men to
join the great work of upholding the Union. A matchless contingent of
Union officers went East.
California had few arms-bearing young Americans to represent its first
ten years of State existence. But it returned to the national government
men identified with the Pacific Coast, who were destined to be leaders
of the Union hosts.
Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Thomas, Halleck, Hancock, Hooker, Keyes,
Naglee, Baker, Ord, Farragut (the blameless Nelson of America), Canby,
Fremont, Shields, McPherson, Stoneman, Stone, Porter, Boggs, Sumner,
Heintzelman, Lander, Buell, with other old residents of the coast, drew
the sword. Wool, Denver, Geary, and many more, whose abilities had been
perfected in the struggles of the West, took high rank.
Where the young were absent (by reason of the infancy of the State),
these men were returned to the government. They went with a loyalty
undimmed, in the prime of their powers. Even the graceful McClellan was
identified with the Pacific Railway survey. Around the scenes of their
early manhood, the halo of these loyal men will ever linger, and gild
the name of "Pioneer." It can never be forgotten that without the stormy
scenes of Western life, without the knowledge of the great golden empire
and the expansion of powers due to their lessons on plain and prairie,
many of these men would have relapsed into easy mediocrity.
The completed telegraph, military extension of lines, and the active
Union League, secured California to the Union.
The gigantic game of war rolled its red pageantry over Eastern fields.
Bull Run fired the Southern heart. Hardin and Valois learned the
Southern Government would send a strong expedition to hold New Mexico
and Arizona. Local aid was arranged by the Knights of the Golden Circle
to, at last, seize California. It was so easy to whip Yankees. The
Knights were smiling.
At the risk of their lives, two Southern messengers reached San
Francisco. One by Panama. The other crossed Arizona and examined the
line of march. He rode, warning sympathizers to await the Confederate
flag, which now waved in triumph at Munson's Hill, in plain sight of the
guarded capitol.
Valois fears this Western raid may be too late. For the Navy Department
reinforces the Pacific fleet. Valois explains to Hardin that his
prophecy is being realized. The Confederates, with more men than are
needed, hold their lines of natural defence. The fruits of Bull Run
are lost. While letters by every steamer come from Northern spies,
Washington friends, and Southern associates, the journals tell them of
the deliberate preparation of the North for a struggle to the death. The
giant is waking up.
Valois mourns the madness of keeping the flower of the South inactive.
A rapid Northern invasion should humble the administration. The ardent
Texans should be thrown at once into California, leaving New Mexico and
Arizona for later occupation.
There is no reason why the attack should not be immediate. Under the
stimulus of Bull Run the entire Southern population of California would
flock to the new standard. Three months should see the Confederate
cavalry pasturing their steeds in the prairies of California.
The friends sicken at the delay, as weary months drag on. Sibley's
Texans should be now on the Gila. They have guides, leaders, scouts, and
spies from the Southern refugees pouring over the Gila. Every golden
day has its gloomy sunset. Hardin's brow furrows with deep lines. His
sagacity tells him that the time has passed for the movement to succeed.
And he is right. Sibley wearies out the winter in Texas. The magnet of
Eastern fields of glory draws the fiery Texans across the Mississippi.
The Californian volunteers are arming and drilling. They stream out
to Salt Lake. They send the heavy column of General Carleton toward El
Paso.
The two chiefs of the Golden Circle are unaware of the destination of
Carleton. Loyalty has learned silence. There are no traitor department
clerks here, to furnish maps, plans, and duplicate orders.
Canby in New Mexico, unknown to the secessionists of California, aided
by Kit Carson, gathers a force to strike Sibley in flank. It is fatal
to Californian conquest. Hardin and Valois learn of the lethargy of the
great Confederate army, flushed with success. Sibley's dalliance at Fort
Bliss continues.
The "army of New Mexico," on September 19, 1861, is only a few hundreds
of mounted rangers and Texan youth under feeble Sibley.
From the first, Jefferson Davis's old army jealousies and hatred of able
men of individuality, hamstring the Southern cause. A narrow-minded man
is Davis, the slave of inveterate prejudice. With dashing Earl Van Dorn,
sturdy Ben Ewell, and dozens of veteran cavalry leaders at his service,
knowing every foot of the road, he could have thrown his Confederate
column into California. Three months after Sumter's fall, California
should have been captured. Davis allows an old martinet to ruin the
Confederate cause in the Pacific.
The operation is so easy, so natural, and so necessary, that it looks
like fatuity to neglect the golden months of the fall of 1861.
Especially fitted for bold dashes with a daring leader, the Texans throw
themselves, later, uselessly against the flaming redoubts of Corinth.
They are thrown into mangled heaps before Battery Robinett, dying for
the South. Their military recklessness has never been surpassed in the
red record of war.
Though gallant in the field, President Jefferson Davis, seated on a
throne of cotton, gazes across the seas for England's help. He craves
the aid of France. He allows narrow prejudice to blind him to any
part of the great issue, save the military pageantry of his unequalled
Virginian army. It is the flower of the South, and moves only on the
sacred soil of Virginia. Davis, restrained by antipathies, haughty, and
distant, is deaf to the thrilling calls of the West for that dashing
column. It would have gained him California. Weakness of mind kept him
from hurling his victorious troops on Washington, or crossing the Ohio
to divide the North while yet unprepared. Active help could then be
looked for from Northern Democrats. But he masses the South in Virginia.
As winter wears on the movement of Carleton's and Canby's preparations
are disclosed by Southern friends, who run the gauntlet with these
discouraging news.
Sibley lingered with leaden heels at Fort Bliss. The Confederate riders
are not across the Rio Grande. Valois grows heartsick.
Broken in hopes, wearied with plotting, mistrusted by the community,
Hardin knows the truth at last. The words, "Too late!" ring in his ears.
It will be only some secret plot which can now hope to succeed in the
West.
Davis and Lee are wedded to Virginia. The haughty selfishness of the
"mother of presidents" demands that every interest of the Confederacy
shall give way to morbid State vanity. Virginia is to be the graveyard
of the gallant Southern generation in arms.
Every other pass may be left unguarded. The chivalry of the Stars and
Bars must crowd Virginia till their graves fill the land. Unnecessarily
strong, with a frontier defended by rivers, forests, and chosen
positions, it becomes Fortune's sport to huddle the bulk of the
Confederate forces into Lee's army.
It allows the Border, Gulf, and Western States to fall a prey to
the North. The story of Lee's ability has been told by an adoring
generation. The record of his cold military selfishness is shown in the
easy conquests of the heart of the South. Their natural defenders were
drafted to fill those superb legions, operating under the eyes of Davis
and controlled by the slightest wish of imperious Lee.
Albert Sidney Johnston, Beauregard, and the fighting tactician, Joe
Johnston, were destined to feel how fatal was the military favoritism of
Jefferson Davis. Davis threw away Vicksburg, and the Mississippi later,
to please Lee. All for Virginia.
Stung with letters from Louisiana, reproaching him for inaction while
his brethren were meeting the Northern invaders, Valois decides to
go East. He will join the Southern defence. For it is defence--not
invasion--now.
Directing Hardin to select a subordinate in his place, Valois returns to
Lagunitas. He must say farewell to loving wife and prattling child. Too
well known to be allowed to follow Showalter, Terry, and their fellows
over the Colorado desert, he must go to Guaymas in Mexico. He can thus
reach the Confederates at El Paso. From thence it is easy to reach New
Orleans. Then to the front. To the field.
Valois feels it would be useless for him to go via Panama. The
provost-marshal would hold him as a "known enemy."
With rage, Valois realizes a new commander makes latent treason
uncomfortable in California. He determines to reach El Paso, and hurl
the Texans on California. Should he fail, he heads a Louisiana regiment.
His heart tells him the war will be long and bloody. Edmund Randolph's
loyalty, at the outbreak, prevented the seizure of California. Sibley's
folly and Davis's indifference complete the ruin of the Western plan of
action.
"Hardin, hold the Knights together. I will see if I can stop a Yankee
bullet!" says Valois. He notifies Hardin that he intends to make him
sole trustee of his property in his absence.
Hardin's term on the bench has expired. Like other Southerners debarred
from taking the field, he gives aid to those who go. The men who go
leave hostages behind them. The friendship of years causes Yalois to
make him the adviser of his wife in property matters. He makes him his
own representative. "Thank Heaven!" cries Valois, "my wife's property
is safe. No taint from me can attach to her birthright. It is her own by
law."
Valois, at Lagunitas, unfolds to the sorrowing padre his departure for
the war. Safe in the bosom of the priest, this secret is a heavy load.
Valois gains his consent to remain in charge of Lagunitas. The
little girl begins to feebly walk. Her infant gaze cannot measure her
possessions.
Lovely Dolores Valois listens meekly to her husband's plans. Devoted
to Maxime, his will is her only law. The beautiful dark eyes are tinged
with a deeper lustre.
Busied with his affairs, Maxime thinks of the future as he handles his
papers. Franois Ribaut is the depositary of his wishes. Dolores is
as incapable as her child in business. Will God protect these two
innocents?
Valois wonders if he will return in defeat like Don Miguel. Poor old
Don! around his tomb the roses creep,--his gentle Juanita by his side.
He hopes the armies of the West will carry the banner, now flying from
Gulf to border, into the North. There the legendary friends of the South
will hail it.
Alas! pent up in California, Maxime hears not the murmurs of the
Northern pines, breathing notes of war and defiance. The predictions of
the leaders of the conspiracy are fallacious. Aid and comfort fail them
abroad. North of Mason and Dixon's line the sympathizers are frightened.
In his heart he only feels the tumult of the call to the field. It is
his pride of race. Tired, weary of the crosses of fortune, he waits only
to see the enemy's fires glittering from hill and cliff.
With all his successes, the West has never been his home. Looking out on
his far-sweeping alamedas, his thoughts turn fondly back to his native
land. He is "going home to Dixie."
CHAPTER XI.
"I'SE GWINE BACK TO DIXIE."--THE FORTUNES OF WAR.--VAL VERDE.
The last weeks of Maxime Valois' stay at Lagunitas drift away. Old
"Kaintuck" has plead in vain to go. He yields to Valois' orders not to
dream of going with him. His martial heart is fired, but some one must
watch the home. Padre Franois Ribaut has all the documents of the
family, the marriage, and birth of the infant heir. He is custodian also
of the will of Donna Dolores. She leaves her family inheritance to her
child, and failing her, to her husband. The two representatives of the
departing master know that Philip Hardin will safely guide the legal
management of the estate while its chieftain is at the wars.
Donna Dolores and the priest accompany Valois to San Francisco. He must
leave quietly. He is liable to arrest. He takes the Mexican steamer, as
if for a temporary absence.
It costs Maxime Valois a keen pang of regret, as he rides the last
time over his superb domain. He looks around the plaza, and walks alone
through the well-remembered rooms. He takes his seat, with a sigh,
by his wife's side, as the carriage whirls him down the avenues. The
orange-trees are in bloom. The gardens show the rare beauties of midland
California. As far as the eye can reach, the sparkle of lovely Lagunitas
mirrors the clouds flaking the sapphire sky. Valois fixes his eyes
once more upon his happy home. Peace, prosperity, progress, mining
exploration, social development, all smile through this great interior
valley of the Golden State. No war cloud has yet rolled past the
"Rockies." It is the golden youth of the commonwealth. The throbbing
engine, clattering stamp, whirling saw, and busy factory, show that the
homemakers are moving on apace, with giant strides. No fairer land to
leave could tempt a departing warrior. But even with a loved wife and
his only child beside him, the Southerner's heart "turns back to Dixie."
Passing rapidly through Stockton, where his old friends vainly tempt
him to say, publicly, good-by, he refrains. No one must know his
destination. No parting cup is drained.
In San Francisco, Philip Hardin, in presence of Valois' wife and the
padre, receives his powers of attorney and final directions. Letters,
remittances, and all communications are to be sent through a house in
Havana. The old New Orleans family of Valois is well known there. Maxime
will be able, by blockade-runners and travelling messengers, to obtain
his communications.
The only stranger in San Francisco who knows of Maxime's departure
is the old mining partner, Joe Woods. He is now a middle-aged man of
property and vigor. He comes from the interior to say adieu to his
friend. "Old times" cloud their eyes. But the parting is secret. Federal
spies throng the streets.
At the mail wharf the Mexican steamer, steam up, is ready for departure.
The last private news from the Texan border tells of General Sibley's
gathering forces. Provided with private despatches, and bundles of
contraband letters for the cut-off friends in the South, Maxime Valois
repairs to the steamer. Several returning Texans and recruits for the
Confederacy have arrived singly. They will make an overland party
from Guaymas, headed by Valois. Valois, under the orders of the Golden
Circle, has been charged with important communications. Unknown to him,
secret agents of the government watch his departure. He has committed no
overt act. He goes to a neutral land.
The calm, passionless face of Padre Franois Ribaut shows a tear
trembling in his eye. He leads the weeping wife ashore from the cabin.
The last good-by was sacred by its silent sorrow. Valois' father's heart
was strangely thrilled when he kissed his baby girl farewell, on leaving
the little party. Even rebels have warm hearts.
Philip Hardin's stern features relax into some show of feeling as Valois
places his wife's hands in his. That mute adieu to lovely Dolores
moves him. "May God deal with you, Hardin, as you deal with my wife and
child," solemnly says Valois. The lips of Franois Ribaut piously add
"Amen. Amen."
Padre Francisco comes back to the boat. With French impulsiveness,
he throws himself in Valois' arms. He whispers a friend's blessing, a
priest's benediction.
The ORIZABA glides out past two or three watchful cruisers flying the
Stars and Stripes. The self-devoted Louisianian loses from sight the
little knot of dear ones on the wharf. He sees the flutter of Dolores'
handkerchief for the last time. On to Dixie! Going home!
Out on the bay, thronged with the ships of all nations, the steamer
glides. Its shores are covered with smiling villages. Happy homes and
growing cities crown the heights. Past grim Alcatraz, where the star
flag proudly floats on the Sumter-like citadel, the boat slowly moves.
It leaves the great metropolis of the West, spreading over its sandy
hills and creeping up now the far green valleys. It slips safely through
the sea-gates of the West, and past the grim fort at the South Heads.
There, casemate and barbette shelter the shotted guns which speak only
for the Union.
Valois' heart rises in his throat as the sentinel's bayonet glitters in
the sunlight. Loyal men are on the walls of the fort. Far away on the
Presidio grounds, he can see the blue regiments of Carleton's troops,
at exercise, wheel at drill. The sweeping line of a cavalry battalion
moves, their sabres flash as the lines dash on. These men are now
his foes. The tossing breakers of the bar throw their spray high over
bulwarks and guard. In grim determination he watches the last American
flag he ever will see in friendship, till it fades away from sight. He
has now taken the irrevocable step. When he steps on Mexican soil, he
will be "a man without a country." Prudential reasons keep him aloof
from his companions until Guaymas is reached. Once ashore, the comrades
openly unite. Without delay the party plunges into the interior. Well
armed, splendidly mounted, they assume a semi-military discipline. The
Mexicans are none too friendly. Valois has abundant gold, as well as
forty thousand dollars in drafts on Havana, the proceeds of Lagunitas'
future returns advanced by Hardin.
Twenty days' march up the Yaqui Valley, through Arispe, where the
filibusters died with Spartan bravery, is a weary jaunt. But high hopes
buoy them up. Over mesa and gorge, past hacienda and Indian settlement,
they climb passes until the great mountains break away. Crossing
the muddy Rio Grande, Valois is greeted by old friends. He sees the
Confederate flag for the first time, floating over the turbulent levies
of Sibley, still at Fort Bliss.
Long and weary marches; dangers from bandit, Indian, and lurking
Mexican; regrets for the home circle at Lagunitas, make Maxime Valois
very grave. Individual sacrifices are not appreciated in war-time. As
he rides through the Confederate camp, his heart sinks. The uncouth
straggling plainsmen, without order or regular equipment, recall to him
his old enemies, the nomadic Mexican vaqueros.
There seems to be no supply train, artillery, or regular stores. These
are not the men who can overawe the compact California community.
Far gray rocky sandhills stretch along the Texan border. Over the Rio
Grande, rich mountain scenery delights the eye. It instantly recalls to
Valois the old Southern dream of taking the "Zona Libre." Tamaulipas,
Coahuila, and Nueva Leon were coveted as a crowning trophy of the
Mexican war. Dreams of olden days.
Received kindly by General Sibley, the Louisianian delivers his letters,
despatches, and messages. After rest and refreshment, he is asked to
join a council of war. There are fleet couriers, lately arrived, who
speak of Carleton's column being nearly ready to cross the Colorado.
When the General explains his plan of attacking the Federal forces in
New Mexico, and occupying Arizona, Valois hastens to urge a forced march
down to the fertile Gila. He trusts to Canby timidly holding on to Fort
Union and Fort Craig. Alas, Sibley's place of recruiting and assembly
has been ill chosen! The animals, crowded on the bare plains, suffer for
lack of forage. Recruits are discouraged by the dreary surroundings. The
effective strength has not visibly increased in three months. The Texans
are wayward. A strong column, well organized, in the rich interior of
Texas, full of the early ardor of secession might have pushed on and
reached the Gila. But here is only a chafing body of undisciplined men.
They are united merely by political sentiment.
General Sibley urges Valois to accompany him in his forward march. He
offers him a staff position, promising to release him, then to move to
the eastward. Valois' knowledge of the frontier is invaluable, and he
cannot pass an enemy in arms. Maxime Valois, with fiery energy, aids in
urging the motley command forward. On February 7, 1862, the wild brigade
of invasion reaches the mesa near Fort Craig. The "gray" and "blue" meet
here in conflict, to decide the fate of New Mexico and Arizona. Feeble
skirmishing begins. On the 2lst of February, the bitter conflict of Val
Verde shows Valois for the first time--alas, not the last!--the blood
of brothers mingled on a doubtful field. It is a horrid fight. A drawn
battle.
Instead of pushing on to Arizona, deluded by reports of local aid,
Sibley straggles off to Santa Fe and Albuquerque. Canby refits his
broken forces under the walls of strong Fort Union. Long before the
trifling affairs of Glorietta and Peralta, Valois, disgusted with
Sibley, is on his way east. He will join the Army of the West. His heart
sickens at the foolish incapacity of the border commander. The Texan
column melts away under Canby's resolute advance. The few raiders, who
have ridden down into Arizona and hoisted the westernmost Confederate
flag at Antelope Peak, are chased back by Carleton's strong column.
The boasted "military advance on California" is at an end. Carleton's
California column is well over the Colorado. The barren fruits of Val
Verde are only a few buried guns of McRea's hard-fought battery. The
gallantry of Colonel Thos. P. Ochiltree, C.S.A., at Val Verde, under the
modest rank of "Captain," is the only remembered historic incident of
that now forgotten field. The First Regiment and one battalion of the
Second California Volunteer Cavalry, the Fifth California Infantry,
and a good battery hold Arizona firmly. The Second Battalion, Second
California Cavalry, the Fifth California Cavalry, and Third California
Infantry, under gallant General Pat Connor, keep Utah protected. They
lash the wild Indians into submission, and prevent any rising.
General Canby and Kit Carson's victorious troops keep New Mexico. They
cut the line of any possible Confederate advance. Only Sibley's pompous
report remains now to tell of the fate of his troops, who literally
disbanded or deserted. An inglorious failure attends the dreaded Texan
attack.
The news, travelling east and west, by fugitives, soon announce the
failure of this abortive attempt. The golden opportunity of the fall of
1861 never returns.
The Confederate operations west of the Rio Grande were only a miserable
and ridiculous farce. Valois, leaving failure behind him, learns on
nearing the Louisiana line, that the proud Pelican flag floats no longer
over the Crescent City. It lies now helpless under the guns of fearless
Farragut's fleet. So he cannot even revisit the home of his youth.
Maxime Valois smuggles himself across the Mississippi. He joins the
Confederates under Van Dorn. He is a soldier at last.
Here in the circling camps of the great Army of the West, Maxime Valois
joins the first Louisiana regiment he meets. He realizes that the
beloved Southern Confederacy has yet an unbeaten army. A grand array.
The tramp of solid legions makes him feel a soldier, not a sneaking
conspirator. He is no more a guerilla of the plains, or a fugitive
deserter of his adopted State.
The capture of New Orleans seals the Mississippi. The Confederacy is cut
in twain. It is positive now, the only help from the golden West will
be the arrival of parties of self-devoted men like himself. They come in
squads, bolting through Mexico or slipping through Arizona. Some reach
Panama and Havana, gaining the South by blockade runners. He opens mail
communication with Judge Hardin, via Havana. He succeeds in exchanging
views with the venerable head of his house at New Orleans. It is all
gloomy now. Old and despondent, the New Orleans patriarch has sent his
youthful son away to Paris. Armand is too young to bear arms. He can
only come home and do a soldier's duty later. By family influence,
Maxime Valois finds himself soon a major in a Louisiana regiment. He
wears his gray uniform at the head of men already veterans. Shiloh's
disputed laurels are theirs. They are tigers who have tasted blood. In
the rapidly changing scenes of service, trusting to chance for news of
his family, Maxime Valois' whole nature is centred upon the grave
duties of his station. Southern victories are hailed from the East. The
victorious arms of the Confederacy roll back McClellan's great force.
Bruised, bleeding, and shattered from the hard-fought fields of the
Peninsula, the Unionists recoil. The stars of the Southern Cross are
high in hope's bright field. Though Richmond is saved for the time, it
is at a fearful cost. Malvern Hill shakes to its base under the flaming
cannon, ploughing the ranks of the dauntless Confederates, as the Army
of the Potomac hurls back the confident legions of Lee, Johnston, and
Jackson. The Army of the Potomac is decimated. The bloody attrition of
the field begins to wear off these splendid lines which the South can
never replace. Losses like those of Pryor's Brigade, nine hundred out
of fifteen hundred in a single campaign, would appall any but the grim
Virginian soldiers. They are veterans now. They learn the art of war
in fields like Seven Pines and Fair Oaks. Even Pryor, as chivalric in
action as truculent in debate, now admits that the Yankees will fight.
Fredericksburg's butchery is a victory of note. All the year the noise
of battle rolls, while the Eastern war is undecided, for the second
Manassas and awful Antietam balance each other. Maxime Valois feels the
issue is lost. When the shock of battle has been tried at Corinth, where
lion-like Rosecrans conquers, when the glow of the onset fades away,
his heart sinks. He knows that the iron-jointed men of the West are the
peers of any race in the field.
Ay! In the West it is fighting from the first. Donelson, Shiloh, and
Corinth lead up to the awful death shambles of Stone River, Vicksburg,
and Chickamauga. These are scenes to shake the nerve of the very
bravest.
Heading his troops on the march, watching the thousand baleful fires of
the enemy at night, when friend and foe go down in the thundering crash
of battle, Valois, amazed, asks himself, "Are these sturdy foes the
Northern mudsills?"
For, proud and dashing as the Louisiana Tigers and Texan Rangers prove,
steady and vindictive the rugged Mississippians, dogged and undaunted
the Georgians, fierce the Alabamans--the honest candor of Valois tells
him no human valor can excel the never-yielding Western troops. Their
iron courage honors the blue-clad men of Iowa, Michigan, and the Lake
States. No hired foreigners there; no helot immigrants these men, whose
glittering bayonets shine in the lines of Corinth, as steadily as the
spears of the old Tenth Roman Legion--Caesar's pets.
With unproclaimed chivalry and a readiness to meet the foe which
tells its own story, the Western men come on. Led by Grant, Sherman,
Rosecrans, Sheridan, Thomas, McPherson, and Logan, they press steadily
toward the heart of the Confederacy. The rosy dreams of empire in the
great West fade away. Farragut, Porter, and the giant captain, Grant,
cut off the Trans-Mississippi from active military concert with the rest
of the severed Confederacy.
To and fro rolls the red tide of war. Valois' soldierly face, bronzed
with service, shows only the steady devotion of the soldier. He loves
the cause--once dear in its promise--now sacred in its hours of gloomy
peril and incipient decadence. Gettysburg, Vicksburg, and Port Hudson
are terrible omens of a final day of gloom. Letters from his wife,
reports from Judge Hardin, and news from the Western shores give him
only vague hints of the future straggling efforts on the Pacific. The
only comforting tidings are that his wife and child are well, by the
peaceful shores of Lagunitas. The absence of foreign aid, the lack of
substantial support from the Northern sympathizers, and the slight hold
on the ocean of the new government, dishearten him. The grim pressure
everywhere of the Northern lines tells Valois that the splendid chivalry
of the Southern arms is being forced surely backward. Sword in hand,
his resolute mind unshaken, the Louisianian follows the Stars and Bars,
devoted and never despairing. "Quand meme."
In the long silent days at Lagunitas, the patient wife learns much
from the cautious disclosures of Padre Francisco. Her soldier husband's
letters tell her the absent master of Lagunitas is winning fame and
honor in a dreadful conflict. It is only vaguely understood by the
simple Californian lady.
Her merry child is rapidly forgetting the self-exiled father. Under the
bowers of Lagunitas she romps in leafy alley and shady bower.
Judge Hardin, grave-faced, cautious, frugal of speech, visits the domain
several times. In conference with Padre Francisco and the vigilant
"Kaintuck," he adjusts the accumulating business affairs.
Riding over the billowing fields, mounting the grassy hills, threading
the matchless forests of uncut timber, he sees all. He sits plotting and
dreaming on the porch by the lake side. Thousands of horses and cattle,
now crossed and improved, are wealth wandering at will on every side.
Hardin's dark eyes grow eager and envious. He gazes excitedly on this
lordly domain. Suppose Valois should never come back. This would be a
royal heritage. He puts the maddening thought away. Within a few miles,
mill and flume tell of the tracing down of golden quartz lodes. The pick
breaks into the hitherto undisturbed quartz ledges of Mariposa gold. Is
there gold to be found here, too? Perhaps.
Only an old prating priest, a simple woman, and an infant, between him
and these thousands of rich acres, should Valois be killed.
Philip Hardin becomes convinced of final defeat, as 1863 draws to
a close. The days of Gettysburg and Vicksburg ring the knell of the
Confederacy. Even the prestige of Chancellorsville, with its sacred
victory sealed with Stonewall Jackson's precious blood, was lost in the
vital blow delivered when the columns of Longstreet and Pickett failed
to carry the heights of Gettysburg.
The troops slain on that field could never be replaced. Boyhood and old
age, alone, were left to fill the vacant ranks. Settling slowly down,
the gloomy days of collapse approach.
While Lee skilfully faced the Army of the Potomac, and the Confederacy
was drained of men to hold the "sacred soil," the Western fields
were lit up by the fierce light of Grant and Sherman's genius. Like
destroying angels, seconded by Rosecrans, Thomas, and McPherson,
these great captains drew out of the smoke of battle, gigantic figures
towering above all their rivals.
Maxime Valois bitterly deplored the uselessness of the war in the
trans-Mississippi section of the Confederacy. It is too late for any
Western divisions to affect the downward course of the sacred cause for
which countless thousands have already died.
The Potomac armies of the Union, torn with the dissensions of warring
generals, wait for the days of the inscrutable Grant and fiery Philip
Sheridan. In the West, the eagle eye of Rosecrans has caught the
weakness of the unguarded roads to the heart of the Confederacy.
Stone River and Murfreesboro' tell of the wintry struggle to the death
for the open doors of Chattanooga. Though another shall wear the laurels
of victory, it is the proud boast of Rosecrans alone to have divined the
open joint in the enemy's harness. He points the way to the sea for the
irresistible Sherman. While the fearless gray ranks thin day by day,
in march and camp, Valois thinks often of his distant home. Straggling
letters from Philip Hardin tell him of the vain efforts of the cowed
secessionists of the Pacific Coast. Loyal General George Wright holds
the golden coast. Governor and Legislature, Senators and Congressmen,
are united. The press and public sentiment are now a unit against
disunion or separation.
Colonel Valois looked for some effective action of the Knights of the
Golden Circle on the Pacific. Alas, for the gallant exile! Impending
defeat renders the secret conspirators cautious. In the cheering news
that wife and child are well, still guarded by the sagacious Padre
Franois, Valois frets only over the consecutive failures of Western
conspiracy. Folly and fear make the Knights of the Golden Circle a timid
band. The "Stars and Stripes" wave now, unchallenged, over Arizona and
New Mexico. The Texans at Antelope Peak never returned to carry the
"Stars and Bars" across the Colorado. Vain boasters!
While Bragg toils and plots to hurl himself on Rosecrans in the awful
day of Chickamauga, where thirty-five thousand dying and wounded are
offered up to the Moloch of Disunion, Valois bitterly reads Hardin's
account of the puerile efforts on the Pacific. It is only boys' play.
All energy, every spark of daring seems to have left the men who, secure
in ease and fortune, live rich and unharassed in California. Their
Southern brethren in the ranks reel blindly in the bloody mazes of
battle, fighting in the field. A poor Confederate lieutenant attempts
a partisan expedition in the mountains of California. He is promptly
captured. The boyish plan is easily frustrated. Bands of resolute
marauders gather at Panama to attack the Californian steamers,
gold-laden. The vigilance of government agents baffles them. The mail
steamers are protected by rifle guns and bodies of soldiers. Loyal
officers protect passengers from any dash of desperate men smuggled on
board. Secret-service spies are scattered over all the Western shores.
Mails, telegraphs, express, and the growing railway facilities, are in
the hands of the government. It is Southern defeat everywhere.
Valois sadly realizes the only help from the once enthusiastic West is a
few smuggled remittances. Here and there, some quixotic volunteer makes
his way in. An inspiring yell for Jeff Davis, from a tipsy ranchero, or
incautious pothouse orator, is all that the Pacific Coast can offer.
The Confederate flag never sweeps westward to the blue Pacific, and
the stars and bars sink lower day by day. As the weakness of American
commerce is manifest on the sea, Colonel Valois forwards despairing
letters to California. He urges attacks from Mexico, Japan, Panama, or
the Sandwich Islands, on the defenceless ships loaded with American gold
and goods. Unheeded, alas! these last appeals. Unfortunately, munitions
of war are not to be obtained in the Pacific. The American fleets,
though poor and scattered, are skilfully handled. Consuls and diplomats
everywhere aid in detecting the weakly laid plans of the would-be
pirates.
Still Valois fumes, sword in hand, at the pusillanimity of the Western
sympathizers. They are rich and should be arming. Why do they not strike
one effective blow for the cause? One gun would sink a lightly built
Pacific liner, or bring its flag down. Millions of gold are being
exported to the East from the treasure fields of the West. Though proud
of the dauntless, ragged gray ranks he loves, Valois feels that the West
should organize a serious attack on some unprotected Federal interest,
to save the issue. But the miserable failure of Sibley has discouraged
Confederate Western effort. The Confederate Californian grinds his teeth
to think that one resolute dash of the scattered tens of thousands
lying in camp, uselessly, in Arkansas and Texas, would even now secure
California. Even now, as the Confederate line of battle wastes away,
desperate Southern men dream of throwing themselves into Mexico as an
unwelcome, armed immigration. This blood is precious at home.
Stung by the taunts of Eastern friends, at last Philip Hardin and his
co-workers stir to some show of action.
Peacefully loading in San Francisco harbor for Mexico, a heavy schooner
is filled with the best attainable fittings for a piratical cruise.
The J.W. Chapman rises and falls at the wharves at half gun-shot from
the old U.S. frigate CYANE. Her battery could blow the schooner into
splinters, with one broadside. Tackle and gear load the peaceful-looking
cases of "alleged" heavy merchandise. Ammunition and store of arms are
smuggled on board. Mingling unsuspectedly with the provost guard on the
wharves, a determined crew succeed in fitting out the boat. Her outward
"Mexican voyage" is really an intended descent on the treasure steamers.
Disguised as "heavy machinery," the rifled cannons are loaded. When
ready to slip out of the harbor, past the guard-boats, the would-be
pirate is suddenly seized. The vigilant Federal officials have fathomed
the design. Some one has babbled. Too much talk, or too much whiskey.
Neatly conceived, well-planned, and all but executed, it was a bold
idea. To capture a heavy Panama steamer, gold-laden; to transfer her
passengers to the schooner, and land them in Mexico; and, forcing
the crew to direct the vessel, to lie in wait for the second outgoing
steamer, was a wise plan. They would then capture the incoming steamer
from Panama, and ravage the coast of California.
With several millions of treasure and three steamers, two of them
could be kept as cruisers of the Confederacy. They could rove over the
Pacific, unchallenged. Their speed would be their safety.
Mexican and South American ports would furnish coal and supplies. The
captured millions would make friends everywhere. The swift steamers
could baffle the antiquated U.S. war vessels on the Pacific. A glorious
raid over the Pacific would end in triumph in India or China.
These were the efforts and measures urged by Valois and the anxious
Confederates of the East.
It was perfectly logical. It was absolutely easy to make an effective
diversion by sea. But some fool's tongue or spy's keen eye ruins all.
When, months after the seizure of the CHAPMAN, Valois learns of this
pitiful attempt, he curses the stupid conspirators. They had not the
brains to use a Mexican or Central American port for the dark purposes
of the piratical expedition. Ample funds, resolute men, and an
unprotected enemy would have been positive factors of success. Money,
they had in abundance. Madness and folly seem to have ruled the
half-hearted conspirators of California. An ALABAMA or two on the
Pacific would have been most destructive scourges of the sea. The last
days of opportunity glide by. The prosaic records of the Federal Court
in California tell of the evanescent fame of Harpending, Greathouse,
Rubery, Mason, Kent, and the other would-be buccaneers. The "Golden
Circle" is badly shattered.
Every inlet of the Pacific is watched, after the fiasco of the Chapman.
She lies at anchor, an ignoble prize to the sturdy old Cyane. It is
kismet.
Maxime Valois mourns over the failure of these last plans to save the
"cause." Heart-sick, he only wonders when a Yankee bullet will end the
throbbings of his unconquerable heart. All is dark.
He fears not for his wife and child. Their wealth is secured. He loses,
from day to day, the feelings which tied him once to California.
The infant heiress he hardly knows. His patient, soft-eyed Western wife
is now only a placid memory. Her gentle nature never roused the inner
fires of his passionate soul. Alien to the Pacific Coast, a soldier of
fortune, the ties into which he drifted were the weavings of Fate. His
warrior soul pours out its devotion in the military oath to guard to
the last the now ragged silken folds of his regimental banner, the dear
banner of Louisiana. The eyes of the graceful Creole beauties who gave
it are now wet with bitter tears. Beloved men are dying vainly, day by
day, under its sacred folds. Even Beauty's spell is vain.
The wild oats are golden once more on the hills of Lagunitas; the early
summer breezes waft stray leaf and blossom over the glittering lake in
the Mariposa Mountains. Heading the tireless riflemen of his command,
Valois throws himself in desperation on the Union lines at Chickamauga.
Crashing volley, ringing "Napoleons," the wild yell of the onset, the
answering cheers of defiance, sound faintly distant as Maxime Valois
drops from his charger. He lies seriously wounded in the wild rush of
Bragg's devoted battalions. He has got his "billet."
For months, tossing on a bed of pain, the Louisianian is a sacred
charge to his admiring comrades. Far in the hills of Georgia, the wasted
soldier chafes under his absence from the field. The beloved silken
heralds of victory are fluttering far away on the heights of Missionary
Ridge. His faded eye brightens, his hollow cheek flushes when the glad
tidings reach him of the environment of Rosecrans. His own regiment
is at the front. He prays that he may lead it, when it heads the
Confederate advance into Ohio. For now, after Chickamauga's terrific
shock, the tide of victory bears northward the flag of his adoration.
Months have passed since he received any news of his Western domain. No
letters from Donna Dolores gladden him. Far away from the red hills of
Georgia, in tenderness his thoughts, chastened with illness, turn to the
dark-eyed woman who waits for him. She prays before the benignant face
of the Blessed Virgin for her warrior husband. Alas, in vain!
Silent is Hardin. No news comes from Padre Francisco. Nothing from
his wife. Valois trusts to the future. The increasing difficulty of
contraband mails, hunted blockade-runners, and Federal espionage, cut
off his home tidings.
His martial soul thrilled at the glories of Chickamauga, Valois learns
that California has shown its mettle on the fiercest field of the West.
Cheatham, Brooks, and fearless Terry have led to the front the wild
masses of Bragg's devoted soldiery. These sons of California, like
himself, were no mere carpet knights. On scattered Eastern fields, old
friends of the Pacific have drawn the sword or gallantly died for Dixie.
Garnett laid his life down at Rich Mountain. Calhoun Benham was a hero
of Shiloh. Wild Philip Herbert manfully dies under the Stars and Bars on
the Red River.
The stain of cold indifference is lifted by these and other self-devoted
soldiers who battle for the South.
With heavy sighs, the wounded colonel still mourns for the failure to
raise the Southern Cross in the West. Every day proves how useless have
been all efforts on the Pacific Coast. Virginia is now the "man eater"
of the Confederacy. Valois is haunted with the knowledge that some one
will retrace the path of Rosecrans. Some genius will break through the
open mountain-gates and cut the Confederacy in twain. It is an awful
suspense.
While waiting to join his command, he hungers for home news. Grant, the
indomitable champion of the North, hurls Bragg from Missionary Ridge.
Leaping on the trail of the great army, which for the first time deserts
its guns and flags, the blue-clad pursuers press on toward Chattanooga.
They grasp the iron gate of the South with mailed hand.
The "Silent Man of Destiny" is called East to measure swords with
stately Lee. He trains his Eastern legions for the last death-grapple.
On the path toward the sea, swinging out like huntsmen, the columns
of Sherman wind toward Atlanta. Bluff, impetuous, worldly wise, genius
inspired, Sherman rears day by day the pyramid of his deathless fame.
Confident and steady, bold and untiring, fierce as a Hannibal, cunning
as a panther, old Tecumseh bears down upon the indefatigable Joe
Johnston. Now comes a game worthy of the immortal gods. It is played on
bloody fields. The crafty antagonists grapple in every cunning of the
art of war. Rivers of human blood make easy the way. The serpent of the
Western army writhes itself into the vitals of the torn and bleeding
South. Everywhere the resounding crash of arms. Alas, steadfast as
Maxime Valois' nature may be, tried his courage as his own battle blade,
the roar of battle from east to west tells him of the day of wrath! The
yells and groans of the trampled thousands of the Wilderness, are echoed
by the despairing chorus of the dying myriads of Kenesaw and Dalton.
A black pall hangs over a land given up to the butchery of brothers.
Mountain chains, misted in the blue smoke of battle, rise unpityingly
over heaps of unburied dead from the Potomac to the Mississippi. Maxime
Valois knows at last the penalty of the fatal conspiracy. A sacrificed
generation, ruined homes, and the grim ploughshare of war rives the
fairest fields of the Land of the Cypress.
Fearless and fate-defying, under ringing guns, crashing volley, and
sweeping charge, the Southern veterans only close up the devoted gray
ranks. They are thinning with every conflict, where Lee and Johnston
build the slim gray wall against the resistless blue sea sweeping down.
There is no pity in the pale moon. The cold, steady stars shine down on
the upturned faces of the South's best and bravest. No craven blenching
when the tattered Stars and Bars bear up in battle blast. And yet the
starry flag crowns mountain and rock. It sweeps through blood-stained
gorges and past battle-scarred defile. Onward, ever southward. The two
giant swordsmen reel in this duel of desperation. Sherman and Johnston
may not be withheld. The hour of fate is beginning to knell the doom of
the cause. Southern mothers and wives have given up their unreturning
brave as a costly sacrifice on the altar of Baal. Valois, once more in
command, a colonel now, riding pale and desperate, before his men, sees
their upturned glances. The dauntless ranks, filing by, touch his heroic
heart. He fears, when Atlanta's refuge receives the beaten host, that
the end is nigh.
Bereft of news from his home, foreseeing the final collapse in Virginia,
assured that the sea is lost to the South, the colonel's mood is daily
sadder. His hungry eyes are wolfish in their steady glare. Only a
soldier now. His flag is his altar of daily sacrifice.
Port after port falls, foreign flatterers stand coldly aloof, empty
magazines and idle fields are significant signs of the end. Useless
cotton cannot be sent out or made available, priceless though it be. The
rich western Mississippi is now closed as a supply line for the armies.
The paper funds of the new nation are mere tokens of unpaid promises,
never to be redeemed.
Never to falter, not to shun the driving attacks of the pursuing horse
or grappling foot, to watch his battle-flag glittering in the van, to
lead, cheer, hope, inspire, and madly head his men, is the second nature
of Valois. He has sworn not to see his flag dishonored.
It never occurs to him to ask WHERE his creed came from. His blood
thrills with the passionate devotion which blots out any sense of mere
right and wrong. His motto is "For Dixie's Land to Death."
CHAPTER XII.
HOOD'S DAY.--PEACHTREE CREEK.--VALOIS' LAST TRUST.--DE GRESS'
BATTERY.--DEAD ON THE FIELD OF HONOR.
A lantern burns dimly before the tent of Colonel Valois on the night of
July 21, 1864. Within the lines of Atlanta there is commotion. Myriad
lights flicker on the hills. A desperate army at bay is facing the
enemy. Seven miles of armed environment mocks the caged tigers behind
these hard-held ramparts. Facing north and east, the gladiators of the
morrow lie on their arms, ready now for the summons to fall in, for a
wild rush on Sherman's pressing lines. It is no holiday camp, with leafy
bowers and lovely ladies straying in the moonlight. No dallying and
listening to Romeos in gray and gold. No silver-throated bugles wake the
night with "Lorena." No soft refrain of the "Suwanee River" melts all
the hearts. It is not a gala evening, when "Maryland, my Maryland,"
rises in grand appeal. The now national "Dixie" tells not of fields to
be won. It is a dark presage of the battle morrow. Behind grim redan and
salient, the footsore troops rest from the day's indecisive righting.
The foeman is not idle; all night long, rumbling trains and busy
movements tell that "Uncle Billy Sherman" never sleeps. His blue octopus
crawls and feels its way unceasingly. The ragged gray ranks, whose guns
are their only pride, whose motto is "Move by day; fight always," are
busy with the hum of preparation.
It is a month of horror. North and South stand aghast at the
unparalleled butchery of the Wilderness and Spottsylvania. The awful
truth that Grant has paved his bloody way to final victory with one
hundred thousand human bodies since he crossed the Rapidan, makes the
marrow cold in the bones of the very bravest. Sixty thousand foes, forty
thousand friends, are the astounding death figures. As if the dark angel
of death was not satisfied with a carnage unheard of in modern times,
Johnston, the old Marshal Ney of the Confederacy, gives way, in command
of the Southern army covering Atlanta, to J.B. Hood. He is the Texan
lion. Grizzled Sherman laughs on the 18th of July, when his spies tell
him Johnston is relieved. "Replenish every caisson from the reserve
parks; distribute campaign ammunition," he says, briefly. "Hood would
assault me with a corporal's guard. He will fight by day or night. I
know him," Uncle Billy says.
The great Tecumseh feels a twinge as he whips out this verdict. Hood's
tactics are fearful. There are thousands of mute witnesses of his own
fatal rashness lying at Kenesaw, whose tongues are sealed in death. On
that sad clay, Sherman out-Hooded Hood. But the blunt son of Ohio is
right. He is a demi-god in intellect, and yet he has the intuition of
femininity. He has caught Hood's fighting character at a glance.
There's no time to chaffer over the situation. McPherson, the pride of
the army, Thomas, the Rock of Chickamauga, and wary Schofield, draw
in the great Union forces. Gallant Howard is in this knightly circle.
"Black Jack" Logan, the "Harry Monmouth" of this coming field, connects
on the 19th. There has been hot work to-day. Firing in Thomas's front
tells the great strategist that Hood has tasted blood. Enough!
Sherman knows how that mad Texan will throw his desperate men to the
front, in the snapping, ringing zone of fire and flame. Hooker receives
the shock of the onset, reinforced by heavy batteries, whose blazing
guns tear lightning-rent lanes through the Confederates. Not a second to
lose. The gray swarms are pouring on like mountain wolves.
Fighting sharp and hot, the Union lines reach the strong defences
of Peachtree Creek. Here Confederate Gilmer's engineering skill has
prepared ditch and fraise, abattis and chevaux-de-frise, with yawning
graves for the soon-forgotten brave.
McPherson, Schofield, Howard, Hooker, and Palmer are all in line,
deployed with strong reserves.
Anxious Sherman sends clouds of orderly officers and scouts, right and
left. Hood's defiant volleys die away. Will the rush come to-day? No;
the hours wear away. The night brings quiet along the lines. Though
a red harvest lies on the field, it is not the crowning effort of the
entire enemy. It is only a rattling day of uneasy, hot-tempered fight.
But the awful morrow is to come. Sherman soon divines the difficulty of
fathoming the Texan's real designs. Hood is familiar with the ground.
Drawing back to the lines of Atlanta, Hood crouches for a desperate
spring. The ridges of the red clay hills, with little valleys running
to the Chattahoochee in the west, and Ocmulgee in the east, cover his
manoeuvres. Corn and cotton patches, with thick forests between,
lie along the extended front. A tangled undergrowth masks the entire
movements of the lurking enemy.
Tireless Sherman, expectant of some demoniac rush, learns that the array
before him is under Hood, Hardee, and the audacious cavalry leader,
Wheeler. Stewart's and Smith's Georgian levies are also in line.
Every disposition is made by the wary antagonists. Sherman, eagle-eyed
and prompt to join issue, gains a brief repose before the gray of
morning looses the fires of hell. McPherson, young and brilliant, whose
splendid star is in its zenith, firmly holds his exposed lines along the
railroad between two valleys. In his left and rear, the forest throws
out dark shades to cover friend and foe. Between the waiting armies,
petty murder stays its hands. The stars sweep to the west, bringing the
last morning to thousands. They are now dreaming, perhaps, of the
homes they will never see. A thrill of nervous tension keeps a hundred
thousand men in vague, dumb expectancy. The coming shock will be
terrible. No one can tell the issue.
As the worn Confederate sentinel drags up and down before the tent of
Colonel Valois, he can see the thoughtful veteran sitting, his tired
head resting on a wasted hand.
Spirit and high soul alone animate now the Louisiana colonel. Hope has
fled. Over his devoted head the sentinel stars swing, with neither haste
nor rest, toward the occident. They will shine on Lagunitas, smiling,
fringed with its primeval pines.
In her sleep, perhaps his little girl calls for him in vain. He is
doomed not to hear that childish voice again.
A bundle of letters, carelessly tossed down at head-quarters, have been
carried in his bosom during the day's scattering fight. They are all old
in their dates, and travel-worn in following the shifting positions of
his skeleton regiment. They bring him, at last, nearly a year's news.
Suddenly he springs to his feet, and his voice is almost a shriek.
"Sentinel, call the corporal." In a moment, Valois, with quivering lip,
says, "Corporal, ask Major Peyton to be kind enough to join me for a few
moments."
When his field-officer approaches, anticipating some important charge of
duty, sword and revolver in hand, the ghastly face of Valois alarms him.
"Colonel!" he cries. Valois motions him to be seated.
"Peyton," begins Valois, brokenly, "I am struck to the heart."
He is ashy pale. His head falls on his friend's bosom.
"My wife!" He needs not finish. The open letters tell the story. It is
death news.
The major clasps his friend's thin hands.
"Colonel, you must bear up. We are fallen on sad, sad days." His voice
fails him. "Remember to-morrow; we must stand for the South."
The chivalric Virginian's voice sounds hollow and strange. He sought the
regiment, won over by Valois' lofty courage and stern military pride.
To-morrow the army is to grapple and crush bold Sherman. It will be a
death struggle.
Yes, out of these walls, a thunderbolt, the heavy column, already
warned, was to seek the Union left, and strike a Stonewall Jackson blow.
Its march will be covered by the friendly woods. The keen-eyed adjutants
are already warning the captains of every detail of the attack. Calm and
unmoved, the gaunt centurions of the thinned host accepted the honorable
charges of the forlorn hope. Valois' powder-seasoned fragment of the
army was a "corps d'elite." Peyton wondered, as he watched his suffering
colonel, if either would see another sparkling jewel-braided night.
The blow of Hood must be the hammer of Thor.
"To-morrow, yes, to-morrow," mechanically replied Valois. "I will be on
duty to-morrow."
"To-night, Peyton," he simply said, "I must suffer my last agony. My
poor Dolores! Gone--my wife."
The tears trickled through his fingers as he bowed his graceful head.
"And my little Isabel," he softly said; "she will be an orphan. Will God
protect that tender child?" Valois was talking to himself, with his
eyes fixed on the dark night-shadows hiding the Federal lines. A stern,
defiant gaze.
Peyton shivered with a nervous chill.
"Colonel, this must not be." In the silence of the brooding night, it
seems a ghastly call from another world, this message of death.
Valois proudly checks himself.
"Peyton, I have few friends left in this land now. I want you to look
these letters over." He hands him several letters from Hardin and from
the priest. With tender delicacy, his hands close on the last words
of affection from the gentle dark-eyed wife, who brought him the great
dowry of Lagunitas, and gave him his little Isabel.
Peyton reads the words, old in date but new in their crushing force of
sorrow to the husband. Resting on the stacked arms in front of his tent,
the colors of Louisiana and the silken shreds of the Stars and Bars wait
for the bugles of reveille calling again to battle.
Dolores dying of sudden illness, cut off in her youthful prime, was only
able to receive the last rites of the Church, to smile fondly in her
last moments, as she kisses the picture of the absent soldier of the
Southern Cross. Franois Ribaut, the French gentleman, writes a sad
letter, with no formula of the priest. He knows Maxime Valois is face to
face with death, in these awful days of war. A costly sacrifice on the
altar of Southern rights may be his fate at any moment.
It is to comfort, not admonish, to pledge every friendly office, that
the delicate-minded padre softens the blow. Later, the priest writes of
the lonely child, whose tender youth wards off the blow of the rod of
sorrow.
Philip Hardin's letter mainly refers to the important business interests
of the vast estate. The possibility of the orphanage of Isabel occurs.
He suggests the propriety of Colonel Valois' making and forwarding a new
will, and constituting a guardianship of the young heiress. In gravest
terms of friendship, he reminds Valois to indicate his wishes as to the
child, her nurture and education. The fate of a soldier may overtake her
surviving parent any day.
Other unimportant issues drop out of sight. Hardin has told of the last
attempt to fit out a schooner at a secluded lumber landing in Santa Cruz
County. They tried to smuggle on board a heavy gun secretly transported
there. An assemblage of desperate men, gathering in the lonely woods,
were destined to man the boat. By accident, the Union League discovers
the affair. Flight is forced on the would-be pirates.
Valois' lip curls as he tells Peyton of the utter prostration of the
last Confederate hope beyond the Colorado. All vain and foolish schemes.
"I wish your advice, Major," he resumes. In brief summing up, he gives
Peyton the outline of his family history and his general wishes.
A final result of the hurried conclave is the hasty drawing up of a
will. It is made and duly witnessed. It makes Philip Hardin guardian
of the heiress and sole executor of his testament. His newly descended
property he leaves to the girl child, with directions that she shall be
sent to Paris. She is to be educated to the time of her majority at the
"Sacred Heart." There in that safe retreat, where the world's storms
cannot reach the defenceless child, he feels she will be given the
bearing and breeding of a Valois. She must be fitted for her high
fortunes.
He writes a fond letter to Father Francisco, to whom he leaves a
handsome legacy, ample to make him independent of all pecuniary cares.
He adjures that steadfast friend to shield his darling's childhood, to
follow and train her budding mind in its development. He informs him of
every disposition, and sends the tenderest thanks for a self-devotion of
years.
The farewell signature is affixed. Colonel Valois indites to Judge
Philip Hardin a letter of last requests. It is full of instructions
and earnest appeal. When all is done, he closes his letter. "I send you
every document suggested. My heart is sore. I can no longer write. I
will lead my regiment to-morrow in a desperate assault. If I give my
life for my country, Hardin, let my blood seal this sacred bond between
you and me. I leave you my motherless child. May God deal with you and
yours as you shall deal with the beloved little one, whose face I shall
never see.
"If I had a thousand lives I would lay them down for the flag which may
cover me to-morrow night. Old friend, remember a dying man's trust in
you and your honor."
When Peyton has finished reading these at Colonel Valois' request, his
eyes are moist. To-night the bronzed chief is as tender as a woman. The
dauntless soul, strong in battle scenes, is shaken with the memories of
a motherless little one. She must face the world alone, God's mercy her
only stay.
Colonel Valois, who has explained the isolation of the child, has left
his estate in remainder to the heirs of Judge Valois, of New Orleans.
Old and tottering to his tomb is that veteran jurist. The possible heir
would be Armand, the boy student, cut off in Paris. No home-comings now.
The ports are all closed.
When all is prepared, Colonel Valois says tenderly: "Peyton, I have some
money left at Havana. I will endorse these drafts to you, and give you a
letter to the banker there. You can keep them for me. I want you to ride
into Atlanta and see these papers deposited. Let there be made a special
commission for their delivery to our agent at Havana. Let them leave
Atlanta at once. I want no failure if Sherman storms the city. I will
not be alive to see it."
Awed by the prophetic coolness of Valois' speech, Peyton sends for his
horse. He rides down to the town, where hundreds on hundreds of wounded
sufferers groan on every side. Thousands desperately wait in the agony
of suspense for the morrow's awful verdict. He gallops past knots of
reckless merry-makers who jest on the edge of their graves. Henry Peyton
bears the precious packet and delivers it to an officer of the highest
rank. He is on the eve of instant departure for the sea-board. Cars and
engines are crowded with the frightened people, flying from the awful
shock of Hood's impending assault.
This solemn duty performed, the Major rejoins Colonel Valois at a
gallop. Lying on his couch, Valois' face brightens as he springs from
his rest. "It is well. I thank you," he simply says. He is calm, even
cheerful. The bonhomie of his race is manifest. "Major Peyton," he says,
pleasantly, "I would like you to remember the matters of this evening.
Should you live through this war the South will be in wild disorder. I
have referred to your kindness, in my letter to Hardin and in a paper
I have enclosed to him. It is for my child. You will have a home at
Lagunitas if you ever go to California."
He discusses a few points of the movement of the morrow. There is no
extra solemnity in going under fire. They have lived in a zone of fire
since Sherman's pickets crossed the open, months ago. But this supreme
effort of Hood marks a solemn epoch. The great shops and magazines
of Atlanta, the railroad repair works, foundries and arsenals, the
geographical importance, studied fortifications, and population to be
protected, make the city a stronghold of ultimate importance to the
enfeebled South.
If the Northern bayonets force these last doors of Georgia, then indeed
the cause is desperate.
When midnight approached, Colonel Valois calmly bade his friend
"Good-night." Escorting him to his tent, he whispers, "Peyton, take your
coffee with me to-morrow. I will send for you."
Slumber wraps friend and foe alike. All too soon the gray dawn points
behind the hills. There is bustle and confusion. Shadowy groups cluster
around the waning fires long before daybreak. The gladiators are falling
into line. Softly, silently, day steals over the eastern hills. Is it
the sun of Austerlitz or of Waterloo?
Uneasy picket-firing ushers in the battle day. Colonel Valois and Major
Peyton share their frugal meal. The rattle of picket shots grows into a
steady, teasing firing. Well-instructed outpost officers are carrying on
this noisy mockery.
Massed behind the circling lines of Atlanta, within the radius of a mile
and a half, the peerless troops who DOUBT Hood's ability, but who ADORE
his dauntless bravery, are silently massed for the great attack.
The officers of Valois' regiment, summoned by the adjutant, receive
their Colonel's final instructions. His steady eye turns fondly on
the men who have been his comrades, friends, and devoted admirers.
"Gentlemen," he says, "we will have serious work to-day. I shall expect
you to remember what Georgia hopes from Louisiana."
Springing to his saddle, he doffs his cap as the head of the regiment
files by, in flank movement. The lithe step, steady swing, and lightly
poised arms proclaim matchless veterans. They know his every gesture in
the field. He is their idol.
As Peyton rides up, he whispers (for the colors have passed), "Henry, if
you lead the regiment out of this battle, I ask you never to forget my
last wishes." The two friends clasp hands silently. With a bright smile,
whose light lingers as he spurs past the springy column, he takes the
lead, falcon-eyed, riding down silently into the gloomy forest-shades of
death.
A heavy mass of troops, pushing out in swift march, works steadily to
the Union left, and gains its ground rapidly. The Seventeenth Corps of
Blair, struck in flank, give way. The Sixteenth Union Corps of Dodge are
quickly rushed up. The enemy are struck hard. Crash and roar of battle
rise now in deafening clamor. Away to the unprotected Union rear ride
the wild troopers of Wheeler. The whole left of Sherman's troops are
struck at disadvantage. They are divided, or thrown back in confusion
toward Decatur. The desperate struggle sways to and fro till late in the
day. With a rush of Hood's lines, Murray's battery of regular artillery
is captured. The Stars and Bars sweep on in victory.
Onward press the Confederate masses in all the pride of early victory.
The Fifteenth Corps, under Morgan L. Smith, make a desperate attempt to
hold on at a strong line of rifle pits. The seething gray flood rolls
upon them and sends them staggering back four hundred yards. Over two
cut-off batteries, the deadly carnage smites blue and gray alike. Charge
and countercharge succeed in the mad struggle for these guns. Neither
side can use them until a final wave shall sweep one set of madmen far
away.
With desperate valor, Morgan L. Smith at last claims the prize. His
cheering troops send double canister from the regained batteries into
the gray columns of attack. General Sherman, at a deserted house, where
he has made his bivouac, paces the porch like a restless tiger. The
increasing firing on the left, tells him of this heavy morning attack.
A map spread on a table catches his eye from time to time. The waiting
crowd of orderlies and staff officers have, one by one, dashed off to
reform the lines or strengthen the left. While the firing all along
the line is everywhere ominous, the roar on the left grows higher and
higher. Out from the fatal woods begin to stream weary squads of the
wounded and stragglers. The floating skulkers hover at the edge of the
red tide of conflict.
Ha! A wounded aide dashes up with tidings of the ominous gap on the
left. That fearful sweep of Wheeler's cavalry to the rear is known at
last by the fires of burning trains. With a few brief words of counsel,
and a nod of his stately head, McPherson, the splendid light of battle
on his brow, gallops away to reform these broken lines. The eye of the
chief must animate his corps.
Hawk-eyed Sherman watches the glorious young general as he turns into
the forest. A grim look settles on the general's face. He runs his eye
over the map. As the tiger's approach is heralded by the clatter of the
meaner animals, so from out that forest the human debris tell of Hood's
battle hammer crashing down on that left "in air." Is there yet time to
reform a battle, now fighting itself in sudden bloody encounters? All
is at haphazard. A sigh of relief. McPherson is there. His ready wit,
splendid energy, and inspiring presence are worth a thousand meaner
souls, in the wild maelstrom of that terrible July day.
Old Marshal Tecumseh, with unerring intuition, knows that the creeping
skirmishers have felt the whole left of his position. With the interior
lines and paths of the forest to aid, if anything has gone wrong, if gap
or lap has occurred, then on those unguarded key-points and accidental
openings, the desperate fighters of the great Texan will throw their
characteristic fierceness. Atlanta's tall chimneys rise on the hills
to the west. There, thousands, with all at stake, listen to the rolling
notes of this bloody battle. High in the air, bursting shells with white
puffs light up the clouds of musketry smoke. Charging yells are borne
down the wind, with ringing answering cheers. The staccato notes of the
snapping Parrotts accentuate the battle's din.
Sherman, with cloudy brow, listens for some news of the imperilled left
wing. Is the iron army of the Tennessee to fail him now? Seven miles
of bayonets are in that great line, from left to right, headed by
McPherson, Schofield, and Thomas, the flower of the Union Army.
Looking forward to a battle outside Atlanta, a siege, or a flanking bit
of military chesswork, the great Union commander is dragged now into a
purely defensive battle. Where is McPherson?
Sherman has a quarter of an hour of horrible misgiving. He saw the mad
panic of the first Bull Run. He led the only compact body of troops off
that fatal field himself. It was his own brigade. In his first-fought
field, he showed the unshakable nerve of Macdonald at Wagram. But he
has also seen the fruits of the wild stampede of McCook and Crittenden's
divisions since at Chickamauga. It tore the laurels from Rosecrans'
brow. Is this to be a panic? Rosecrans' defeat made Sherman the
field-marshal of the West.
At Missionary Ridge, even the invincibles of the South fled their lines
in sudden impulse, giving up an almost impregnable position. The haughty
old artillerist, Braxton Bragg, was forced to officially admit that
stampede. He added a few dozen corpses to his disciplinary "graveyards,"
"pour encourager les autres." Panic may attack even the best army.
Is it panic now swelling on the breeze of this roaring fight? Fast and
far his hastily summoned messengers ride. To add a crowning disaster to
the confusion of the early morning death grapple, the sun does not touch
the meridian before a bleeding aide brings back McPherson's riderless
horse. Where is the general? Alas, where?
Dashing far ahead of his staff and orderlies, tearing from wood to wood,
to close in the fatal gap and reface his lines--a volley from a squad
of Hood's pickets drops the great corps commander, McPherson, a mangled
corpse, in the forest. No such individual loss to either army has
happened since Stonewall Jackson's untimely end at Chancellorsville.
His rifled body is soon recovered. With super-human efforts it is borne
to the house in the clearing and laid at General Sherman's feet.
Lightning flashes of wit traverse Sherman's brain. Every rebel straggler
is instantly searched as he is swept in. The invaluable private papers
of General McPherson, the secret orders, and campaign plans are found in
the haversack of one of the captured skirmishers. These, at least, are
safe.
With this blow, comes the news of the Seventeenth Corps being thrown
back, far out of its place, by the wild rush of Hood's braves. All goes
wrong. The day is lost.
Will it be a Bull Run?
No! The impetuous Logan tears along his lines. "Black Jack's" swarthy
face brings wild cheers from the men, who throw themselves madly on
the attacking lines, seeking vengeance. The Fifteenth Corps' rifles are
sounding shotted requiem salvos for their lost leader. The Seventeenth
holds on and connects. The Sixteenth Corps, struck heavily in flank by
the victorious Confederates, faces into line of battle to the left.
It grimly holds on, and pours in its leaden hail. Smith's left flank
doubled back, joining Leggett, completes the reformed line. From high
noon till the darkness of the awful night, a general conflict rages
along the whole front. War in its grim horror.
Sherman, casting a wistful glance on the body of McPherson, stands
alert. He is as bristling as a wild boar at bay. Sherman at his best.
Is this their worst? No, for at four in the afternoon, a terrific sally
from Atlanta throws the very flower of the assailants on the bloody
knoll, evermore to be known as "Leggett's Hill." There is madness and
demoniac fury in the way those gray columns struggle for that ridge.
In vain does Hood send out his bravest stormers to crown the wished-for
position of Leggett.
Sherman is as sure of Atlanta now, as if his eagles towered over its
domes. Drawing to the left the corps of Wood, massing Schofield with
twenty heavy guns playing on Hood's charging columns, Sherman throws
Wood, backed by John A. Logan's victorious veterans, on the great body
of the reeling assailants. The final blow has met its stone wall, in the
lines of Leggett. The blue takes up the offensive, with wild cheers of
triumph. They reach "Uncle Billy's" ears.
Some decisive stroke must cut the tangle of the involved forces. When
Hood sees that his devoted troops have not totally crushed the Union
left, when his columns reel back from Leggett's Hill, mere fragments,
he knows that even his dauntless men cannot be asked to try again that
fearful quest. It is checkmate!
But Wheeler is still careering in destruction around Sherman's rear
parks, and ravaging his supplies. Hood persists in his desperate design
to pierce the Union lines somewhere. He throws away his last chance of
keeping an army together. His fiery valor bade him defend Atlanta from
the OUTSIDE. He now sends a last thunderbolt crashing on the Decatur
road.
During the day Valois' regiment has been thrown in here and there. The
stern colonel gazes with pride on the seasoned fighters at their grim
work.
But it is after four when Colonel Valois is ordered to mass his
regiment, followed by the last reserve, and lead it to the front in the
supreme effort of this awful day. His enemy in front is a Union battery,
which has been a flail to the Southern army.
In dozens of encounters the four heavy twenty-pound Parrotts of De Gress
have been an object of the maddest attack. Superbly handled, in the best
equipment, its high power, long range, and dashing energy have given to
this battery the rank in the West, which John Pelham's light artillery
gained under Lee's eyes in Virginia. The pride of Sherman's artillery
is the famous battery of De Gress. To-day it has been dealing out death
incessantly, at half musket-range. It has swept rank on rank of the
foes away. Now, with the frenzy of despair, General Hood sends a
forlorn column to pierce the Union lines, carry the road, and take those
renowned guns. A lull betokens the last rush.
Riding to the front, Colonel Valois reins up beside Major Peyton. There
is only time for a few last directions. A smile which haunts Peyton for
many a long day, flashes on Maxime Valois' stern lips. He dashes on,
waving his sword, and cries in his ringing voice,
"Come on, boys, for Louisiana!"
Springing like panthers into the open, the closed ranks bound toward
the fated guns at a dead run. Ha! There was a crashing salvo. Now, it is
load and fire at will. Right and left, fire pours in on the guns, whose
red flashes singe the very faces of the assailants. Peyton's quick eye
sees victory wavering. Dashing towards the guns he cheers his men. As
he nears the battery the Louisiana color-bearer falls dead. Henry Peyton
seizes the Pelican flag, and dashes on over friends, dead and dying, as
his frightened steed races into the battery.
There, every horse is down. The guns are now silent. A knot of men, with
clubbed rammers, bayonet thrusts, and quick revolver shots, fight for
the smoking cannon. A cheer goes up. De Gress's guns are taken. Peyton
turns his head to catch a glimpse of Colonel Valois. Grasping the
star-spangled guidon of the battery with his bridle hand, Valois cuts
down its bearer.
A wild yell rises as a dozen rebel bayonets are plunged into a defiant
fugitive, for he has levelled his musket point-blank and shot Valois
through the heart.
The leader's frightened charger bounds madly to the front, and the
Louisiana colonel falls heavily to the ground.
Clasped in his clenched hands, the silken folds of the captured battery
flag are dyed with his blood. A dozen willing arms raise the body,
bearing it to one side, for the major, mindful of the precious moments,
yells to "swing the guns and pass the caissons." In a minute, the heavy
Parrotts of De Gress are pouring their shrapnel into the faces of the
Union troops, who are, three hundred yards away, forming for a rush to
recapture them.
As the cannon roar their defiance to the men who hold them dear,
Peyton bends over Maxime Valois. The heart is stilled forever. With his
stiffening fingers clutching his last trophy, the "Stars and Stripes,"
there is the light of another world shining on the face of the dead
soldier of the Southern Cross. Before sending his body to the rear,
Henry Peyton draws from Valois' breast a packet of letters. It is the
last news from the loved wife he has rejoined across the shadowy river.
United in death. Childish Isabel is indeed alone in the world. A rain
of shrieking projectiles and bursting shells tells of the coming
counter-charge.
Drawing back the guns by hand to a cover for the infantry, and rattling
the caissons over a ridge to screen the ammunition boxes, the shattered
rebel ranks send volleys into the faces of the lines of Schofield, now
coming on at a run.
The captured Parrotts ring and scream. One over-heated gun of the
battery bursts, adding its horrors to the struggle. Logan's men are
leaping over the lines to right and left, bayoneting the gunners. The
Louisianians give way and drift to the rear. The evening shadows drop
over crest, wood, and vale. When the first stars are in the skies Hood's
shattered columns stream back into Atlanta. The three guns of De Gress
have changed hands again. Even the bursted piece falls once more under
the control of the despairing Union artillery captain. He has left
him neither men, horses, fittings, nor harness available--only three
dismantled guns and the wreck of his fourth piece. But they are back
again! Sherman's men with wildest shouts crowd the field. They drive the
broken remnants of the proud morning array under the guns of the last
lines of the doomed city. Dare-devil Hood has failed. The desperate
dash has cost ten thousand priceless men. The brief command of the Texan
fighter has wrecked the invaluable army of which Joe Johnston was so
mindful.
McPherson, who joined the subtlety of Stonewall to the superb bearing of
Sidney Johnston, a hero born, a warrior, and great captain to be, lies
under the stars in the silent chambers of the Howard House.
General Sherman, gazing on his noble features, calm in death, silently
mourns the man who was his right hand. Thomas, Schofield, Howard, Logan,
and Slocum stand beside the dead general. They bewail the priceless
sacrifice of Peachtree Creek.
In the doomed city of Atlanta, there is gloom and sadness. With the
fragments of the regiment which adored him, a shattered guard of honor,
watching over him with yet loaded guns, in charge of the officers headed
by Major Peyton, the body of Maxime Valois rests within the Southern
lines.
For the dear land of his birth he had abandoned the fair land of his
choice. With the captured banner of his country in his hand, he died in
the hour of a great personal triumph, "under the Stars and Bars." Game
to the last.
High-souled and devoted, the son of Louisiana never failed the call of
his kinsmen. He carried the purest principles to the altar of Secession.
Watching by the shell from which the dauntless spirit had fled in battle
and in storm, Henry Peyton feels bitterly that the fate of Atlanta is
sealed. He knows the crushing of their weak lines will follow. He can
picture Sherman's heavy columns taking city after city, and marching
toward the blue sea.
The end is approaching. A gloomier darkness than the night of the last
battle broods over the Virginian. With pious reverence, he hastens to
arrange the few personal matters of his chief. He knows not the morrow.
The active duties of command will soon take up all his time. He must
keep the beloved regiment together.
For, of the two or three companies left of a regiment "whose bayonets
were once a thousand," Henry Peyton is the colonel now. A "barren
honor," yet inexpressibly dear to him.
In the face of the enemy, within the lines held hard by the reorganizing
fragments of yesterday's host, the survivors bury the brave leader who
rode so long at their head. Clad in his faded gray, the colonel lies
peacefully awaiting the great Reveille.
When the sloping bayonets of the regiment glitter, for the last time,
over the ramparts their generous blood has stained in fight, as the
defeated troops move away, many a stout heart softens as they feel they
are leaving alone and to the foe the lost idol of their rough worship.
Major Peyton preserves for the fatherless child the personal relics of
his departed friend. Before it is too late, he despatches them to the
coast, to be sent to Havana, to await Judge Hardin's orders at the
bankers'. The news of the fate of Colonel Valois, and the last wishes
of the dead Confederate, are imparted in a letter to Judge Hardin by
Peyton.
In the stern realities of the last retreat, fighting and marching, after
the winter snows have whitened the shot-torn fields around Atlanta; sick
of carnage and the now useless bloodshed, Colonel Peyton leads his mere
detachment to the final scene of the North Carolina surrender. Grant's
iron hand has closed upon Petersburg's weakened lines. Sheridan's
invincible riders, fresh from the Shenandoah, have shattered the
steadfast at Five Forks.
Gloomy days have fallen, also, on the cause in the West. The despairing
valor of the day at Franklin and the assault on Nashville only
needlessly add to the reputation for frantic bravery of the last of
the magnificent Western armies of the Confederacy. Everywhere there are
signs of the inevitable end. With even the sad news of Appomattox to
show him that the great cause is irretrievably lost, there are bitter
tears in Henry Peyton's eyes when he sees the flags of the army he has
served with, lowered to great Sherman in the last surrender.
The last order he will ever give to them turns out for surrender the men
whose reckless bravery has gilded a "Lost Cause" with a romantic halo
of fadeless glory. Peyton sadly sheathes the sword he took from Maxime
Valois' dead hands. Southward, he takes his way. Virginia is now only
a graveyard and one vast deserted battle-field. The strangers' bayonets
are shining at Richmond. He cannot revisit the scenes of his boyhood. A
craving seizes him for new scenes and strange faces. He yearns to blot
out the war from his memory. He dreams of Mexico, Cuba, or the towering
Andes of South America. His heart is too full to linger near the scenes
where the red earth lies heaped over his brethren of the sword. Back to
Atlanta he travels, with the returning fragments of the men who are now
homeward bound. All is silent now. From wood and hill no rattling fire
wakes the stillness of these days. The blackened ruins and the wide
swath cut by Sherman tell him how true was the prediction that the men
of the Northwest would "hew their way to the Gulf with their swords." He
finds the grave of Valois, when dismantled and crippled Atlanta receives
him again. Standing there, alone, the pageantry of war has rolled away.
The battle-fields are covered with wild roses. The birds nest in the
woods where Death once reigned supreme. High in the air over Atlanta
the flag of the country waves, on the garrison parade, with not a single
star erased.
On his way to a self-appointed exile, the Virginian has seen the wasted
fields, blackened ruins, and idle disheartened communities of the
conquered, families brought to misery, and the young arms-bearing
generation blotted out. Hut and manor-house have been licked up by the
red torch of war. The hollow-eyed women, suffering children, and
dazed, improvident negroes, wander around aimlessly. Bridges, mills and
factories in ruins tell of the stranger's torch, and the crashing work
of the artillery. Tall, smokeless chimneys point skywards as monuments
of desolation.
Bowed in defeat, their strongholds are yet occupied by the blue-coated
victors. All that is left of the Southern communities lingers in ruined
homes and idle marts. They now are counting the cost of attempted
secession, in the gloom of despair.
The land is one vast graveyard. The women who mourn husbands and lovers
stray over fields of strife, and wonder where the loved one sleeps.
Friend and foe, "in one red burial blent," are lying down in the
unbroken truce of death.
Atlanta's struggle against the restless Sherman has been only
wasted valor, a bootless sacrifice. Her terrific sallies, lightning
counter-thrusts, and final struggles with the after-occupation, can be
traced in the general desolation, by every step of the horrible art of
war.
Here, by the grave of his intrepid comrade, Henry Peyton reviews the
past four years. His scars and wasted frame tell him of many a deadly
fray, and the dangers of the insane fight for State rights.
The first proud days of the war return. Hopes that have failed long
since are remembered. The levy and march to the front, the thousand
watch-fires glittering around the unbroken hosts, whose silken-bordered
banners tell of the matchless devotion of the women clinging blindly to
the cause.
Peyton thinks now of the loved and lost who bore those flags, to-day
furled forever, to the front, at Bull Run, Shiloh, the Seven
Days, Groveton, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Chickamauga, and
Spottsylvania.
The foreign friends in Europe, the daring rovers of the sea who carried
the Stars and Bars from off New York to Singapore and far Behring
Straits. What peerless leaders. Such deep, sagacious statesmen. The
treasures of the rich South, the wealth of King Cotton, all wasted
uselessly. A popular devotion, which deeply touched the magnanimous
Grant in the supreme hour of victory, has been lavished on the altar
of the Confederacy where Davis, Lee, and Jackson were enthroned. Fallen
gods now, but still majestic and yet revered.
Peyton thinks with an almost breaking heart of all these sacrifices for
the Lost Cause. By his friend's grave he feels that an awful price has
been paid for the glories of the short-lived Confederacy.
The noble-hearted Virginian dares not hope that there may yet be found
golden bands of brotherhood to knit together the children of the men who
fought under gray and blue. Frankly acknowledging the injustice of the
early scorn of the Northern foe, he knows, from glances cast backward
over the storied fields, the vigor of the North was under-estimated. The
men of Donelson, Antietam, Stone River, Vicksburg, awful Gettysburg,
of Winchester, and Five Forks, are as true and tried as ever swung a
soldier's blade.
He has seen the country's flag of stars stream out bravely against the
tide of defeat. If American valor needs a champion the men who saw the
"Yankees" at Seven Pines, Gaines Mill, Marye's Heights, and holding in
fire and flame the batteries of Corinth and Knoxville, will swear the
embittered foes were worthy of each other.
The defeated Confederate veteran, as he plucks a rose from the grass
growing over the gallant Valois, bitterly remembers the useless
sacrifices of the whole Southern army to the "Virginia policy." A son of
the "old State" himself, he can feel now, in the sorrow and silence
of defeat, that the early triumphs of the war were wasted. The great
warlike generation was frittered away on the Potomac.
Devoted to Lee, he still mourns the lost months of the fall of '61,
when, flushed with triumph, the Confederates could have entered
Washington. Then Maryland would have risen "en masse." Foreign lands
would have been won over. An aggressive policy even in 1862, after the
Peninsula, might have changed the final result. The dead Californian's
regrets for the abandonment of all effort in the Pacific, the
cutting-off and uselessness of the great trans-Mississippi region, all
return to him in vain sorrow.
By Maxime Valois' grave, Peyton wonders if the battle-consecrated blood
of the sons has washed away the sins of the fathers. He knows not of the
brighter days, when the past shall seem a vision of romance. When our
country will smile in peace and brotherhood, from ocean to ocean. Sadly
he uncovers his head. He leaves Maxime Valois lying in the proud silence
of the soldier's grave--"dead on the field of honor."
To New Orleans Colonel Peyton repairs. On making search, he finds that
Judge Valois has not survived the collapse of the Confederacy. His only
son is abroad, in Paris. The abandoned plantations and family property
are under the usual load of debt, taxes, and all the legal confusion of
a change of rulers.
Peyton thanks the dead soldier in his heart for the considerable legacy
of his unused balances. He is placed beyond immediate necessity. He
leaves the land where the Southern Cross met defeat. He wishes to wander
over Cuba, Mexico, and toward the West. At Havana, he finds that the
documents and articles forwarded by the agents to Judge Hardin have been
duly sent though never acknowledged.
The letters taken from Colonel Valois' body he seals in a packet. He
trusts that fate may lead him some day westward. They are too precious
to risk. He may some day tell the little lady of Lagunitas, of the
gallant father whose thoughts, before his last battle, were only for
the beloved "little one." She is confided, as a trust, from the dying
to Judge Hardin. She is surely safe in the sheltering care of Valois'
oldest friend. A "Southern gentleman."
Peyton for years can bring back the tender solemnity of Maxime Valois'
face, as he reads his charge to Hardin.
"And may God deal with you and yours, as you deal with me and mine."
The devoted father's appeal would touch a heart of stone.
The folly of not beginning active war in the West; the madness of not
seizing California at the outset; the rich prizes of the Pacific left
ungathered, for has not Semmes almost driven Yankee ships from the
sea with the Alabama, and does not Waddell, with the cockle-shell
Shenandoah, burn and destroy the entire Pacific whaling fleet? The
free-booter sails half around the world, unchallenged, after the war.
Oh, coward Knights of the Golden Circle! Fools, and blind, to let
California slip from your grasp!
Maxime Valois was right. Virginian rule ruined the Confederacy. Too
late, too late!
Had Sidney Johnston lived; had Robert E. Lee been willing to leave
sacred Virginia uncovered for a fortnight in the days before he
marshalled the greatest army the Southerners ever paraded, and invaded
the North boldly, a peace would have resulted.
Peyton thinks bitterly of the irreparable loss of Sidney Johnston.
He recalls the death of peerless Jackson. Jackson, always aggressive,
active, eager to reach for the enemy, and ever successful.
Wasted months when the prestige was with the South, the fixed
determination of Lee to keep the war in Virginia, and Davis's deadly
jealousy of any leading minds, seem to have lost the brightest chances
of a glorious success.
Peyton condemns the military court of Davis and the intrenched pageantry
of Lee's idle forces. The other armies of the Confederacy fought,
half supplied, giving up all to hold the Virginia lines. He cannot yet
realize that either Sherman or Grant might have baffled Sidney Johnston
had he lived. Lee was self-conscious of his weakness in invasion. He
will not own that Philip Sheridan's knightly sword might have reached
the crest of the unconquered Stonewall Jackson.
Vain regret, shadowy dreams, and sad imaginings fill Colonel Peyton's
mind. The thrilling struggles of the Army of the West, its fruitless
victories, and unrewarded heroism make him proud of its heroes. Had
another policy ruled the Confederate military cabinet, success was
certain. But he is now leaving his friend's grave.
The birds are singing in the forest. As the sun lights up the dark woods
where McPherson died, into Henry Peyton's war-tried soul enters the
peace which broods over field and incense-breathing trees. Far in the
East, the suns of future years may bring happier days, when the war
wounds are healed. The brothers of the Union may find a nobler way to
reach each other's hearts than ball or bayonet. But he cannot see these
gleams of hope.
BOOK IV.
A LOST HEIRESS.--MILLIONS AT STAKE.