Will: those heads are the same from which we’ve had our tresses. Ay, and they’re looking this way, through glasses; perhaps, expecting us soon. Well; we’ll be with them, please God, before many hours; or it may be minutes. Then, you’ll see how much superior bright amber is to dull black – anywhere in the world, but especially in the light of a Californian sun.”
“Nowhere, under either sun or moon. Give me the girl with the crow-black hair!”
“For me, her whose locks are red gold!”
“Well; cada uno a su gusto, as my sweetheart has taught me to say in her soft Andalusian. But now, Ned, talking seriously, do you think the governor will give us leave to go ashore?”
“He must; I know he will.”
“How do you know it?”
“Bah! ma bohil; as our Irish second would say. You’re the son of a poor Welsh squire – good blood, I admit. But I chance to be heir to twice ten thousand a year, with an uncle in the Admiralty. I have asked leave for both of us. So, don’t be uneasy about our getting it. Captain Bracebridge is no snob; but he knows his own interests, and won’t refuse such fair request. See! There he is – coming this way. Now for his answer – affirmative, you may rely upon it.”
“Gentlemen,” says the captain, approaching, “you have my permission to go ashore for the day. The gig will take you, landing wherever you wish. You are to send the boat back, and give the coxswain orders where, and when, he’s to await you on return to the ship. Take my advice, and abstain from drink – which might get you into difficulties. As you know, just now San Francisco is full of all sorts of queer characters – a very Pandemonium of a place. For the sake of the service, and the honour of the uniform you wear, steer clear of scrapes – and above all, give a wide berth to women.”
After thus delivering himself, the captain turns on his heel, and retires – leaving mate and midshipman to their meditations.
They do not meditate long; the desired leave has been granted, and the order issued for the gig to be got ready. The boat is in the water, her crew swarming over the side, and seating themselves upon the thwarts.
The young officers only stay to give a finishing touch to their toilet, preparatory to appearing before eyes whose critical glances both more fear than they would the fire of a ship’s broadside.
Everything arranged, they drop down the man-ropes and seat themselves in the stern-sheets; Crozier commanding the men to shove off.
Soon the little gig is gliding over the tranquil waters of San Francisco Bay; not in the direction of the landing-wharf, but for a projecting point on the shore, to the south of, and some distance outside, the suburbs of the town. For, the beacon towards which they steer is the house of Don Gregorio Montijo.
Chapter Ten.
A Pair of Spanish Señoritas
Don Gregorio Montijo is a Spaniard, who, some ten years previous to the time of which we write, found his way into the Republic of Mexico, afterwards moving on to “Alta California.” Settling by San Francisco Bay, he became a ganadero, or stock-farmer – the industry in those days chiefly followed by Californians.
His grazing estate gives proof that he has prospered. Its territory extends several miles along the water, and several leagues backward; its boundary in that direction being the shore of the South Sea itself; while a thousand head of horses, and ten times the number of horned cattle, roam over its rich pastures.
His house stands upon the summit of a hill that rises above the bay – a sort of spur projected from higher ground behind, and trending at right angles to the beach, where it declines into a low-lying sand-spit. Across this runs the shore-road, southward from the city to San José, cutting the ridge midway between the walls of the house and the water’s edge, at some three hundred yards distance from each.
The dwelling, a massive quadrangular structure – in that Span-Moriscan style of architecture imported into New Spain by the Conquistadores– is but a single storey in height, having a flat, terraced roof, and inner court: this last approached through a grand gate entrance, centrally set in the front façade, with a double-winged door wide enough to admit the coach of Sir Charles Grandison.
Around a Californian country-house there’s rarely much in the way of ornamental grounds – even though it be a hacienda of the first-class. And when the headquarters of a grazing estate, still less; its inclosures consisting chiefly of “corrals” for the penning and branding of cattle, these usually erected in the rear of the dwelling. To this almost universal nakedness the grounds of Don Gregorio offer some exception. He has added a stone fence, which, separating them from the high road, is penetrated by a portalled entrance, with an avenue that leads straight up to the house. This, strewn with snow-white sea-shells, is flanked on each side by a row of manzanita bushes – a beautiful indigenous evergreen. Here and there a clump of California bays, and some scattered peach-trees, betray an attempt, however slight, at landscape gardening.
Taking into account the grandeur of his house, and the broad acres attached to it, one may safely say, that in the New World Don Gregorio has done well. And, in truth, so has he – thriven to fulness. But he came not empty from the Old, having brought with him sufficient cash to purchase a large tract of land, as also sufficient of horses and horned cattle to stock it. No needy adventurer he, but a gentleman by birth; one of Biscay’s bluest blood – hidalgos since the days of the Cid.
In addition to his ready-money, he also brought with him a wife – Biscayan as himself – and a daughter, at the time turned eight years old. His wife has been long ago buried; a tombstone in the cemetery of the old Dolores Mission commemorating her many virtues. Since, he has had an accession to his contracted family circle; the added member being a grand-daughter, only a year younger than his daughter, but equally well grown – both having reached the ripest age of girlhood. It is scarce necessary to add, that the young ladies, thus standing in the relationship of aunt and niece, are the two with whom Edward Crozier and Willie Cadwallader have respectively fallen in love.
And while mate and midshipman are on the way to pay them a promised visit – for such it is – a word may be said about their personal appearance. Though so closely allied, and nearly of an age, in other respects the two differ so widely, that one unacquainted with the fact would not suspect the slightest kinship between them.
The aunt, Doña Carmen, is of pure Biscayan blood, both by her father’s and mother’s side. From this she derives her blonde complexion, with that colour of hair so admired by Mr Crozier; with the blue-grey eyes, known as “Irish” – the Basques and Celts being a kindred race. Her Biscayan origin has endowed her with a fine figure of full development, withal in perfect feminine proportions; while her mother has transmitted to her what, in an eminent degree, she herself possessed – beauty of face and nobleness of feature.
In the daughter neither has deteriorated, but perhaps improved. For the benignant clime of California has such effect; the soft breezes of the South Sea fanning as fair cheeks as were ever kissed by Tuscan, or Levantine wind.
A chapter might be devoted to the charms of Doña Carmen Montijo, and still not do them justice. Enough to say, that they are beyond cavil. There are men in San Francisco who would dare death for her sake, if sure of her smile to speak approval of the deed; ay, one who would for as much do murder!
And in that same city is a man who would do the same for Iñez Alvarez – though she has neither blonde complexion, nor blue eyes. Instead she is a morena, or brunette, with eyes and hair of the darkest. But she is also a beauty, of the type immortalised by many bards – Byron among the number, when he wrote
