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
