The Little Lady of Lagunitas by Richard Henry Savage

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Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team.

THE LITTLE LADY OF LAGUNITAS

A FRANCO-CALIFORNIAN ROMANCE

BY Richard Henry Savage

INTRODUCTION.

Forty-two years have passed since California's golden star first
glittered in the flag of the United States of America.

Its chequered history virtually begins with the rush for gold in
'48-'49.

Acquired for the evident purpose of extending slave-holding
territory, it was occupied for years by a multitude of cosmopolitan
"free lances," who swept away the defenceless Indians, and brutally
robbed the great native families, the old "Dons."

Society slowly made headway against these motley adventurers. Mad
riot, wildest excess, marked these earlier days.

High above the meaner knights of the "revolver and bowie knife,"
greater than card sharper, fugitive bravo, or sly wanton, giant
schemers appeared, who throw, yet, dark shadows over the records
of this State.

These daring conspirators dominated legislature and forum, public
office and society.

They spoiled the Mexican, robbed the Indian, and paved the way for
a "Lone Star Republic," or the delivering of the great treasure
fields of the West to the leaders of Secession.

How their designs on this grand domain failed; what might have been,
had the South been more active in its hour of primary victory and
seized the Golden West, these pages may show.

The golden days of the "stars and bars" were lost by the activity
of the Unionists and the mistaken policy at Richmond.

The utter demoralization of California by the "bonanza era" of
silver discovery, the rise of an invincible plutocracy, and the
second reign of loose luxury are herein set forth.

Scenes never equalled in shamelessness have disgraced the Halls of
State, the Courts, and the mansions of the suddenly enriched.

The poor have been trampled by these tyrants for twenty years.

Characters unknown in the social history of any other land, have
been evolved from this golden eddy of crime and adventure.

Not till all these men and women of incredibly romantic fortunes
have passed away, will a firm social structure rise over their
graves.

Throttled by usurers, torn by gigantic bank wars, its resources
drained by colossal swindles, crouching yet under the iron rule
of upstart land-barons, "dashing journalism," and stern railroad
autocrats, the Californian community has gloomily struggled along.

Newer States have made a relative progress which shames California.
Its future is yet uncertain.

The native sons and daughters of the golden West are the hope of
the Pacific.

The homemakers may yet win the victory.

Some of the remarkable scenes of the past are herein portrayed by
one who has seen this game of life played in earnest, the shadowed
drama of California.

There is no attempt to refer to individuals, save as members of
well-defined classes, in these pages. This book has absolutely no
political bias.

THE AUTHOR.

NEW YORK CITY, May 15, 1892.

CONTENTS.

BOOK I.

THE LAST OF THE DONS BY THE BLUE PACIFIC.

CHAPTER I.--Under the Mexican Eagle.--Exit the Foreigner.--Monterey,
1840

CHAPTER II.--At the Presidio of San Francisco. Wedding Chimes from
the Mission Dolores.--Lagunitas Rancho

CHAPTER III.--A Missing Sentinel.--Fremont's Camp

CHAPTER IV.--Held by the Enemy.--The Bear Flag

BOOK II.

GOLD FOR ALL.--A NEW STAR IN THE FLAG.

CHAPTER V.--The Golden Magnet.--Free or Slave?

CHAPTER VI.--Lighting Freedom's Western Lamp

CHAPTER VII.--The Queen of the El Dorado.--Guilty Bonds

CHAPTER VIII.--Joaquin the Mountain Robber.--The Don's Peril

CHAPTER IX.--The Stranger's Foot at Lagunitas. Valois' Spanish
Bride

BOOK III.

GOING HOME TO DIXIE.--STARS AND STRIPES, OR STARS AND BARS?

CHAPTER X.--A Little Dinner at Judge Hardin's. The Knights of the
Golden Circle

CHAPTER XI.--"I'se gwine back to Dixie."--The Fortunes of War.--Val
Verde

CHAPTER XII.--Hood's Day.--Peachtree Creek. Valois' Last Trust.--De
Gress' Battery.--Dead on the Field of Honor

BOOK IV.

A LOST HEIRESS.--MILLIONS AT STAKE.

CHAPTER XIII.--Mount Davidson's Magic Millions. A California
Plutocracy.--The Price of a Crime

CHAPTER XIV.--A Mariposa Bonanza.--Natalie de Santos born in
Paris.--The Queen of the El Dorado joins the Gallic "Four Hundred"

CHAPTER XV.--An Old Priest and a Young Artist. The Changelings

CHAPTER XVI.-Hearing Each Other.--The Valois Heirs

CHAPTER XVII.--Weaving Spiders.--A Coward Blow.--Marie Berard's
Doom

BOOK V.

REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.

CHAPTER XVIII.--Joe Woods Surprises a Lady. Love's Golden Nets

CHAPTER XIX.--Lovers Once, Strangers Now. Face to Face

CHAPTER XX.--Judge Hardin Meets his Match. A Senatorial Election.--In
a Mariposa Court Room.--The Trust fulfilled at Lagunitas

LAGUNITAS.

BOOK I.

THE LAST OF THE DONS BY THE BLUE PACIFIC.

CHAPTER I.

UNDER THE MEXICAN EAGLE.--EXIT THE FOREIGNER.--MONTEREY, 1840.

"Caramba! Adios, Seflores!" cried Captain Miguel Peralta, sitting
on his roan charger on the Monterey bluffs. A white-sailed bark
is heading southward for Acapulco. His vaqueros tossed up their
sombreros, shouting, "Vive Alvarado! Muerte los estrangeros!"

The Pacific binds the hills of California in a sapphire zone,
unflecked by a single sail in sight, save the retreating trader,
which is flitting around "Punta de los Pinos."

It is July, 1840. The Mexican ensign flutters in the plaza of
Monterey, the capital of Alta California.

Miguel Peralta dismounts and crosses himself, murmuring, "Sea por
Dios y la Santissima Virgen."

His duty is done. He has verified the departure of the Yankee ship.
It is crowded with a hundred aliens. They are now exiles.

Gathered in by General Vallejo, the "pernicious foreigners" have
been held at Monterey, until a "hide drogher" comes into the port.
Alvarado permits her to anchor under the guns of the hill battery.
He then seizes the ship for his use.

Captain Peralta is given the honor of casting out these Ishmaels
of fortune. He views calmly their exit. It is a land which welcomes
not the "Gringo." The ship-master receives a draft on Acapulco
for his impressed service. These pioneer argonauts are warned (on
pain of death) not to return. It is a day of "fiesta" in Monterey.
"Vive Alvarado!" is the toast.

So, when Captain Miguel dashes into the Plaza, surrounded with his
dare-devil retainers, reporting that the vessel is off shore, the
rejoicing is unbounded.

Cannons roar: the yells of the green jacket and yellow scrape brigade
rise on the silent reaches of the Punta de los Pinos. A procession
winds up to the Carmel Mission. Governor Alvarado, his staff, the
leading citizens, the highest families, and the sefioritas attend
a mass of thanksgiving. Attired in light muslins, with here and there
a bright-colored shawl giving a fleck of color, and silk kerchiefs
--fleecy--the ladies' only other ornaments are the native flowers
which glitter on the slopes of Monterey Bay. Bevies of dark-eyed
girls steal glances at Andres, Ramon, or Jose, while music lends a
hallowing charm to the holy father's voice as he bends before the
decorated altar. Crowds of mission Indians fill the picturesque
church. Every heart is proud. Below their feet sleeps serenely
good Fray "Junipero Serra." He blessed this spot in 1770;--a man of
peace, he hung the bells on the green oaks in a peaceful wilderness.
High in air, to-day they joyously peal out a "Laus Deo." When the
mystery of the mass rehearses the awful sacrifice of Him who died
for us all, a silence broods over the worshippers. The notes of
the choristers' voices slowly die away. The population leaves the
church in gay disorder.

The Bells of the Past throw their spells over the mossy church--at
once triumph, tomb, and monument of Padre Junipero. Scattered
over the coast of California, the padres now sleep in the Lethe of
death. Fathers Kino, Salvatierra, Ugarte, and sainted Serra left
their beautiful works of mercy from San Diego to Sonoma. With
their companions, neither unknown tribes, lonely coasts, dangers
by land and sea, the burning deserts of the Colorado, nor Indian
menaces, prevented the linking together of these outposts of
peaceful Christianity. The chain of missions across New Mexico and
Texas and the Mexican religious houses stretches through bloody
Arizona. A golden circlet!

Happy California! The cross here preceded the sword. No blood stains
the Easter lilies of the sacrifice. The Dons and Donnas greet each
other in stately fashion, as the gathering disperses. Governor
Alvarado gives a feast to the notables. The old families are
all represented at the board. Picos, Peraltas, Sanchez, Pachecos,
Guerreros, Estudillos, Vallejos, Alvarados, De la Guerras, Castros,
Micheltorrenas, the descendants of "Conquistadores," drink to
Mexico. High rises the jovial chatter. Good aguadiente and mission
wine warm the hearts of the fiery Californian orators. A proud day
for Monterey, the capital of a future Empire of Gold. The stranger
is cast out. Gay caballeros are wending to the bear-baiting, the
bull-fights, the "baile," and the rural feasts. Splendid riders
prance along, artfully forcing their wild steeds into bounds and
curvets with the rowels of their huge silver-mounted spurs.

Dark lissome girls raise their velvety eyes and applaud this daring
horsemanship. Senioritas Luisa, Isabel, and Panchita lose no point
of the display. In a land without carriages or roads, the appearance
of the cavalier, his mount, his trappings, most do make the man
shine before these fair slips of Mexican blue blood.

Down on the beach, the boys race their half-broken broncos. These
lads are as lithe and lean as the ponies they bestride. Across the
bay, the Sierras of Santa Cruz lift their virgin crests (plumed with
giant redwoods) to the brightest skies on earth. Flashing brooks
wander to the sea unvexed by mill, unbridged in Nature's unviolated
freedom. Far to north and south the foot-hills stand shining with
their golden coats of wild oats, a memorial of the seeds cast over
these fruitful mesas by Governor Caspar de Portala. He left San
Diego Mission in July, 1769, with sixty-five retainers, and first
reached the Golden Gate.

Beyond the Coast Range lies a "terra incognita." A few soldiers
only have traversed the Sacramento and San Joaquin. They wandered
into the vales of Napa and Sonoma, fancying them a fairyland.

The sparkling waters of the American, the Sacramento, the Yuba,
Feather, and Bear rivers are dancing silently over rift and ripple.
There precious nuggets await the frenzied seekers for wealth. There
are no gold-hunters yet in the gorges of these crystal streams.
Down in Nature's laboratory, radiated golden veins creep along
between feathery rifts of virgin quartz. They are the treasures
of the careless gnomes.

Not till years later will Marshall pick up the first nugget of
gleaming gold in Sutter's mill-race at Coloma. The "auri sacra
fames" will bring thousands from the four quarters of the earth to
sweep away "the last of the Dons."

A lovely land to-day. No axe rings in its forests. No steamboat
threads the rivers. Not an engine is harnessed to man's use in this
silent, lazy realm. The heart of the Sierras is inviolate. The word
"Gold" must be whispered to break the charm.

The sun climbs to noon, then slowly sinks to the west. It dips into
the silent sea, mirroring sparkling evening stars.

Stretching to Japan, the Pacific is the mysterious World's End.

Along the brown coast, the sea otter, clad in kingly robes, sports
shyly in the kelp fields. The fur seals stream by unchased to their
misty home in the Pribyloffs. Barking sea-lions clamber around the
jutting rocks. Lazy whales roll on the quiet waters of the bay,
their track an oily wake.

It is the land of siesta, of undreamed dreams, of brooding slumber.

The barbaric diversions of the day are done. The firing squad
leave the guns. The twang of guitar and screech of violin open the
fandango.

The young cavaliers desert the streets. Bibulous dignitaries sit
in council around Governor Alvarado's table. Mexican cigars, wine
in old silver flagons (fashioned by the deft workers of Chihuahua
and Durango), and carafes of aguadiente, garnish the board.

The mahogany table (a mark of official grandeur), transported
from Acapulco, is occupied (below the salt) by the young officers.
Horse-racing, cock-fighting, and gambling on the combat of bear
and bull, have not exhausted their passions. Public monte and faro
leave them a few "doubloons" yet. Seated with piles of Mexican
dollars before them, the young heroes enjoy a "lay-out." All their
coin comes from Mexico. Hundreds of millions, in unminted gold and
silver, lie under their careless feet, yet their "pieces of eight"
date back to Robinson Crusoe! This is the land of "manana!" Had
Hernando Cortez not found the treasures of Mexico, he might have
fought his way north, over the Gila Desert, to the golden hoards
of the sprites of the Sierras.

At the banquet fiery Alvarado counselled with General Vallejo.
Flushed with victory, Captain Miguel was the lion of this feast.
He chatted with his compadres.

The seniors talked over the expulsion of the strangers.

Cool advisers feared trouble from France, England, or the United
States. Alvarado's instinct told him that foreigners would gain
a mastery over the Dons, if permitted to enter in numbers. Texas
was an irresistible warning. "Senores," said Alvarado, "the Russians
came in 1812. Only a few, with their Kodiak Indians, settled at
Bodega. Look at them now! They control beautiful Bodega! They
are 800 souls! True, they say they are going, but only our posts at
San Rafael and Sonoma checked them. A fear of your sword, General!"
Alvarado drank to Vallejo.

Vallejo bowed to his Governor. "Senor," said he, "you are right.
I have seen Mexico. I have been a scholar, as well as a soldier. I
knew Von Resanoff's Russian slyness. My father was at the Presidio
in 1807, when he obtained rights for a few fur hunters. Poor fellow!
he never lived to claim his bride, but he was a diplomat."

"Foreigners will finally outroot us. Here is Sutter, building his
fort on the Sacramento! He's a good fellow, yet I'll have to burn
New Helvetia about his ears some day. Russian or Swiss, French or
Yankee, it's all the same. The 'Gringo' is the worst of all. Poor
Conception de Arguello. She waited long for her dead Russian lover."

"General, do you think the Yankees can ever attack us by land?"
said Alvarado.

"Madre de Dios! No!" cried Vallejo, "we will drag them at our
horses' tails!"

"Then, I have no fear of them," said Alvarado. "We occupy San
Diego, Santa Barbara, Monterey, and San Francisco, the missions of
San Juan Capistrano, Los Angeles, San Luis Obispo and Santa Clara,
and help to control the Indians, but these home troubles have
stopped their useful growth."

Governor Alvarado sighed. Governor Hijar in 1834 had desecularized
the Catholic missions. Their cattle were stolen, their harvests
and vineyards destroyed. The converts were driven off to seek new
homes among the Utes, Yubas, Feather River, Napa, and Mohave tribes.

Pious Alvarado crossed himself. He glanced uneasily at Padre
Castillo,--at the board. Only one or two priests were left at the
beautiful settlements clustering around the old mission churches.
To-day these are the only architectural ornaments of Alta California.

"I doubt the wisdom of breaking up the missions," said Alvarado,
with gloomy brow. A skeleton was at this feast. The troubled Governor
could not see the handwriting on the wall. He felt California was
a priceless jewel to Mexico. He feared imprudent measures. Lying
dormant, California slept since Cabrillo saw Cape Mendocino in
1542. After he turned his shattered prows back to Acapulco on June
27, 1543, it was only on November 10, 1602, that ambitious Viscaino
raised the Spanish ensign at San Diego. He boldly claimed this
golden land for Spain. Since that furtive visit, the lonely coast
lay unsettled. It was only used as a haunt by wild pirates, lurking
to attack the precious Philippine galleons sailing to Acapulco. For
one hundred and sixty-eight years the land was unvisited. Spanish
greed and iron rule satisfied itself with grinding the Mexicans
and turning southward in the steps of Balboa and Pizarro.

Viscaino's neglected maps rotted in Madrid for two centuries.
Fifty-five years of Spanish rule left California undeveloped, save
by the gentle padres who, aided by their escort, brought in the
domestic animals. They planted fruit-trees, grains, and the grape.
They taught the peaceful Indians agriculture. Flax, hemp, and
cotton supplanted the skins of animals.

Alvarado and Vallejo remembered the Spanish war in 1822. At this
banquet of victory, neither thought that, a few years later, the
rule of the Dons would be over; that their familiar places would
know them no more. Just retribution of fate! The Dons drove out
the friars, and recked not their own day was close at hand.

As the exultant victors stood drinking the toast of the day,
"Muerte los estrangeros," neither crafty statesman, sly priest,
fiery general, wise old Don, nor reckless caballero, could predict
that the foreigners would return in two years. That they would come
under protection of the conquering British flag.

Alvarado was excited by his feuds with Micheltorrena. The people
were divided into clericals and anti-clericals. A time of "storm
and stress" hung over all.

Wise in victory was Captain Miguel Peralta. His campaign against
the foreigners marked the close of his service. Born in 1798, his
family were lords of broad lands on the Alamedas of San Francisco
Bay. He was sent to the city of Mexico and educated, serving in
the army of the young republic. Returning to Alta California, he
became a soldier.

Often had he sallied out to drive the warlike Indian toward the
Sacramento. In watching his mustangs and cattle, he rode far to
the slopes of the Sierra Nevadas. Their summits glittered under the
blue skies, crowned with silvery snows, unprofaned by the foot of
man.

A sturdy caballero, courtly and sagacious. His forty-two years
admonished him now to settle in life. When Alvarado was in cheeriest
mood, at the feast, the Captain reminded him of his promise to release
him. This would allow Peralta to locate a new ten-league-square
grant of lands, given him for past services to the State.

Graciously the Governor accorded the request. Noblesse oblige!
"Don Miguel, is there any reason for leaving us besides your new
rancho?" said Alvarado. The Captain's cheek reddened a little.
"Senor Gobernador, I have served the State long," said he. "Juanita
Castro waits for me at San Francisco. I will lay off my rancho on
the San Joaquin. I move there in the spring."

Alvarado was delighted. The health of Senorita Juanita Castro was
honored by the whole table. They drank an extra bumper for gallant
Don Miguel, the bridegroom.

The Governor was pleased. Powerful Castros and Peraltas stretched
from the Salinas, by San Jose and Santa Clara, to Martinez; and
San Rafael as well as Sonoma. By this clan, both Sutter's Fort and
the Russians could be watched.

This suitable marriage would bring a thousand daring horsemen to
serve under the cool leadership of Don Miguel in case of war.

Peralta told the Governor he would explore the San Joaquin. He
wished to locate his ranch where he could have timber, wood, water,
game, and mountain air.

Don Miguel did not inform the chief of the state that in riding from
San Diego to Cape Mendocino he had found one particular garden of
Paradise. He had marked this for his home when his sword would be
sheathed in honor.

"I will say, your Excellency," said the Captain, "I fear for the
future. The Yankees are growing in power and are grasping. They
have robbed us of lovely Texas. Now, it is still a long way for
their ships to come around dreary Cape Horn. We had till late years
only two vessels from Boston; I saw their sails shining in the bay
of San Francisco when I was five years old. I have looked in the
Presidio records for the names. The Alexander and the Aser, August
1st, 1803. Then, they begged only for wood and water and a little
provision. Now, their hide-traders swarm along our coast. They will
by and by come with their huge war-ships. These trading-boats have
no cannon, but they are full of bad rum. Our coast people will be
cleared out. Why, Catalina Islands," continued the Captain, "were
peopled once densely. There are yet old native temples there. All
these coast tribes have perished. It is even worse since the holy
fathers were robbed of their possessions."

The good soldier crossed himself in memory of the wise padres. They
owned the thousands of cattle, sheep, and horses once thronging the
oat-covered hills. Theirs were the fruits, grains, and comforts
of these smiling valleys, untrodden yet by a foreign foe.

"Your Excellency, when the Yankee war-ships have come, we cannot
resist them. Our batteries are old and poor, we have little
ammunition. Our arms are out of repair. The machete and lasso are
no match for their well-supplied men-of-war. I shall locate myself
so far in the interior that the accursed Gringos cannot reach me
with their ships or their boats. The trappers who straggle over the
deserts from Texas our horsemen will lasso. They will bring them
in bound as prisoners."

"Miguel, mi compadre," said the Governor, "do you think they
can cross the deserts?" He was startled by Peralta's views of the
future.

"Senor," said the Captain, "I saw the first American who came
overland. The wanderer appeared in 1826. It was the 20th of December.
He was found half starved by our vaqueros. I have his name here on
a piece of paper. I have long carried it, for I was a guard over
him."

Miguel slowly spelled off the detested Yankee name, Jedediah S.
Smith, from a slip of cartridge paper in his bolsa. Glory be to
the name of Smith!

"Where THAT one Yankee found a way, more will come, but we will
meet and fight them. This is our OWN land by the right of discovery.
The good King Philip II. of Spain rightfully claimed this (from his
orders to Viceroy Monterey in 1596). We get our town name here in
his honor. We will fight the English, and these accursed Yankees.
They have no right to be here. This is our home," cried fiery
Miguel, as he pledged the hospitable Governor. He passed out into
the dreaming, starry night. As he listened to the waves softly
breaking on the sandy beach, he thought fondly of Juanita Castro.
He fumbled over the countersign as the sentinel presented his old
flint-lock musket.

Both Governor and Captain sought the repose of their Spartan pillows.
The Captain forgot, in his zeal for Spanish dominion, that daring
Sir Francis Drake, in days even then out of the memory of man,
piloted the "Golden Hind" into Drake's Bay. He landed near San
Francisco in 1578, and remained till the early months of 1579. Under
the warrant of "good Queen Bess" he landed, and set up a pillar
bearing a "fair metal plate" with a picture of that antiquated
but regal coquette. He nailed on the pillar a "fair struck silver
five-pence," saluting the same with discharge of culverins, much
hearty English cheer and nautical jollity. The land was English--by
proscription.

Sir Francis, gallant and courtly, was, like many travellers, as
skilful at drawing the long bow as in wielding the rapier. He was
not believed at home.

Notwithstanding, he tarried months and visited the inland Indians,
bringing home many objects of interest, announcing "much gold and
silver," his voyage was vain. His real discovery was deemed of no
practical value. The robust Indians swarmed in thousands, living
by the watersides in huts, wearing deerskin cloaks and garments
of rushes. Hunters and fishers were they. They entertained the
freebooter, and like him have long since mouldered to ashes. Along
the Pacific Coast great mounds of shells, marking their tribal
seaside feasts, are now frequently unearthed. Their humble history
is shadowed by the passing centuries. They are only a memory,
a shadow on Time's stream. Good Queen Bess sleeps in the stately
fane of Westminster. Sir Francis's sword is rusted. The "brazen
plate" recording that date and year is of a legendary existence only.
"Drake's Bay" alone keeps green the memory of the daring cruiser.
Even in one century the Spanish, Russian, Mexican, and American
flags successively floated over the unfrequented cliffs of California.
Two hundred years before, the English ensign kissed the air in
pride, unchallenged by the haughty Spaniard.

Miguel Peralta was happy. He had invited all the officials to attend
the nuptials by the Golden Gate. Venus was in the ascendant. The
red planet of Mars had set, he hoped, forever. The officers and
gentry contemplated a frolicsome ride around the Salinas bend, over
the beautiful passes to Santa Clara valley and the town of Yerba
Buena.

Peralta's marriage was an excuse for general love making. A display
of all the bravery of attire and personal graces of man and maid
was in order.

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