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History of California

by Helen Elliott Bandini · English · Gutenberg #7778 · 424,262 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: History of California

Author: Helen Elliott Bandini


        
Release date: March 1, 2005 [eBook #7778]
                Most recently updated: October 31, 2016

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORY OF CALIFORNIA ***




Produced by David A. Schwan








HISTORY OF CALIFORNIA


By Helen Elliot Bandini



Illustrated By Roy J. Warren

B. Cal. W. P. 16




Preface



This book is an attempt to present the history of California in so
simple and interesting a way that children may read it with pleasure.
It does not confine itself to the history of one section or period, but
tells the story of all the principal events from the Indian occupancy
through the Spanish and Mission days, the excitement of the gold
discovery, the birth of the state, down to the latest events of
yesterday and to-day. Several chapters, also, are devoted to the
development of California’s great industries. The work is designed not
only for children, but also for older people interested in the story of
California, including the tourists who visit the state by the thousand
every year.

For her information the writer has depended almost entirely upon source
material, seldom making use of a secondary work. Her connection with the
old Spanish families has opened to her unusual advantages for the study
of old manuscripts and for the gathering of recollections of historical
events which she has taken from the lips of aged Spanish residents,
always verifying a statement before using it. She has, also, from long
familiarity with the Spanish-speaking people, been able to interpret
truly the life of the Spanish and Mission period.

The illustrator of the history, Mr. Roy J. Warren, has made a careful
study of the manuscript, chapter by chapter. He has also been a faithful
student of California and her conditions; his illustrations are,
therefore, in perfect touch with the text and are as true to facts as
the history itself.

The thanks of the author are due not only to a host of writers from whom
she has gained valuable assistance, and some of whose names are among
those in the references at the end of the book, but to others to whom
further acknowledgment is due. First of these is Professor H. Morse
Stephens, whose suggestions from the inception of the work until its
completion have been of incalculable advantage, and whose generous
offer to read the proof sheets crowns long months of friendly
interest. Secondly, the author is indebted to the faithful and constant
supervision of her sister, Miss Agnes Elliott of the Los Angeles State
Normal School, without whose wide experience as a teacher of history
and economics the work could never have reached its present plane. The
author also offers her thanks to Mr. Charles F. Lummis, to whom not only
she but all students of California history must ever be indebted; to
Mrs. Mary M. Coman, Miss Isabel Frazee, to the officers of the various
state departments, especially Mr. Lewis E. Aubrey, State Mineralogist,
and Mr. Thomas J. Kirk and his assistant Mr. Job Wood of the educational
department; to Miss Nellie Rust, Librarian of the Pasadena City Library,
and her corps of accommodating and intelligent assistants, and to the
librarians of the Los Angeles City Library and State Normal School.

The passages from the Century Magazine quoted in Chapters V-IX are
inserted by express permission of the publishers, the Century Company.
Acknowledgment is due, also, to the publishers of the Overland Monthly
for courtesy in permitting the use of copyright material; and to D.
Appleton & Co. for permission to insert selections from Sherman’s
Memoirs.



Contents



Chapter

    I. The Land and the Name
   II. The Story of the Indians
  III. “The Secret of the Strait”
    IV. The Cross of Santa Fe
    V. Pastoral Days
   VI. The Footsteps of the Stranger
  VII. At the Touch of King Midas
 VIII. The Great Stampede
   IX. The Birth of the Golden Baby
    X. The Signal Gun and the Steel Trail
   XI. That Which Followed After
  XII. “The Groves Were God’s First Temples”
  XIII. To All that Sow the Time of Harvest Should be Given
  XIV. The Golden Apples of the Hesperides
   XV. California’s Other Contributions to the World’s Bill of Fare
  XVI. The Hidden Treasures of Mother Earth
 XVII. From La Escuela of Spanish California to the Schools of the
       Twentieth Century
XVIII. Statistics

Bibliography Index



History of California



Chapter I.

The Land and the Name



Once upon a time, about four hundred years ago, there was published in
old Spain a novel which soon became unusually popular. The successful
story of those days was one which caught the fancy of the men, was read
by them, discussed at their gatherings, and often carried with them when
they went to the wars or in search of adventures. This particular story
would not interest readers of to-day save for this passage: “Know that
on the right hand of the Indies there is an island called California,
very near the Terrestrial Paradise, and it is peopled by black women who
live after the fashion of Amazons. This island is the strongest in the
world, with its steep rocks and great cliffs, and there is no metal in
the island but gold.”

There is no doubt that some bold explorer, crossing over from Spain to
Mexico and enlisting under the leadership of the gallant Cortez, sailed
the unknown South Sea (the Pacific) and gave to the new land discovered
by one of Cortez’s pilots the name of the golden island in this favorite
story.

This land, thought to be an island, is now known to us as the peninsula
of Lower California. The name first appeared in 1542 on the map of
Domingo Castillo, and was soon applied to all the land claimed by Spain
from Cape San Lucas up the coast as far north as 44¼, which was probably
a little higher than any Spanish explorer had ever sailed.

“Sir Francis Drake,” says the old chronicle, “was the first Englishman
to sail on the back side of America,” and from that time until now
California has been considered the back door of the country. This was
natural because the first settlements in the United States were along
the Atlantic seacoast. The people who came from England kept their faces
turned eastward, looking to the Mother Country for help, and watching
Europe, and later England herself, as a quarter from which danger might
come, as indeed it did in the war of the Revolution and that of 1812.

During the last few years, however, various events have happened to
change this attitude. Through its success in the late Spanish war the
United States gained confidence in its own powers, while the people of
the old world began to realize that the young republic of the western
hemisphere, since it did not hesitate to make war in the interests of
humanity, would not be apt to allow its own rights to be imposed upon.
The coming of the Philippine and Hawaiian Islands under the protection
of the United States, the Russo-Japanese war, which opened the eyes of
the world to the strength of Japan and the wisdom of securing its trade,
and the action of the United States in undertaking the building of
the Panama Canal, are indications that the Pacific will in the future
support a commerce the greatness of which we of to-day cannot estimate.
With danger from European interference no longer pressing closely
upon the nation, President Roosevelt in 1907 took a decided step in
recognizing the importance of the Pacific when he sent to that coast
so large a number of the most modern vessels of the navy. In fact, the
nation may now be said to have faced about, California becoming the
front door of our country.

It is well, then, to ask ourselves what we know about the state which is
to form part of the reception room of one of the leading nations of the
world.

It is a long strip of territory, bounded on one side by the ocean
so well named Pacific, which gives freshness and moisture to the
ever-blowing westerly winds.

On the other side is a mountain range, one thousand miles long, with
many of its peaks covered with perpetual snow, holding in its lofty arms
hundreds of ice-cold lakes, its sides timbered with the most wonderful
forests of the world.

Few regions of the same size have so great a range of altitude as
California, some portions of its desert lands being below sea level,
while several of its mountains are over ten thousand feet in height. In
its climate, too, there are wide differences as regards heat and
cold, although its coast lands, whether north or south, are much more
temperate than the corresponding latitudes on the Atlantic coast. The
difference in the climate of the northern and southern portions of the
state is more marked in the matter of moisture. Most of the storms of
California have their beginning out in the North Pacific Ocean. They
travel in a southeasterly direction, striking the coast far to the north
in summer, but in winter extending hundreds of miles farther south.
During November, December, January, and February they often reach as
far south as the Mexican line. Then, only, does southern California
have rain. The water necessary for use in the summer time is gained by
irrigation from the mountain streams, which are supplied largely from
the melting snows on the Sierras.

The home lands of the state may be divided into two portions: the
beautiful border country rising from the Pacific in alternate valleys
and low rolling foothills to the edge of the Coast Range; and the great
central valley or basin, which lies like a vast pocket almost entirely
encircled by mountains the high Sierras on the east, on the west the low
Coast Range. Two large rivers with their tributaries drain this valley:
the San Joaquin, flowing from the south; and the Sacramento, flowing
from the north. Joining near the center of the state, they cut their way
through the narrow passage, the Strait of Carquinez, and casting their
waters into the beautiful Bay of San Francisco, finally reach the ocean
through the Golden Gate.

Down from the Sierras, mighty glaciers carried the soil for this central
valley, grinding and pulverizing it as it was rolled slowly along. Many
years this process continued. The rain, washing the mountain sides,
brought its tribute in the rich soil and decayed vegetation of the
higher region, until a natural seed bed was formed, where there can
be raised in abundance a wonderful variety of plants and trees. In the
coast valleys the soil is alluvial, the fine washing of mountain rocks;
this is mixed in some places with a warmer, firmer loam and in others
with a gravelly soil, which is the best known for orange raising.

The state owes much to her mountains, for not only have they contributed
to her fertile soil, but they hold in their rocky slopes the gold and
silver mines which have transformed the whole region from an unknown
wilderness to a land renowned for its riches and beauty. They lift their
lofty peaks high in the air like mighty strongholds, and, shutting
out the desert winds, catch the clouds as they sail in from the ocean,
making them pay heavy tribute in fertilizing rain to the favored land
below.

The climate, which of all the precious possessions of California is the
most valuable, is best described by Bret Harte in the lines, “Half a
year of clouds and flowers; half a year of dust and sky.” Either half is
enjoyable, for in the summer, or dry season, fogs or delightful westerly
winds soon moderate a heated spell, and in nearly all parts of the state
the nights are cool; while the rainy, or winter season, changes to balmy
springtime as soon as the storm is over.

In a large portion of the state the climate is such that the inhabitants
may spend much of their time out of doors. As a rule few duties are
attended to in the house which can possibly be performed in the open
air. It is growing to be more and more the custom to have, in connection
with a Californian home, a tent bedroom where the year round one or more
of the members of the family sleep, with only a wall of canvas between
them and nature.

The vacation time is spent largely in summer camps, at either mountain
or seashore, or, quite often, a pleasant party of one or two families
live together, very simply, under the greenwood tree beside some spring
or stream, spending a few weeks in gypsy fashion. While the young folk
grow sturdy and beautiful, the older members of the party become filled
with strength and a joy of living which helps them through the cares
and struggles of the rest of the year. This joy in outdoor life is not,
however, a discovery of to-day. The old Spanish families spent as much
time as possible in the courtyard, the house being deserted save at
night. When upon journeys, men, women, and children slept in the
open air. Even the clothes-washing period was turned into a kind
of merrymaking. Whole families joined together to spend days in the
vicinity of some stream, where they picnicked while the linen was being
cleansed in the running water and dried on the bushes near by.

Once before, when the world was younger, there was a land similar to
this,--sea-kissed, mountain-guarded, with such gentle climate and
soft skies. Its people, who also lived much out of doors at peace
with nature, became almost perfect in health and figure, with mental
qualities which enabled them to give to the world the best it has known
in literature and art. What the ancient Greeks were, the people
of California may become; but with an advancement in knowledge and
loving-kindness of man toward man which heathen Athens never knew.

What will be the result of this outdoor life cannot yet be told; climate
has always had an active influence in shaping the character and type of
a people. With a climate mild and healthful, yet bracing; with a soil so
rich that the touch of irrigation makes even the sandiest places bloom
with the highest beauty of plant, tree, and vine; with an ocean warm and
gentle, and skies the kindliest in the world,--there is, if we judge by
the lesson history teaches, a promise of a future for California greater
and more noble than the world has yet known.



Chapter II.

The Story of the Indians



“Run, Cleeta, run, the waves will catch you.” Cleeta scudded away, her
naked little body shining like polished mahogany. She was fleet of foot,
but the incoming breakers from the bosom of the great Pacific ran faster
still; and the little Indian girl was caught in its foaming water,
rolled over and over, and cast upon the sandy beach, half choked, yet
laughing with the fun of it.

“Foolish Cleeta, you might have been drowned; that was a big wave. What
made you go out so far?” said Gesnip, the elder sister.

“I found such a lot of mussels, great big ones, I wish I could go back
and get them,” said the little one, looking anxiously at the water.

“The waves are coming in higher and higher and it is growing late,” said
Gesnip; “besides, I have more mussels already than you and I can well
carry. The boys have gone toward the river mouth for clams. They will be
sure to go home the other way.”

Cleeta ran to the basket and looked in.

“I should think there were too many for us to carry,” she said, as she
tried with all her strength to lift it by the carry straps. “What will
you do with them; throw some back into the water?”

“No, I don’t like to do that,” answered her sister, frowning, “for it
has been so long since we have had any. The wind and the waves have been
too high for us to gather any. Look, Cleeta, look; what are those out on
the water? I do believe they are boats.”

“No,” said the little girl; “I see what you mean, but boats never go out
so far as that.”

“Not tule boats,” said Gesnip, “but big thick one made out of trees;
that is the kind they have at Santa Catalina, the island where uncle
lives. It has been a long time since he came to see us, not since you
were four years old, but mother is always looking for him.”

The children gazed earnestly seaward at a fleet of canoes which were
making for the shore. “Do you think it is uncle?” asked Cleeta.

“Yes,” replied her sister, uncertainly, “I think it may be.” Then, as
the sunlight struck full on the boats “Yes, yes, I am sure of it, for
one is red, and no on else has a boat of that color; all others are
brown.”

“Mother said he would bring abalone when he came,” cried Cleeta, dancing
from one foot to the other; “and she said they are better than mussels
or anything else for soup.”

“He will bring fish,” said Gesnip, “big shining fish with yellow tails.”

“Mother said he would bring big blue ones with hard little seams down
their sides,” said Cleeta.

Meantime the boats drew nearer. They were of logs hollowed out until
they were fairly light, but still seeming too clumsy for safe seagoing
craft. In each were several men. One sat in the stern and steered, the
others knelt in pairs, each man helping propel the boat by means of
a stick some four feet long, more like a pole than a paddle, which he
worked with great energy over the gunwale.

“I am afraid of them,” said Cleeta, drawing close to her sister. “They
do not look like the people I have seen. Their faces are the color of
the kah-hoom mother weaves in her baskets. There are only three like us,
and they all have such strange clothes.”

“Do not be afraid,” said Gesnip. “I see uncle; he is one of the dark
ones like ourselves. The island people have yellow skins.”

The time was the year 1540, and the people, the Californians of that
day. The men in the boat were mostly from the island of Santa Catalina,
and were fairer, with more regular features, than the inhabitants of the
mainland, who in southern California were a short, thick-set race,
with thick lips, dark brown skin, coarse black hair, and eyes small and
shining like jet-black beads. They were poorly clothed in winter; in
summer a loin cloth was often all that the men wore, while the children
went naked a large part of the year.

With wonderful skill the badly shaped boats were guided safely over the
breakers until their bows touched the sand. Then the men leaped out and,
half wading, half swimming, pulled them from the water and ran them up
on the beach.

The little girls drew near and stood quietly by, waiting to be spoken
to. Presently the leading man, who was short, dark, and handsomely
dressed in a suit of sealskin ornamented with abalone shell, turned to
them.

“Who are these little people?” he asked, in a kind voice.

“We are the children of Cuchuma and Macana,” replied Gesnip, working her
toes in and out of the soft sand, too shy to look her uncle in the face.

“Children of my sister, Sholoc is glad to see you,” said the chief,
laying his hand gently on Cleeta’s head. “Your mother, is she well?”

“She is well and looking for you these many moons,” said Gesnip.

The men at once began unloading the boats. The children watched the
process with great interest, Abalone in their shells, a dainty prized
then as well as now, fish, yellowtail and bonito, filled to the brim the
large baskets which the men slung to their backs, carrying them by means
of a strap over the forehead. On their heads they placed ollas, or water
jars, of serpentine from quarries which may be seen in Santa Catalina
to-day, the marks of the tools of workmen of, that time still in the
rocks.

There were also strings of bits of abalone shell which had been
punctured and then polished, and these Sholoc hung around his neck.

“Uncle,” exclaimed Gesnip, touching one of these strings, “how much
money! You have grown rich at Santa Catalina. What will you buy?”

“Buy me a wife, perhaps,” was the reply. “I will give two strings for a
good wife. Do you know any worth so much?”

“No,” said the girl, stoutly. “I don’t know any worth two whole strings
of abalone. You can get a good wife for much less.”

The men, who had succeeded in loading the contents of the boats on their
heads and backs, now marched away, in single file, crossing the heavy
sand dunes slowly, then mounting the range of foothills beyond. The
children followed. Gesnip had her basket bound to her head by a strap
round her forehead; but, though her uncle had taken out part of the
contents, it was a heavy load for the child.

As they neared the top of the hill, Sholoc, who was ahead, lifted his
hand and motioned them to stop.

“Hush,” he said softly, “elk.” Swiftly the men slipped off their loads
and with bows in hand each one crept flat on his belly over the hill
crest. Gesnip and Cleeta peeped through the high grass. Below them was
a wide plain, dotted with clumps of bushes, and scattered over it they
could see a great herd of elk, whose broad, shining antlers waved above
the grass and bushes upon which they were feeding.

“Are those elk too?” asked Cleeta, presently, pointing toward the
foothills at their left.

“No,” replied her sister, “I think those are antelope. I like to see
them run. How funny their tails shake. But watch the men; they are going
to shoot.”

As she spoke, four of the hunters, who had crept well up toward
the game, rose to their feet, holding their bows horizontally, not
perpendicularly. These weapons, which were made of cedar wood, were
about four feet in length, painted at the ends black or dark blue, the
middle, which was almost two inches broad, being wrapped with elk sinew.
The strings also were of sinew. The quiver which each man carried at his
side was made from the skin of a wild cat or of a coyote. A great hunter
like Sholoc might make his quiver from the tails of lions he had killed.
Projecting from the quiver were the bright-feathered ends of the arrows,
which were of reed and were two or three feet long, with points of bone,
flint, or obsidian.

The hunters, knowing how hard it was to kill large game, had chosen
their arrows carefully, taking those that had obsidian points. Almost
at the same moment they let fly their shafts. Three elk leaped into the
air. One tumbled over in a somersault which broke one of its antlers,
and then lay dead, shot through the heart by Sholoc. Another took a few
leaps, but a second arrow brought it to its knees. Then it sank slowly
over upon its side; but it struck so fiercely at the hunter who ran up
to kill it with his horn knife that he drew back and shot it again.

“Where is the third elk?” asked Cleeta, looking around.

“Over there,” said Gesnip, pointing across the plain.

“Then they have lost it,” said the child, with disappointment.

“No, I think not. It is wounded. I saw the blood on its side,” said
the sister. “See, one of the men is following it, and it is half a mile
behind the herd. I am sure he will get it.”

“This has been a lucky day,” said Gesnip. “So much food. Our stomachs
will not ache with hunger for a long time.”

“That is because mother wove a game basket to Chinigchinich so he would
send food,” said Cleeta.

By the time the party had traveled two miles, Gesnip, with her load, and
Cleeta, whose bare brown legs were growing very tired, lagged behind.

“O dear,” said the elder sister, “we shall surely be too late to go into
camp with uncle.” Just then a whoop sounded behind them, and a boy of
thirteen, dressed in a rabbit-skin shirt, carrying a bow in his hand,
came panting up to them.

“Payuchi,” said Gesnip, eagerly, “carry my basket for me and I will tell
you some good news.”

“No,” replied Payuchi, shaking his head, “it is a girl’s place to carry
the basket.”

“Just this little way, and it is such good news” urged Gesnip. “It will,
make your heart glad.”

“Very well, then, tell it quickly,” said the boy, changing the basket of
mussels to his own broad back.

“Sholoc has come from Santa Catalina with baskets of abalone and fish,
and with ollas all speckled, and strings of money. He is near the top of
the grade now. Upon hearing the good news the lad darted away at a great
pace, his sisters following as fast as they could. Sholoc and his party
had stopped to rearrange their loads, so the children overtook them at
the head of the trail leading to their home.

“Below them was a valley dotted with live oaks, and along the banks of
the stream that ran through it was a thick growth of alders, sycamores,
and willows. At the foot of the trail, near the water, was a cluster
of what looked like low, round straw stacks. No straw stacks were they,
however, but houses, the only kind of homes known in southern California
at that time.

“It was the Indian settlement where Gesnip, Cleeta, and Payuchi lived,
and of which their father, Cuchuma, was chief. The jacals, or wigwams,
were made of long willow boughs, driven into the ground closely in a
circle, the ends bent over and tied together with deer sinews. They were
covered with a thatching of grass that, when dry, made them look like
straw stacks.

“Sholoc stepped to the-edge of the bluff and gave a long, quavering cry
which could be heard far in the still evening air. Instantly out of the
group of jacals came a crowd of men and boys, who gave answering cries.”

“I am glad they have a fire,” said Cleeta, as she saw the big blaze in
the middle of the settlement, “I am so cold.”

“Take my hand and let’s run,” said Gesnip, and partly running and partly
sliding, they followed the men of the party, who, notwithstanding their
heavy loads, were trotting down the steep trail.

They were met at the foot of the grade by a crowd which surrounded them,
all chattering at once. Sholoc told of the elk, and a number of men
started off on the run to bring in the big game. As the visitors entered
camp, Macana, a kind-faced woman, better dressed than most of her
tribe, came forward. She placed her hand on Sholoc’s shoulder, her face
lighting up with love and happiness.

“You are welcome, brother,” she said.

“The sight of you is good to my eyes, sister,” an answered Sholoc. That
was all the greeting, although the two loved each other well. Macana
took the basket from Payuchi’s back.

“Come,” she called to Gesnip, “and help me wash the mussels.” Then,
as she saw the younger girl shivering as she crouched over the fire,
“Cleeta, you need not be cold any longer; your rabbit skin dress is
done. Go into the jacal and put it on.” Cleeta obeyed with dancing eyes.

Gesnip followed her mother to the stream.

“Take this,” said Macana, handing her an openwork net or bag, “and hold
it while I empty in some of the mussels. Now lift them up and down in
the water to wash out the sand. That will do; put them into this basket,
and I will give you some more.”

Meantime some of the women had taken a dozen or more fish from Sholoc’s
baskets, and removing their entrails with bone knives, wrapped them in
many thicknesses of damp grass and laid them in the hot ashes and coals
to bake.

When the mussels were all cleaned, Macana emptied them into a large
basket half filled with water, and threw in a little acorn meal and a
handful of herbs. Then, using two green sticks for tongs, she drew out
from among the coals some smooth gray stones which had become very hot.
Brushing these off with a bunch of tules, she lifted them by means of
a green stick having a loop in the end which fitted round the stones,
flinging them one by one into the basket in which were the mussels and
water. Immediately the water, heated by the stones, began to boil, and
when the soup was ready, she set the basket down beside her own jacal
and called her children to her. Payuchi, Gesnip, Cleeta, and their
little four-year-old brother, Nakin, gathered about the basket, helping
themselves with abalone shells, the small holes of which their mother
had plugged with wood.

“Isn’t father going to have some first?” asked Payuchi, before they
began the meal.

“Not this time; he will eat with Sholoc and the men when the fish are
ready,” replied his mother.

“This is good soup,” said Gesnip. “I am glad I worked hard before the
water came up. But, Payuchi, didn’t you and Nopal get any clams?”

“Yes,” said her brother, making a face; he had dipped down where the
stones were hottest and the soup thickest, and had taken a mouthful that
burned him. “Yes, we got some clams, more than I could carry; but Nopal
was running races with the other boys and would not come, so I left him
to bring them. He will lose his fish dinner if he doesn’t hurry.”

“Mother,” said Cleeta, “may we stay up to the fish bake?”

“No,” answered her mother. “You and Nakin must go to bed, but I will
save some for your breakfast. You are tired, Cleeta.”

“Yes, I am tired,” said the little girl, leaning her head against her
mother’s shoulder, “but I am warm in my rabbit-skin dress. We all have
warm dresses now. Please tell me a good-night story,” she begged. “We
have been good and brought in much food.”

“Yes, tell us how the hawk and coyote made the sun,” said Gesnip.

“Very well,” said the mother, “only you must be quite still.”

“It was in the beginning of all things, and a bowl of darkness, blacker
than the pitch lining of our water basket, covered the earth. Man,
when he would go abroad, fell against man, against trees, against wild
animals, even against Lollah, the bear, who would, in turn, hug the
unhappy one to death. Birds flying in the air came together and fell
struggling to the earth. All was confusion.”

“Once the hawk, by chance, flew in the face of the coyote. Instead of
fighting about it as naughty children might, they, like people of good
manners, apologized many times. Then they talked over the unhappy state
of things and determined to remedy the evil. The coyote first gathered
a great heap of dried tules, rolled them together into a ball, and gave
them to the hawk, with some pieces of flint. The hawk, taking them in
his talons, flew straight up into the sky, where he struck fire with his
flints, lit the ball of reeds, and left it there whirling along with a
bright yellow light, as it continues to whirl to-day; for it, children,
is our sun, ruler of the day.”

“The hawk next flew back for another ball to rule the night, but the
coyote had no tule gathered, and the hawk hurried him so that some damp
stems were mixed in. The hawk flew with this ball into the sky and set
it afire but because of the green tules it burned with only a dim light;
and this, children, is our moon, ruler of the night.”

“That is a fine story,” said Payuchi. “I am glad I did not live when
there was no light.”

“Tell us how the coyote danced with the star,” said Gesnip.

“No,” replied the mother, “another time we shall see. Now I shall sing
to coax sleep to tired eyes, and the little ones will go to bed.” And
this was what she sang: “Pah-high-nui-veve, veve, veve, shumeh, veve,
veve, veve, shumeh, Pah-high-nui-veve,” and so on, repeating these words
over and over until Cleeta and Nakin were sound asleep. Then she laid
them on their tule mats, which were spread on the floor of the jacal,
where baby Nahal, close wrapped in his cocoon-shaped cradle, had been a
long time sleeping.

“Mother,” said Gesnip, coming into the jacal, “they have brought in the
elk. Don’t you want something from them?”

“Yes,” replied Macana, “I will go and see about it. I want one of the
skins to make your father a warm hunting dress.”

The Indians who had gone after the elk had skinned and cut them up where
they lay, as they were so large that the burden had to be distributed
among a number of carriers. Macana found Sholoc busy portioning out
parts of the elk. As he had a fine seal-skin suit himself, he gladly
gave her the skin of the deer which he had shot.

“Isn’t that a big one?” said Payuchi. “It will make father a fine
hunting suit, it is so thick.” Gesnip was loaded down with some of the
best cuts of the meat to take to her father’s jacal. Cuchuma himself
began removing the tendons from the legs, to cure for bowstrings, and to
wrap a new bow he was going to make.

“Here, Nopal,” said Sholoc to his oldest nephew, a lad of fifteen, “I
will give you a piece of the antler and you can grind it down and make
yourself a hunting knife. It is time you ceased to play and became a
hunter. I had killed much game when I was your age.”

“Will you give me some of the brains that I may finish tanning a
deerskin? I have been waiting to finish it until I could get some
brains, but it has been a long time since any one has brought in big
game,” said Macana.

“Yes,” answered Sholoc, “you shall have them. Payuchi, hand me my
elk-horn ax so that I can split open the head, and you can take the
brains to the jacal.” Soon not a piece of meat, a bit of skin, tendon,
or bone, was left. All was put to use by these people of the forest. And
now the feast was ready. The women had roasted many pieces of elk’s meat
over the coals. The fish had been taken from under the hot ashes, the
half burned grass removed from around them, and the fish broken into
pieces and put in flat baskets shaped like platters. There were also
pieces of elk meat and cakes of acorn meal baked on hot stones.

As was the custom with the Indians, the men were served first. Payuchi
watched anxiously as his father and the other men took large helpings
from the baskets.

“Do you think there will be enough for us to have any?” he asked Gesnip.
“I am so hungry and they are eating so much. If I were a man, I should
remember about the women and children.”

“No; you wouldn’t if you were a man; men never do,” answered Gesnip.
“But you need not worry, there is plenty. Mother said there would be
some left for breakfast.”

“Wait for that till I get through,” said Payuchi, laughing. After all
had eaten a hearty meal, more than for many weeks they had been able
to have at any one time, the tired women each gathered her children
together and took them to her own jacal, leaving the men sitting around
the camp fire. Payuchi, who tumbled to sleep as soon as his head touched
his sleeping mat, was wakened by some one pulling his rabbit-skin coat,
which he wore nights as well as days.

“Payuchi,” said a voice, “wake up.”

“I have not been asleep,” answered the boy, stoutly, as he rubbed his
eyes to get them open. “What do you want, Nopal?” for he saw his brother
speaking to him.

“Hush, do not waken mother,” said Nopal, speaking very softly. “I know
that the men will make an offering to Chinigchinich. I am going to watch
them. We are old enough, at least I am. Do you want to come?”

A star shone in at the top of the jacal, and Payuchi gazed up at it,
blinking, while he pulled his thoughts together.

“They will punish us if they find us out,” said he at length.

“But we won’t let them find us out, stupid one,” replied his brother,
impatiently.

“What if Chinigchinich should be angry with us? He does not like to have
children in the ceremony of the offering,” said Payuchi.

“I will give him my humming-bird skin, and you shall give him your
mountain quail head; then he will be pleased with us,” answered Nopal.

“All right,” said the boy; “I do not like very well to part with that
quail head, but perhaps it is a good thing to do.”

Creeping softly from the jacal, the boys crouched in the shade of a
willow bush and watched the men by the camp fire.

“They are standing up. They are just going,” said Payuchi, “and every
one has something in his hand. Father has two bows; I wonder why.”

“I think he is going to make an offering of the new bow to
Chinigchinich,” answered Nopal. “I thought he was going to keep it and
give me his old one,” he added, with some disappointment.

“What are they offering for?” asked the young brother.

“For rain,” said Nopal. “See, they are going now.” In single file the
men walked swiftly away, stepping so softly that not a twig cracked.

After a little the boys followed, slipping from bush to bush that they
might not be discovered. They had walked about a mile, when they came
to thicker woods with bigger trees and saw a light ahead of them. Nopal
laid his hand on his brother to stop him. Peeping through a scrub-oak
bush, they looked down into a little glade arched over with great live
oaks. In the middle of the opening they saw, by the light of a low fire,
a small cone-shaped hut. Beside it stood a gigantic figure painted and
adorned with shells, feathers, rattlesnake skins, and necklaces of bone.

“Come back,” whispered Payuchi, his teeth chattering with fear. “It is
Chinigchinich himself; he will see us, and we shall die.”

“No,” answered Nopal, “it is only Nihie, the medicine man. He looks so
tall because of his headdress. It is made of framework of dried tules
covered with feathers and fish bladders. I saw it one day in his
jacal, and it is as tall as I am. That jacal beside him is the vanquech
[temple], and I think there is something awful there. You see if there
isn’t. Hush, now! Squat down. Here they come.”

In a procession the men came into the opening, and, stalking solemnly
by, each cast down at the door of the temple an offering of some object
which he prized. Cuchuma gave a bone knife which he greatly valued, and
a handsome new bow. Sholoc gave a speckled green stone olla from Santa
Catalina and a small string of money; but these were chiefs’ offerings.
The other gifts were simpler--shells, acorn meal, baskets, birds’ skins,
but always something for which the owner cared.

At last the medicine man, satisfied with the things offered which became
his own when the ceremony was over, stooped and drew forth the sacred
emblem from the temple. It was not even an idol, only a fetich composed
of a sack made from the skin of a coyote, the head carefully preserved
and stuffed, while the body was dressed smooth of hair and adorned
with hanging shells and tufts of birds’ feathers. A bundle of arrows
protruded from the open mouth, giving it a fierce appearance. While
Nihie held it up, the men circled round once again, this time more
rapidly, and as they passed the medicine man, each gave a spring into
the air, shooting an arrow upward with all his force. When the last man
had disappeared under the trees, Nihie replaced the skin in the temple,
put out the fire, and, singing a kind of chant, he led the men back
to their jacals. The boys stood up. Payuchi shivered and drew a long
breath.

“We must get away now; Nihie will be back soon to get the offerings,”
 said Nopal.

“But first we must offer our gifts, or Chinigchinich will be angry,”
 said Payuchi.

“Come on, then,” said the brother; so, stealing softly down the
hillside, the boys cast their offerings on the pile in front of the hut
and ran away, taking a roundabout path home, that they might not meet
the medicine man returning.

“We must hurry to get in the jacal before father,” said Nopal, suddenly.
“I didn’t think of that. Run, Payuchi, run faster.” But they were in
time after all, and were stretched out on their mats some minutes before
their father and Sholoc came in.

Macana’s first duty in the morning was to attend to the baby, whose
wide-open black eyes gave the only sign that it was awake. She
unfastened it from the basket and unwrapped it, rubbing the little body
over with its morning bath of grease until the firm skin shone as if
varnished. When it had nursed and was comfortable, she put the little
one back in its cradle basket, which she leaned up against the side of
the hut, where the little prisoner might see all that was going on.

Instead of the usual breakfast of acorn meal mush, the children had a
plentiful meal of fish which their mother had saved from the feast of
the night before.

“I didn’t think any one could catch so many fish as uncle brought last
night,” said Cleeta, as she helped herself to a piece of yellowtail.

“Yes, they do, though,” said Payuchi. “Last night, after supper, uncle
told the men some fine stories. I think he has been in places which none
of our people have ever seen.

“He told us that once he journeyed many moons toward the land of snow
and ice until he came to the country of the Klamath tribe, where he
stayed a long time. He said that when they fish they drive posts made of
young trees into the bottom of the river and then weave willow boughs
in and out until there is a wall of posts and boughs clear across the
stream. Then the big red fish come up from the great water into the
river. They come, uncle said, so many no one can count them, and the
ones behind push against those in front until they are all crowded
against the wall, and then the Klamath men catch them with spears and
nets until there is food enough for all, and many fish to dry.”

“I should like to see that. What else did he tell you?” asked Gesnip.

“He said he visited one place where the great salt water comes into
the land and is so big it takes many days to journey round it. Here the
people eat fish, clams, and mussels instead of acorns and roots. On the
shore they have their feasting ground where they go to eat and dance and
tell big stories, and; sometimes to make an offering. So many people go
there, uncle said, that the shells they have left make a hill, a hill
just of shells that is many steps high. From the top of it one may look
over the water, which is so long no eye can see the end of it.”

“What else did you hear?” asked Gesnip.

“Nothing more, for mother called me,” replied her brother. “I should
like to hear more of those stories, though.”

“Mother,” asked Gesnip, as she finished her breakfast, “when am I to
begin to braid mats for the new jacal?”

“Soon,” replied Macana. “This morning you and Payuchi must gather
the tule. Have a large pile when I come home.” So saying, the mother
strapped the baby on her back and, accompanied by the younger children,
went out with other women of the tribe to gather the white acorns from
the oaks on the highlands pear the mountains.

The December wind, from the snow-capped peaks, chilled and cut with
its icy breath their scantily clothed bodies, but for hours they worked
picking up the scattered nuts. The labors of an Indian mother ceased
only while she slept.

“Come, Payuchi,” said Gesnip, “let us go down to the river and get
tules.”

“All right,” replied the boy, readily. “Sholoc is going down too. He
is going to show the men how to make log canoes like his instead of the
tule canoes our people use. But I like the tule canoes, because I can
use my feet for paddles.” When they reached the river, which was really
a lagoon or arm of the sea, the children stopped to watch the men at
work. A large log, washed down from the mountains by some flood, lay
on the bank. It was good hard wood, and the children saw that it was
smoking in three places.

“This is going to make two canoes, but neither one will be so big, as
uncle’s,” said Payuchi.

“How can it make two canoes if they burn it up?” asked his sister.

“You are stupid, Gesnip,” said her brother. “Don’t you see they are
burning it to separate it into two parts? Then they will burn each log
into the shape of a boat, finishing it up with axes of bone or horn.
Uncle told me how they did it.”

“Why have they put the green bark on the top of the log?”

“I think it is to keep it from burning along the edge; don’t you see?
And then there are wider pieces to protect it at the ends. See how they
watch the fire and beat it out in one place and then in another.”

“Why does it burn so fast?” asked Gesnip.

“Because they have daubed it with pitch. Can’t you smell it?” said the
boy, sniffing.

“Yes, I can smell it,” replied his sister. “But come now and help me
gather tules. Father is going to burn down our house and build a new one
for winter, and I must make a tule rug for each one of you for beds in
the new home. It will take a great many tule stems.”

“It is cold to wade,” said Payuchi, stepping into the water at the edge
of the river.

“Yes,” answered Gesnip, “I don’t like to gather tules in winter.”

The children pulled up the long rough stems one by one until they had a
large pile.

“I think we have enough,” said Payuchi, after they had been working
about two hours.

“Yes, I think so too,” said his sister. “My back aches, my hands are
sore, and my feet are so cold.” Payuchi brought some wild grapevine with
which he tied the tule into two bundles, fastening the larger upon his
sister’s back; for with his people the women and girls were the burden
bearers, and a grown Indian would not do any work that his wife could
possibly do for him.

After they had traveled a little way on the homeward path, Gesnip
stopped.

“Don’t go so fast, Payuchi,” she begged. “This bundle is so large it
nearly tumbles me over.”

“Just hurry a little until we get to the foot of the hill yonder where
Nopal and the other big boys are playing, and you can rest while I watch
the game,” answered her brother. Gesnip struggled on, bending under the
weight and size of her awkward burden until, with a sigh of relief, she
seated herself on a stone to rest while Payuchi, throwing his bundle on
the ground, stood up to watch the boys.

“See, Nopal is It,” he said. Nopal, coming forward, stooped low and
rolled a hoop along the ground, which the boys had pounded smooth and
hard for the game.

As the hoop rolled another boy stepped forward and tried to throw a
stick through it, but failed. Then all the players pointed their fingers
at him and grunted in scorn. Again Nopal rolled the hoop, and this time
the boy threw through the ring, and all the boys, and Payuchi too, gave
whoops of delight.

The children watched the game until Gesnip said that they must go on,
for their mother would be home and want them. When they returned, Macana
was warming herself by the fire where the men were sitting.

“See our tule; is it not a great deal?” asked the children, showing
their bundles.

“Yes, but not enough,” replied their mother. “You will have to go out
another day.”

The women, who had been working all the morning gathering acorns, now
squatted near the fire and began grinding up the nuts which had been
already dried.

“Gesnip,” called her mother, “bring me the grinding stones.” The girl
went to the jacal and brought two stones, one a heavy bowlder with a
hollow in its top, which had been made partly by stone axes, but more by
use; the other stone fitted into this hollow.

“Now bring me the basket of roasted grasshoppers,” said the mother.
Taking a handful of grasshoppers, Macana put them into the hollow in the
larger stone, and with the smaller stone rubbed them to a coarse powder.
This powder she put into a small basket which Gesnip brought her.

“I am glad we caught the grasshoppers. They taste better than acorn meal
mush,” said Payuchi.

“How many grasshoppers there are in the fall,” said Gesnip, “and so many
rabbits, too.”

“We had such a good time at the rabbit drive,” said Payuchi.

“And such a big feast afterwards, nearly as good as last night,” said
Gesnip.

“Tell me about the rabbit drive,” said Cleeta, squatting down beside the
children in front of the fire.

“It was in the big wash up the river toward the mountains,” began
Payuchi. “You have seen the rabbits running to hide in a bunch of grass
and cactus when you go with mother to the mountains for acorns, haven’t
you?”

Cleeta nodded. “Not this winter, though. We saw only two to-day,” she
said.

“That is because of the drive,” said her brother. “It was in the
afternoon, with the wind blowing from the ocean, and all the men who
could shoot best with bow and arrow, or throw the spear well, stood on
the other side of the wash.”

“Father was there,” said Cleeta.

“Yes, and many others,” said Payuchi. “Then some of the men and all of
us boys got green branches of trees and came down on this side of the
wash. Nopal started the fire. It burned along in the grass slowly at
first, and when it came too near the jacals on one side or the woods
on the other, we would beat it out with the branches, but soon it
ran before the wind into the cactus and bunch grass. The rabbits were
frightened out and ran from the fire as fast as they could, and in a
few minutes they were right at the feet of father and the other hunters.
They killed forty before the smoke made them run too.”

“My dress was made of their skin,” said the little girl, smoothing her
gown lovingly. “It keeps me so warm.”

“Did the fire burn long?” asked Gesnip.

“No, we beat it out, or it would have gone up the wash into the live
oaks; then we boys should have been well punished for our carelessness.”

Here their mother called to them.

“Payuchi,” she said, “put away this basket of grasshopper meal. And,
Gesnip, go to the jacal and find me the coils for basket weaving.”

“What shall I bring?” asked Gesnip.

“The large bundle of chippa that is soaking in a basket, and the big
coil of yellow kah-hoom and the little one of black tsuwish which are
hanging up, and bring me my needle and bone awl.”

“Do you want the coil of millay?”

“No, I shall need no red to-day.”

Squatted on the ground, where she could feel the warmth of the fire on
her back, but where the heat could not dry her basket materials, Macana
began her work. Taking a dripping chippa, or willow bough, from the
basket where it had been soaking, she dried it on leaves and wound
it tightly in a close coil the size of her thumbnail, then spatted it
together until it seemed no longer a cord, but a solid piece of wood.
Thus she made the base of her basket; then, threading her needle,
which was but a horny cactus stem set in a head of hardened pitch, she
stitched in and out over the upper and under the lower layer, drawing
her thread firmly each time. The thread was the creamy, satin-like
kah-hoom. Round and round she coiled the chippa, the butt of one piece
overlapping the tip of another, while with her needle she covered all
with the smoothly drawn kah-hoom. After a time she laid the kah-hoom
aside for a stitch or two of the black root of the tule, called tsuwish.

The children had watched the starting of the basket, then had begun
a game of match, with white and black pebbles. After a time Gesnip,
looking up from her play, exclaimed, as she saw the black diamond
pattern the weaver was making:--

“Mother, why are you weaving a rattlesnake basket?”

“I am making it to please Chinigchinich that he may smile upon me and
guard you, children, and Cuchuma from the bite of the rattlesnake. There
are so many of them here this year, and I fear for you.”

“Thank you, mother,” said Gesnip. “If Titas’s mother had made a black
diamond basket, maybe the snake would not have bitten her.”

“I think Chinigchinich does smile upon you,” said Payuchi, “for when we
were so hungry in the month of roots [October] you wove him the hunting
basket with the pattern of deer’s antlers, trimmed with quail feathers,
and see how much food we have had: first the rabbits, then the
grasshoppers, and now the fish and elk.”

“While you work tell us how the first baby basket was made,” begged
Cleeta. The mother nodded; and as she wound and pressed closely the
moist chippa, and the cactus needle flew in and out with the creamy
kah-hoom or the black tsuwish, she told the story.

“When the mother of all made the basket for the first man child, she
used a rainbow for the wood of the back of the basket, with stars woven
in each side, and straight lightning down the middle in front. Sunbeams
shining on a far-away rain storm formed the fringe in front, where we
use strips of buckskin, and the carry straps were brightest sunbeams.”

“Mother, you left out that the baby was wrapped in a soft purple cloud
from the mountains,” said Cleeta.

“Yes, in a purple cloud of evening, wrapped so he could not move leg or
arm, but would grow straight and beautiful,” said the mother.

For a long while the children watched in silence the patient fingers at
their work; then Gesnip asked, “Is it true, mother, that when you were
a little child your father and mother and many of your tribe died of
hunger?”

“It is true,” replied Macana, sadly, “but who told you?”

“Old Cotopacnic, but I thought it was one of his dreams. Why were you
all so hungry?” asked the girl.

“Because the rain failed for three seasons. After a time there was
no grass, no acorns, the rabbits and deer died or wandered away, the
streams dried up so there were no fish, the ground became so dry that
there were no more grubs or worms of any kind, no grasshoppers. There
was nothing to eat but roots. Nearly all our tribe died, and many other
people, too.”

“How did you live?” asked Payuchi.

“My aunt had married a chief whose home was in a rich valley in the
mountains where it is always green. She came down to see my mother, and
when she found how hard it was to get food for us all, she took me by
the hand and tumbled Sholoc who was smaller than little Nakin, into her
great seed basket and took us off to the mountains until times should
grow better; but the rains did not come until it was too late. I stayed
with her until I married your father. Sholoc became a great hunter, then
chief of the people of Santa Catalina, where he became a great fisherman
also.”

The children looked grave.

“Do you think such bad seasons can ever come again?” asked Gesnip.

“Who can tell?” replied the mother, with a sigh. “Last year was very
bad and there is little rain yet this year. That is why the men offered
gifts to Chinigchinich last night.”

“Nobody must take me away from you to keep me from being hungry,” said
gentle Cleeta, hiding her face in her mother’s lap.

“If I were Chinigchinich,” said Payuchi, “I would not let so many people
die, just because they needed a little more rain. I would not be that
kind of a god.”

“Hush, my child,” said the mother, sternly. “He will hear and punish
you. If it is our fate, we must bend to it.”



Chapter III

“The Secret of the Strait”



Cabrillo

One afternoon in September, in the year 1542, two broad, clumsy ships,
each with the flag of Spain flying above her many sails, were beating
their way up the coast of southern California. All day the vessels had
been wallowing in the choppy seas, driven about by contrary winds. At
last the prow of the leading ship was turned toward shore, where there
seemed to be an opening that might lead to a good harbor. At the bow
of the ship stood the master of the expedition, the tanned, keen-faced
captain, Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo. He was earnestly watching the land
before him, which was still some distance away.

“Come hither, Juan,” he called to a sturdy lad, about sixteen, who,
with an Indian boy, brought from Mexico as interpreter, was also eagerly
looking landward. “Your eyes should be better than mine. Think you there
is a harbor beyond that point?”

“It surely seems so to me, sir,” answered the boy; “and Pepe, whose
eyes, you know, are keener than ours, says that he can plainly see the
entrance.”

“I trust he is right; for this thickening weather promises a storm, and
a safe harbor would be a gift of God to us weary ones this night,” said
the captain, with a sigh.

Since the fair June day when they had sailed out of the harbor on the
west shore of Mexico, they had been following first up the coast line of
the Peninsula, then of Upper California. No maps or charts of the region
showing where lay good harbors or dangerous rocks, could be found in
Cabrillo’s cabin. Instead, there were maps of this South Sea which
pictured terrible dangers for mariners--great whirlpools which could
suck down whole fleets of vessels, and immense waterfalls, where it was
thought the whole ocean poured off the end of the land into space. A
brave man was Captain Cabrillo, for, half believing these stories, he
yet sailed steadily on, determined, no matter what happened to himself,
to do his duty to the king under whose flag he sailed, and to the
viceroy of Mexico, whose funds had furnished the expedition.

California has ever been noted for its brave men, but none have been
more courageous than this explorer, who was probably the first white
man to set his foot upon its soil. As the ship approached land the crew
became silent, every eye being turned anxiously to the opening of the
passage which appeared before them. The vessel, driven by the stiff
breeze, rushed on, almost touching the rock at one point. Then, caught
by a favorable current, it swept into mid-channel, where it moved
rapidly forward, until at length it rode safely in the harbor now known
as San Diego Bay.

“It is a good port and well inclosed,” said Juan Cabrillo, with great
satisfaction, gazing out upon the broad sheet of quiet water. “We
will name it for our good San Miguel, to whom our prayers for a safe
anchorage were offered this morning.” Then, when the two ships were
riding at anchor, the commander ordered out the boats.

“We will see what kind of people these are, dodging behind the bushes
yonder,” said he. As the Spaniards drew near shore they could see many
fleeing figures.

“What a pity they are so afraid,” said Cabrillo. “If we are to learn
anything of the country, we must teach them that we mean them no harm.”

“Master,” said Pepe, “there are three of them hiding behind those
bushes.”

“Is it so, lad? Then go you up to them. They will not fear you.” So the
Indian boy walked slowly forward, holding out his hands with his palms
upward, which not only let the natives see that he was unarmed, but in
the sign language meant peace and friendship. As he drew near to them an
old man and two younger ones, dressed in scanty shirts of rabbit-skins,
came from their hiding places and began to talk to Pepe, but, though
they also were Indians, they did not speak his language. Some of their
words were evidently similar to his, and by these and the help of signs
he partly understood what they said. Presently he returned to the group
on shore.

“They say there are Spaniards back in the country a few days’ journey
from here.”

“Spaniards? That is impossible,” returned Cabrillo.

“They say that they are bearded, wear clothes like yours, and have white
faces,” answered the boy, simply.

“They must be mistaken, or perhaps you did not understand them fully,”
 said the master. “At another time we will question them further. Now,
give them this present of beads and hurry back, for it is late.”

That night some of the men from the ships went on shore to fish. While
they were drawing their nets, the Indians stole up softly and discharged
their arrows, wounding three. The boy Juan had the most serious injury,
an arrow being so deeply embedded in his shoulder that it could not be
removed until they reached the ship. There the padre, who, like most
priests of that day, knew something of surgery, drew it out, and bound
up the shoulder in soothing balsams.

On the second day of their stay in port the wind began to blow from the
southwest; the waves grew rough, and Cabrillo ordered the ships to be
made ready for the tempest, which soon became violent. Meantime, Juan
lay suffering in his hammock, which swung backward and forward with the
motion of the ship. Suddenly he heard a step beside him and felt a cool
hand on his forehead.

“How goes it, lad?” said Cabrillo, for it was the master himself. “You
are suffering in a good cause. Have courage; you will soon be well.
Remember, you have helped to discover a harbor, the like of which is
seldom found. This storm is a severe one. I can hear the surf booming
on the farther shore, yet our ship shows no strain on the anchor. Good
harbor though it is, I am sorely disappointed, as I had hoped it was the
entrance to the strait, the strait that seems a phantom flying before
us as we go, drawing us onward to we know not what.” The sadness of the
captain’s voice troubled Juan.

“Master,” he asked earnestly, “what is the strait? I hear of it often,
yet no one can tell me what it is, or where it lies.”

“Because no one knows,” answered the captain, rising. “I am needed on
deck, but I will send old Tomas to tell you its strange story.”

“The secret of the strait,” said old Tomas, as he seated himself beside
Juan, “has led many men to gallant deeds and also many a man to a
gallant death. Always, since as a lad I first went to sea, the merchants
of many lands have been seeking a safe and speedy way of reaching the
Indies, where are found such foods, spices, and jewels as one sees
nowhere else in the world.

“My father and grandfather used to travel with caravans overland to and
from India. There are several routes, each controlled by some one of the
great Italian cities, but all have somewhere to cross the desert, where
the trains are often robbed by wild tribes. Sometimes, as they come
nearer home, they are held by the Turks for heavy tribute, with such
loss that the merchants have been forced to turn to the sea in hopes
that a better way might be found. It was while searching for this route
that Columbus discovered the new world, and when the news of his success
was brought back to Europe there was great rejoicing, because it was
thought that he had reached some part of India. Magellan’s voyage,
however, destroyed these hopes. He sailed for months down the eastern
shore of the new land, and discovered, far away to the south, a strait
through which he reached the great South Sea, but then he still sailed
on for nearly a year before he came to the Spice Islands and Asia.

“Now every one believes that somewhere through this land to the north
of us there is a wide, deep sea passage from the North Sea [Atlantic] to
the South Sea [Pacific], by which ships may speedily reach India. This
passage is called the Strait of Anian.

“The great captain, Hernando Cortez, the conqueror of New Spain [Mexico]
spent many years and a large fortune seeking for this water way. Four
different expeditions he sent out to explore this coast: most of them
at his own cost. In the second one his pilot, Jiminez, led a mutiny,
murdered his captain, and afterward discovered, accidentally, the
southern point of this land we are now exploring. But it was not the
good fortune of the noble Cortez to discover the strait. Our captain is
the next to take up the search, and may God send him success.”

After a stay of nearly a week in the bay of San Diego, Cabrillo
continued his voyage up the coast, sailing by day, anchoring at night.
He touched at an island which he named San Salvador, but which we know
as Santa Catalina. Here, by his kind and generous treatment, he won
the friendship of the natives. From this beautiful spot, he sailed, one
Sunday morning, to the mainland. Entering the Bay of San Pedro, he found
it enveloped in smoke.

“It seems a fair port,” said the commander, “but go no farther inland.
Drop anchor while we can see our way. We may well call this the Bay of
Smokes.” The fires, they found, had been started by the Indians to drive
the rabbits from shelter, so they could be the more easily killed.

Sailing on, the ships anchored off a thickly settled valley, where the
town of Ventura now lies. Here, on October 12, 1542, Cabrillo and his
company went on shore and took solemn possession of the land in the
name of the king of Spain and the viceroy of Mexico. Here, and along
the channel, the people were better-looking, more comfortably lodged and
clothed, than those farther south. They also had good canoes, which the
natives of the lower coast did not possess. Pushing on, the explorer saw
and noted the channel islands and rounded Point Conception. From here he
was driven back by contrary winds, and toward nightfall of a stormy day
found himself near the little island now named San Miguel.

“We will call it La Posesion and take it for our own,” said Cabrillo,
“for, if we can but make it, there seems to be a good harbor here.” The
storm, however, grew more severe. The sea rose until occasionally
the waves swept over the smaller ship, which was without a deck. Here
occurred a most unhappy accident. Something about the ship, a spar
probably, loosened by the storm, fell and struck the brave commander,
breaking his arm. Although severely injured, he would not have the
wounds dressed until, after a long period of anxiety, the two ships
entered in safety the little harbor of San Miguel.

Here, stormbound, they remained for a week. When they ventured forth,
they again met with high winds and bad weather. Cabrillo, who in spite
of discouragements never forgot his search for the strait, pushed close
inshore and kept much of the time on deck looking for some signs of a
river or passage. One morning at daybreak, after a rough night, they
found themselves drifting in an open bay.

“It is a fine roadstead,” said Cabrillo, coming on deck, as the sun rose
over the pine-covered hills. “Were it smaller, it would be a welcome
harbor. We will name it from those majestic trees La Bahia de Pinos, and
yonder long projection we will call the Cabo de Pinos.” That bay is
now called Monterey, but the cape still bears the name given it by this
first explorer.

Anchoring in forty-five fathoms of water, they tried to go on shore, in
order to take possession of the land, but the sea was so rough that they
could not launch their boats. The next day they discovered and named
some mountains which they called Sierra Nevada, and, sailing on, went
as far north as about 40¼. But this winter voyage was made at a great
sacrifice. The exposure and hardships, following the wound he had
received, were too much for even the hardy sailor Juan Rodriguez
Cabrillo. After weeks of struggle with storms, the ships were forced
back to their old shelter at San Miguel. Here Christmas week was spent,
but a sad holiday it was to the explorers, for their brave leader lay
dying. Nobly had he done his duty up to the last.

“Juan,” he said, to his young attendant, on Christmas Eve, “how gladly
the bells will be ringing in Lisbon to-night. I seem to hear them now.
They drive out all other sounds. Call Ferrelo and let no one else come
but the padre.” Very soon Juan returned with Cabrillo’s first assistant,
the pilot, Ferrelo, a brave navigator and a just man.

“Ferrelo,” said Cabrillo, faintly, “Death calls me, and the duty I lay
down you must take up. I command you to push the expedition northward
at all hazards, and to keep such records as are necessary in order that
fitting account of our voyage shall be given to the world. Will you
promise me to do this?”

“I will, my master,” said Ferrelo, simply. “To the best of my ability
will I take up your work.”

“Always looking for the strait, Ferrelo?”

“Always, senor.”

On the 3d of January, 1543, the brave man died and was buried in the
sands of Cuyler Harbor on San Miguel Island. His men called the island
Juan Rodriguez. This name was afterwards dropped, but California should
see to it that the island is rechristened in honor of the great sailor
who sleeps there.

Ferrelo later succeeded in sailing as far north as Cape Mendocino and
perhaps as far as 42¡, but, though he kept as close to the shore as
possible, he failed to discover the great bay whose waters, spreading
like a sheet of silver over sixty miles of country, lay hidden just
behind the Golden Gate. Near the Oregon line he was driven back by
storms, and returned to Mexico, where he published a full account of the
voyage.



Drake

In the town of Offenburg, Germany, there is a statue of a man standing
on the deck of a ship, leaning against an anchor, his right hand
grasping a map of America, his left, a cluster of bulbous roots. On
the pedestal is the inscription, “Sir Francis Drake, the introducer of
potatoes into Europe in the year of our Lord 1586.”

While it is doubtful whether this honor really belongs to Drake, an
Englishman, seeing the statue, would be inclined to say, “Is this all
that Germany has to tell of the great captain who led our navy against
the Spanish Armada; the first Englishman to sail around the world;
the most daring explorer, clever naval commander, expert seaman, brave
soldier, loyal friend, and gallant enemy of his time?” A Spaniard, on
the contrary, might well exclaim, “Why did Germany erect a statue to
this terrible man whom our poets call Dragontea [Dragon], this greatest
of all pirates, this terror of the sea?” All this, and more, might be
said of one man, who began life as a ship’s boy.

At the time Drake first went to sea, England and Spain were by no means
friendly. Henry the Eighth of England had ill-treated his wife, who was
a Spanish princess. In addition he had drawn the English people away
from the Church of Rome. These things were most displeasing to Spain,
but there was still another reason for disagreement. The interests
of the two countries were opposed commercially, and this was the most
important cause of contention.

Spain claimed by right of discovery, and gift of the Pope of Rome, all
the land in the new world except Brazil (which belonged to Portugal),
and held that no explorers or tradesmen, other than her own, had any
rights on her waters or in her ports. English seamen denied much of this
claim, and so frequent were the disputes arising upon the subject that
the English sailors adopted as a maxim, “No peace beyond the line,”
 meaning the line which was, by the Pope’s decree, the eastern boundary
of the Spanish claim.

The favorite prey of the British mariners was the treasure ships
carrying to Spain the precious cargoes of gold and silver from the rich
mines of the new world. With the far richer ships of the Philippine and
Indian trade, sailing on unknown waters, they had not, up to Drake’s
time, been able to interfere.

Drake, when a very young man, had joined a trading expedition to Mexico.
While there the English were attacked by the Spanish in what the former
considered a most treacherous manner. Drake’s brother and many of
his comrades were killed, and their goods taken. After the battle he
solemnly vowed to be revenged, and so thoroughly did he carry out his
resolution that he was for years the terror of the Spanish seamen,
and, by many of the superstitious common sailors, believed to be Satan
himself come to earth in human form.

Shortly after this unfortunate expedition Drake engaged in a marauding
voyage to Panama, where he captured rich stores of gold and silver and
precious stones. He gained such renown for his bravery and seamanship
that upon coming home he found himself famous.

Queen Elizabeth knew that Spain was opposed to her and her religion, and
was not in her heart displeased when her brave seamen got the better of
their Spanish rivals. She received Drake privately, and help was offered
him secretly from people who stood high in the government. With this
encouragement he resolved to embark on a most hazardous and daring
adventure. While in Panama he had seen, from a “high and goodlie tree”
 on a mountain side, the great Pacific, and was immediately filled with
a desire to sail on its waters and explore its shores. He therefore
determined to cross the Atlantic, pass through the Strait of Magellan,
up the Pacific, and to plunder the Spanish towns along the coast of
South and Central America, until he should reach the region traversed by
the richly laden Spanish ships coming from India and the Philippines. It
is said that the queen herself put a thousand crowns into this venture.
One thing is certain, that he received sufficient help to fit out five
small vessels, with one hundred and sixty-four men. With these he sailed
from Falmouth, England, in December of 1577. With the exception of
perhaps one or two of the rich men who had helped him, no one, not even
his men, knew of his plans.

After a long and interesting voyage in which one vessel was lost and the
others, though he did not know it, had deserted him, he found himself
with but one ship beating his way up the coast of Lower California. This
was his flagship Pelican, which he had rechristened the Golden Hind.
It was then so laden with rich booty, that it was like a hawk which
had stolen too heavy a chicken, driven this way and that by the winds,
scarcely able to reach its nest.

In addition to a good store of Chile wines and foods of various kinds,
there were packed away in the hold of the Golden Hind, twenty-five
thousand pesos of gold, eight thousand pounds of English money, and a
great cross of gold with “emeralds near as large as a man’s finger.”
 From one vessel Drake had taken one hundred-weight of silver; from a
messenger of the mines, who was sleeping beside a spring on the Peruvian
coast, thirteen bars of solid silver; off the backs of a train of little
gray llamas, the camels of the Andes, eight hundred pounds of silver;
and besides all these were large quantities of gold and silver that
were not recorded in the ship’s list, and stores of pearls, diamonds,
emeralds, silks, and porcelain.

The last prize taken was the Spanish treasure ship Cacafuegos. Drake had
transferred its cargo and crew to his own vessel and, for a time, manned
it with some of his men. Its noble commander, St. John de Anton, who
had been wounded in the attack, received every possible attention on
the English vessel, and in the report which he afterwards made to
the viceroy of Mexico, he told of the perfect order and discipline
maintained on the Golden Hind, and of the luxury which surrounded its
commander, who was treated with great reverence by his men.

Before sailing on to the northward, Drake restored St. John and his crew
to their vessel. Then, because he feared that they might fall into the
hands of his fleet (having no suspicion that the other captains had
returned home), he gave the Spaniards the following letter, which shows
the great Englishman to have been more honorable than he is oftentimes
represented:--

“To Master Weinter and the Masters of the Other Ships of my Fleet:

“If it pleaseth God that you should chance to meet with this ship of
St. John de Anton, I pray you use him well according to my promise given
him. If you want to use anything that is in the ship, I pray you pay him
double value for it, which I will satisfy again. And command your men
not to do any harm and what agreement we have made, at my return unto
England, I will, by God’s help, perform, although I am in doubt that
this letter will ever come to your hand, notwithstanding I am the man I
have promised to be.

“Beseeching God, the Saviour of the world, to have us all in his
keeping, to whom I give all honor, praise, and glory,

“Your sorrowful captain, whose heart is heavy for you,

“Francis Drake.”


How to get home was the problem which this daring man had now to solve.
There was no possibility of returning by the way he had come. He well
knew that the news of his departure had reached Spain, and that her war
ships would be waiting for him, not only at the eastern entrance of the
Strait of Magellan, but at the Isthmus and in the Caribbean Sea.

If by sailing northward he could find the Strait of Anian, then his
homeward journey would be safe and short; but if he could not find that
illusive body of water, then there was left to him but the Pacific for
a highway. However, this did not daunt him, as he felt that what the
Portuguese Magellan had done, Drake the Englishman could do.

Keeping well out from shore, the Golden Hind now sailed northward for
nearly two months. Drake passed just west of the Farallon Islands, never
dreaming of the great harbor which lay so short a distance on the other
side. He traveled as far north as latitude 42¡ or possibly 43¡, and
perhaps he even landed at one point, but he failed to find the strait.
According to Fletcher, the priest of the Church of England who kept a
journal of the expedition, they were finally forced by the extreme cold
to turn southward. “Here,” says Fletcher, “it pleased God on this
17th day of June, 1579, to send us, in latitude 38¡, a convenient fit
harbor.” This is now supposed to be Drakes Bay, which lies thirty miles
northwest of San Francisco, in Marin county.

“In this bay we anchored, and the people of the country having their
houses close to the waterside showed themselves unto us and sent
presents to our general. He, in return, courteously treated them and
liberally bestowed upon them things necessary to cover their nakedness.

“Their houses are digged around about with earth and have for the brim
of that circle, clefts of wood set upon the ground and joined closely
together at the top like the spire of a steeple, which by reason of this
closeness are very warm. The men go naked, but the women make themselves
loose garments knit about the middle, while over their shoulders they
wear the skin of a deer.”

These people brought presents and seemed to want to offer sacrifices to
the strangers as gods, but Drake, hastily calling his men together,
held divine services, “To which, especially the prayers and music,” says
Fletcher, “they were most attentive and seemed to be greatly affected.”
 The Bible used by Drake in this service is still to be seen in Nut Hall
House, Devonshire, England.

Presently a messenger came, saying that the king wished to visit them
if they would assure him of their peaceful intentions. Drake sent him
presents, then marched his force into a kind of fort he had had made in
which to place such parts of the cargo as it was necessary to remove in
order to careen the ship for repairing. The coming of the chief is thus
described:--

“He came in princely majesty. In the fore-front was a man of goodly
personage who bore the scepter whereon was hung two crowns with chains
of marvelous length. The crowns were made of knit-work wrought with
feathers of divers colors, the chains being made of bony substances.

“Next came the king with his guard, all well clothed in connie skins,
then the naked common people with faces painted, each bearing some
presents. After ceremonies consisting of speeches and dances, they
offered one of the crowns to Drake, who, accepting in the name of
Elizabeth, allowed it to be placed on his head.”

While the men were busy cleaning and repairing the ship, the commander
and his officers made excursions into the interior, visiting many Indian
towns and passing through wide plains where vast herds of deer, often
one thousand or more, all large and fat, were feeding on the rich
grasses. They also saw great numbers of what they called connies, which,
from their description, must have been ground squirrels, or else some
variety of animal now extinct. The country Drake named New Albion,
partly from its white cliffs, which resembled those of his native land,
and partly in belief that it would be easier to lay claim to the country
if it bore one of the names applied to England.

“When the time came for our departure,” continued Fletcher in his
journal, “our general set up a monument of our being here, so also, of
her majesty’s right and title to the land: namely a plate nailed upon
a fair great post, whereon was engraved her majesty’s name, the day and
year of our arrival, with the giving up of the province and people into
her majesty’s hands, together with her highness’ picture and arms in a
sixpence under the plate, whereunder was also written the name of our
general.”

Fletcher seemed not to know of Cabrillo’s voyage, for he claimed that no
one had ever discovered land in this region, or for many degrees to the
south; while in fact Ferrelo with Cabrillo’s ships had sailed as far
north as latitude 42¡, although we have no reason to think that he
landed in a higher latitude than that of Point Conception and San Miguel
Island.

Once again solemn religious services were held by the Englishmen on the
hospitable soil that had been their home for over a month. Then they
went on board the ship, accompanied to the shore by the grieving
Indians, who would not be comforted when they saw their new friends
forsaking them. It was near the last of July in 1579 that Captain Drake
with his brave men began his wonderful homeward voyage.

It was a triumphant return they made in September, a year later. Crowds
flocked to see the famous ship and its gallant commander.

Some of the queen’s statesmen strongly disapproved of Drake’s attack
upon Spanish towns and vessels, and felt he should be arrested and tried
for piracy; but the common people cheered him wherever he went, and as a
crowning honor, in the luxurious cabin of his good ship Golden Hind, he
was visited by the great Elizabeth herself. When the banquet was over,
at the queen’s command, he bent his knee before her, and this sovereign,
who, though a woman, dearly loved such courage and daring as he had
displayed, tapped him on the shoulder and bade him arise “Sir Francis
Drake.”


Galli and Carmenon

In 1584 Francisco Galli, commanding a Philippine ship, returning to
Mexico by way of Japan, sighted the coast of California in latitude 37¡
30’. He saw, as he reported, “a high and fair land with no snow and many
trees, and in the sea, drifts of roots, reeds, and leaves.” Some of the
latter he gathered and cooked with meat for his men, who were no doubt
suffering from scurvy.

Galli wrote of the point where he first saw the coast as Cape Mendocino,
which would seem to imply that the point had been discovered and named
at some previous time, of which, however, there is no record.

In 1595 Sebastian Carmenon, commanding the ship San Agustin, coming from
the Philippines, was given royal orders to make some explorations on
the coast of California, probably to find a suitable harbor for Manila
vessels. In doing so he was so unfortunate as to run his vessel ashore
behind Point Reyes, and to lighten her was obliged to leave behind a
portion of his cargo, consisting of wax and silks in boxes. There
is only the briefest record of this voyage, and no report of any
discoveries.


Vizcaino

Almost sixty years after the voyage of Cabrillo, came a royal order from
the king of Spain to the viceroy of Mexico which, translated from the
Spanish, ran something like this:--

“Go, search the northern coast of the Californias, until you find a good
and sufficient harbor wherein my Manila galleons may anchor safe and
protected, and where may be founded a town that my scurvy-stricken
sailors may find the fresh food necessary for their relief. Furthermore,
spare no expense.”

The destruction of Spanish shipping by Drake and other English seamen
who followed his example, had caused great anxiety to the Spaniards and
was partly the reason for this order.

“Send for Don Sebastian,” said the viceroy. “He is a brave gentleman and
good sailor. He shall carry out the order of the king.” But it took time
to fit out such an expedition, and it was not until an afternoon in
May, 1602, that Don Sebastian Vizcaino, on his flagship, the San Diego,
sailed out of the harbor of Acapulco into the broad Pacific. Closely
following him were his other ships, the San Thomas and Tres Reyes.

There had been solemn services at the cathedral that afternoon. Officers
and men had taken of the holy communion; and now their wives and
children stood on the island at the entrance of the harbor, watching the
white sails as they grew fainter and fainter and at last disappeared in
the haze of the coming night.

Then the watchers returned to their lonely homes with heavy hearts,
for in those days few came back who sailed out on the great South Sea.
Storms, battles with the natives, and scurvy made sad havoc among the
sailors.

Early in November Vizcaino entered “a famous port,” which he named San
Diego, finding it, as Padre Ascension’s journal says, “beautiful and
very grand, and all parts of it very convenient shelter from the winds.”
 After leaving San Diego, the next anchoring place was the island named
by Vizcaino for Santa Catalina, on whose feast day his ships entered the
pretty little harbor of Avalon.

The Spaniards were greatly pleased with the island and also with the
people, whom they described as being a large-figured, light-complexioned
race; all, men, women, and children, being well clothed in sealskins.
They had large dwellings, many towns, and fine canoes. What struck Padre
Ascension most strongly was their temple, of which he says: “There was
in the temple a large level court, and about this a circle surrounded
by feather work of different colors taken from various birds which I
understand had been sacrificed to their idols. Within this circle was
the figure of a demon painted in color after the manner of the Indians
of New Spain. On its sides were figures of the sun and moon.

“It so fell out that when our soldiers came up from the ships to view
the temple, there were in the circle two immense ravens, far larger than
ordinary. When the men arrived, they flew away to some rocks that were
near by, and the soldiers seeing how large they were, raised their
arquebuses and killed them both. Then did the Indians begin to weep and
make great lamentation. I understand that the devil was accustomed
to speak to them, through these birds, for which they showed great
respect.”

There were in the island quantities of edible roots of a variety of the
yucca called gicamas, and many little bulbs which the Spanish called
“papas pequenos” (little potatoes). These, the padre said, the Indians
took in their canoes over to the mainland, thus making their living by
barter. This certainly must have been the beginning of commerce on the
coast.

Vizcaino entered and named the Bay of San Pedro. To the channel islands
he also gave the names which they now bear. Sailing on, he discovered
a river which he named “Carmelo,” in honor of the Carmelite friars who
accompanied him. The same day the fleet rounded the long cape called
“Point Pinos” and came to anchor in the bay formed by its projection.
From here the San Tomas was sent to Mexico to carry the sick, of whom
there were many, and to bring back fresh supplies. The men who remained
were at once set to work. Some supplied the two ships with wood and
water; others built a chapel of brush near the beach, under a large oak
at the roots of which flowed a spring of delicious water. In this chapel
mass was said and the Te Deum chanted. For over one hundred and fifty
years this oak was known, both in New Spain and at the court of the
king, as the “Oak of Vizcaino, in the Bay of Monterey.” From here
Vizcaino wrote to the king of Spain as follows:--

“Among the ports of greater consideration which I have discovered is
one in 30¡ north latitude which I called Monterey, as I wrote to your
majesty in December. It is all that can be desired for commodiousness
and as a station for ships making the voyage from the Philippines,
sailing whence they make a landfall on this coast. It is sheltered from
all winds and in the immediate vicinity are pines from which masts of
any desired size could be obtained, as well as live oak, white oak, and
other woods. There is a variety of game, great and small. The land has
a genial climate and the waters are good. It is thickly settled by a
people whom I find to be of gentle disposition, and whom I believe can
be brought within the fold of the Holy Gospel and subjugation to your
majesty.”

This enthusiastic praise of the harbor of Monterey by a man who was
familiar with the port of San Diego, caused much trouble later, as will
be seen in the study of the founding of the missions.

Not waiting for the return of the San Tomas, Vizcaino with his two ships
soon sailed northward, and reached a point in about latitude 42¡, which
was probably the northern limit reached by Cabrillo’s ships and only a
little lower than the farthest explorations of Drake. Although Vizcaino
was looking for harbors, he yet passed twice outside the Bay of San
Francisco, the finest on the coast, without discovering it. After his
return to Mexico, Vizcaino endeavored to raise an expedition to found
a settlement at Monterey, even going to Spain to press the matter; but
other schemes were demanding the king’s attention, and he would
give neither thought nor money to affairs in the new world; and so,
thoroughly disheartened Vizcaino returned to Mexico.

From this time for over one hundred and fifty years there is no record
of explorations along this coast, either by vessels from Mexico or by
those coming from the Philippines. California seemed again forgotten.

This is the story of the few voyages made to the coast of California
previous to its settlement. The first, under Cabrillo, was sent out by
the viceroy Mendoza, who hoped to gain fame and riches by the discovery
of the Strait of Anian, and by finding wealthy countries and cities
which were supposed to exist in the great northwest, about which much
was imagined but nothing known.

Drake planned his voyage largely in pursuit of his revenge upon Spain,
partly for the plunder which he hoped to obtain from the Spanish towns
and vessels along the Pacific coast of America, and partly because of
his desire to explore the Pacific Ocean.

Vizcaino also was expected to search for the strait, but he was
especially sent out to find a good harbor and place for settlement
on the California coast. This was intended in a great measure for the
benefit of the Philippine trade, but also to aid in holding the country
for Spain.



Chapter IV

The Cross of Santa Fe



The kings highway which led up from Vera Cruz, the chief port of the
eastern coast of Mexico, to the capital city of New Spain had in the
eighteenth century more history connected with it than any other road in
the new world. Over it had passed Montezuma with all the splendor of
his pagan court. On it, too, had marched and counter marched his grim
conqueror, the great Cortez. Through its white dust had traveled an
almost endless procession of mules and slaves, carrying the treasures of
the mines of Mexico and the rich imports of Manila and India on toward
Spain.

Over this road there was journeying, one winter day in the year 1749,
a traveler of more importance to the history of the state of California
than any one who had gone before. He was no great soldier or king, only
a priest in the brownish gray cloak of the order of St. Francis. He was
slight in figure, and limped painfully from a sore on his leg, caused,
it is supposed, by the bite of some poisonous reptile. The chance
companions who traveled with him begged him to stop and rest beside a
stream, but he would not. Then, as he grew more weary, they entreated
him to seek shelter in a ranch house near by and give up his journey.

“Speak not to me thus. I am determined to continue. I seem to hear
voices of unconverted thousands calling me,” was all the answer he
gave. So on foot, with no luggage but his prayer book, he limped out of
sight--the humble Spanish priest, Junipero Serra.

While only a schoolboy, young Serra had been more interested in the
Indian inhabitants of the new world than in boyish pleasure. As he grew
older it became his greatest desire to go to them as a missionary. At
eighteen he became a priest; but it was not until his thirty-sixth year
that he gained the opportunity of which he had so long dreamed, when,
in company with a body of missionaries, among whom were his boyhood
friends, Francisco Palou and Juan Crespi, he landed at Vera Cruz.

He was too impatient to begin his new work, to wait for the government
escort which was coming to meet them. So he started out on foot, with
only such companions as he might pick up by the way, to make the long
journey to the city of Mexico.

Sixteen years later, attended by a gay company of gentlemen and ladies,
there traveled over this road one of Spain’s wisest statesmen, Jose
de Galvez, whom the king had sent out to look after affairs in the new
world. Flourishing settlements were by this time scattered over a large
portion of Mexico, and even in the peninsula of Lower California there
were a number of missions. It was almost a hundred years before this
time that two Catholic priests of the Society of Jesus had asked
permission to found mission settlements among the Indians of this
peninsula.

“You may found the missions if you like, but do not look to us for money
to help you,” was the answer returned by the officers of the government.
So the two Jesuit priests set about collecting funds for the work.

They were eloquent men, and the people who heard them preach became so
interested in the Indians that they were glad to give. And so, little by
little, this fund grew. As the good work went on, greater gifts poured
in. Whole fortunes were left them, and finally they had a very large
sum carefully invested in the city of Mexico. This was known as the Pius
Fund. From it was taken all the money needed for the founding of the
missions of Lower California; and, many years later, the expenses of
founding the twenty-one missions of Upper California came from the same
source. This fund became the subject of a long dispute between Mexico
and the United States, of which an account is given in Chapter XI.

In 1767 all the Jesuit priests in New Spain were called back to Europe,
and a large portion of their wealth and missions on the peninsula were
given over to the order of St. Francis, with Junipero Serra at their
head. It was Galvez’s duty to superintend this change, and while he
was on his way to the peninsula for that purpose he was overtaken by
an order from the king of Spain to occupy and fortify the ports of San
Diego and Monterey. The Spanish government had the description of these
ports furnished by Vizcaino in his account of his explorations in Upper
and Lower California over one hundred and sixty years before.

The articles of the king’s order were: first, to establish the Catholic
faith; second, to extend Spanish dominion; third, to check the ambitious
schemes of a foreign power; and lastly, to carry out a plan formed by
Philip the Third, as long ago as 1603, for the establishment of a town
on the California coast where there was a harbor suitable for ships of
the Manila trade.

Galvez at once proceeded to organize four expeditions for the settlement
of Upper California, two by land, two by sea. Captain Portola, governor
of the peninsula, was put in command, with good leaders under him.
Still, Galvez was not satisfied.

“This is all very well,” he said; “these men will obey my orders,
but they do not care much whether this land is settled or not, and if
discouragements arise, back they will come, and I shall have the whole
thing to do over again. I must find some one who is interested in the
work, some one who will not find anything impossible. I think I shall
send for that lame, pale-faced priest, with the beautiful eyes, who has
taken up the work of these missions so eagerly.”

“So you think we can make the venture a success?” asked Galvez, after he
had talked over his plans with Junipero.

“Surely,” said Padre Serra, his eyes shining, his whole face glowing
with enthusiasm. “It is God’s work to carry the cross of the holy faith
[Santa Fe] into the wilderness, and He will go with us; can you not hear
the heathen calling us to bring them the blessed Gospel? I can see that
I have lived all my life for this glorious day.”

Then they went to work, the priest and the king’s counselor--down on the
wharf, even working with their own hands, packing away the cargo.

“Hurry! Hurry!” said Galvez. The word was passed along, and in a short
time the four expeditions were ready.

Many were the trials and discouragements of the various parties. Scurvy
was so severe among the sailors that one ship lost all its crew save two
men, and there were a number of deaths on another ship; while a third
vessel which started later was never heard from. Padre Junipero, who
accompanied the second land party, under the charge of Governor Portola,
became so ill from the wound on his leg that the commander urged him
to return; but he would not. Calling a muleteer who was busy after the
day’s march, doctoring the sores on his animals, he said:--

“Come, my son, and cure my sores also.”

“Padre,” exclaimed the man, shocked at the idea, “I am no surgeon; I
doctor only my beasts.”

“Think then that I am a beast, my child,” said the padre, “and treat me
accordingly.”

The man obeyed. Gathering some leaves of the malva, or cheese plant, he
bruised them a little, heated them on the stones of the camp fire, and
spreading them with warm tallow, applied them to the wound. The next
morning the leg was so much better that the cure was thought to be a
miracle. Still the padre was very weak; and there was great rejoicing in
the party when at last they looked down from a height on San Diego
Bay, with the two ships--the San Carlos and the San Antonio--riding at
anchor, white tents on the beach, and soldiers grouped about. Salutes
were fired by the newcomers and returned by the soldiers and ships, and
very soon the four expeditions were reunited.

On the next day, Sunday, solemn thanksgiving services were held. Then
for fourteen days all were busy attending to the sick, making ready for
the departure of the ship San Antonio, which was to be sent back for
supplies, and packing up food and other necessities for the journey to
Monterey. The San Antonio sailed on the 9th of July, 1769, and five days
later Governor Portola and two thirds of the well portion of the company
started overland to Monterey.

Meantime Padre Junipero had been impatiently awaiting an opportunity to
begin his great work--the conversion of the heathen. He had written
back in his own peculiar way to his friend Padre Palou, whom he left in
charge of the missions of Lower California.

“Long Live Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, This to Fray Francisco Palou.

“My dear friend and Sir:--

“I, thanks be to God, arrived day before yesterday at this, in truth,
beautiful, and with reason famous, port of San Diego. We find Gentiles
[the name given to the wild Indians] here in great numbers. They seem to
lead temperate lives on various seeds and on fish which they catch from
their rafts of tule which are formed like a canoe.”

The second day after the departure of Portola and his party, Sunday,
July 16, Padre Serra felt that the glorious moment for which he had so
long prayed had at length arrived. The mission bells were unpacked and
hung on a tree, and a neophyte, or converted Indian, whom he had brought
with him from the peninsula, was appointed to ring them. As the sweet
tones sounded on the clear air, all the party who were able gathered
about the padre, who stood lifting the cross of Christ on high. All
joined in solemnly chanting a hymn, and a sermon was preached. Then with
more chanting, the tolling of, the bells, and the firing of muskets, was
concluded the ceremony of the founding of the first of the California
missions, that of San Diego.

Portola and his men, in spite of many discouragements, traveled steadily
northward for nearly two months until at last, one October morning, they
saw what they thought to be Point Pinos, the name given by Cabrillo to
the pine-covered cape to the south of Monterey Bay. They were right in
thinking this Point Pinos, but the sad part is that when they climbed
a hill and looked down on the bay they had come so far to find, they
failed to recognize it.

They tramped wearily over the sun-dried hills that bordered it,
and walked on its sandy beach, but could not believe the wide, open
roadstead, encircled by bare brown heights, could be the well-inclosed
port lying at the foot of hills richly green, so warmly described by
Vizcaino in his winter voyage. It was a great disappointment, for this
was the latitude in which they had expected to find Monterey. After
talking it over, they decided they must be still too far south, so they
tramped on for many days.

On the last day of October, those of the party who were well enough,
climbed a high hill--(Point San Pedro on the west coast of the
peninsula)--and were rewarded by a glorious view. On their left the
great ocean stretched away to the horizon line, its waves breaking in
high-tossed foam on the rocky shore beneath them. Before them they saw
an open bay, or roadstead, lying between the point on which they stood,
and one extending into the sea far to the northwest. Upon looking at
their map of Vizcaino’s voyage, they rightly decided that this farther
projection was Point Reyes; the little bay sheltered by the curve of its
arm was the one named on the map St. Francis, and now known as Drakes
Bay. Well out to sea they discovered a group of rocky islands which they
called Farallones; but not a man who stood on the height dreamed that
only a short distance to the right up the rocky coast there lay a bay
so immense and so perfectly inclosed that it would ever be one of the
wonders of the land they were exploring.

On account of the sick of the party, among whom were the commander and
his lieutenant, it was decided to travel no further, but to camp here
while Sergeant Ortega was dispatched to follow the coast line to Point
Reyes and explore the little bay it inclosed.

With a few men and three days’ provisions consisting of small cakes made
of bran and water, which was the only food they had left, this brave
Spanish officer marched away, little imagining the honor which was
soon to be his. Leading this expedition, he was the first white man to
explore the peninsula where now stands the guardian city of the western
coast, and we must wonder what were his thoughts when, pushing his way
up some brush-covered heights, he came out suddenly upon the great bay
we call San Francisco.

What a mighty surprise was that sixty miles of peaceful water that had
so long remained hidden from European explorers, baffling the anxious
gaze of Cabrillo, the faithful explorations of Ferrelo, the eagle eyes
of Drake, and the earnest search of Vizcaino!

Pushing steadily on toward Point Reyes, Ortega encountered a second
surprise, when from the Presidio hills he looked down on beautiful
Golden Gate, whose rumpled waters seemed to say:--

“No farther can you come. We keep guard here.”

Seeing that it was quite impossible for him to reach Point Reyes, Ortega
decided to return to Portola. He found the commander and his party so
weakened by sickness and the lack of food that it had been decided to
explore no farther, but to return at once to the southern mission. After
a painful march of sixty days the party reached San Diego.

Bitter was the disappointment of Padre Junipero Serra at the failure to
found the mission of Monterey. He did not believe, as many of the party
reported, that the bay was filled up with sand. Keener still was his
grief when Portola, after looking over the supply of food, announced
that unless the ship San Antonio or the sloop San Jose arrived by
a certain date with provisions, they would have to abandon Upper
California and return to the peninsula.

The padre at once called the people together for a nine days’ session of
prayer and other church services at which to pray for the coming of the
relief boat. Portola, though he attended the services, went steadily on
with his preparations for departure. On the morning of the day before
the one set for the beginning of the march toward Lower California,
the padres went to the heights overlooking the bay, where they remained
watching and praying. At sea a heavy fog hung over the water. Hour after
hour passed as they gazed out on the lovely bay. Noon came, but they
would not return to the mission to rest or eat. The afternoon wore away,
the sun sank in the clouds above the horizon, then, as all hope seemed
gone, the fog was lifted by a sunset breeze, and there, far out at sea,
they saw a white sail. The good men fell on their knees in thanksgiving,
while their Indian servants ran to carry the news to camp.

This vessel, the San Antonio, brought not only abundant provisions but
fresh orders from Galvez to hurry the work at Monterey. The settlement
of Upper California was now made certain.

An expedition by land and the San Antonio by sea immediately started
northward. A few weeks later Padre Junipero wrote to Padre Palou: “By
the favor of God, after a month and a half of painful navigation,
the San Antonio found anchor in this port of Monterey, which we find
unvarying in circumstances and substance as described by Don Sebastian
Vizcaino.”

They even found Vizcaino’s oak. Indeed, it is said on good authority,
that the oak remained standing until 1838, when the high tides washed
the earth from its roots so that it fell.

Soon the land expedition arrived, and one June morning in 1770 the
members of the two parties, all in their best attire, were gathered on
the beach for the purpose of founding the second mission. It must have
been a pretty scene,--the stanch little vessel San Antonio, gay with
bunting, swinging at anchor a short distance out, while on shore were
grouped the sailors in the bright dress of seamen of those times, the
soldiers in leather uniform, the governor and his staff in the handsome
costumes of Spanish officials, and the padres in their gray robes. Close
beside the oak a brush house had been built, bells hung, and an altar
erected. While the bells tolled, the solemn service of dedication was
held by Padre Junipero, and so was founded the Mission San Carlos de
Borromeo at Monterey.

Near each of the earlier coast missions there was also founded a
military station called a presidio, a name borrowed from the Roman
presidium. The word meant a fort or fortified town. These presidios were
intended to guard the safety of the missions from the wild Indians, and
to defend the coast from ships of other countries.

After the religious services Governor Portola proceeded to found the
presidio and take formal possession in the name of the king of Spain by
hoisting and saluting the royal banner, pulling up bunches of grass, and
casting stones, which was an ancient manner of taking possession of a
piece of land or country. The presidio of Monterey was for a long time
the site of the capital of Upper California and therefore most important
in the history of the state.

For the sake of better land and water the mission site was soon removed
about six miles, to the Carmelo River. Although not so wealthy as some
of the missions, it was the home of Padre Junipero Serra, president of
all the missions, and so its history is especially interesting.

The news of the settlement of San Diego and Monterey was received in
Mexico with great joy, and it was resolved to found five more missions
above San Diego. Four of these were San Gabriel, near the present site
of Los Angeles; San Luis Obispo, farther north; San Antonio; and San
Francisco. Before leaving the peninsula, Padre Serra had asked Galvez,
“And for Father Francisco, head of our order, is there to be no mission
for him?” To which Galvez had replied, “If Saint Francis wants a
mission, let him cause his port to be found and it will be placed
there.” When the beautiful bay was discovered by Sergeant Ortega, it
was thought that this might be the harbor Saint Francis intended for
himself, but before naming it for the head of the order it was necessary
that it should be explored. Although two land expeditions were sent up
for this purpose, they were unsuccessful; and it was not until August,
1775, about four months after the eventful battle of Lexington had taken
place on the Atlantic coast, that white men first entered the Bay of San
Francisco in a ship.

Lieutenant Ayala of the Spanish navy, with the San Carlos, had the honor
of conducting this expedition.

He reached the entrance to the bay just as night was coming on. Not
liking to trust his vessel in a strange harbor, he sent forward a boat
to make explorations, and then, as it was a little slow in returning,
he daringly pushed on in the darkness into the unknown water. His small
craft bobbed and plunged in the rough water of the bar, darted through
Golden Gate, and came safely to anchor near North Beach. Soon after
this exploration it was settled that here Saint Francis should have his
mission.

Padre Junipero Serra appointed his friend Francisco Palou, who had now
joined him in his work in Upper California, to make this settlement, and
on the 9th of October, 1776, there was founded in that portion of San
Francisco known as the Mission District, at the corner of Sixteenth
and Dolores streets, the mission of San Francisco. This is often called
Mission Dolores from the name of a small lake and stream beside which
it was built. To-day the name San Francisco rests not only on the old
mission building, with its white pillars, but on the beautiful city
which is the metropolis of our western coast.

As fast as possible Padre Junipero hastened the establishment of
missions, choosing those places where there were the largest native
settlements. In the vicinity of Monterey Bay there were, besides the San
Carlos mission, Santa Cruz on the northern curve of the bay, and in the
fertile valley back of the Santa Cruz Mountains the missions of Santa
Clara, San Jose, and San Juan Bautista. Farther south on a lonely height
stood Soledad, and much farther south, San Miguel.

The Indians along the Santa Barbara Channel, of whom there were a great
many, were more intelligent and industrious than in other portions of
the country settled by the missionaries, and here were the missions of
Santa Barbara, San Buenaventura, La Purisima, and Santa Inez.

In the south, in the fertile valley where are now the great grain fields
of Los Angeles county, San Fernando was founded. Between San Gabriel and
San Diego were placed San Juan Capistrano, San Luis Rey, and the chapel
of Pala. San Rafael and Solano, to the north of San Francisco Bay,
complete the list of twenty-one missions of Upper California.

It is impossible to give more than the names of most of these missions,
although about each many true and beautiful stories might be told. It
would be well if those who live near one of these noble ruins would seek
out its particular history and the stories connected with it. This would
be interesting and helpful work for the students in the schools of the
state.

The story of the missions seems like a fairy tale, wonderful and
unreal. Into a wilderness inhabited only by savage men and wild animals,
hundreds of miles from any civilized settlement, there came these men
trained as simple priests.

Two by two they came, bringing with them, for the starting of each
mission, a few soldiers, seven to ten, a few converted Indians from
the missions of Lower California, a little live stock, some church
furniture, and always the bells; yet in a little over forty years they
had succeeded in founding a chain of missions whose sweet-toned bells
chimed the hours and called to prayer from San Diego to the Bay of San
Francisco.

Churches were built larger and often of a purer type of architecture
than those in the civilized well-settled portions of the
land,--buildings that have lasted for a hundred years and may last many
years longer if care is taken to preserve them. Canals of stone and
cement and dams of masonry were constructed that would do credit to our
best workmen of to-day.

The little packages of wheat and other grains, seeds from Spanish
oranges and olives, little dried bundles of grapevines from Mexico,
developed, under their care, into the great fields of grain, groves
of oranges and olives, and the wide-spreading vineyards of the mission
ranches. All these wonders were performed with Indian workmen trained by
the padres.

But what the missionaries cared for more than their success in building
and planting were the thousands of baptized Indians at each mission.
These they instructed daily for the good of their souls in the truths of
the Christian religion, while for their bodily needs they were taught to
plow the earth, to plant seed, to raise and care for domestic animals.
They learned also many useful trades; and music, frescoing, and art were
taught those who seemed to have an especial taste for such things.

At the head of this great work was gentle Padre Junipero Serra, the most
interesting character in the history of the missions. He was frail and
slender and much worn by constant labor of head and hands, but his every
thought and action seemed to be for others. Back and forth from Monterey
to San Diego, from mission to mission, he traveled almost constantly,
teaching, baptizing, confirming thousands of his dusky charges. He was
president of all the missions, and besides this was bishop, doctor,
judge, and architect, as well as steward of the mission products and
money.

Associated with him in his work were a group of noble men whose lives
were spent in caring for the native people with whom they worked and
among whom they finally died. The inhabitants of California may well
honor the mission padres for their earnest, unselfish lives, and in no
way can this be done so fully as in the preservation of the grand old
buildings they left behind, which are indeed fitting monuments to their
devotion, energy, and skill.

Beginning with San Diego, let us, in fancy, visit the missions in the
early part of the nineteenth century.

It is a winter day in the year 1813 when we ride up the broad,
wind-swept road which leads to the newly dedicated mission building of
San Diego. The wide plain that surrounds it is green with native grass
and the blades of young wheat. Of the two hundred cattle, one hundred
sheep, one hundred horses, and twenty asses brought up by Padre Junipero
in 1769 to be divided among the earlier missions, San Diego had only its
due share; yet under the wise management of the padres, they have now at
this mission, feeding on the green plains, thousands of cattle, horses,
and sheep, which are tended by comfortably clothed Indian herders. Near
the mission are the green and gold of orange orchards, the gray of the
olive, and the bare branches of extensive vineyards. At one side we
see a large kitchen garden where young Indians are at work planting and
hoeing.

As we draw up in front of the church, Indian servants come out to take
our horses. We dismount, and a padre who is superintending work in
the orchard comes and welcomes us with gentle courtesy. He sends us a
servant to show us to our room, a small square apartment with a hard
earthen floor and bare, whitewashed walls with no ornament but a cross.
The beds are of rawhide stretched over a frame. The covering consists
of sheets of coarse cotton grown and woven at the southern missions,
and blankets, coarse but warm, made by the Indians from the wool of the
mission sheep.

Dinner at the padre’s table we find most enjoyable. There is beef
and chicken, the frijole, or red bean of Spain, and other vegetables
prepared in a tasty manner peculiar to Spanish cooking, so we do not
doubt that the cook has been taught his trade by the padre himself. The
Indian boys who wait on the table also show careful training, performing
their duties quickly and quietly. Here we can find for bread the
tortilla,--still the food of the Indian and Mexican people of
California. It is a thin cake made of meal or flour and water, and baked
without grease on a hot stone or griddle. Wines made at the mission,
the favorite chocolate, thick and sweet, and some fruit from the padre’s
garden complete the meal.

Dinner over, we visit the church and admire the striking contrast
between the red tiles of the roof and the creamy white of the walls.
All the buildings are made of bricks molded from a clay called adobe
and dried slowly in the sun. Each brick is twelve inches square by four
inches thick, and the walls are laid two or three bricks deep, those of
the church itself being nearly four feet in thickness. It seems almost
impossible that so large and well made a building could have been
constructed by untrained workmen. Next to the church are the rooms of
the padres, then the dining room and the quarters of the mission
guard, which consists apparently of but two men, the rest being at the
presidio, several miles away. Adjoining these are the storehouses and
shops of the Indian workmen, all of which open on the great courtyard.

In the courtyard is a busy scene. Blacksmiths with hammer and anvil make
sounding blows as they work up old iron into needed farm utensils. The
soap maker’s caldron sends up a cloud of ill-smelling steam. At one side
carpenters are at work trimming and cutting square holes in logs for the
beams of new buildings which the padres wish to put up. Saddle makers,
squatted on the ground, are busy fashioning saddletrees, carving, and
sewing leather. The shoemaker is hard at work with needle and awl. These
and many other trades are all going on at once. These courts, which are
called patios, were generally several acres in extent and at the most
flourishing period of the missions each settlement often gave shelter to
over a thousand people.

Behind the central court is the home of the unmarried women. This, and
the rooms for their work, open on a separate square where there is shade
from orange and fig trees and a bathing pond supplied by the zanja, or
water ditch. Here square-figured, heavy-featured Indian girls are busy
spinning and weaving thread into cloth. Others are cutting out and
sewing garments. Some, squatted on the ground, are grinding corn into a
coarse meal for the atole, or mush. At the zanja several are engaged in
washing clothes. Here these girls live under the care of an old Indian
woman, and unless she accompanies them they may not, until they are
married, go outside these walls. Near the mission we visit a long row
of small adobe buildings, the homes of the families of the Christian
Indians; a neat, busy settlement where the little ones, comfortably
clothed, play about attended by the older children, while the mothers
work for the padres four or five hours daily.

Leaving San Diego and traveling northward along “El Camino Real,” the
highway which leads from mission to mission, we reach San Luis Rey,
“King of the Missions,” as it is sometimes called. Its church is the
largest of all those erected by the padres, being one hundred and sixty
feet long, fifty-eight feet wide, and sixty feet high. Its one square,
two-story tower has a chime of bells, the sweet clear tones of which
reached our ears while we were yet miles from the mission. Counting
the arches of the long corridor, we find there are two hundred and
fifty-six. This mission became very wealthy. At one time it had a
baptized Indian population of several thousand, owned twenty-four
thousand cattle, ten thousand horses, and one hundred thousand sheep,
and harvested fourteen thousand bushels of grain a year.

Its prosperity was due in a great measure to good Padre Peyri, who had
charge of it from its beginning. Many years afterwards, as we shall
see, the padres were ordered by the Mexican government to leave their
missions, the wealth they had gathered, and the Indians they had taught
and cared for. Father Peyri, knowing how hard it would be for him to get
away from his Indian children, as he called them, slipped off by night
to San Diego. In the morning the Indians missed him. Learning what had
happened, five hundred of them mounted their ponies in hot haste and
galloped all the way to San Diego, forty-five miles, to bring him back
by force. They arrived just as the ship, with Padre Peyri on board,
was weighing anchor. Standing on deck with outstretched arms, the padre
blessed them amid their tears and loud cries. Some flung themselves into
the water and swam after the ship. Four reached it, and, climbing up
its sides, so implored to be taken on board that the padre consented and
carried them with him to Rome, where one afterwards became a priest.

The next link in our chain, the most beautiful of all the missions, is
that of San Juan Capistrano. It was founded in 1776, the year of
our Declaration of Independence, but in 1812 it was destroyed by an
earthquake, the massive towers and noble arch falling in on the Indians,
who were assembled in the church for morning prayers. Many of them were
killed. The church has never been rebuilt.

It is Christmas Day when we reach San Gabriel, the next station on El
Camino Real. Inside the great cactus fence which incloses the square
about the mission we see a strangely mixed company,--Indians in their
best clothes, their faces shining from a liberal use of mission soap and
water; soldiers in their leather suits freshened up for the holiday;
a few ranchmen in the gay dress of the times, riding beautiful horses;
women and girls each brilliant in a bright-colored skirt with shawl or
scarf gracefully draped over head and shoulders.

The Christmas Day morning service, held at four o’clock and known by the
common people as the Rooster Mass, is long since over. The crowd is now
gathered for the Pastorel, which, like the miracle plays of the Middle
Ages, is a drama with characters taken from the Bible.

First to appear on the scene is an orchestra composed of young Indians
playing violins, bass viols, reeds, flutes, and guitars. Closely
following come the actors, representing San Gabriel and attendant
angels, Satan, Blind Bartimeus, and a company of shepherds. The
entertainment is very simple. There is the announcement of the birth of
the Savior, the adoration of the babe, and the offering of gifts. The
play concludes with a protracted struggle between San Gabriel and Satan
for the possession of Blind Bartimeus, in which the saint finally comes
off victor while the orchestra plays lively music. After the Pastorel
there are games, dancing, and feasting. Every one seems happy, and it is
with regret that we leave the gay scene.

Through the hills to the north, across the Arroyo Seco, not dry now, but
a swift stream turbulent from the winter rains, we journey on. We pass
Eagle Rock, a great bowlder high upon the green hillside, one of the
landmarks of the region, and enter the valley of the Los Angeles River.
After traveling for several hours, we come to a large plantation of
trees, vines, and grainfields, in the midst of which lies the mission
of San Fernando. Its land extends for miles on every side and is
exceedingly fertile. In front of the beautiful cloisters, under tall
and stately palm trees, a fountain sends high its sparkling water, which
falls back with pleasant tinkle into a basin of carved stone.

When we reach San Buenaventura, the next mission on our route, we find
priests and Indians exceedingly busy, for word has come from Monterey
that a Yankee trading vessel will soon sail for the south, and cattle
must be killed and the fat rendered into tallow for the market. As hides
and tallow are about the only commodities the padres have for sale, this
is an important event. Indians tend the caldrons of bubbling grease, and
keep up the fires under the kettles. When the tallow is slightly cooled,
they pour it into sacks made from the skins of animals. These, when
filled with the hardened tallow, look as though each again held a plump
beast.

Traveling up the coast we come one afternoon to

A golden bay ‘neath soft blue skies Where on a hillside creamy rise The
mission towers whose patron saint Is Barbara--with legend quaint.

Here spring is merging into summer, and we are in time to see the
ceremony which closes the wheat harvest. The workmen gather the last
four sheaves from the field, and, fastening them in the form of a cross,
carry them, followed by a long procession of dusky reapers, up the
ascent to the church. As they approach, the bells burst out in a joyous
peal, and from the mission doors the padres come forth, one bearing a
cross, another the banner of the Virgin. A choir of Indian boys follows,
chanting a hymn. All advance slowly down the avenue to meet the sheaf
bearers, then counter march to the church, where the harvest festival is
celebrated.

Passing by other missions, we must close our journey with a visit to San
Carlos, the Monterey mission, most prominent of all in the history of
the church and state. It was from the first the special charge of Padre
Junipero Serra, and, at the time we see it, his monument as well; for in
it at last his weary body was laid to rest beside his friend Padre Juan
Crespi, to whose writings, next to those of Padre Francisco Palou, we
are most indebted for our knowledge of Junipero Serra and his great
work. In 1813, with its graceful arched front and two towers, San Carlos
was a noble-looking building, but since that time one tower has fallen.

We are reminded, as we look, of the scene when Junipero lay dying. Ever
since morning the grief-stricken people had been waiting, listening for
the news from the sick room. When the tolling of the bell announced that
the beautiful life was ended, crowds came weeping and lamenting, anxious
to see again the beloved face.

It was with great difficulty that the Indians could be kept from tearing
the padre’s robe from his body, so earnestly did they desire to possess
some relic of the father they had loved so long.

Here we notice the daily life of the Indian, which (in 1813) is the same
at all the missions. At sunrise comes the sound of the bells calling
to the morning prayers, and we see the natives hurrying to the church.
After service they gather for breakfast of mush and tortillas. As the
flocks and herds have increased, meat forms part of the daily food,
sometimes from the freshly killed beeves, but generally in a dried state
called carne seco. After breakfast the workers go in groups to their
various employments. Dinner is served at eleven, and they have a resting
period until two. Then work is again taken up and continued until
an hour before sunset, when the bells call to evening prayer. Supper
follows the evening service, after which the Indians can do as they like
until bedtime. We see some engaged in a game of ball. Many are squatted
on the ground playing other games,--gambling, we suspect. In one group
there is dancing to the music of violin and guitar. There is laughter
and chattering on all sides, and to us they seem happy, at least for the
time.

The life led by the Indians at the missions was not generally a
hard one. No doubt when they first came, or were brought, into the
settlements, from their free wild life, they found it harder to keep the
regular hours of the missions than to perform the work, which was seldom
very heavy. When disobedient or lazy, they were punished severely,
judging by the standards of to-day, but really no harder than was at
that time the custom in schools and in navies the world over. When the
soldiers came in contact with the natives, there was generally cruel
treatment for the latter. But as far as possible the padres stood
between their charges and the soldiers, always placing the mission as
far from the presidio as the safety of the former would allow.

At San Diego, about five years after its settlement, wild Indians
surprised the mission guard, and killed the padre and several of the
converted Indians in a most cruel manner. The Spanish government gave
orders that the murderers should be taken and executed and this mission
abandoned; but Padre Junipero begged so hard for the culprits, who, he
said, knew no better, having no knowledge of God, that he was finally
allowed to have his way. Gentleness and patience won the day; not only
the Indians who made the attack were converted, but many more of their
tribe, and the mission became a flourishing settlement. There was once
a rebellion among the Santa Clara and San Jose Indians, led by a young
convert from Santa Clara, which required soldiers from Monterey to put
down. Generally, however, the mission life was peaceful, the Indians
being fond of their padres.

When Mexico became free from Spain, no more money was sent up to pay the
soldiers or run the government in Upper California, and for a long time
the missions advanced the money for the expenses of the government.

After a time the new priests who came up from Mexico were not generally
men of such education and noble character as the early mission padres.
They cared less for missionary work, and were not so energetic. Their
influence was not always good for the Indians, who quickly saw the
difference between them and their old padres. They had little confidence
in the newcomers, so at the few missions where such as these were in
charge the Indians were disobedient, and received harsh punishments from
the padres; and trouble followed.

In 1833 the Mexican government decided to confirm the mandate issued by
Spain several years before in regard to the breaking up of the mission
settlements. By this law each Indian was to have his own piece of land
to own and care for. He was to be no longer under the control of the
church, but to be his own master like any other citizen. As for the
padres, they were to give up their wealth and lands, and leave for other
missionary fields. That this would create a great change in California
all realized; still it was no new idea, but the plan Spain had in mind
when the missions were first founded. The mistake was in supposing that
it was possible for a people to rise in so short a time from the
wild life of the California Indian to the position of self-supporting
citizens in a civilized country.

When the Indians understood this order, some were pleased and,
like children when freed from restraint, ceased to work and became
troublesome. Many, however, when they found that the padres were to
leave them, became very unhappy; some, it is said, even died from
homesickness for the mission and the padre. One committed suicide.

It was soon seen that they were not fitted to look after themselves.
Only a few years had passed since they were savages, knowing nothing of
civilized life, and they still needed some one to guide them. They not
only began to drink and gamble, but were cheated and ill-treated on all
sides, until many of them became afraid of living in towns and went back
to wild life. For this they were no longer fitted, and they suffered so
much from hunger and cold that great numbers of them died.

Because the Indians were not capable of caring for themselves at
the time of the secularization of the missions, the padres are often
severely blamed. It is said that they tried to keep the natives without
knowledge, in fact something like slaves. But the truth is that the
padres taught them by thousands, not only to cultivate the soil, to
irrigate wisely, to raise domestic cattle, but to work at every trade
that could be of use in a new country. They were encouraged to choose
from among themselves alcaldes, or under officers of the mission.
In this way every inducement was given to the Indian showing himself
capable of self-control, to rise to a prominent position in his little
world, where he generally ruled his fellow-workmen wisely and kindly.

Added to this, the Indians acquired, through the teaching and example of
the padres, a religion that has lasted through generations. The breaking
up of the mission settlements scattered the Indians through the country,
many of them going back to the wild life in the forest and mountains,
where they no longer had any religious instructions. Yet to-day, after
all the years that have passed, there are few Indians from San Diego to
San Francisco who do not speak the language of the padres and follow,
though it may be but feebly, the teaching of the Catholic faith, the
“Santa Fe” of the padres.

Some of the mission buildings, many of the flocks, and much of the land
fell into the hands of men who had no possible right to them. Orchards
and vineyards were cut down, cattle killed and stolen, and there was
only ruin where a short time before there had been thousands of busy
people leading comfortable lives. Soon the churches were neglected
and began to crumble away, bats flew in and out of the broken arches,
squirrels chattered fearlessly in the padre’s dining room, and the only
human visitor was some sad-hearted Indian worshiper, slipping timidly
into the desolate building to kneel alone before the altar where once

     Sweet strains from dusky neophytes
     Rose up to God in praise,
     When life centered ‘round the missions
     In the happy golden days.



Chapter V

Pastoral Days



For hundreds of years poets have written and singers have sung of the
loveliness of a country life, where there is no gathering together of
the inhabitants in great cities, no struggle to make money, where the
people live much out of doors, are simple in their tastes, healthy and
happy.

These dreams of an ideal life the Spanish-speaking settlers of early
California made real. In this land of balmy airs, soft skies, and gentle
seas there lived, in the old days, a people who were indifferent
to money, who carried their religion into their daily pleasures and
sorrows, were brotherly toward one another, contented, beautiful,
joyous.

About the time that the mission of San Francisco was founded, the
Spanish government decided to lay out two towns, or pueblos, where it
was thought the fertile character of the soil would lead the settlers
to raise grain and other supplies, not only for themselves but for the
people of the presidios. Up to this time a large part of the food had
been brought, at a considerable cost, from Mexico.

We know that the governor, Felipe de Neve, chose the town sites with
care, for in the whole state there are nowhere more beautiful and
fertile spots than San Jose, near the southern end of San Francisco Bay,
and Los Angeles, near the famous valley of the San Gabriel River. In
founding these two pueblos, and a third which was located where Santa
Cruz now stands, the plan pursued was interesting and somewhat different
from the methods of settlement on the eastern coast of our country.

First there was chosen a spot for the plaza, or central square, care
being taken that it was not far from good grazing land suitable for
the settlers’ stock. Around the plaza, lots were set apart for the
courthouse, town hall, church, granaries, and jail. Next were the lots
for the settlers, who each had, besides his home spot, several acres of
farming land with water, and the right to use the pasture lands of the
town. To each family was given, also, two horses, two cows, two oxen,
a mule, several goats, sheep, chickens, farming implements, and a small
sum in money.

Instead of asking tax money of the town people, some of the land was
reserved as public property to be rented out, the proceeds to be used
for the expenses of the government. Many people believe that this is the
wisest plan man has yet discovered for managing the expenses of a city,
town, or country.

Los Angeles had for many years a large amount of this land near the
center of the town, belonging to the city government. Gradually it was
taken up by settlers or appropriated by officials until, when the place
grew large and thriving, it was found that the land had become private
property; and finally the city had to pay large sums for parks and land
for public buildings.

Each pueblo was ruled by an alcalde, or mayor, and council, chosen by
the people. To advise with these officers, there was a commissioner who
represented the governor of the country. During the first few years the
pueblo was governed largely by the commissioner. Presidios, which were,
at first, forts with homes for the commander, officers, soldiers, and
their families, and were ruled by the commanding officer or comandante,
gradually became towns; and then they, too, had their alcalde and
council. There were four presidios--Monterey, San Francisco, San Diego,
and Santa Barbara.

In spite of all the gifts of free land, stock, and money, it was hard
to secure a suitable class of settlers. Many of those who came up from
Mexico to live in the pueblos were idle or dissipated, and nearly all
uneducated. When, after several years, a Spanish officer was sent down
from Monterey to convey to the Los Angeles settlers full title to their
lands, he found that not one of the twenty-four heads of families
could sign his name. Later a much better class of people came into
the country--men of education, brave, hardy members of good Spanish
families, who obtained grants of land from the government, bought cattle
from the mission herds, and began the business of stock raising.

This was the beginning of the pastoral or shepherd life. Each rancho was
miles in extent, its cattle and horses numbered by thousands. The homes
were generally built around a court into which all the rooms opened, and
were constructed of adobe bricks such as were used at the missions. In
the better class of homes several feet of the space in the courtyard
next the wall were covered with tile roofing, forming a shaded veranda,
where the family were accustomed to spend the leisure hours. Here they
received visitors, the men smoked their cigaritos, and the children made
merry. In the long summer evenings sweet strains of Spanish music from
violin and guitar filled the air, and the hard earthen floor of the
courtyard resounded to the tap-tap of high-heeled slippers, the swish of
silken skirts, and the jingle of silver spurs, as the young people took
part in the graceful Spanish dances.

It was no small matter to rule one of these great households. La Patrona
(the mistress) was generally the first one up. “Before the sun had
risen,” said a member of one of the old families, “while the linnets and
mocking birds were sounding their first notes, my mother would appear
at our bedside. ‘Up, muchachos, up, muchachas, and kneel for your Alba!’
The Alba was a beautiful prayer of thanksgiving for care during the
night, with a plea for help through the dangers and temptations of the
day. No excuse for lying abed was accepted; up, and on the floor we
knelt, then she passed on to where the mayordomo, or foreman, and his
men were gathering in the courtyard. Here, too, was the cook with the
Indian maids, busy making tortillas for the morning meal. ‘Your Albas,
my children,’ my mother would say in her clear, firm voice. Down would
drop mayordomo, vaqueros, cook, and Indian girls, all devoutly reciting
the morning prayer.

“After their prayer the children might, if they chose, return to their
beds, but before sleep could again overtake them there would probably
come from a distant room the voice of their aged grandfather asking them
questions from the Spanish catechism.

“‘Children, who made you?’ he would call in a quavering voice.

“A chorus of small voices would sing-song in response, ‘El Dios’ [God].

“Again he would question, ‘Children, who died for you?’

“Again the reply, ‘El Dios.’

“By the time the questions were all answered there was no chance for
more sleep.”

Nothing was taken with the morning coffee but the tortilla. This was a
thin cake made of meal from corn ground by Indian women who used for the
grinding either a stone mortar and pestle, or a metate. The metate was a
three-legged stone about two feet in length and one in breadth, slightly
hollowed out in the center; grain was ground in this by rubbing with a
smaller stone. It took a great number of tortillas to serve the large
household. One Indian maid, kneeling beside a large white stone which
served as table, mixed the meal, salt, and water into balls of dough.
These she handed to another girl, who spatted them flat and thin by
tossing them from one of her smooth bare arms to the other until they
were but a little thicker than a knife blade. The cook then baked them
on a hot dry stone or griddle, turning them over and over to keep them
from burning.

El Patron (the master) usually rose early, and after his coffee, put on
his high, wide-brimmed sombrero, and, attended by his sons, if they were
old enough, and his mayordomo, rode over his estate, looking after the
Indian vaqueros and workmen. One gentleman, a member of a fine Spanish
family which lived in the southern part of the state, used to ride
out with his sixteen sons, all of whom were over six feet in height.
Generally the families were large, often comprising twelve children or
more. These made merry households for the little people.

After breakfast it was the duty of the mistress to set the host of
Indian girls to their tasks. The padres were always glad to let the
young Indian girls from the mission go into white families where there
was a wise mistress, that they might be trained in both religious and
domestic duties. Going to the gate of the courtyard, the Patrona would
call, “To the brooms, to the brooms, muchachas,” adding, if it were
foggy, “A very fine morning for the brooms, little ones;” and out would
come running a cluster of Indian girls carrying each a broom. At the
work they would go, sweeping as clean as a floor the courtyard and
ground for a large space about the house.

Next they flocked to the sewing room, often sixteen or eighteen of these
girls, to take up their day’s work under the mistress’s eye. Some made
garments for the ranch hands, those who were better work women attended
to the making of clothing for the family, while the girls who were the
most skillful with the needle fashioned delicate, fine lace work and
embroidery.

The children were seldom indoors unless it rained. There were no
schools; there were few ranches where there were teachers, and the
fathers and mothers generally had their hands too full to devote
themselves to their children’s education, so in the early days it was
all playtime. Later, schools were started for boys, and dreadful places
they were.

As General Vallejo describes them, they were generally held in a narrow,
badly lighted room, with no adornment but a large green cross or some
picture of a saint hanging beside the master’s table. The master was
often an old soldier in fantastic dress, with ill-tempered visage. The
scholar entered, walked the length of the room, knelt before the cross
or picture, recited a prayer, then tremblingly approached the master,
saying, “Your hand, Senor Maestro,” when with a grunt the hand would be
extended to him to be kissed. Little was taught besides the reading of
the primer and the catechism.

Ranch boys early learned to ride, each having his own horse and saddle.
Every year there was a rodeo, or “round-up,” held in each neighborhood,
where cattle from all the surrounding ranches were driven to one point
for the purpose of counting the animals and branding the young. Each
stock owner had to be there with all the men from his ranch who could
ride, nor must he forget his branding irons. These brands were recorded
in the government book of the department, and any one changing the form
of his iron in any manner without the permission of the judge was guilty
of a crime.

To the boys the rodeo was the most interesting time of the whole year.
The coming of the strange herds and vaqueros, the counting and the
separating of the animals, and the branding of the young stock made a
period of excitement and fun. Here was offered a chance for the display
of good horsemanship. Sometimes as the cattle were being gradually
herded into a circular mass, an unruly cow or bull would suddenly dart
from the drove and run away at full speed. A vaquero on horseback would
immediately dash after the animal, and, coming up with it, lean from the
saddle and seizing the runaway by the tail, spur his horse forward. Then
by a quick movement he would give a jerk and suddenly let go his hold,
when the animal would fall rolling over and over on the ground. By the
time it was up again it was tamed. Many a boy earned his first praise
for good riding at a rodeo.

Nowhere in the world were there better and more graceful riders. Horses
used for pleasure were fine, spirited animals. The saddle and the bridle
were generally handsomely inlaid with silver or gold. A California
gentleman in fiesta costume, mounted on his favorite horse, was a
delight to the eyes. His hat, wide in the brim, high and pointed in the
crown, was made of soft gray wool and ornamented with gold or silver
lace and cord, sometimes embroidered with rubies and emeralds until it
was very heavy and exceedingly valuable. His white shirt was of thin,
embroidered muslin, and the white stock, too, was of thin stuff wrapped
several times around the neck, then tied gracefully in front. The jacket
was of cloth or velvet, in dark colors, blue, green, or black, with
buttons and lace trimmings of silver or gold, often of a very elaborate
design. About the waist was tied a wide sash of soft material and gay
color, the ends hanging down at the side. The breeches were of velvet
or heavy cloth, dark in color, save when the rider was gay in his taste,
then they might be of bright tints. They either ended at the knee, below
which were leggings of deerskin, or fitted the figure closely down to
just above the ankle, where they widened out and were slashed at the
outer seam, showing thin white drawers, which puffed prettily between
the slashes. A gentleman in Los Angeles still has the trimmings for such
suit, consisting of three hundred and fifty pieces of silver filigree
work.

Every one seemed to live out of doors, and though the ranchos were
widely scattered, there was much visiting and social gayety. All who
could, traveled on horseback; while the mother of the family, the
children, and old people used the clumsy carreta with its squeaking
wheels.

One of the prettiest sights was a wedding procession as it escorted
the bride from her home to the mission church. Horses were gayly
caparisoned, and the riders richly dressed. The nearest relative of the
bride carried her before him on the saddle, across which hung a loop
of gold or silver braid for her stirrup, in which rested her little
satin-shod foot. Her escort sat behind her on the bearskin saddle
blanket. Accompanying the party were musicians playing guitar and
violin, each managing horse and instrument with equal skill.

The California woman generally wore a full skirt of silk, satin, wool,
or cotton, a loose waist of thin white goods, and, in cold weather,
a short bolero jacket of as rich material as could be obtained. A
bright-colored ribbon served for a sash, and a lace handkerchief or a
muslin scarf was folded over the shoulders and neck. In place of bonnet
and wrap a lace or silk shawl, or a narrow scarf called a rebosa, was
gracefully draped over the head and shoulders.

Children were dressed like the older people, and very pretty were the
girls in their low-necked, short-sleeved camisas or waists, and full gay
skirts, their hair in straight braids hanging down over the shoulders.
The short breeches, pretty round jackets, and gay sashes were very
becoming to the boys.

At night the daughters of the house, big and little, were locked into
their rooms by their mother, the father attending in the same manner
to the boys. In the morning the mother’s first duty was to unlock these
doors.

Various games were played. Blindman’s buff was a great favorite for
moonlight nights. There was also a game called cuatrito, in which the
players threw bits of stone at a mark drawn on the ground at a certain
distance.

“In my time,” said a prominent Californian of to-day, “we used to play
this game with golden slugs instead of stones; there was always a basket
of slugs sitting door. We liked them because they carried well, and we
thought it nothing unusual to use them as playthings. They were abundant
in most of the houses; my mother and her friends used them as soap
dishes in, the bedrooms.

“In the spare rooms was always a little pile of money covered by a
napkin, from which the visitor was expected to help himself if he
needed. We would have considered it disgraceful to count the guest
money.”

“Our parents were very strict with us,” said another Californian,
“much more so than is the custom to-day. Sometimes while the parents,
brothers, and sisters were eating their meal, a child who was naughty
had for punishment to kneel in one corner of the dining room before
a high stool, on which was an earthen plate, a tin cup, and a wooden
spoon. It was worse than a flogging, a thousand times. As soon as the
father went out, the mother and sisters hastened to the sorrowful one
and comforted him with the best things from the table.”

The clothes were not laundered each week, but were saved up often for
several weeks or even a month or two, and then came a wash-day frolic.
Imagine wash day looked forward to as a delightful event! So it was,
however, to many California children. Senorita Vallejo, in the Century
Magazine (Vol. 41), thus describes one of these excursions:--

“It made us children happy to be waked before sunrise to prepare for
the ‘wash-day expedition.’ The night before, the Indians had soaped
the clumsy carreta’s great wheels. Lunch was placed in baskets, and the
gentle oxen were yoked to the pole. We climbed in under the green cloth
of an old Mexican flag which was used as an awning, and the white-haired
Indian driver plodded beside with his long oxgoad. The great piles of
soiled linen were fastened on the backs of horses led by other servants,
while the girls and women who were to do the washing trooped along by
the side of the carreta. Our progress was slow, and it was generally
sunrise before we reached the spring. The steps of the carreta were
so low that we could climb in or out without stopping the oxen. The
watchful mother guided the whole party, seeing that none strayed too
far after flowers, or loitered too long. Sometimes we heard the howl
of coyotes and the noise of other wild animals, and then none of the
children were allowed to leave the carreta.

“A great dark mountain rose behind the spring, and the broad, beautiful
valley, unfenced and dotted with browsing herds, sloped down to the bay
[of San Francisco]. We watched the women unload the linen and carry it
to the spring, where they put home-made soap on the clothes, dipped them
in the spring, and rubbed them on the smooth rocks until they were white
as snow. Then they were spread out to dry on the tops of the low bushes
growing on the warm, windless southern slopes of the mountain.” After
a happy day in the woods came “the late return at twilight, when the
younger children were all asleep in the slow carreta and the Indians
were singing hymns as they drove the linen-laden horses down the dusky
ravines.”

As at the missions, soon the ranchos, little was raised for sale save
hides and tallow from the cattle. It was not the fault of the settlers
that, living in so fertile a country, they made so little use of its
productiveness. Spain’s laws in regard to trade were made entirely
in the interests of the mother country, the settlers of New Spain,
especially of Alta California, having no encouragement to raise more
than they needed for use at home. They could not sell their produce to
ships from foreign countries, for the penalty for that was death to the
foreigner and severe punishment for the colonist. All trade had to be
carried on in Spanish vessels, and it was forbidden to ship olive
oil, wine, or anything that was raised or made in the home country.
As California and Spain were much alike in climate and soil, this law
really stopped all outside trade except that arising from cattle.

After the territory became a Mexican province, the rules were not so
severe in regard to foreign trade, and finally the New England vessels
freely entered the ports by paying certain duties to the government.

To the young people upon the ranchos the arrival of a trading vessel was
a great event. If the port was not far from the house, the Patrona and
the young ladies sometimes went on board to select for themselves
from the miscellaneous cargo the things they desired; but as they were
generally afraid of the water, especially of trusting themselves in the
ship’s boats, the father and boys often represented the family on such
occasions.

When news arrived that a ship was coming down the coast, elder sisters
became very kind and attentive to younger brothers, who accepted panocha
(a coarse brown sugar cast in square or scalloped cakes) and other gifts
contentedly, knowing well they would be expected to “coax Father” to
buy the ring, sash, necklace, or fan which the good sister particularly
desired. Often a ranchero would go down to the harbor with ten or
fifteen ox carts loaded with hides, skins, and tallow, and return with
ranch implements, furniture, dishes, sugar, other food, clothes, and
ornaments of all kinds. Such laughing, chattering, and excitement as
there was when the squeaking ox carts came into the courtyard! The whole
household, from the Patrona and her guests to the Indian mothers with
their children from the kitchen precincts, gathered to watch the slow
unloading of the purchases. Slow, indeed, seemed the process to the
eager children of the family. Except on horseback for a short dash, the
Californian never hurried. For a journey the usual gait was a little jog
trot, hardly faster than a walk.

Senorita Vallejo, in the Century Magazine, describes the loading of a
ship’s cargo: “The landing place for the mission of San Jose was at the
mouth of a salt water creek several miles away. When a trading vessel
entered San Francisco Bay, the large ship’s boat would be sent up this
creek to collect the hides and tallow; but if the season was a wet one,
the roads would be too bad for the ox carts; then each separate hide was
doubled across the middle and placed on the head of an Indian. Sometimes
long files of Indians might be seen, each carrying hides in this manner,
as they trotted across the wide, flat plains or pushed their way through
the little forest of dried mustard stalks to the creek mouth.”

No such thing was known as a Californian breaking his word in regard to
a debt. Yankee ship owners trusted him freely. Once, when a ship was
in port, the captain left it for a little while in charge of the clerk
whose business it was to sell the goods, but who had never been in
California before and knew nothing of its customs. Down to the shore
came a ranchero attended by servants and ox carts. He came on board and
bought many things, intending to pay later with hides and tallow which
were not then ready. When he ordered the goods taken ashore with never
a word as to payment, the clerk informed him that he must either give
money or else give some writing saying that he would pay.

Now this Californian, though rich in lands and stock, could neither read
nor write. When he understood that he was being distrusted, he gravely
drew from his beard a hair, and, handing it to the clerk, said: “Give
this to your master and tell him it is a hair from the beard of Agustin
Machado. You will find it sufficient guarantee.” The clerk saw that he
had made a mistake, and, taking the hair, placed it in the leaves of
his note book and allowed the goods to be taken away. When the captain
returned, he was mortified that there had been any distrust shown.

While California was a Spanish province its chief ruler was appointed by
the home government and was always an educated gentleman of good family,
generally an officer of the army. The coming of a new governor was a
great event in the colony and was celebrated with all possible ceremony
and display.

In 1810 Mexico began its revolt against Spain. In California the people
were in sympathy with the mother country and had no doubt of her final
success. For a long time they received little news of how the war was
progressing. They only knew that no more money was sent up to pay
the soldiers or the expenses of government, that the padres no longer
received any income from the Pius Fund, that even the trading vessels
from Mexico upon which they depended for their supplies had ceased to
come.

Times became so hard that the local government turned for aid to the
missions, which had become largely self-supporting. Many of them were
indeed wealthy communities, and the padres responded generously to the
demand for help. For several years they furnished food and clothing to
the soldiers, and money for the expenses of government, for the most of
which they never received payment.

Gradually the fine clothes of the Californians wore out, no vessels
arrived from which they could purchase more, and again it was the
missions which came to the rescue. Their cotton and woolen goods were in
great demand. Indian spinners and weavers were busy from morning until
night making clothes for the “gente de razon,” or “people of reason,”
 which was the term by which the white settlers were distinguished from
the natives.

In 1822 a vessel came up from the south, bringing to the governor
official notice that the war had been decided in favor of Mexico, and
that California was therefore a Mexican province. This was disagreeable
news to the Californians, but after consultation held by the governor,
his officers, the padre who was the president of the missions, and some
of the leading citizens, it was decided that they were too far away from
Spain to be able to resist, and that they should take the oath to be
true to the Mexican government. For the padres, who were all Spaniards
and loyal to the home government, this was a hard thing to do, and they
never became reconciled to the change.

From this time California was not so well governed. Mexico, which was
then an empire but soon became a republic, had its hands full looking
after its own affairs, and little attention was paid its far-off
province. Its best men were needed at home, and the governors sent up
the coast were not always wise or pleasing to the people. There were
several revolutions with but little bloodshed. One governor was sent
back to Mexico. At one time the Californians declared that theirs was
a free state, and a young man named Alvarado was made governor. General
Vallejo, who was his uncle, was given command of the army. But soon
the Californians quarreled bitterly among themselves, so that this
government did not last long and the territory went back under the rule
of Mexico. That government, in order to have peace in the province,
confirmed Alvarado and Vallejo in their positions.

During the war between Mexico and Spain a South American pirate paid a
visit to the coast of Upper California. Monterey was attacked and partly
destroyed, also the mission of San Juan Capistrano and the rancho El
Refugio, the home of Captain Ortega, the discoverer of San Francisco
Bay. In the crew of the pirate ship was a young American named Chapman,
who had found life among his rough associates not so interesting as he
had hoped it would be, so he deserted, but was taken prisoner by
the Californians and imprisoned in a canyon near the present site of
Pasadena. Later he was brought down to Los Angeles and set at liberty.
He found the people of the pueblo planning to build a church on the
plaza, and he told them that if they would let him have some Indian
workmen he would get some large timbers down from the canyon. He
accomplished this successfully, and it was considered a wonderful work.
The stumps of the trees can yet be seen far up on the mountain side, and
the timbers are still in the plaza church.

Visiting San Gabriel, young Chapman found the padres having trouble
to keep the flour which they ground in their new stone mill from being
dampened by water from the mill wheel. Knowing something of machinery,
the American remedied the defect by means of a flutter wheel, and there
was no more trouble.

For years the catching of otters for their fur along the lagoons and
bays about San Francisco and Monterey brought considerable money to the
northern missions. Chapman, finding that the padres of San Gabriel were
anxious to engage in this trade, built for them the first sea-going boat
ever constructed in southern California. It was a schooner, the various
parts of which he made in the workshop of the mission. They were then
carried down to San Pedro, where he put them together and successfully
launched the vessel.

Finally, to close his history, it is recorded of Mr. Chapman that he
fell in love with the pretty daughter of Captain Ortega, whose home
he had helped his pirate associates to attack, that he married her and
lived to a good old age. The country had few more useful citizens than
this capable man, the first American to settle in the southern part of
California.

With the secularization of the missions in 1833-34 came a change in the
peaceful pastoral life. In each section all that was of interest had
from the first centered around its mission. One of the chief pleasures
of the early Californians was the feast day, “La Fiesta,” which
celebrated a saint’s birthday. During the year there were many of these
festivals. First there were religious exercises at the mission church;
then in the great square there followed dancing, games, and feasting,
in which all classes took some part. These happy church festivals ceased
with the breaking up of the mission settlements. Some of the Indians
disturbed the community by disorderly conduct, and the ill treatment and
suffering of the rest of these simple people caused sorrow and dismay
in the hearts of the better portion of the settlers. There was a wild
scramble for the lands, stock, and other wealth which had been gathered
by the missionaries and their Indian workmen.

Many of the beautiful churches were sold to people who cared nothing for
the faith they represented. In some, cattle were stabled. The mission
bells were silent, and many of the mission settlements, once so busy and
prosperous, were solitary and in ruins.

Life in the great ranchos still went on much as before, but it was no
longer so simple and joyous. A change had begun, and not many years
later, with the coming of the Americans at the time of the Mexican war,
the peaceful, happy life of Spanish California was brought to an end.



Chapter VI

The Footsteps of the Stranger



At no point does the early history of California come in contact with
that of the colonies of the Eastern coast of the United States. The
nearest approach to such contact was in the year 1789, when Captain
Arguello, commander of the presidio of San Francisco, received the
following orders from the governor of the province:--

“Should there arrive at your port a ship named Columbia, which, they
say, belongs to General Washington of the American States, you will
take measures to secure the vessel with all the people aboard with
discretion, tact, cleverness, and caution.” As the Columbia failed to
enter the Californian port, the Spanish commander had no chance to try
his wits and guns with those of the Yankee captain.

It would seem as though the Californians lived for a time in fear of
their Eastern neighbors, since prayers were offered at some of the
missions that the people be preserved from “Los Americanos;” but after
the coming of the first two or three American ships, when trade began
to be established, there arose the kindliest feeling between the New
England traders and the Californians. The ship Otter, from Boston, which
came to the coast in 1796, was the first vessel from the United States
to anchor in a California port.

La Perouse, in command of a French scientific expedition, was the
first foreigner of prominence to visit California. Of his visit, which
occurred in the fall of 1786, he writes in his journal: “The governor
put into the execution of his orders in regard to, us a graciousness and
air of interest that merits from us the liveliest acknowledgments, and
the padres were as kind to us as the officers. We were invited to dine
at the Mission San Carlos, two leagues from Monterey, were received upon
our arrival there like lords of a parish visiting their estates. The
president of the missions, clad in his robe, met us at the door of the
church, which was illuminated as for the grandest festival. We were led
to the foot of the altar and the Te Deum chanted in thanksgiving for the
happy issue of our voyage.”

La Perouse’s account of the country, the people, and the missions is
of great value in giving us a picture of these times. In regard to the
Indians he said that he wished the padres might teach them, besides the
principles of the Christian religion, some facts about law and civil
government, “Although,” said he, “I admit that their progress would be
very slow, the pains which it would be necessary to take very hard and
tiresome.”

Captain Vancouver, with two vessels of the British navy, bound on
an exploring voyage round the world, was the next stranger to visit,
California. So much did he enjoy the courtesy of the Spanish officers
that when his map of the coast came out it was found that he had honored
his hosts of San Francisco and Monterey by naming for them two leading
capes of the territory, one Point Arguello and the other Point Sal.

As early as 1781 Russia had settlements in Sitka and adjacent islands,
for the benefit of its fur traders, and in 1805 the Czar sent a young
officer of his court to look into the condition of these trading posts.
Count Rezanof found the people suffering and saw that unless food was
brought to them promptly, they would die from starvation. San Francisco
was the nearest port, and though he knew that Spain did not allow trade
with foreign countries, the Russian determined to make the attempt to
get supplies there. Loading a vessel with goods which had been brought
out for the Indian trade of the north coast, he sailed southward. The
story of his visit is well told by Bret Harte in his beautiful poem,
“Concepcion de Arguello.”

Rezanof was warmly welcomed and generously entertained by Commander
Arguello of the presidio of San Francisco, but in vain did he try to
trade off his cargo for food for his starving people. The governor and
his officers dared not disobey the laws of Spain in regard to foreign
trade. While they were arguing and debating, however, something happened
which changed their views. The Count fell in love with the commander’s
beautiful daughter, Concepcion. Then, as the poem has it,--

“. . . points of gravest import yielded slowly one by one, And by Love
was consummated what Diplomacy begun.”

It seemed to the governor that the man who was to be son-in-law in the
powerful family of Arguello could not be considered as a foreigner, and
therefore the law need not apply in his case. Thus the Count got his
ship load of food and sailed away, promising to return as soon as
possible for his betrothed wife. One of the most interesting pictures of
early California is the poem which tells of this pathetic love story.

Count Rezanof was so pleased with the beauty and fertility of California
that his letters interested the Czar, who decided to found a colony on
the coast. An exploring expedition was sent out, and the territory about
Russian River in Sonoma County was purchased of the Indians for three
blankets, three pairs of trousers, two axes, three hoes, and some beads.
Fort Ross was the main settlement, and was the home of the governor,
his officers and their families, all accomplished, intelligent men
and women. Besides the soldiers there were a number of mechanics and a
company of natives from the Aleutian Islands, who were employed by the
Russians to hunt the otter. Up and down the coast roamed these wild
sea hunters, even collecting their furry game in San Francisco Bay and
defying the comandante of the presidio, who had no boats with which
to pursue them, and so could do nothing but fume and write letters of
remonstrance to the governor of Fort Ross. Spain, and later Mexico,
looked with disfavor and suspicion upon the Russian settlement, but
the people of California were always ready for secret trade with their
northern neighbors.

In 1816 Otto von Kotzebue, captain of the Russian ship Rurik, visited
San Francisco and was entertained by the comandante, Lieutenant
Luis Arguello. With Captain Kotzebue was the German poet, Albert von
Chamisso.

The Russian captain, with brighter faith and keener insight than any
other of the early visitors to the coast, says of the country: “It
has hitherto been the fate of these regions to remain unnoticed; but
posterity will do them justice; towns and cities will flourish where
all is now desert; the waters over which scarcely a solitary boat is
yet seen to glide will reflect the flags of all nations; and a happy,
prosperous people receiving with thankfulness what prodigal nature
bestows for their use will dispense her treasures over every part of the
world.”

In the writings of Albert von Chamisso can be found a most interesting
description of his visit. To him is due the honor of giving to our
Californian poppy its botanical name.

In 1841, the supply of otter having become exhausted, the Russians sold
their property and claims about Fort Ross to the Swiss emigrant,
the genial John Sutter. In 1903, through the agency of the Landmarks
Society, this property and its still well-preserved buildings came into
the possession of the state of California.

As early as 1826 there were a number of foreigners settled in
California. These were mostly men from Great Britain or the United
States who had married California women and lived and often dressed like
their Spanish-speaking neighbors. Captain John Sutter, the Swiss who
bought out the Russians of Fort Ross, came to California in 1839. He
obtained from the Mexican government an extensive grant of land about
the present site of Sacramento, and here he erected the famous Sutter’s
Fort where all newcomers, were made welcome and, if they desired, given
work under this kindest of masters. Around the fort, which was armed
with cannon bought from the Russians, he built a high stockade. He
gained the good will of the Indians and had their young men drilled
daily in military tactics by a German officer.

Governor Alvarado, at the time of his revolution in 1837, had in his
forces, under a leader named Graham, a company of wandering Americans,
trappers and hunters of the roughest type. Although there was no real
war, and no fighting occurred, yet when Alvarado and his party were
successful, Graham and his men demanded large rewards, and because the
governor would not satisfy them they began to persecute him in every way
possible. Alvarado says: “I was insulted at every turn by the drunken
followers of Graham; when I walked in my garden they would climb on
the wall and call upon me in terms of the greatest familiarity, ‘Ho,
Bautista, come here, I want to speak to you.’ It was ‘Bautista’ here,
‘Bautista’ there.”

To express dissatisfaction they held meetings in which they talked
loudly about their country’s getting possession of the land, until
Governor Alvarado, having good reason to believe that they were plotting
a revolution, expelled them from the territory and sent them to Mexico.

The United States took up the defense of the exiles and insisted on
their being returned to California. It does not seem that the
better class of Americans who had been long residents of the country
sympathized with Graham and his followers, but from this time there were
less kindly relations between the Californians and the citizens of the
United States who came into the territory.

We come now to the story of the conquest.

At the beginning of the year 1845 the United States and Mexico were on
the verge of war over Texas, which had been formerly a Mexican province,
but through the influence of American settlers had rebelled, declaring
itself an independent state, and had applied for admission to the
American Union. Because the question of slavery was concerned in this
application, it caused intense excitement throughout the United
States. The South was determined to have the new territory come in as a
slave-holding state, while the men of the North opposed the annexation
of another acre of slave land.

Eight Northern legislatures protested against its admission. Twelve
leading senators of the North declared that “it would result in the
dissolution of the United States and would justify it.” On the other
hand, the South resolved that “it would be better to be out of the Union
with Texas than in it without her.” The South won its point. Texas was
admitted, and at once a dispute with Mexico arose over the boundary
lines, and war at length followed, being brought on in a measure by the
entrance of United States troops into the disputed territory. During
the long discussion over Texas the United States was having trouble
with Great Britain over Oregon, which was then the whole country lying
between the Mexican province of California and the Russian possessions
on the north coast (now Alaska). Before the invention of steam cars and
the construction of railroads, the Pacific coast region had been thought
of little value. The popular idea was expressed by Webster when he said:
“What do we want of this vast, worthless area, this region of savages
and wild beasts, of deserts, of shifting sands and whirlwinds of dust,
of cactus and prairie dogs?” But now the United States was waking up,
and things looked different. Of Oregon the Americans were determined
to have at least a portion. California, so far away from Mexico and so
poorly governed, they would like to take under their protection,--at
least the region around the great Bay of San Francisco.

As early as 1840 the United States government urged its consul at
Monterey, an American named Larkin, secretly to influence the leading
Californians to follow the example of Texas, secede from Mexico, and
join the United States, where he was to assure them they would receive a
brother’s welcome. Just as he felt he might be successful his plans were
overthrown.

One morning in 1842 there came sailing into Monterey Bay two American
men-of-war. Suddenly, to the consternation of those watching from the
shore, one of the ships was seen to fire upon an outgoing Mexican sloop.
After making it captive the three vessels proceeded to the anchorage.
Great was the excitement in Monterey. Neither the comandante nor the
American consul could imagine the reason for such strange conduct. It
was soon explained, however, by the arrival of a ship’s boat bringing an
officer who delivered to the authorities a demand for the surrender
of the fort and place to the American commander of the Pacific fleet,
Commodore Jones, who was on board one of the newly arrived vessels.

The Mexican officials and the officers of the army were astonished; so,
too, was the United States consul. They knew of no war between these
countries. Since he had neither men nor arms to resist this strange
demand, Alvarado, who was acting for the absent governor, gave orders
to surrender, and the next day the Mexican flag and forces gave place to
those of the United States.

After the ceremony of taking possession, Commodore Jones had a talk
with the American consul, Mr. Larkin, and learned to his dismay that the
letters upon which he had acted and which indicated that war had been
declared were misleading, and from the latest news it was evident that
there was peace between the two countries.

The commodore saw at once that he had made a serious mistake, “a breach
of the faith of nations,” as it was called, which was liable to involve
the United States in grave difficulties. How best to undo his rash
action was now his thought.

He apologized to the Mexican commander and gave back possession of the
fort. Next, he had the unhappy task of taking down the American flag and
replacing it with the cactus and eagle banner of Mexico, to which the
guns of his vessels gave a salute of honor. From Monterey he sailed
away to San Pedro. There he waited while he sent a messenger to Governor
Micheltorena, who was living in Los Angeles, asking permission to
call upon him and apologize in person. This request was granted, and
Commodore Jones and his staff came up to Los Angeles, where they were
the guests of their countryman, Don Abel Stearns, who, as he had been
working with Consul Larkin to win the Californians to the United States,
was most anxious to undo the mischief of the flag raising. For the
benefit of this history, Dona Arcadia Bandini, who was the beautiful
Spanish wife of Mr. Stearns, tells the story of the visit:--

“We gave a dinner to the governor, the commodore, and their attendants.
Everything was very friendly; they seemed to enjoy themselves, and the
uniforms of the two countries were very handsome. On the next day but
one the governor gave a ball. It was to be at his home, which was the
only two-story house in Los Angeles. To show the Americans how patriotic
the people of California were, the governor requested in the invitations
that all the ladies wear white with a scarf of the Mexican colors,--red,
green, and white. Of course we gladly complied, though some of us had to
work hard to get our costumes ready.

“The day of the ball came, but with it came rain, such a storm as I
never had seen. As it drew toward evening the water came down faster and
faster. The governor had the only carriage in California, and this he
was to send for the commodore, Mr. Stearns, Isadora, and myself; but
the poor young officers had to walk, and their faces were long when they
looked out at the rain and then down at their fine uniforms and shining
boots.

“Our California horses were not trained to pull loads and would not work
in the rain, so when the carriage came for us it was drawn by a number
of the governor’s Cholo soldiers. We got in quite safely, and it was
only a short distance we had to go, but as I was getting out the wind
suddenly changed and down came a torrent of water on me. It was clear
that I could not go to the ball in that condition, but the governor
immediately ordered the soldiers to pull the carriage back to my home,
where I soon made another toilet. The ball was delightful. The governor
and the commodore vied with each other in exchanging compliments and
courtesies.”

It was a sad fact, however, that in spite of apologies, dinners, and
balls, Consul Larkin now found it difficult to persuade his California
neighbors that the United States looked upon them as brothers, and they
began to regard with suspicion the host of American emigrants who were
coming into the territory.

In 1842 Lieutenant Fremont, under orders from the United States
government, made the first of his wonderful journeys over deserts and
rough mountain ranges into the great unknown West. Soon he was to become
famous, not only in his own country but in Europe, as the “Pathfinder,”
 the road maker of the West. Already many an Oregon emigrant had blessed
the name of Fremont for making plain the trail for himself and his loved
ones.

In 1846 Captain Fremont, conducting an exploring and scientific
expedition, entered California with sixty men and encamped in the valley
of the San Joaquin. Later he moved down into the heart of the California
settlements and encamped on the Salinas River. Possibly, knowing that
war would soon be declared between his country and Mexico, he had
determined to see as much of the enemy’s position as possible, not
caring particularly what the Mexican authorities might think.

As a natural result, General Castro, commander of the California forces,
objected; Fremont defied him, and there seemed a likelihood of immediate
war. There was no actual fighting, however, and in a day or two Fremont
continued his journey toward Oregon.

He had gone but a little way when he was overtaken by a captain of the
navy named Gillespie, bringing him letters from the officers of the
government at Washington. Upon reading these, Fremont immediately turned
about and marched swiftly back to Sutter’s Fort, where he encamped. Just
what orders the messages from Washington contained, no one knows; but it
is thought that perhaps they informed Fremont that war would be declared
very soon and that the government would be pleased if he could quietly
get possession of California.

If this was so, he had the best of reasons for his later actions.
If not, then in his eagerness to obtain for his country the valuable
territory he so well appreciated and in his desire to win for himself
the honor of gaining it, he brought on a war that caused the loss of
many lives and much property, and the growth of a feeling of bitterness
and distrust between Americans and Californians that has not yet
entirely passed away. Still it is by no means certain that California
could have been won without fighting, even had Fremont and the American
settlers been more patient.

Soon many Americans were gathered about Fremont’s camp; but though there
were a number of rumors as to what General Castro was going to do to
them, there was no action contrary to the previous kindly treatment all
had received from the hands of the Californians. Still the emigrants
felt that as soon as war was declared an army from Mexico might come up
which would not be so considerate of them and their families as had been
their California neighbors.

Having good reason to feel certain that Fremont would stand back of them
if they began the fight, a company of Americans attacked one of Castro’s
officers, who, with a few men, was taking a band of horses to Monterey.
Securing the horses, but letting the men who had them in charge get
away, they hurried them to Fremont’s camp, where they left them while
they went on to Sonoma. Here they made prisoner General Vallejo,
commander of that department of the territory, together with his brother
and staff.

General Vallejo was one of the leading Californians of the north, a man
of fine character, quiet and conservative, generous toward the needy
emigrants and favorable to annexation with the United States. When he
saw the rough character of the men surrounding his house that Sunday
morning, he was at first somewhat alarmed. A man named Semple, who was
one of the attacking party, describing the event in a Monterey paper
sometime afterward, says: “Most of us were dressed in leather hunting
shirts, many were very greasy, and all were heavily armed. We were about
as rough a looking set of men as one could well imagine.” When they
assured the general that they were acting under orders from Fremont, he
seemed to feel no more anxiety, gave up his keys, and arranged for
the protection of the people of his settlement. He was first taken to
Fremont’s headquarters, then for safe keeping was sent on to Sutter’s
Fort.

Meanwhile the party which had been left in charge of affairs at Sonoma
chose one of their number, a man named Ide, as their leader. Realizing
that they had begun a war, they felt the need of a flag, and not
daring to use that of the United States, they proceeded to make one for
themselves. For their emblem they chose the strongest and largest of the
animals of California, the grizzly bear. The flag was made of a Mexican
rebosa or scarf of unbleached muslin about a yard in width and five feet
long. To the bottom of this they sewed a strip of red flannel; in one
corner they outlined a five-pointed star, and facing it a grizzly bear.
These were filled in with red ink and under them in black letters
were the words “California Republic.” The temporary government of
the followers of the Bear Flag is generally known as the “Bear Flag
Republic.”

As soon as it seemed probable that the Californians under General
Castro were marching to attack the Americans, Captain Fremont joined his
countrymen, and from that time the United States flag took the place of
the banner of the bear. A little later Captain Fremont took the presidio
and port of San Francisco, and to him is due the honor of naming
beautiful Golden Gate.

About two weeks after the capture of Sonoma, Commodore Sloat, with
two vessels of the United States navy, entered the harbor of Monterey.
Although he had come for the purpose of taking the territory for his
country, and had orders to see to it that England did not get possession
of California ahead of him, yet he had been cautioned to deal kindly
with the Californians, and he hesitated to take decided steps. It took
him six days to make up his mind, and then he came to a decision
partly on account of the actions of Fremont and his men. Slowly up the
flagstaff on the fort of Monterey rose the Stars and Stripes. Unfolded
by the sea breeze, the beautiful flag of the United States waved again
over the land of the padres, and this time to stay. A few days later
Commodore Stockton reached California to take command in place of
Commodore Sloat, who returned home. Stockton appointed Fremont commander
of the American forces on land, and together they completed the conquest
of the territory.

It was unfortunate that Commodore Stockton had so lately arrived from
the East that he did not fully understand the state of affairs. As he
believed the wild rumors which, falsely, accused the Californians of
treachery and cruelty, his proclamations were harsh and unjust to
the proud but kindly people whom he was conquering. Many of the late
historians find much to blame in the treatment given by the Americans
to the people of California. Severity was often used when kindness would
have had far better effect.

Los Angeles and San Diego were taken by Stockton and Fremont without
any fighting, and leaving a few troops in the south, both commanders
returned to Monterey. They were soon recalled by the news that the
people of Los Angeles had risen against the harsh rule of Captain
Gillespie, who had been left in command; that the Americans had
surrendered but had been allowed to retire to San Pedro, and that all
the south was in a state of active rebellion.

Landing at San Pedro, Stockton waited a few days, then fearing the
enemy was too strong for his forces, sailed away to San Diego. Here the
Americans received a hearty welcome, and much-needed assistance, from
the Spanish families of Bandini and Arguello.

Mr. Bandini escorted a body of the United States troops to his home
rancho on the peninsula of Lower California, where he gave them cattle
and other food supplies. For this aid to the invaders he was forced to
remove his family from their home there, and on the journey up to San
Diego. Mrs. Bandini made what was probably the first American flag
ever constructed in California. As they neared San Diego the officer in
command discovered that he had neglected to take with him a flag. He did
not wish to enter the settlement without one, and when the matter was
explained to Mrs. Bandini, who was journeying in a carreta with her
maids and children, she offered to supply the need.

From the handbag on her arm came needle, thimble, thread, and scissors,
and from the clothing of her little ones the necessary red, white, and
blue cloth. Under the direction of the young officer she soon had a
very fair-looking flag, and beneath its folds the party marched into
the town. That night the band of the flagship Congress serenaded Mrs.
Bandini in her San Diego home, and the next day Commodore Stockton
called to thank her in person. The flag, it is said, he sent to
Washington, where it is still to be found with other California
trophies.

The most severe battle of the war in the state of California was fought
on the San Pasqual rancho in San Diego County. The forces engaged
were those of General Andres Pico, who commanded the Californians, and
General Stephen Kearny, who had marched overland, entered the territory
on the southwest, and was on his way to join Stockton. Hearing that the
country was conquered and the fighting over, the American officer had
sent back about two hundred of his men, but he was afterward reinforced
by Captain Gillespie and fifty men sent by Stockton to meet him. Several
American officers were killed in the battle of San Pasqual, and their
brave commander severely wounded.

Commodore Stockton, on his march from San Diego to Los Angeles, twice
engaged the enemy, once at the crossing of the San Gabriel River and
once on the Laguna rancho just east of the city. The Californians
behaved with great bravery. All of them were poorly armed, many having
only lances and no fire-arms, and what powder they had was almost
worthless; yet three times they dashed upon the square of steadily
firing United States marines.

This was the last battle in the territory. The Californians retreated
across the hills to the present site of Pasadena. Here, at the little
adobe house on the banks of the Arroyo Seco, they separated. General
Flores, their commander, was to ride with his staff through the stormy
night, down El Camino Real toward Mexico. General Andres Pico, upon whom
devolved the duty of surrender, was to ride with his associates to the
old Cahuenga ranch house, the first station on the highway from Los
Angeles to Santa Barbara. There he met Captain Fremont, and the treaty
was signed which closed hostilities. The terms proposed by Fremont were
favorable for the Californians and did much to make way for a peaceful
settlement of all difficulties.



Chapter VII

At the Touch of King Midas



It was by chance that gold was discovered in both northern and southern
California, and by chance that many great fortunes were made.

Juan Lopez, foreman of the little ranch of St. Francis in Los Angeles
County, one morning in March, 1842, while idly digging up a wild onion,
or brodecia, discovered what he thought lumps of gold clinging to its
roots. Taking samples of the metal, he rode down to Los Angeles to the
office of Don Abel Stearns, who recognized it as gold.

Soon Juan and his companions were busy digging and washing the earth and
sands in the region where the little wild flowers grew. These mines
were called “placer,” from a Spanish word meaning loose or moving about,
because the metal was loosely mixed with sand and gravel, generally in
the bed of a stream or in a ravine where there had once been a flow of
water which had brought the gold down from its home in the mountains.

From these mines Don Abel Stearns sent, in a sailing vessel round Cape
Horn, the first parcel of California gold dust ever received at the
United States mint, and it proved to be of very good quality.

The San Fernando mines, as they were called, because they were on a
ranch that had once belonged to San Fernando mission, yielded many
thousand dollars’ worth of gold dust. It is on record that one firm in
Los Angeles, which handled most of the gold from these and other mines
of southern California, paid out in the course of twenty years over two
million dollars for southern gold.

The true golden touch, however, was to come in a different part of the
territory among people of another race and tongue. It was to transform
California from an almost unknown land with slight and scattered
population to a community so rich as to disturb the money markets of
the world; a community sheltering a great host of people, all young, all
striving eagerly for the fortunes they had traveled thousands of miles
to find.

After the signing of the treaty of Cahuenga between Colonel Fremont
and General Pico, the Spanish-speaking people settled down quietly and
peacefully. The only disagreements were between the American leaders,
General Kearny and Commodore Stockton, and between Kearny and Fremont,
who had been appointed by Stockton military governor of the territory.
This appointment General Kearny disputed. General Vallejo tells in one
of his letters of having received on the same day communication from
Kearny, Stockton, and Fremont, each signing himself commander-in-chief.

Whoever was right in the quarrel, Fremont was the chief sufferer, for
General Kearny, after Stockton left, ordered him to return East under
arrest and at Washington to undergo a military trial or court-martial
for mutiny and disobedience of orders. Although the court found him
guilty and sentenced him to be dismissed from the army, the President,
remembering his services in the exploration of the West, and quite
possibly thinking him not the person most to blame, pardoned and
restored him to his position. Fremont, feeling that he had done nothing
wrong, refused the pardon and resigned from the army. The next year the
new President, Taylor, showed his opinion of the matter by appointing
Fremont to conduct the important work of establishing the boundaries
between the United States and Mexico.

General Kearny, when he departed for the East, left Colonel Mason, of
the regular army, as military governor of California. Mason chose as
his adjutant, or secretary, a young lieutenant named Sherman, who, years
later, in the Civil War, by his wonderful march through the heart of the
South, came to be considered one of the greatest generals of his time.

Soon after the Mexican war many settlers were gathered about Sutter’s
Fort and San Francisco Bay. There were about two thousand Americans,
most of them strong, hardy men, all overjoyed that the territory was in
the hands of the United States and all eager to know what would
finally be decided in regard to it. Reports kept arriving of parties of
emigrants that were about to start overland for California.

“They are as certain to come as that the sun will rise to-morrow,” said
genial Captain Sutter, “and as the overland trail ends at my rancho, I
must be ready to furnish them provisions. They are always hungry when
they get there, especially the tired little children, and the only thing
for me to do is to build a flour mill to grind my grain.”

“Well and good,” said James Marshall, one of his assistants, an American
by birth, a millwright by trade; “but to build a flour mill requires
lumber, and lumber calls for a sawmill.”

“We will build it, too,” said Sutter. “Take a man and provisions and go
up toward the mountains; there must be good places on my land. I leave
it all in your hands.” The place was found on a swift mountain stream.
Near the present site of Coloma, in the midst of pine forests, on the
water soon to be so well known as the American River, the sawmill was
located. Marshall also marked out a rough wagon road forty-five miles
long down to the fort. Captain Sutter was delighted.

“Set to work as soon as you like, Marshall,” he exclaimed. “This is your
business.” Soon the mill was built and almost ready for use.

“You may let the water into the mill race to-night,” said Marshall to
his men. “I want to test it and also to carry away some of the loose
dirt in the bed.”

Down came the water with a rush, carrying off before it the loose earth;
all night it ran, leaving the race with a clean, smooth bed. The next
day, Monday, January 24, 1848,--wonderful day for California--James
Marshall went out to look at the mill race to see if everything was
ready to begin work.

“To-morrow,” thought he, “we will commence sawing, and put things
through as fast as possible. The men are waiting, we have plenty of
trees down, there is nothing to hinder;” but at that moment as he walked
beside the bed of the tail race he saw some glittering yellow particles
among its sands. He stopped and picked one up. The golden touch had
come.

The following is Marshall’s own description as published in the Century
Magazine (Vol. 41). “It made my heart thump, for I was certain it was
gold. Yet it did not seem to be of the right color; all the gold coin I
had seen was of a reddish tinge; this looked more like brass. I recalled
to mind all the metals I had seen or heard of, but I could find none
that resembled this. Suddenly the idea flashed across my mind that it
might be iron pyrites. I trembled to think of it.”

Finally, to make sure, Marshall, like Juan Lopez, mounted his horse and
rode away to find some one with more knowledge than himself. That some
one was Captain Sutter, who looked in his encyclopedia, probably the
only one in the territory at that time, and by comparing the weight of
the metal with the weight of an equal bulk of water found its specific
gravity, which proved it to be gold. Still Sutter thought that he should
like better authority. General Sherman, in Memoirs, tells how the
news came to Monterey, where, he was the governor’s gay young military
secretary:--

“I remember one day, in the spring of 1848, that two men, Americans,
came into the office and inquired for the Governor. I asked their
business, and one answered that they had just come down from Captain
Sutter on special business and they wanted to see Governor Mason in
person. I took them in to the colonel and left them together. After some
time the colonel came to his door and called to me. I went in and my
attention was directed to a series of papers unfolded on his table, in
which lay about half an ounce of placer gold.

“Mason said tome, ‘What is that?’ I touched it and examined one or two
of the larger pieces and asked, ‘Is it gold?’ I said that if that were
gold it could be easily tested, first by its malleability and next by
acids. I took a piece in my teeth and the metallic lustre was perfect. I
then called to the clerk, Baden, to bring in an ax and hatchet from the
backyard. When these were brought, I took the largest piece and beat
it out flat, and beyond doubt it was metal and a pure metal. Still we
attached little importance to the fact, for gold was known to exist at
San Fernando at the south and yet was not considered of much value.”

About this time some of the business men who had settled in the little
town of Yerba Buena, finding that all ships that entered the harbor were
sent by their owners not to Yerba Buena, of which they knew nothing, but
to San Francisco, persuaded the town council to change the name of the
settlement from Yerba Buena to San Francisco, which was already the name
of the mission and presidio.

“Gold! Gold!! Gold!!! from the American River,” cried a horseman from
the mines, riding down Market Street, waving his hat in one hand, a
bottle of gold dust in the other.

When words like these dropped from the lips of a messenger in any of the
little communities, the result was like a powerful explosion. Everybody
scattered, not wounded and dying, however, but full of life, ready to
endure anything, risk anything, for the sake of finding the precious
metal which enables its owner to have for himself and those he loves the
comfortable and beautiful things of the world.

The result at San Francisco is thus described in one of its newspapers
of 1848: “Stores are closed, places of business vacated, a number of
houses tenantless, mechanical labor suspended or given up entirely,
nowhere the pleasant hum of industry salutes the ear as of late; but
as if a curse had arrested our onward course of enterprise, everything
wears a desolate, sombre look. All through the Sundays the little church
on the plaza is silent. All through the week the door of the alcalde’s
office remains locked. As for the shipping, it is left at anchor; first
sailors, then officers departing for the mines.”

And how was it at the logging camp where Marshall made his great
discovery? The new sawmill, built with such high hopes, was soon silent
and deserted. No more logs were cut, and no lumber hauled down for the
flour mill. There were no men to be found who were willing to cut and
saw logs, build mills, or put in the spring wheat when they might be
finding their fortunes at the mines.

The newly arrived emigrants suffered no doubt from hunger; maybe the
children cried for bread; but most of the men, as soon as they had
rested a little and knew what was going on, got together money enough
to buy the simple implements of knife, pan, pick, and cradle, which were
all the tools necessary for the easy placer mining of those days, and
joined the endless procession of those who were pushing up toward the
streams and canyons round Sutter’s famous sawmill.

As summer came on, the excitement became intense. Not only from the
region around San Francisco Bay, but from San Diego and Los Angeles,
people came flocking to the mines. Reports were current of men finding
hundreds of dollars’ worth of gold a day, gaining a fortune in a few
weeks. It was almost impossible to hire laborers either in San Francisco
or on the ranches. Even the soldiers caught the gold fever and deserted.

In the summer, Governor Mason and Lieutenant Sherman visited the mines.
Upon their return to Monterey, having seen for the

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