In Tamal Land

BY

HELEN BINGHAM

THE CALKINS PUBLISHING HOUSE
San Francisco, U. S. A.

Copyrighted, 1906,
By Helen Bingham

All Rights Reserved

DEDICATION

INTRODUCTION

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

To the average tourist there are few states in the Union which offer more attractions than California.

Though its mild climate, fertile valleys, and scenic beauties are counted among its chief assets, still they are not its sole possessions, for, linked to the present great commercial activity of the Pacific Coast is a chain of picturesque events, clustered about its birth and infancy, which lends to the whole a peculiar charm, giving it a distinct individuality.

While the footsteps of the Spaniards grow fainter and fainter as they glide away into the corridors of time, and their traces become gradually assimilated by the progressive and oft-times aggressive Yankee, nevertheless the echoes from that former non-progressive splendor float back to us, and history re-animates the old adobes, breathing into a few secluded valleys the spirit of the past.

As the seat of historic interest, Monterey has received more homage than any other county on the Slope. Tourists flock to pay court to her old landmarks, writers eagerly pore over her time-worn archives, and the wielders of the brush have congregated in such numbers as to form an artists' colony. Though Monterey is undoubtedly justified in carrying off the palm for her many attractions, yet it is but fair that she should divide the honors of the past with her sister counties, being content to reign as Sovereign of the Coast.

Skirting the Northern end of San Francisco Bay is one of the smallest and most picturesque counties of California.

As a tiny gem in a coronet appears insignificant when contrasted with the other stones in point of size, but when viewed alone is admired for the diversity of its coloring and rare quality, so Marin, when measured by acres, appears insignificant, but when estimated by the beauty and diversity of its scenery stands unique, apart, alone.

As we approach Marin's shores, after a half hour's ride across the Bay on a commodious modern ferry-boat, our first thought on nearing the land is its remarkable similarity to an Italian settlement. For surely this town, situated on the steep hillside, is a counterpart of many an Italian hamlet, which, clinging to some abrupt cliff or bluff, seems to defy nature by its occupancy.

The clear blue of the California sky overhead but added to the illusion, although upon closer approach it was gradually dispelled by the modern American houses in place of quaint Italian structures.

Leaving the Depot we passed an attractive little park, well kept and gay with flowers, and a walk of a few moments brought us to the most historic part of Sausalito.

Though not in the section designated "old Sausalito," still it is the oldest in memories, for it was here that John Read, the first English-speaking settler in the County, came in 1826, erecting near the beach a crude board house. While waiting for a land grant from the Mexican Government, Read lived here.

Being of an ingenious turn of mind and having a practical nautical knowledge, Read set about constructing a sail boat, which he subsequently plied between Sausalito and San Francisco, carrying passengers. This was the first ferry boat on the Bay and when we contrast the little sailboat making its periodical trips across a solitary Bay with the present ferry craft, passing on their route ships from every quarter of the globe, a mere three score of years seems short for such a change, and proves what can be accomplished by Anglo-Saxon energy and enterprise.

Upon receiving his grant for the Rancho Corte Madera del Presidio, lying north of Sausalito, Mr. Read moved there in 1834.

A few hundred yards back from the beach, in what is now called "Wildwood Glen," was the first adobe house built in Sausalito. Only a few stones now mark the spot on which it stood, and a solitary pear-tree, gnarled and knotted with age stands a living witness of peace and plenty and decay. For it was in the bountiful days preceding the great influx into California by the Americans that Captain William Antonio Richardson, an Englishman but lately arrived on a whaling vessel from "the Downs," made application, and was given a grant to the Sausalito Rancho by the Mexican Government. He soon began building his adobe house and with the aid of the Indians it was rapidly completed. In the spring of 1836 he brought his beautiful young wife, formerly the Senorita Maria Antonia Martinez, to their new abode.

The Senora Maria Antonio was the daughter of Ygnacio Martinez, for whom the present town of that name in Contra Costa County was called.

Of all the dreams of happiness and love that filled the minds of the youthful pair on that fair spring morning, as in a small boat they were rowed across the Bay, by Indians, to their new home, we can not judge, but I am sure their dreams, however fond, were realized, for it is recorded somewhere that joy and peace reigned supreme in the little adobe.

However this may be, a young orchard was set out, cattle were bought and tended and the Senora's clever hands soon had the walls laden with the sweetest of Castilian roses. A stream flowed by the house on its way to the Bay, and on many a bright morning the Indian women of the household might be seen bending low over the stones washing the family linen. The stream has long since disappeared, as also the remnant of the race that washed in its waters—one through an unaccountable law of nature, the other through the rapacious greed and oppression of the Anglo-Saxon race.

Owing to the abundance of pure, fresh water found on the Sausalito Rancho it was shipped to Yerba Buena and the Presidio. The water was conducted by spouts to the beach, thence into a tank on a scow, which conveyed it across the Bay. This mode of supplying San Francisco with water lasted for some time, until with the increase of population this primitive means was abandoned.

A tule boat operated by Indians regularly crossed the Bay for the mail, many of the Indians evincing considerable skill in navigation under the tutelage of their able master.

Standing beside a heap of stones—historic stones because the sole remnant of this abode of the past—my glance wandered to the blue water of the Bay which laps the edge of the glen and stretches over to the distant hills which descend in gentle undulations to this beautiful shimmering sheet of blue. And this Bay, too, speaks of the second settler of Marin, for it bears his name.

As my glance now fell on the enchanting little glen with its tangled woodland and steep declivities, and then to the fair stretches of land that lay beyond, a sigh of sadness escaped from me unawares. I thought how all this lovely region, this Rancho Sausalito, comprising 19,500 acres, as varied and beautiful as ever nature put her seal to, this land, which rightfully belonged to Richardson and his descendants, had been appropriated by others through pretext of law and what not, until the heirs of the pioneer can call but a small building lot their own. Thus we ever find that "man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn."

But the son of the renowned Captain, a hale, hearty old gentleman, with a pleasant Spanish accent, speaks with calm equanimity of their loss of fortune, showing not a vestige of ill-will toward the transgressors, and practicing in full the true Christian spirit so often lauded but rarely seen.

"Sometimes, it is true, it makes me sad," he once replied, in answer to my queries, "to think of all the Rancho being gone. As a boy I used to ride, chasing the cattle, climbing the steep mountain sides followed by our vaqueros ... and how wild it was then and so beautiful—so beautiful!" Thus the heir to all these acres would extol their beauty without more reproach than that it sometimes made him sad.

Ascending the glen by a winding country road, shadowed by trees and shrubs, it was not long before we reached a small, low shingled cottage nestled deep in the shade of tall bays and buckeyes. A neat sign over the door bearing the inscription "O'Connell Glen," met our gaze, and then we knew that this little cottage, with its wealth of solitude and humble exterior, was the former home of the poet, Daniel O'Connell. For it was in this rural retreat that O'Connell, with his family, spent many busy, imaginative years.

A bohemian of the truest kind, he delighted in what Marin had to offer. With a stout stick, and accompanied by his daughters, he would often be seen sallying forth from his rustic lodge to tramp over hills and through canyons, exploring the apparently inaccessible, viewing and absorbing the wondrous beauty of woodland fastnesses, airy heights, and rugged cliffs. Feeling the very pulse of nature, his poems were the embodiment of all he had seen and felt, delighting the reader with their subtle charm and graceful imagery, which were peculiarly the author's own.

Leaving his favorite retreat and last abode, for it was here in 1899 that the poet breathed his last, a short walk around the bend of the hill brought us to another spot, sacred to the memory of the poet. This is the O'Connell monument which, as the inscription tells us, was erected by his sorrowing friends. The monument is in the form of a granite seat, some fifteen feet in length, fashioned in a graceful, curving crescent. Placed on the bank above the roadway, it is surrounded by great masses of bright-colored flowers, and approached by a few stone steps. The floor is of small, inlaid stones, in the center of which a three-leaf Shamrock proclaims the nationality of the poet.

Besides the name he made for himself, O'Connell came of illustrious ancestors, being the son of a distinguished lawyer, Charles O'Connell, and grand-nephew of the great Irish patriot, Daniel O'Connell.

On the back of the seat are inscribed these lines, written by the poet but ten days before his fatal illness, and prophetic of the long journey he was so soon to take, where, away from the cares and turmoil of this world, his soul could solve its remaining problems:

Turning from these verses to rest on the granite seat, we were confronted with a view of surpassing loveliness. Our attention had been so engrossed in examining this monument to genius that, until then, we had failed to perceive the commanding situation it held.

Below us stretched the peaceful waters of the Bay; on the left Angel Island and the Berkeley hills, with old Diablo dimly seen in the distance; in front, Alcatraz with its warlike aspect lay basking in the sun; while to the right the City, with its many hills and pall of smoke, could be plainly discerned. Truly a fitting spot for this memorial to genius.

Another attractive feature of Sausalito, besides its superb marine view, is its abundance of flowers. These not only grow in thick profusion in the quaint hillside gardens, but are planted beside the roadways, covering many an erstwhile bare and unsightly bank with trailing vines, gay nasturtiums and bright geraniums. There is something in the spirit of this hillside gardening, this planting of sweet blossoms for the public at large, that is very appealing in these days of monopolistic greed, when everything that is worth while has a fence around it. Thus it is refreshing to find a little spot in this dollar-mad America where the citizens disinterestedly beautify the public streets for the enjoyment of each passer-by.

Owing to the hilly surface of Sausalito, driving is rather a precarious enjoyment, but there is one drive which, with its superb marine vistas, amply compensates for the apparent lack of level roads. With the intention of taking this drive we procured a team and were soon driven rapidly along the boulevard skirting the water front, past the San Francisco Yacht Club, with its medley of white sailboats and smaller craft bobbing about in the water, and then through old Sausalito nestled in the gulch. Thence ascending the hill, the road wound around bend after bend with the Bay ever below us at a distance of a few hundred feet.

Arriving at a small, shingled lodge beside a gate through which we passed into the reservation, we soon came upon the Fort Baker Barracks in the hollow of the hills. It seems as if Nature, in anticipation of man's conflict with his brother man, had formed these hills on purpose for a fortification, so well adapted do they seem for their present use.

Beyond the Barracks, at the base of a cliff, we spied some small, white buildings clustered on the rocks extending out into the water. This proved to be Lime Point, and the buildings we were approaching belong to the Government, constituting a lighthouse- and fog-signal station. We found it to be one of the many smaller stations that are distributed along the Coast. There is a diminutive white light, and a steam fog whistle is kept ever ready to send out its note of warning at the slightest approach of the milky vapor which is a terror to the seamen.

Lime Point is directly opposite Fort Point, the distance being but seven-eighths of a mile, and forms the Northern point of Golden Gate Strait. While the view from these rocks is expansive, still it could not be called commanding, as the Point is too near the sea level to give the height and majesty requisite for an enchanting ocean vista.

As a pass is required before one can go through the reservation we retraced our steps to the Barracks and upon receiving the passport from the Sergeant Major, proceeded on our way up the steep, winding road which leads out of the Valley. Reaching the summit, the road continues its circuitous route; now in sight of the Bay and City, and again in among the bare, rolling hills.

While descending into a little valley we were stopped by a number of heavily laden teams, lined up in the middle of the road. Before we could question as to the delay, a volley of shots rang out, resounding again and again in the silent canyons, and a flapping red flag near by plainly denoted that the soldiers were engaged in target practice.

In reply to our query as to the length of time we should be required to halt, a soldier on the team in front informed us that sometimes one had to wait an hour or an hour and a half. Other teams having lined up behind, a retreat was impossible, and the prospect of a long wait in the hot sun was not very agreeable. We learned that a new barracks was in the course of construction below, in the valley at the head of the Rodeo Lagoon, and these teams were laden with provisions for the men stationed there.

Just as we had composed ourselves for the inevitable, a brisk waving of red flags was seen in the Valley, followed by the moving of the cavalcade in front; and, much to our satisfaction, we soon left our pessimistic informer far in the rear.

On the most southerly point of Marin a narrow rocky neck of land extends some distance into the Ocean. At the base are jagged rocks over which the sea surges ceaselessly, cutting arches and miniature caves in the fissures of the cliffs. From this rocky headland, which formerly was a menace and terror to navigators, now streams a steady light, and the point erstwhile spelling destruction now proves a blessing to vessels which are guided safely into port by the aid of its welcome light. This is Point Bonita and the Bonita Light, which, as we approached, stood out clear in the afternoon sun.

Stopping at the lighthouse keeper's dwelling, we proceeded on foot to the Point, accompanied by the keeper. Pausing in the narrow pathway, he drew our attention to a small derrick-wharf for the tender, at the base of the steep cliff on which we stood. This he explained was where the boat, which touches here three times a week, lands provisions, oil, and fuel.

"But, how," I asked in astonishment as I gazed down the dizzy depth, "do you get them up here?"

"Oh, that is very simply done," he responded; "we start up the engine and they are hauled up the bluff on a tram."

Owing to the perilous windings of the path around an almost perpendicular cliff a small tunnel has been cut through the solid rock. As we emerged from this tunnel the Lighthouse confronted us only a few yards away.