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The Little Lady of Lagunitas

R >> Richard Henry Savage >> The Little Lady of Lagunitas




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.

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