RETURNING FROM THE BALL
"My Captain, it has been a goodly night, one long to be remembered."
Señora Valentino and Captain Morando were riding along the rolling
highway which led southerly from the Mission San José. A large portion
of the company that had attended the ball traveled this same road, the
men on their mounts, the women-folks mostly in carretas, though two or
three, like Señora Valentino, preferred horseback.
"Our Mendoza is a lavish host. He does nothing by halves, like the
worthy Californian that he is."
"Ah! yes. A wonderful man! A wonderful man!"
The señora reined in her horse. A rabbit, pursued by a hawk, was
running toward them from the underbrush at the side. Double and dodge
as it might, the little beast could not rid itself of its persecutor.
Finally it lay, a little crumpled heap, not far from the señorita's
horse, squealing for mercy. It found none, for the bird of prey drove
its talons into the fur and started to carry away its victim.
The señora swung her horse in wide curve and struck the hawk with her
riding-whip. It dropped the rabbit and flew fiercely at her. She
struck it again, this time with the butt of the whip. It circled away,
but returned to the attack and was hovering over the lady when Morando
killed it with a pistol shot.
It was the occurrence of a moment; but the angry challenge of the hawk
and the report of the firearm called the attention of the horseback
riders as well as the dozing occupants of the carretas. Men shouted
and women screamed. The peon riflemen came hurrying up, ready for
battle.
"Señora, are you hurt?" solicitously inquired Morando.
"Nothing much. A little scratch."
"Let us dismount. You are pale. Let me assist you."
She gave him her uninjured hand and loosed her feet from the stirrup.
Twilight fell across her eyes, resolving into huge, unsteady clouds
swimming around and around her with increasing velocity. In dead faint
she sank into Morando's arms.
The Captain removed the señora's long riding-glove, and found her wrist
profusely bleeding from a small, but deep, perforation. The hawk had
driven its talon in, full length.
"Come, amigos," Morando cried, "prepare a temporary couch for Señora
Valentino by the roadside."
A dozen ponchos fell from caballeros' shoulders, and the women
improvised a comfortable bed from them on the thickly interwoven green
grass, the soldier holding the insensible woman in his arms the while.
He laid her, still fainting, on the bed, softly odorous of the growing
things about.
In tiny pulsings the blood flowed, reddening her light-colored
riding-habit, and spattering the costly fabric of the ponchos.
The Captain bound his handkerchief tightly around her arm midway
between wrist and elbow. The bleeding ceased.
"Señors, who among you has a flask of aguardiente?"
Several were offered.
"Will one of the ladies bathe her face and forehead with the liquor?"
Señora Higuera did the service.
Morando was tightly bandaging the injured member with strips torn from
handkerchiefs when the patient opened her eyes.
"My arm feels asleep, Don Alfredo," she murmured. "Where am I?"
"With your friends, and safe," replied Morando.
Color gradually came into her face and lips. Her breath no longer
fluttered.
"O, the poor little fellow so wanted to save his life that I couldn't
see him lose it," she murmured. "The hawk passed blow for blow with
me. His talon pricked through my glove."
Word of the mishap had gone to Señor and Señora Barcelo, who were
riding in the vanguard of the procession. The complaining of the
Barcelo carreta mingled with the puffing of the Colonel's horse as the
two raced back.
"O, Silvia! Silvia! What dreadful thing has happened?" wailed Señora
Barcelo.
"What has happened is over, sister mine. Thanks to our friends here,
and Captain Morando in particular, I am nothing the worse."
"Doubtless! Doubtless! How clumsy your arm looks tied up that way!
Well, a peon reported you stricken down by an attacking eagle. How
about it?" inquired Barcelo.
Señora Valentino quickly detailed the story.
"Humph! A pretty state of affairs! Come, shall we be going? Matters
of great importance wait my arrival at the capitol."
"There is no reason to wait. I am able to travel. Amigos, adelante!"
playfully waving her hand toward the south.
Riders and carretas set out, Señora Valentino moving slowly, the
soldier by her side. The Colonel, making sure all was well with his
sister-in-law, insisted on traveling at full speed. His wife's carreta
plunged and squeaked and rolled after him.
"My dear," called Señora Higuera, in a little while, "you are growing
pale again. Stay with us at Aguas Calientes until you feel stronger.
We'll send a peon messenger on a swift horse, to reach your sister with
explanations. Come, Señora Valentino, we are at the turn of the road."
"I fear, señora, your arm is swelling. It will be better to dismount
at the Higuera hacienda house and have the wound carefully bathed in
warm water," counseled Morando.
The house of the Higueras was but a few hundred paces from the road,
but Señora Valentino was able to negotiate the distance only with
greatest difficulty.
The señora's wrist had swelled considerably. Morando removed a small
portion of the riding-glove driven in by the bird's claw. Good wife
Higuera bathed the wound in warm water, after which a soothing lotion
of herbs diminished the pain greatly.
"Come," said Señora Valentino, rising from the couch whither Morando
had carried her, "it is time for me to be going."
"Impossible, my lady," remonstrated Higuera. "My house and all in it
are at your disposal. Rest to-day. Last night was a gay one, but a
merry night means a weary morning. To-morrow, or the day after, you
can continue your way. A proper guard will attend you. Besides, your
arm may require further treatment. We have an Indian woman on the
hacienda who is only less skillful than the Captain," bowing to Morando.
"Thank you, amigos. My sister rests at the Calderon hacienda, near San
José pueblo. I can easily reach there in an hour. The scratch on my
arm is nothing. I am ashamed of having shown weakness over it.
Misericordia! am I sugar that I melt if a cupful of water reaches me?"
Despite all protestations she insisted on starting forth.
"Take a carreta, my dear heart," urged Señora Higuera. "Come, we'll
fill the body of the vehicle with blankets and have all as soft as down
for you. What differs an hour more or less in the journey if you can
be more comfortable? Let me make ready for you."
The señora would not listen to it. She mounted her horse gracefully,
despite her bandaged arm, waved adios to the Higueras, and set out
toward San José attended by Captain Morando.
"Be sure to stop if you feel weak," called Señora Higuera. "A peon
will make his house yours, as well will any ranchero."
"Never fear, good friends; I have strength and to spare for the
journey."
The rest of the merrymakers were well ahead. The señora and the
Captain rode alone over a virgin meadow. Mountain and valley smiled.
The sun, giving promise of a perfect day, crystallized his light in
myriad dewdrops hanging on flower petal and grass leaf. The morning
breeze carried the sweet voices of the hill blooms as they sang in
fragrance. Mingled with it was the pungent tang of wild mustard
bursting into gold. Great stretches of wild oats eddied and billowed
away, an emerald sea meeting the outposts of the coast range; or,
dropping across the valley, lost itself in the misty, opalescent sky
line. High aloft the lark was warbling his joy of living. The
blackbird in the meadows trilled love songs to his mate.
The man and woman turned their horses and looked along the way they had
come. The San Francisco Bay reached in silvery arc to the horizon.
The great white buildings of the Mendoza hacienda, stippled with the
gray of peon dwellings, rested against the hills. Stray cattle and
horses made their way body-deep in the luxuriant grass-growth, while
the mountains echoed the bleating of the Mission's sheep. It was a
picture of pastoral California, rich and splendid.
The lady showed no trace of her accident of an hour before. Color was
in her face and animation in her tones as she said: "Captain Morando,
let us look our fill on this scene. The future will see a panorama
here less wild, less beautiful, perhaps, but of greater usefulness."
She turned her horse again southward.
Morando rode by her side, not speaking for several moments. Finally:
"Señora, you have deep interest in these Californias."
"You have said it, señor Captain. I have, indeed, a deep interest in
the province." As he said nothing she continued: "I have a kindred
interest in the 'province of hearts' here also--to quote our host."
He laughed.
"Really, Captain, it would not surprise me if Señor Mendoza's ball
brought about half a dozen weddings. The setting for love-making was
exquisite. It might have been fashioned after some fairy scene, so
delicately were light and color blended, with that delicious music of
the natives permeating it all. Madrid would have gone wild over it!
Even the most watchful mamma and dueña felt the spell and laughed and
looked away while some fair one allowed the brave Don Juan to hold her
hand and murmur nothings to her. Why, even señoritas and young sparks
betrothed in childhood by their parents yielded to the passion divine,
as if their love was at first sight." She laughed gently.
"Was it so? I am too little acquainted with the families of Alta
California to know of the young men and women so engaged."
The señora's laugh was now merry, as she replied: "I sit much with the
old wives and know all the gossip. I can tell you all about it. There
are Patricio Martinez and Alfredo Castro. Their families intermarried
in Spain before the new world was thought of, continued in
intermarriage in Mexico, and will not desist in California. Then,
there are Lucinda Higuera and Aviel Soto; Lolita Hernandez and young
Julius Belden--part gringo he is, as they term it here--and--and--yes,
Tula Rosa and Pancho Laynez."
"I suppose there is the history of a family tree connected with each of
these betrothals!"
"There surely is. I actually ache down to the tips of my fingers,"
holding up her injured hand, "trying to remember it all. But come,"
checking her horse sharply, in sudden remembrance, "there was one
account most interesting, or, rather, more interesting, even, than
others. Who was it that told me? I think, Señora Valdez, or, perhaps,
Señora Sanchez. No, it must have been the very aged Señora Hernandez,
Don Marcel's mother."
"My interest is aroused almost beyond bounds," he laughed.
She returned the laugh. "Well, whoever it was that told me, I remember
the story. It relates to our host of last night, Señor Mendoza, and
Señor Peralta, father of that splendid young cavalier, Don Abelardo."
The soldier's interest was now aroused in earnest.
"The friendship of Mendoza and of the Señor Peralta, so the story goes,
had beginning in old times. Both were soldiers, daring and efficient,
and a common cause, that of freeing Spain from French dominance, led to
mutual liking. They campaigned together for years.
"A few hours' journey from Madrid, near Talavera city, is a long bluff
which Colonel Mendoza held, with English troops, against the fury of
Joseph Bonaparte's veterans. It was the pivotal center of the Iron
Duke's position--of course, this Iron Duke was just Sir Arthur
Wellesley then. This much is history."
"I have read of Señor Mendoza's notable part in that great battle."
"Well, in the charge, the second day, when the French line was
breaking, Mendoza's horse was shot and it fell, pinning him beneath.
Peralta saved him from death at the hands of a Toulousan lancer. The
Colonel mounted another horse, nothing the worse for his experience.
Twice before nightfall did he again owe his life to his friend Peralta.
This, according to my informant."
Morando said nothing. The lady continued:
"Administrator Mendoza was instrumental in having a grant of land made
to Señor Peralta, who came here to occupy it. He married and had a
son, Abelardo. Later, the Administrator married, and his daughter
Carmelita came to bless his home."
Morando was looking intently at the speaker.
"One night the renegades from the eastern valleys drove away many
horses and cattle after maltreating the attending peons. Mendoza and
Peralta, with their fighting Indians, pursued the fleeing miscreants.
An arrow pierced Peralta's body, and he would have fallen to the ground
had not Mendoza caught him. Under the protection of a branching oak,
on the primeval hillside, the end came. The dying man's head lay on
Mendoza's lap, their hands clasped together, while the sturdy Mendoza
was weeping. Peralta spoke faintly:
"'The soldier dies from a savage's arrow, after years of service on the
field. Well, mio amigo, be a friend to my wife and boy.'
"'You have my word of honor,' replied Mendoza.
"Peralta continued: 'And--and--yes. My senses are leaving me. I must
speak quickly. Let our lifetime of friendship live after us, in the
union of our children when they are grown.'
"There, in the shade of nature, the greater shadow of death hovering
near, was the betrothal agreement made. The Indian riflemen stood
around, sombreros in hand, their weapons lying on the turf, to do
homage to death, the final conqueror. Señor Mendoza still held in his
arms the clay of his friend, still his tears were falling. 'The
Peralta and Mendoza friendship shall live on in our children,' he said
in broken voice. 'The living and the dead make this consecration.'"
Morando's horse reared to perpendicular line. Unconsciously the
Captain had gripped him with the spurs. The animal sprang from the
beaten road through dense masses of underbrush, to the grassy field
beyond. It required several minutes before Morando could bring the
creature back to the señora's side. It still champed the bit, while
its eyes flashed from the sting of the insult.
"Your horse is restive, señor soldier. Perhaps we have loitered along
the way. Come, we can reach the Calderon home before the sun is warm."
They cantered in silence for a while.
"Let us go slowly for a few minutes," she said. "I find I am not so
strong as I thought."
Paleness was again creeping into her face.
Morando quickly led her horse by the bridle to the door of a peon's cot
near the wayside, and assisted her to dismount. The Indian wife came
curtsying out, full of welcome.
"My house is yours," she insisted, bowing again and again. "Your visit
will be long remembered. I am sorry my man is away and cannot help to
receive you."
"Some warm water in a basin," said the soldier. "The señora has had an
accident to her arm and it needs attention."
Morando unbandaged the arm, bathed it in tepid water, and rebandaged it
more loosely.
The house was a one-room building, made of adobe, whitewashed outside
and inside, with a red tile roof. The floor was earthen. A half dozen
children tumbled about. The Indian woman sat on a rude settee and
looked interestedly at the two occupying a similar piece of furniture.
"My man is absent in San Joaquin," she said. "He is a vaquero for
Señor Higuera. We expect the cattle soon to return, and again I will
have my husband."
The señora was charmed with the naïveté of the native.
"I'm sure you will be happy then," she said. Color had returned to her
cheeks and brightness to her eyes.
"Great people need never be separated," the peona went on. "Now,"
speaking directly to Señora Valentino, "you had your husband with you
when sickness met you, and he drove it away. For me, two, three,
moons," counting on her fingers, "I have fought it alone for myself and
my pocos niños," pointing to her brood.
The señora smiled. "This señor is not my husband."
The woman looked intently at them. "The spirits of the future speak
little here since Padre Lusciano came. He drives them away with the
breath of his mouth. Dared they speak--dared they speak"--she laughed
quizzically--"they would say--they would say----"
She broke off and motioned to the third finger of the señora's left
hand, and simulated placing a ring thereon. She turned to Morando and
laughed again.
The señora arose to her feet. "Come, Capitan, let us thank the peona
for her kindness and for her suggestion of prophecy, and go on our
journey. I trust my strength will not fail again."
Morando offered money to the woman, but she would not accept it.
"The gold is for the ring," she replied with another queer laugh. "Why
should I withhold kindnesses?" she asked. "God gives them to me. I
should not keep them selfishly."
They thanked her for her good offices and went their way.
Señora Valentino was her buoyant self once more, while Morando, though
all courtesy and attention, seemed in a quiet mood.
"Come, soldier mine," she suggested, "let us rejoice with the landscape
and sing with the spring." She waited, then laughed gayly. "Perhaps
the spirits of the future gave you an unhappy horoscope." Again she
gave way to merriment.
His answering laugh had a forced note, as he said: "What a pity the
spirits are no longer free to speak without hindrance! In so far, my
lady, as the peona spoke for them their message flattered me." He
doffed his cap sweepingly.
"Gallant soldier! But I was speaking a while ago of this province of
California. Do you realize, Captain, that here is a country exceeding
Spain in area and equaling her soil in fertility?"
"I do realize it, indeed, señora. What we see here," indicating the
waving valley, "and even after a winter of drought, is a demonstration
of most wonderful fertility."
"Under the English flag all old customs will flourish here; the
civilization developed will be along Spanish lines. Colonists will
come in numbers and a mighty principality will grow--still it will be,
in essentials, Spanish. A viceroy will be in power, combining the
office of a general with that of governor. These vast haciendas will
be fruitful farms supporting more hundreds than they do individuals
now."
"What you say, señora, is not impossible."
"What power, what patronage, what opportunity would belong to such a
viceroy! It would be well-nigh that of a king."
Her companion made no response.
"My good soldier, of all the men in California who do you think would
be chosen to this high office of civil and military leader?"
"Señor Mendoza I believe to be the ablest man in the province. After
him, I would say, comes Carillo, in the South."
She smiled into his face.
"The first governor under English rule here will be chosen on
recommendation of three people. I am one of those three."
"What can you mean, Señora Valentino?" asked the amazed man.
"I mean this. It is my belief that English governing will be the one
most acceptable to the Californians. I have become Great Britain's
special representative, and I am laboring to bring about a judicious
consummation."
The soldier looked wonderingly at her. "Your words, señora, while
surprising me, explain many things."
She went on: "When the British admiral opens in Monterey harbor his
sealed advices, he will find a paper appointing as commander of the
army and head of this province the man on whom the English consul,
Captain Farquharson, and your humble servant have agreed as the right
one for that office."
She paused in her remarks, as if expecting him to speak. He did not.
She went on: "We have already made our choice." She spoke
dispassionately. "Now, who do you think it is?"
"I can still form no idea, unless it be, indeed, Mendoza, or
Carillo--or, possibly, one of the Picos."
"It is none other than Capitan Alfredo Morando."
He checked his horse.
She swung her mount to meet him. Neither spoke for several moments.
He bared his head. "Señora Valentino, words fail me to express my
gratitude for your high opinion of me. I thank you most cordially and
most humbly."
They rode on in silence.
At last they neared the Calderon hacienda house.
"Before long we salute you as 'Your Excellency.'"
"No, señora. As greatly as I prize the honor paid me by you and the
other two I shall leave California forever, as soon as I can do so in
fairness to my work."
The Calderons were hastening out to meet them. The anxious friends
surrounded the señora. Inquiring and welcoming, they bore her away.