The Little Lady of Lagunitas by Richard Henry Savage

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Directing Hardin to select a subordinate in his place, Valois returns
to Lagunitas. He must say farewell to loving wife and prattling
child. Too well known to be allowed to follow Showalter, Terry,
and their fellows over the Colorado desert, he must go to Guaymas
in Mexico. He can thus reach the Confederates at El Paso. From
thence it is easy to reach New Orleans. Then to the front. To the
field.

Valois feels it would be useless for him to go via Panama. The
provost-marshal would hold him as a "known enemy."

With rage, Valois realizes a new commander makes latent treason
uncomfortable in California. He determines to reach El Paso, and
hurl the Texans on California. Should he fail, he heads a Louisiana
regiment. His heart tells him the war will be long and bloody.
Edmund Randolph's loyalty, at the outbreak, prevented the seizure
of California. Sibley's folly and Davis's indifference complete
the ruin of the Western plan of action.

"Hardin, hold the Knights together. I will see if I can stop a
Yankee bullet!" says Valois. He notifies Hardin that he intends to
make him sole trustee of his property in his absence.

Hardin's term on the bench has expired. Like other Southerners
debarred from taking the field, he gives aid to those who go. The
men who go leave hostages behind them. The friendship of years causes
Yalois to make him the adviser of his wife in property matters.
He makes him his own representative. "Thank Heaven!" cries Valois,
"my wife's property is safe. No taint from me can attach to her
birthright. It is her own by law."

Valois, at Lagunitas, unfolds to the sorrowing padre his departure
for the war. Safe in the bosom of the priest, this secret is a heavy
load. Valois gains his consent to remain in charge of Lagunitas. The
little girl begins to feebly walk. Her infant gaze cannot measure
her possessions.

Lovely Dolores Valois listens meekly to her husband's plans. Devoted
to Maxime, his will is her only law. The beautiful dark eyes are
tinged with a deeper lustre.

Busied with his affairs, Maxime thinks of the future as he handles
his papers. Francois Ribaut is the depositary of his wishes. Dolores
is as incapable as her child in business. Will God protect these
two innocents?

Valois wonders if he will return in defeat like Don Miguel. Poor
old Don! around his tomb the roses creep,--his gentle Juanita by
his side.

He hopes the armies of the West will carry the banner, now flying
from Gulf to border, into the North. There the legendary friends
of the South will hail it.

Alas! pent up in California, Maxime hears not the murmurs of the
Northern pines, breathing notes of war and defiance. The predictions
of the leaders of the conspiracy are fallacious. Aid and comfort
fail them abroad. North of Mason and Dixon's line the sympathizers
are frightened.

In his heart he only feels the tumult of the call to the field. It
is his pride of race. Tired, weary of the crosses of fortune, he
waits only to see the enemy's fires glittering from hill and cliff.

With all his successes, the West has never been his home. Looking
out on his far-sweeping alamedas, his thoughts turn fondly back
to his native land. He is "going home to Dixie."

CHAPTER XI.

"I'SE GWINE BACK TO DIXIE."--THE FORTUNES OF WAR.--VAL VERDE.

The last weeks of Maxime Valois' stay at Lagunitas drift away.
Old "Kaintuck" has plead in vain to go. He yields to Valois' orders
not to dream of going with him. His martial heart is fired, but
some one must watch the home. Padre Francois Ribaut has all the
documents of the family, the marriage, and birth of the infant heir.
He is custodian also of the will of Donna Dolores. She leaves her
family inheritance to her child, and failing her, to her husband.
The two representatives of the departing master know that Philip
Hardin will safely guide the legal management of the estate while
its chieftain is at the wars.

Donna Dolores and the priest accompany Valois to San Francisco. He
must leave quietly. He is liable to arrest. He takes the Mexican
steamer, as if for a temporary absence.

It costs Maxime Valois a keen pang of regret, as he rides the last
time over his superb domain. He looks around the plaza, and walks
alone through the well-remembered rooms. He takes his seat, with
a sigh, by his wife's side, as the carriage whirls him down the
avenues. The orange-trees are in bloom. The gardens show the rare
beauties of midland California. As far as the eye can reach, the
sparkle of lovely Lagunitas mirrors the clouds flaking the sapphire
sky. Valois fixes his eyes once more upon his happy home. Peace,
prosperity, progress, mining exploration, social development, all
smile through this great interior valley of the Golden State. No war
cloud has yet rolled past the "Rockies." It is the golden youth of
the commonwealth. The throbbing engine, clattering stamp, whirling
saw, and busy factory, show that the homemakers are moving on
apace, with giant strides. No fairer land to leave could tempt a
departing warrior. But even with a loved wife and his only child
beside him, the Southerner's heart "turns back to Dixie."

Passing rapidly through Stockton, where his old friends vainly
tempt him to say, publicly, good-by, he refrains. No one must know
his destination. No parting cup is drained.

In San Francisco, Philip Hardin, in presence of Valois' wife and
the padre, receives his powers of attorney and final directions.
Letters, remittances, and all communications are to be sent through
a house in Havana. The old New Orleans family of Valois is well
known there. Maxime will be able, by blockade-runners and travelling
messengers, to obtain his communications.

The only stranger in San Francisco who knows of Maxime's departure
is the old mining partner, Joe Woods. He is now a middle-aged man
of property and vigor. He comes from the interior to say adieu to
his friend. "Old times" cloud their eyes. But the parting is secret.
Federal spies throng the streets.

At the mail wharf the Mexican steamer, steam up, is ready for
departure. The last private news from the Texan border tells of
General Sibley's gathering forces. Provided with private despatches,
and bundles of contraband letters for the cut-off friends in the
South, Maxime Valois repairs to the steamer. Several returning
Texans and recruits for the Confederacy have arrived singly. They
will make an overland party from Guaymas, headed by Valois. Valois,
under the orders of the Golden Circle, has been charged with
important communications. Unknown to him, secret agents of the
government watch his departure. He has committed no overt act. He
goes to a neutral land.

The calm, passionless face of Padre Francois Ribaut shows a tear
trembling in his eye. He leads the weeping wife ashore from the
cabin. The last good-by was sacred by its silent sorrow. Valois'
father's heart was strangely thrilled when he kissed his baby
girl farewell, on leaving the little party. Even rebels have warm
hearts.

Philip Hardin's stern features relax into some show of feeling as
Valois places his wife's hands in his. That mute adieu to lovely
Dolores moves him. "May God deal with you, Hardin, as you deal with
my wife and child," solemnly says Valois. The lips of Francois
Ribaut piously add "Amen. Amen."

Padre Francisco comes back to the boat. With French impulsiveness,
he throws himself in Valois' arms. He whispers a friend's blessing,
a priest's benediction.

The ORIZABA glides out past two or three watchful cruisers flying
the Stars and Stripes. The self-devoted Louisianian loses from sight
the little knot of dear ones on the wharf. He sees the flutter of
Dolores' handkerchief for the last time. On to Dixie! Going home!

Out on the bay, thronged with the ships of all nations, the steamer
glides. Its shores are covered with smiling villages. Happy homes
and growing cities crown the heights. Past grim Alcatraz, where
the star flag proudly floats on the Sumter-like citadel, the boat
slowly moves. It leaves the great metropolis of the West, spreading
over its sandy hills and creeping up now the far green valleys. It
slips safely through the sea-gates of the West, and past the grim
fort at the South Heads. There, casemate and barbette shelter the
shotted guns which speak only for the Union.

Valois' heart rises in his throat as the sentinel's bayonet glitters
in the sunlight. Loyal men are on the walls of the fort. Far away
on the Presidio grounds, he can see the blue regiments of Carleton's
troops, at exercise, wheel at drill. The sweeping line of a cavalry
battalion moves, their sabres flash as the lines dash on. These
men are now his foes. The tossing breakers of the bar throw their
spray high over bulwarks and guard. In grim determination he
watches the last American flag he ever will see in friendship, till
it fades away from sight. He has now taken the irrevocable step.
When he steps on Mexican soil, he will be "a man without a country."
Prudential reasons keep him aloof from his companions until Guaymas
is reached. Once ashore, the comrades openly unite. Without delay
the party plunges into the interior. Well armed, splendidly mounted,
they assume a semi-military discipline. The Mexicans are none too
friendly. Valois has abundant gold, as well as forty thousand
dollars in drafts on Havana, the proceeds of Lagunitas' future
returns advanced by Hardin.

Twenty days' march up the Yaqui Valley, through Arispe, where the
filibusters died with Spartan bravery, is a weary jaunt. But high
hopes buoy them up. Over mesa and gorge, past hacienda and Indian
settlement, they climb passes until the great mountains break away.
Crossing the muddy Rio Grande, Valois is greeted by old friends.
He sees the Confederate flag for the first time, floating over the
turbulent levies of Sibley, still at Fort Bliss.

Long and weary marches; dangers from bandit, Indian, and lurking
Mexican; regrets for the home circle at Lagunitas, make Maxime Valois
very grave. Individual sacrifices are not appreciated in war-time.
As he rides through the Confederate camp, his heart sinks. The
uncouth straggling plainsmen, without order or regular equipment,
recall to him his old enemies, the nomadic Mexican vaqueros.

There seems to be no supply train, artillery, or regular stores. These
are not the men who can overawe the compact California community.
Far gray rocky sandhills stretch along the Texan border. Over the
Rio Grande, rich mountain scenery delights the eye. It instantly
recalls to Valois the old Southern dream of taking the "Zona Libre."
Tamaulipas, Coahuila, and Nueva Leon were coveted as a crowning
trophy of the Mexican war. Dreams of olden days.

Received kindly by General Sibley, the Louisianian delivers his
letters, despatches, and messages. After rest and refreshment, he
is asked to join a council of war. There are fleet couriers, lately
arrived, who speak of Carleton's column being nearly ready to cross
the Colorado. When the General explains his plan of attacking the
Federal forces in New Mexico, and occupying Arizona, Valois hastens
to urge a forced march down to the fertile Gila. He trusts to Canby
timidly holding on to Fort Union and Fort Craig. Alas, Sibley's
place of recruiting and assembly has been ill chosen! The animals,
crowded on the bare plains, suffer for lack of forage. Recruits
are discouraged by the dreary surroundings. The effective strength
has not visibly increased in three months. The Texans are wayward.
A strong column, well organized, in the rich interior of Texas, full
of the early ardor of secession might have pushed on and reached
the Gila. But here is only a chafing body of undisciplined men.
They are united merely by political sentiment.

General Sibley urges Valois to accompany him in his forward march.
He offers him a staff position, promising to release him, then
to move to the eastward. Valois' knowledge of the frontier is
invaluable, and he cannot pass an enemy in arms. Maxime Valois,
with fiery energy, aids in urging the motley command forward. On
February 7, 1862, the wild brigade of invasion reaches the mesa near
Fort Craig. The "gray" and "blue" meet here in conflict, to decide
the fate of New Mexico and Arizona. Feeble skirmishing begins. On
the 2lst of February, the bitter conflict of Val Verde shows Valois
for the first time--alas, not the last!--the blood of brothers
mingled on a doubtful field. It is a horrid fight. A drawn battle.

Instead of pushing on to Arizona, deluded by reports of local aid,
Sibley straggles off to Santa Fe and Albuquerque. Canby refits his
broken forces under the walls of strong Fort Union. Long before the
trifling affairs of Glorietta and Peralta, Valois, disgusted with
Sibley, is on his way east. He will join the Army of the West. His
heart sickens at the foolish incapacity of the border commander.
The Texan column melts away under Canby's resolute advance. The
few raiders, who have ridden down into Arizona and hoisted the
westernmost Confederate flag at Antelope Peak, are chased back
by Carleton's strong column. The boasted "military advance on
California" is at an end. Carleton's California column is well over
the Colorado. The barren fruits of Val Verde are only a few buried
guns of McRea's hard-fought battery. The gallantry of Colonel
Thos. P. Ochiltree, C.S.A., at Val Verde, under the modest rank of
"Captain," is the only remembered historic incident of that now
forgotten field. The First Regiment and one battalion of the Second
California Volunteer Cavalry, the Fifth California Infantry, and
a good battery hold Arizona firmly. The Second Battalion, Second
California Cavalry, the Fifth California Cavalry, and Third California
Infantry, under gallant General Pat Connor, keep Utah protected.
They lash the wild Indians into submission, and prevent any rising.

General Canby and Kit Carson's victorious troops keep New Mexico.
They cut the line of any possible Confederate advance. Only Sibley's
pompous report remains now to tell of the fate of his troops, who
literally disbanded or deserted. An inglorious failure attends the
dreaded Texan attack.

The news, travelling east and west, by fugitives, soon announce
the failure of this abortive attempt. The golden opportunity of
the fall of 1861 never returns.

The Confederate operations west of the Rio Grande were only
a miserable and ridiculous farce. Valois, leaving failure behind
him, learns on nearing the Louisiana line, that the proud Pelican
flag floats no longer over the Crescent City. It lies now helpless
under the guns of fearless Farragut's fleet. So he cannot even
revisit the home of his youth. Maxime Valois smuggles himself
across the Mississippi. He joins the Confederates under Van Dorn.
He is a soldier at last.

Here in the circling camps of the great Army of the West, Maxime
Valois joins the first Louisiana regiment he meets. He realizes
that the beloved Southern Confederacy has yet an unbeaten army. A
grand array. The tramp of solid legions makes him feel a soldier,
not a sneaking conspirator. He is no more a guerilla of the plains,
or a fugitive deserter of his adopted State.

The capture of New Orleans seals the Mississippi. The Confederacy
is cut in twain. It is positive now, the only help from the golden
West will be the arrival of parties of self-devoted men like
himself. They come in squads, bolting through Mexico or slipping
through Arizona. Some reach Panama and Havana, gaining the South by
blockade runners. He opens mail communication with Judge Hardin,
via Havana. He succeeds in exchanging views with the venerable
head of his house at New Orleans. It is all gloomy now. Old and
despondent, the New Orleans patriarch has sent his youthful son
away to Paris. Armand is too young to bear arms. He can only come
home and do a soldier's duty later. By family influence, Maxime
Valois finds himself soon a major in a Louisiana regiment. He wears
his gray uniform at the head of men already veterans. Shiloh's
disputed laurels are theirs. They are tigers who have tasted blood.
In the rapidly changing scenes of service, trusting to chance for
news of his family, Maxime Valois' whole nature is centred upon
the grave duties of his station. Southern victories are hailed
from the East. The victorious arms of the Confederacy roll back
McClellan's great force. Bruised, bleeding, and shattered from the
hard-fought fields of the Peninsula, the Unionists recoil. The
stars of the Southern Cross are high in hope's bright field. Though
Richmond is saved for the time, it is at a fearful cost. Malvern
Hill shakes to its base under the flaming cannon, ploughing the
ranks of the dauntless Confederates, as the Army of the Potomac
hurls back the confident legions of Lee, Johnston, and Jackson.
The Army of the Potomac is decimated. The bloody attrition of the
field begins to wear off these splendid lines which the South can
never replace. Losses like those of Pryor's Brigade, nine hundred
out of fifteen hundred in a single campaign, would appall any but
the grim Virginian soldiers. They are veterans now. They learn the
art of war in fields like Seven Pines and Fair Oaks. Even Pryor,
as chivalric in action as truculent in debate, now admits that the
Yankees will fight. Fredericksburg's butchery is a victory of note.
All the year the noise of battle rolls, while the Eastern war is
undecided, for the second Manassas and awful Antietam balance each
other. Maxime Valois feels the issue is lost. When the shock of
battle has been tried at Corinth, where lion-like Rosecrans conquers,
when the glow of the onset fades away, his heart sinks. He knows
that the iron-jointed men of the West are the peers of any race in
the field.

Ay! In the West it is fighting from the first. Donelson, Shiloh,
and Corinth lead up to the awful death shambles of Stone River,
Vicksburg, and Chickamauga. These are scenes to shake the nerve of
the very bravest.

Heading his troops on the march, watching the thousand baleful
fires of the enemy at night, when friend and foe go down in the
thundering crash of battle, Valois, amazed, asks himself, "Are
these sturdy foes the Northern mudsills?"

For, proud and dashing as the Louisiana Tigers and Texan Rangers
prove, steady and vindictive the rugged Mississippians, dogged and
undaunted the Georgians, fierce the Alabamans--the honest candor
of Valois tells him no human valor can excel the never-yielding
Western troops. Their iron courage honors the blue-clad men of Iowa,
Michigan, and the Lake States. No hired foreigners there; no helot
immigrants these men, whose glittering bayonets shine in the
lines of Corinth, as steadily as the spears of the old Tenth Roman
Legion--Caesar's pets.

With unproclaimed chivalry and a readiness to meet the foe
which tells its own story, the Western men come on. Led by Grant,
Sherman, Rosecrans, Sheridan, Thomas, McPherson, and Logan, they
press steadily toward the heart of the Confederacy. The rosy dreams
of empire in the great West fade away. Farragut, Porter, and the
giant captain, Grant, cut off the Trans-Mississippi from active
military concert with the rest of the severed Confederacy.

To and fro rolls the red tide of war. Valois' soldierly face,
bronzed with service, shows only the steady devotion of the soldier.
He loves the cause--once dear in its promise--now sacred in its
hours of gloomy peril and incipient decadence. Gettysburg, Vicksburg,
and Port Hudson are terrible omens of a final day of gloom. Letters
from his wife, reports from Judge Hardin, and news from the Western
shores give him only vague hints of the future straggling efforts
on the Pacific. The only comforting tidings are that his wife and
child are well, by the peaceful shores of Lagunitas. The absence
of foreign aid, the lack of substantial support from the Northern
sympathizers, and the slight hold on the ocean of the new government,
dishearten him. The grim pressure everywhere of the Northern lines
tells Valois that the splendid chivalry of the Southern arms is
being forced surely backward. Sword in hand, his resolute mind
unshaken, the Louisianian follows the Stars and Bars, devoted and
never despairing. "Quand meme."

In the long silent days at Lagunitas, the patient wife learns
much from the cautious disclosures of Padre Francisco. Her soldier
husband's letters tell her the absent master of Lagunitas is
winning fame and honor in a dreadful conflict. It is only vaguely
understood by the simple Californian lady.

Her merry child is rapidly forgetting the self-exiled father. Under
the bowers of Lagunitas she romps in leafy alley and shady bower.

Judge Hardin, grave-faced, cautious, frugal of speech, visits the
domain several times. In conference with Padre Francisco and the
vigilant "Kaintuck," he adjusts the accumulating business affairs.

Riding over the billowing fields, mounting the grassy hills,
threading the matchless forests of uncut timber, he sees all. He
sits plotting and dreaming on the porch by the lake side. Thousands
of horses and cattle, now crossed and improved, are wealth wandering
at will on every side. Hardin's dark eyes grow eager and envious.
He gazes excitedly on this lordly domain. Suppose Valois should never
come back. This would be a royal heritage. He puts the maddening
thought away. Within a few miles, mill and flume tell of the tracing
down of golden quartz lodes. The pick breaks into the hitherto
undisturbed quartz ledges of Mariposa gold. Is there gold to be
found here, too? Perhaps.

Only an old prating priest, a simple woman, and an infant, between
him and these thousands of rich acres, should Valois be killed.

Philip Hardin becomes convinced of final defeat, as 1863 draws to
a close. The days of Gettysburg and Vicksburg ring the knell of
the Confederacy. Even the prestige of Chancellorsville, with its
sacred victory sealed with Stonewall Jackson's precious blood,
was lost in the vital blow delivered when the columns of Longstreet
and Pickett failed to carry the heights of Gettysburg.

The troops slain on that field could never be replaced. Boyhood
and old age, alone, were left to fill the vacant ranks. Settling
slowly down, the gloomy days of collapse approach.

While Lee skilfully faced the Army of the Potomac, and the Confederacy
was drained of men to hold the "sacred soil," the Western fields
were lit up by the fierce light of Grant and Sherman's genius. Like
destroying angels, seconded by Rosecrans, Thomas, and McPherson,
these great captains drew out of the smoke of battle, gigantic
figures towering above all their rivals.

Maxime Valois bitterly deplored the uselessness of the war in the
trans-Mississippi section of the Confederacy. It is too late for
any Western divisions to affect the downward course of the sacred
cause for which countless thousands have already died.

The Potomac armies of the Union, torn with the dissensions of
warring generals, wait for the days of the inscrutable Grant and
fiery Philip Sheridan. In the West, the eagle eye of Rosecrans
has caught the weakness of the unguarded roads to the heart of the
Confederacy.

Stone River and Murfreesboro' tell of the wintry struggle to the
death for the open doors of Chattanooga. Though another shall wear
the laurels of victory, it is the proud boast of Rosecrans alone
to have divined the open joint in the enemy's harness. He points
the way to the sea for the irresistible Sherman. While the fearless
gray ranks thin day by day, in march and camp, Valois thinks often
of his distant home. Straggling letters from Philip Hardin tell
him of the vain efforts of the cowed secessionists of the Pacific
Coast. Loyal General George Wright holds the golden coast. Governor
and Legislature, Senators and Congressmen, are united. The press
and public sentiment are now a unit against disunion or separation.

Colonel Valois looked for some effective action of the Knights of
the Golden Circle on the Pacific. Alas, for the gallant exile!
Impending defeat renders the secret conspirators cautious. In the
cheering news that wife and child are well, still guarded by the
sagacious Padre Francois, Valois frets only over the consecutive
failures of Western conspiracy. Folly and fear make the Knights of
the Golden Circle a timid band. The "Stars and Stripes" wave now,
unchallenged, over Arizona and New Mexico. The Texans at Antelope
Peak never returned to carry the "Stars and Bars" across the
Colorado. Vain boasters!

While Bragg toils and plots to hurl himself on Rosecrans in the
awful day of Chickamauga, where thirty-five thousand dying and
wounded are offered up to the Moloch of Disunion, Valois bitterly
reads Hardin's account of the puerile efforts on the Pacific. It
is only boys' play.

All energy, every spark of daring seems to have left the men who,
secure in ease and fortune, live rich and unharassed in California.
Their Southern brethren in the ranks reel blindly in the bloody
mazes of battle, fighting in the field. A poor Confederate lieutenant
attempts a partisan expedition in the mountains of California. He
is promptly captured. The boyish plan is easily frustrated. Bands
of resolute marauders gather at Panama to attack the Californian
steamers, gold-laden. The vigilance of government agents baffles
them. The mail steamers are protected by rifle guns and bodies
of soldiers. Loyal officers protect passengers from any dash of
desperate men smuggled on board. Secret-service spies are scattered
over all the Western shores. Mails, telegraphs, express, and the
growing railway facilities, are in the hands of the government. It
is Southern defeat everywhere.

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