he would explore the San Joaquin. He wished to locate his ranch where he could have timber, wood, water, game, and mountain air.
Don Miguel did not inform the chief of the state that in riding from San Diego to Cape Mendocino he had found one particular garden of Paradise. He had marked this for his home when his sword would be sheathed in honor.
"I will say, your Excellency," said the Captain, "I fear for the future. The Yankees are growing in power and are grasping. They have robbed us of lovely Texas. Now, it is still a long way for their ships to come around dreary Cape Horn. We had till late years only two vessels from Boston; I saw their sails shining in the bay of San Francisco when I was five years old. I have looked in the Presidio records for the names. The Alexander and the Aser, August 1st, 1803. Then, they begged only for wood and water and a little provision. Now, their hide-traders swarm along our coast. They will by and by come with their huge war-ships. These trading-boats have no cannon, but they are full of bad rum. Our coast people will be cleared out. Why, Catalina Islands," continued the Captain, "were peopled once densely. There are yet old native temples there. All these coast tribes have perished. It is even worse since the holy fathers were robbed of their possessions."
The good soldier crossed himself in memory of the wise padres. They owned the thousands of cattle, sheep, and horses once thronging the oat-covered hills. Theirs were the fruits, grains, and comforts of these smiling valleys, untrodden yet by a foreign foe.
"Your Excellency, when the Yankee war-ships have come, we cannot resist them. Our batteries are old and poor, we have little ammunition. Our arms are out of repair. The machete and lasso are no match for their well-supplied men-of-war. I shall locate myself so far in the interior that the accursed Gringos cannot reach me with their ships or their boats. The trappers who straggle over the deserts from Texas our horsemen will lasso. They will bring them in bound as prisoners."
"Miguel, mi compadre," said the Governor, "do you think they can cross the deserts?" He was startled by Peralta's views of the future.
"Senor," said the Captain, "I saw the first American who came overland. The wanderer appeared in 1826. It was the 20th of December. He was found half starved by our vaqueros. I have his name here on a piece of paper. I have long carried it, for I was a guard over him."
Miguel slowly spelled off the detested Yankee name, Jedediah S. Smith, from a slip of cartridge paper in his bolsa. Glory be to the name of Smith!
"Where THAT one Yankee found a way, more will come, but we will meet and fight them. This is our OWN land by the right of discovery. The good King Philip II. of Spain rightfully claimed this (from his orders to Viceroy Monterey in 1596). We get our town name here in his honor. We will fight the English, and these accursed Yankees. They have no right to be here. This is our home," cried fiery Miguel, as he pledged the hospitable Governor. He passed out into the dreaming, starry night. As he listened to the waves softly breaking on the sandy beach, he thought fondly of Juanita Castro. He fumbled over the countersign as the sentinel presented his old flint-lock musket.
Both Governor and Captain sought the repose of their Spartan pillows. The Captain forgot, in his zeal for Spanish dominion, that daring Sir Francis Drake, in days even then out of the memory of man, piloted the "Golden Hind" into Drake's Bay. He landed near San Francisco in 1578, and remained till the early months of 1579. Under the warrant of "good Queen Bess" he landed, and set up a pillar bearing a "fair metal plate" with a picture of that antiquated but regal coquette. He nailed on the pillar a "fair struck silver five-pence," saluting the same with discharge of culverins, much hearty English cheer and nautical jollity. The land was English—by proscription.
Sir Francis, gallant and courtly, was, like many travellers, as skilful at drawing the long bow as in wielding the rapier. He was not believed at home.
Notwithstanding, he tarried months and visited the inland Indians, bringing home many objects of interest, announcing "much gold and silver," his voyage was vain. His real discovery was deemed of no practical value. The robust Indians swarmed in thousands, living by the watersides in huts, wearing deerskin cloaks and garments of rushes. Hunters and fishers were they. They entertained the freebooter, and like him have long since mouldered to ashes. Along the Pacific Coast great mounds of shells, marking their tribal seaside feasts, are now frequently unearthed. Their humble history is shadowed by the passing centuries. They are only a memory, a shadow on Time's stream. Good Queen Bess sleeps in the stately fane of Westminster. Sir Francis's sword is rusted. The "brazen plate" recording that date and year is of a legendary existence only. "Drake's Bay" alone keeps green the memory of the daring cruiser. Even in one century the Spanish, Russian, Mexican, and American flags successively floated over the unfrequented cliffs of California. Two hundred years before, the English ensign kissed the air in pride, unchallenged by the haughty Spaniard.
Miguel Peralta was happy. He had invited all the officials to attend the nuptials by the Golden Gate. Venus was in the ascendant. The red planet of Mars had set, he hoped, forever. The officers and gentry contemplated a frolicsome ride around the Salinas bend, over the beautiful passes to Santa Clara valley and the town of Yerba Buena.
Peralta's marriage was an excuse for general love making. A display of all the bravery of attire and personal graces of man and maid was in order.
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