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The Little Lady of Lagunitas

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




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.






CHAPTER IV.

HELD BY THE ENEMY.--"THE BEAR FLAG."





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.

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