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The Little Lady of Lagunitas

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




The soldier drifted into the land of dreams haunted by Juanita
Castro's love-lit eyes and rare, shy smile. No vision disturbed
him of the foothold gained in Oregon by the Yankees. They sailed
past the entrance of San Francisco Bay, on the Columbia, in 1797,
but they found the great river of the northwest. They named it after
their gallant bark, said to be the legal property of one General
Washington of America.

The echoes of Revolutionary cannon hardly died away before the
eagle-guided Republic began to follow the star of empire to the
Occident.

Had the listless mariners seen that obscured inlet of the Golden
Gate, they had never braved the icy gales of the Oregon coast.
Miguel Peralta's broad acres might have had another lord. Bishop
Berkeley's prophecy was infallible. A fatal remissness seemed to
characterize all early foreign adventure on Californian coasts.

Admiral Vancouver in 1793 visited Monterey harbor, and failed to
raise the Union Jack, as supinely as the later British commanders
in 1846. French commanders, technically skilful and energetic, also
ignored the value of the western coast. As a result of occasional
maritime visits, the slender knowledge gained by these great
navigators appears a remarkable omission.

The night passed on. Breezes sweeping through the pines of Monterey
brought no murmur from the south and east of the thunder crash of
cannon on the unfought fields of Mexico.

No drowsy vaquero sentinel, watching the outposts of Monterey,
could catch a sound of the rumbling wheels and tramping feet of
that vast western immigration soon to tread wearily the old overland
and the great southern route.

The soldier, nodding over his flint-lock as the white stars dropped
into the western blue, saw no glitter of the sails of hostile Yankee
frigates. Soon they would toss in pride at anchor here, and salute
the starry flag of a new sovereignty. The little twinkling star
to be added for California was yet veiled behind the blue field of
our country's banner.

Bright sun flashes dancing over the hills awoke the drowsy sacristan.
The hallowed "Bells of Carmel" called the faithful to mass.

Monterey, in reverse order of its social grades, rose yawning from
the feast. Fandangos and bailes of the day of victory tired all.
Lazy "mozos" lolled about the streets. A few revellers idly compared
notes of the day's doings.

In front of the government offices, squads of agile horses awaited
haughty riders. A merry cavalcade watched for Captain Miguel
Peralta. He was to be escorted out of the Pueblo by the "jeunesse
doree" of Alta California.

Clad in green jackets buttoned with Mexican dollars, riding leggings
of tiger-cat skin seamed with bullion and fringed with dollars,
their brown faces were surmounted by rich sombreros, huge of rim.
They were decorated in knightly fashion with silver lace. The young
caballeros awaited their preux chevalier. Saddle and bridle shone
with heavy silver mountings. Embossed housings and "tapadero," hid
the symmetry of their deer-like coursers.

Pliant rawhide lassos coiled on saddle horns, gay serapes tied
behind each rider, and vicious machetes girded on thigh, these sons
of the West were the pride of the Pacific.

Not one of them would be dismayed at a seven days' ride to Los
Angeles. A day's jaunt to a fandango, a night spent in dancing, a
gallop home on the morrow, was child's play to these young Scythians.

Pleasure-loving, brave, and courteous; hospitable, and fond of
their lovely land--they bore all fatigue in the saddle, yet despised
any manual exertion; patricians all, in blood.

So it has been since man conquered the noblest inferior animal.
The man on the horse always rides down and tramples his brother
on foot. Life is simply a struggle for the saddle, and a choice of
the rarest mount in the race. To-day these gay riders are shadows
of a forgotten past.

Before noon Captain Peralta receives the order of the Governor. It
authorizes him to locate his military grant. General Vallejo, with
regret, hands Miguel an order relieving him from duty. He is named
Commandante of the San Joaquin valley, under the slopes of the
undefiled Sierras.

Laden with messages, despatches, and precious letters for the ranches
on the road to the Golden Gate, he departs. These are entrusted to
the veteran sergeant, major-domo and shadow of his beloved master.
Miguel bounds into the saddle. He gayly salutes the Governor
and General with a graceful sweep of his sombrero. He threads the
crowded plaza with adroitness, swaying easily from side to side as
he greets sober friend or demure Donna. He smiles kindly on all the
tender-eyed senoritas who admire the brave soldier, and in their
heart of hearts envy Juanita Castro, the Rose of Alameda.

Alert and courteous, the future bright before him, Peralta gazes
on the Mexican flag fluttering in the breeze. A lump rises in his
throat. His long service is over at last. He doffs his sombrero
when the guard "turns out" for him. It is the last honor.

He cannot foresee that a French frigate will soon lie in the very
bay smiling at his feet, and cover the returning foreigner with
her batteries.

In two short years, sturdy old Commodore Jones will blunder along
with the American liners, CYANE and UNITED STATES, and haul down
that proud Mexican ensign. He will hoist for the first time, on
October, 19, 1842, the stars and stripes over the town. Even though
he apologizes, the foreigners will troop back there like wolves
around the dying bison of the west. The pines on Santa Cruz whisper
of a coming day of change. The daybreak of the age of gold draws
near.

Steadily through the live-oaks and fragrant cypress the bridegroom
rides to the wedding. A few days' social rejoicings, then away to
the beautiful forests of his new ranch. It lies far in the hills
of Mariposa. There, fair as a garden of the Lord, the grassy knolls
of the foothills melt into the golden wild-oat fields of the San
Joaquin.

Behind him, to the east, the virgin forest rises to the serrated
peaks of the Nevada. He drops his bridle on his horse's neck. He
dreams of a day when he can visit the unknown ca¤ons beyond his
new home.

Several Ute chiefs have described giant forests of big trees.
They tell of a great gorge of awful majesty; that far toward the
headwaters of the American are sparkling lakes fed by winter snows.

His escort of young bloods rides behind him. They have had their
morning gymnastics, "a cheval," to edify the laughing beauties
of the baile of last night. The imprisoned rooster, buried to the
neck in soft earth, has been charged on and captured gaily. Races
whiled away their waiting moments.

Then, "adios, se¤oritas," with heart-pangs in chorus. After a
toss of aguardiente, the cigarito is lit. The beaux ride out for
a glimpse of the white cliffs of the Golden Gate. The sleeping
Monterey belles dream yet of yester-even. Nature smiles, a fearless
virgin, with open arms. Each rancho offers hospitality. Money
payments are unknown here yet, in such matters.

Down the Santa Clara avenue of great willows these friends ride
in the hush of a starry evening. As the mission shows its lights,
musical bells proclaim the vesper service. Their soft echoes are
wafted to the ears of these devotees.

Devoutly the caballeros dismount. They kneel on the tiled floor
till the evening service ends.

Miguel's heart sinks while he thinks of the missions. He bows in
prayer. Neglected vineyards and general decay reign over the deserted
mission lands.

It is years since Hijar scattered the missions, He paralyzed
the work of the Padres. Already Santa Clara's gardens are wasted.
Snarling coyotes prowl to the very walls of the enclosures left to
the Padres.

Priest and acolytes quit the altar. Miguel sadly leaves the church.
Over a white stone on the sward his foot pauses. There rests one
of his best friends--Padre Pacheco--passed beyond these earthly
troubles to eternal rest and peace. The mandate of persecution
can never drive away that dead shepherd. He rests with his flock
around him.

Hijar seized upon the acres of the Church. He came down like the
feudal barons in England. Ghostly memories cling yet around these
old missions.

"When the lord of the hill, Amundeville,
Made Norman church his prey,
And expelled the friars, one friar still
Would not be driven away."

So here the sacred glebe was held by a faithful sentinel. His
gravestone flashed a white protest against violence. In the struggle
between sword and cowl, the first victory is with the sword; not
always the last. Time has its revenges.

Padre Hinojosa, the incumbent, welcomes the Captain. There is cheer
for the travellers. Well-crusted bottles of mission claret await
them. The tired riders seek the early repose of primitive communities.

Beside the fire (for the fog sweeps coldly over the Coast Range)
the priest and his guest exchange confidences. Captain Peralta is
an official bulletin. The other priest is summoned away to a dying
penitent. The halls of the once crowded residence of the clergy
re-echo strangely the footsteps of the few servants.

By the embers the man of the sword and he of the gown lament these
days. They are pregnant with trouble. The directing influence of
the Padres is now absent. Peralta confides to Hinojosa that jealousy
and intrigue will soon breed civil warfare. Micheltorrena is now
conspiring against Alvarado. Peralta seeks a secluded home in the
forests of Mariposa. He desires to gain a stronghold where he can
elude both domestic and foreign foes.

"Don Miguel," the padre begins, "in our records we have notes of
a Philippine galleon, the SAN AUGUSTIN, laden with the spoils of the
East. She was washed ashore in 1579, tempest tossed at the Golden
Gate. Viscaino found this wreck in 1602. Now I have studied much.
I feel that the Americans will gradually work west, overland,
and will rule us. Our brothers destroyed the missions. They would
have Christianized the patient Indians, teaching them industries.
Books tell me even the Apaches were peaceful till the Spanish
soldiers attacked them. Now from their hills they defy the whole
Mexican army." The good priest sighed. "Our work is ruined. I shall
lay my bones here, but I see the trade of the East following that
lonely wrecked galleon, and a young people growing up. The Dons
will go." Bestowing a blessing on his guest, the padre sought his
breviary. Priest and soldier slept in quiet. To-day the old padre's
vision is realized. The treasures of the East pour into the Golden
Gate. His simple heart would have been happy to know that thousands
of Catholics pause reverently at his tomb covered with the roses
of Santa Clara.






CHAPTER II.

AT THE PRESIDIO OF SAN FRANCISCO.---WEDDING CHIMES FROM THE MISSION
DOLORES.---LAGUNITAS RANCHO.





Golden lances pierced the haze over the hills, waking the padre
betimes next morning. Already the sacristan was ringing his call.

The caballeros were kneeling when the Indian choir raised the
chants. When mass ended, the "mozos" scoured the potrero, driving
in the chargers. Commandante Peralta lingered a half hour at the
priest's house. There, the flowers bloom in a natural tangle.

The quadrangle is deserted; while the soldier lingers, the priest
runs over the broken chain of missions. He recounts the losses of
Mother Church---seventeen missions in Lower California, twenty-one
all told in Alta California, with all their riches confiscated.
The "pious fund"--monument of the faithful dead--swept into the
Mexican coffers. The struggle of intellect against political greed
looks hopeless.

The friends sadly exchange fears. The bridegroom reminds the priest
that shelter will be always his at the new rancho.

Peralta's plunging roan frets now in the "paseo." After a blessing,
the Commandante briskly pushes over the oak openings, toward the
marshes of the bay. His shadow, the old sergeant, ambles alongside.
Pearly mists rise from the bay. Far to the northeast Mount Diablo
uplifts its peaked summit. From the western ridges balsamic odors
of redwoods float lightly.

Down by the marshes countless snipe, duck, geese, and curlew tempt
the absent sportsman.

The traveller easily overtakes his escort. They have been trying
all the arts of the vaquero. Past hills where startled buck and
doe gaze until they gracefully bound into the covert, the riders
pursue the lonely trail. Devoid of talk, they follow the shore,
sweeping for six hours over the hills, toward the Mission Dolores.
Another hour brings them to the Presidio.

This fort is the only safeguard of the State; a battery of ship
guns is a mere symbol of power.

In the quadrangle two companies of native soldiers and a detachment
of artillery constitute the feeble garrison. Don Miguel Peralta
canters up to the Commandante's residence.

Evening parade is over. Listless sentinels drag over their posts
with the true military laziness.

Peralta is intent upon affairs both of head and heart. His comrade,
the Commandante, sits late with him in sage counsel. A train follows
from Monterey, with stores for the settlement. Sundry cargoes
of gifts for the fair Juanita, which the one Pacific emporium of
Monterey alone could furnish, are moving. Miguel bears an order
for a detail of a sergeant and ten men, a nucleus of a force in the
San Joaquin. Barges and a shallop are needed to transport supplies
up the river. By couriers, invitations are to be sent to all the
clans not represented at the Monterey gathering.

The priests of the mission must also be visited and prepared for
the wedding. Miguel's heart softens. He thinks of his bright-eyed
Californian bride waiting in her home, soon to be Seftora Peralta.

In twenty days Don Miguel arranges his inland voyage. While his
assistants speed abroad, he pays visits of ceremony to the clergy
and his lovely bride.

The great day of his life arrives. Clad in rich uniform, he crosses
to the eastern shore. A breeze of morning moves. The planet of
love is on high. It is only the sun tinting the bay with golden
gleams. Never a, steamer yet has ploughed these silent waters.

Morning's purple folds Tamalpais in a magic mantle. Rolling surges
break on the bar outside the Golden Gate. Don Miguel, attended by
friends, receives his bride, the Rose of Alameda. Shallops wait.
The merry party sails for the western shore. Fluttering flags
decorate this little navy of San Francisco.

Merry laughter floats from boat to boat. The tinkle of the guitar
sounds gaily. Two hours end this first voyage of a new life.

At the embarcadero of Yerba Buena the party descends. They are met
by a procession of all the notables of the mission and Presidio.
Hardy riders and ladies, staid matrons and blooming senoritas, have
gathered also from Santa Clara, Napa, and Sonoma. The one government
brig is crowded with a merry party from Monterey.

The broad "camino real" sweeps three miles over sand dunes to the
mission. Past willow-shaded lakes, through stunted live-oak groves,
the wedding cavalcade advances. The poverty of the "mozo" admits
of a horse. Even the humblest admirer of Don Miguel to-day is in
the saddle. No one in California walks.

With courtly grace the warrior rides by his bride. Juanita Castro
is a true Spanish senorita. Blest with the beauty of youth and the
modesty of the Castilian, the Rose of Alameda has the blush of her
garden blossoms on her virgin cheek. She walks a queen. She rides
as only the maids of Alta California can.

The shining white walls of the mission are near. Eager eyes watch
in the belfry whence the chimes proclaim the great event. To the
west the Coast Range hides the blue Pacific. Rolling sand hills
mask the Presidio. East and south the panorama of shore and mountain
frames the jewel of the West, fair San Francisco bay.

Soldiers, traders, dull-eyed Indians, and joyous retainers crowd
the approaches.

The cortege halts at the official residence. Soon the dark-eyed
bride is arrayed in her simple white robes. Attended by her friends,
Juanita enters the house of the Lord. Don Luis Castro supports the
bride, who meets at the altar her spouse. Priests and their trains
file in. The fateful words are said.

Then the girl-wife on her liege lord's arm enters the residence of
the Padres; a sumptuous California breakfast awaits the "gente de
razon."

Clangor of bells, firing of guns, vivas and popular clamor follow
the party.

The humbler people are all regaled at neighboring "casas."

In the home of the Padres, the nuptial feast makes glad the gathered
notables. The clergy are the life of this occasion. They know when
to lay by the austerity of official robes. From old to young, all
hearts are merry.

Alcaldes, officials, and baronial rancheros--all have gathered for
this popular wedding.

Carrillos, Del Valles, Sepulvedas, Arguellos, Avilas, Ortegas,
Estradas, Martinez, Aguirres and Dominguez are represented by chiefs
and ladies.

Beakers of mission vintages are drained in honor of the brave and
fair. When the sun slopes toward the hills, the leaders escort the
happy couple to the Presidio. The Commandante and his bride begin
their path in life. It leads toward that yet unbuilt home in the
wild hills of Mariposa. With quaint garb, rich trappings, and its
bright color, the train lends an air of middle-age romance to the
landscape.

Knightly blood, customs, and manners linger yet in the "dolce far
niente" of this unwaked paradise of the Occident. Sweetly sound the
notes of the famous sacred mission bell. It was cast and blessed at
far Mendoza in Spain, in 1192. Generations and tens of generations
have faded into shadowy myths of the past since it waked first
the Spanish echoes. Kings and crowns, even countries, have passed
into history's shadowy night since it first rang out. The cunning
artificer, D. Monterei, piously inscribed it with the name of
"San Franisco." Mingled gold and silver alone were melted for its
making. Its sacred use saved the precious treasure many times from
robbers. Six hundred and fifty years that mellow voice has warned
the faithful to prayer. Pride and treasure of the Franciscans, it
followed the "conquistadores" to Mexico. It rang its peal solemnly
at San Diego, when, on July 1, 1769, the cross of the blessed Redeemer
was raised. The shores of California were claimed for God by the
apostolic representative, sainted Friar Junipero Serra. In that
year two babes were born far over the wild Atlantic, one destined
to wrap the world in flame, and the other to break down the mightiest
modern empire of the sword. It was the natal year of Napoleon
Bonaparte, the child imperially crowned by nature, and that iron
chief, Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington.

The old bell sounded its first call to the faithful on San Francisco
Bay, in 1776. It was but a few months after the American colonists
gave to wondering humanity their impassioned plea for a world's
liberty--the immortal Declaration of the Fourth of July.

No merrier peal ever sounded from its vibrant throat than the rich
notes following Miguel Peralta and his lovely Rose of Alameda.

Revelry reigns at the Presidio; Commandante Peralta's quarters are
open. Music and brightest eyes mark the closing of this day. In
late watches the sentinels remember the feast as they pace their
rounds, for none are forgotten in largesse.

Fair Juanita learns to love the dainty title of Senora. Light is
her heart as she leaves for the Hills.

Don Miguel's barges already are on the San Joaquin. The cattle
have reached their potreros on the Mariposa. Artificer and "peon"
are preparing a shelter for the lord of the grant.

Donna Juanita waves her hand in fond adieu as the schooner glides
across to Alameda. Here Commandante Miguel has a report of the
arrival of his trains.

From the Castros' home, Juanita rides out toward the San Joaquin.
Great commotion enlivens the hacienda. Pack-trains are laden with
every requisite--tents, hammocks, attendants, waiting-women and
retainers are provided.

Winding out of the meadows of the Alameda, eastwardly over the
Coast Range defiles, the train advances. Even here "los ladrones"
(thieves of animals) are the forerunners of foreign robbers. Guards
watch the bride's slumbers.

Star-lit nights make the journey easy. It is the rainless summer
time; no sound save the congress of the coyotes, or the notes of
the mountain owl, disturbs the dreams of the campers.

Don Miguel, in happiest mood, canters beside his wife. The party
has its scouts far in advance. Resting places in fragrant woods,
with pure brooks and tender grass, mark the care of the outriders.

Over the Coast Range Juanita finds a land of delightful promise.
Far away the rich valley of the San Joaquin sweeps. Rolling hills
lie on either side, golden tinted with the ripening wild oats.
Messengers join the party with auspicious reports.

Down the San Joaquin plains the train winds. Here Senora Peralta
is in merry mood; hundreds of stately elk swing tossing antlers,
dashing away to the willows. Gray deer spring over brook and fallen
tree, led by some giant leader. Pigeons, grouse, doves, and quail
cleave the air with sudden alarm. Gorgeous in his painted plumage,
the wood duck whirrs away over the slow gliding San Joaquin. Swan
and wild geese cover the little islands.

There are morning vocal concerts of a feathered orchestra. They
wake the slumbering bride long before Don Miguel calls his swarthy
retainers to the day's march.

By night, in the valley, the sentinels watch for the yellow California
lions, who delight to prey on the animals of the train. Wild-cats,
lynx, the beaver and raccoon scuttle away surprised by this invasion
of Nature's own game preserves.

It is with some terror that the young wife sees a display of native
horsemanship. Lumbering across the pathway of the train a huge
grizzly bear attracts the dare-devils. Bruin rises on his haunches;
he snorts in disdain. A quickly cast lariat encircles one paw. He
throws himself down. Another lasso catches his leg. As he rolls
and tugs, other fatal loops drop, as skilfully aimed as if he were
only a helpless bullock. Growling, rolling, biting, and tearing,
he cannot break or loosen the rawhide ropes. When he madly tries to
pull in one, the agile horses strain upon the others. He is firmly
entangled. The giant bear is tightly bound.

Donna Juanita, her lord by her side, laughs at the dreaded "oso."
She enjoys the antics of the horsemen. They sport with their
enemy. After the fun ends, Bruin receives a gunshot. Choice cuts
are added to the camp menu.

The bear, panther, and rattlesnake are the only dangers of the
Californian woods.

Days of travel bring the hills of Mariposa into view. Here the
monarchs of the forest rise in air; their wild harps are swept by
the cool breezes of the Sierras. Tall, stately redwoods, swathed
in rich, soft, fibrous bark, tower to the skies. Brave oaks spread
their arms to shelter the doe and her fawns. The madrona, with
greenest leaf and pungent berry, stands here. Hazels, willows,
and cottonwoods follow the water. Bald knolls are studded with
manzanita, its red berry in harvest now. Sturdy groves of wild
plum adorn the hillsides. Grouse and squirrel enjoy their annual
feast.

The journey is over. When the train winds around a sweeping range,
Don Miguel nears his wife. The San Joaquin is studded with graceful
clumps of evergreen. In its bosom a lake shines like a diamond.
The Don uncovers smilingly. "Mi querida, there lies your home,
Lagunitas," he murmurs.

Sweet Juanita's eyes beam on her husband. She says softly, "How
beautiful!"

It is truly a royal domain. From the lake the ten leagues square
of the Commandante's land are a panorama of varying beauties.
Stretching back into the pathless forests, game, timber, wood,
and building stones are at hand; a never-failing water supply for
thousands of cattle is here. To the front, right, and left, hill
pastures and broad fields give every variety of acreage.

Blithely the young wife spurs her favorite steed over the turf.
She nears the quarters. The old sergeant is the seneschal of this
domain. He greets the new arrivals.

With stately courtesy the Commandante lifts his bride from her
charger. The hegira is over. The occupation of arranging abodes
for all is the first task. Already the cattle, sheep, and horses
are fattening on the prairie grasses. Peons are sawing lumber. A
detachment is making bricks for the houses. These are one-storied
mansions with wide porches, beloved by the Californians; to-day
the most comfortable homes in the West. Quaintly superstitious,
the natives build so for fear of earthquakes. Corrals, pens, and
sheds have been first labors of the advance guard. The stores and
supplies are all housed.

Don Miguel left the choice of the mansion site to his Juanita.
Together they visit the different points of vantage. Soon the
hacienda rises in solid, fort-like simplicity.

The bride at Lagunitas strives to aid her companion. She shyly
expresses her preferences. All is at her bidding.

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