"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.
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 Fran‡ois 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 Fran‡ois 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.