The Little Lady of Lagunitas by Richard Henry Savage

R >> Richard Henry Savage >> The Little Lady of Lagunitas

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29

Valois sadly realizes the only help from the once enthusiastic
West is a few smuggled remittances. Here and there, some quixotic
volunteer makes his way in. An inspiring yell for Jeff Davis, from
a tipsy ranchero, or incautious pothouse orator, is all that the
Pacific Coast can offer.

The Confederate flag never sweeps westward to the blue Pacific,
and the stars and bars sink lower day by day. As the weakness of
American commerce is manifest on the sea, Colonel Valois forwards
despairing letters to California. He urges attacks from Mexico,
Japan, Panama, or the Sandwich Islands, on the defenceless ships
loaded with American gold and goods. Unheeded, alas! these last
appeals. Unfortunately, munitions of war are not to be obtained in
the Pacific. The American fleets, though poor and scattered, are
skilfully handled. Consuls and diplomats everywhere aid in detecting
the weakly laid plans of the would-be pirates.

Still Valois fumes, sword in hand, at the pusillanimity of the
Western sympathizers. They are rich and should be arming. Why do
they not strike one effective blow for the cause? One gun would sink
a lightly built Pacific liner, or bring its flag down. Millions
of gold are being exported to the East from the treasure fields
of the West. Though proud of the dauntless, ragged gray ranks he
loves, Valois feels that the West should organize a serious attack
on some unprotected Federal interest, to save the issue. But the
miserable failure of Sibley has discouraged Confederate Western
effort. The Confederate Californian grinds his teeth to think that
one resolute dash of the scattered tens of thousands lying in camp,
uselessly, in Arkansas and Texas, would even now secure California.
Even now, as the Confederate line of battle wastes away, desperate
Southern men dream of throwing themselves into Mexico as an
unwelcome, armed immigration. This blood is precious at home.

Stung by the taunts of Eastern friends, at last Philip Hardin and
his co-workers stir to some show of action.

Peacefully loading in San Francisco harbor for Mexico, a heavy schooner
is filled with the best attainable fittings for a piratical cruise.

The J.W. Chapman rises and falls at the wharves at half gun-shot from
the old U.S. frigate CYANE. Her battery could blow the schooner
into splinters, with one broadside. Tackle and gear load the
peaceful-looking cases of "alleged" heavy merchandise. Ammunition
and store of arms are smuggled on board. Mingling unsuspectedly
with the provost guard on the wharves, a determined crew succeed
in fitting out the boat. Her outward "Mexican voyage" is really an
intended descent on the treasure steamers.

Disguised as "heavy machinery," the rifled cannons are loaded.
When ready to slip out of the harbor, past the guard-boats, the
would-be pirate is suddenly seized. The vigilant Federal officials
have fathomed the design. Some one has babbled. Too much talk, or
too much whiskey.

Neatly conceived, well-planned, and all but executed, it was a bold
idea. To capture a heavy Panama steamer, gold-laden; to transfer
her passengers to the schooner, and land them in Mexico; and,
forcing the crew to direct the vessel, to lie in wait for the
second outgoing steamer, was a wise plan. They would then capture
the incoming steamer from Panama, and ravage the coast of California.

With several millions of treasure and three steamers, two of them
could be kept as cruisers of the Confederacy. They could rove over
the Pacific, unchallenged. Their speed would be their safety.

Mexican and South American ports would furnish coal and supplies.
The captured millions would make friends everywhere. The swift
steamers could baffle the antiquated U.S. war vessels on the
Pacific. A glorious raid over the Pacific would end in triumph in
India or China.

These were the efforts and measures urged by Valois and the anxious
Confederates of the East.

It was perfectly logical. It was absolutely easy to make an effective
diversion by sea. But some fool's tongue or spy's keen eye ruins
all.

When, months after the seizure of the CHAPMAN, Valois learns of
this pitiful attempt, he curses the stupid conspirators. They had
not the brains to use a Mexican or Central American port for the
dark purposes of the piratical expedition. Ample funds, resolute
men, and an unprotected enemy would have been positive factors of
success. Money, they had in abundance. Madness and folly seem to
have ruled the half-hearted conspirators of California. An ALABAMA
or two on the Pacific would have been most destructive scourges of
the sea. The last days of opportunity glide by. The prosaic records
of the Federal Court in California tell of the evanescent fame of
Harpending, Greathouse, Rubery, Mason, Kent, and the other would-be
buccaneers. The "Golden Circle" is badly shattered.

Every inlet of the Pacific is watched, after the fiasco of the
Chapman. She lies at anchor, an ignoble prize to the sturdy old
Cyane. It is kismet.

Maxime Valois mourns over the failure of these last plans to save
the "cause." Heart-sick, he only wonders when a Yankee bullet will
end the throbbings of his unconquerable heart. All is dark.

He fears not for his wife and child. Their wealth is secured. He loses,
from day to day, the feelings which tied him once to California.

The infant heiress he hardly knows. His patient, soft-eyed Western
wife is now only a placid memory. Her gentle nature never roused
the inner fires of his passionate soul. Alien to the Pacific
Coast, a soldier of fortune, the ties into which he drifted were
the weavings of Fate. His warrior soul pours out its devotion in
the military oath to guard to the last the now ragged silken folds
of his regimental banner, the dear banner of Louisiana. The eyes
of the graceful Creole beauties who gave it are now wet with bitter
tears. Beloved men are dying vainly, day by day, under its sacred
folds. Even Beauty's spell is vain.

The wild oats are golden once more on the hills of Lagunitas; the
early summer breezes waft stray leaf and blossom over the glittering
lake in the Mariposa Mountains. Heading the tireless riflemen
of his command, Valois throws himself in desperation on the Union
lines at Chickamauga. Crashing volley, ringing "Napoleons," the
wild yell of the onset, the answering cheers of defiance, sound
faintly distant as Maxime Valois drops from his charger. He lies
seriously wounded in the wild rush of Bragg's devoted battalions.
He has got his "billet."

For months, tossing on a bed of pain, the Louisianian is a sacred
charge to his admiring comrades. Far in the hills of Georgia, the
wasted soldier chafes under his absence from the field. The beloved
silken heralds of victory are fluttering far away on the heights of
Missionary Ridge. His faded eye brightens, his hollow cheek flushes
when the glad tidings reach him of the environment of Rosecrans.
His own regiment is at the front. He prays that he may lead it,
when it heads the Confederate advance into Ohio. For now, after
Chickamauga's terrific shock, the tide of victory bears northward
the flag of his adoration. Months have passed since he received any
news of his Western domain. No letters from Donna Dolores gladden
him. Far away from the red hills of Georgia, in tenderness his
thoughts, chastened with illness, turn to the dark-eyed woman who
waits for him. She prays before the benignant face of the Blessed
Virgin for her warrior husband. Alas, in vain!

Silent is Hardin. No news comes from Padre Francisco. Nothing from
his wife. Valois trusts to the future. The increasing difficulty of
contraband mails, hunted blockade-runners, and Federal espionage,
cut off his home tidings.

His martial soul thrilled at the glories of Chickamauga, Valois
learns that California has shown its mettle on the fiercest field
of the West. Cheatham, Brooks, and fearless Terry have led to the
front the wild masses of Bragg's devoted soldiery. These sons of
California, like himself, were no mere carpet knights. On scattered
Eastern fields, old friends of the Pacific have drawn the sword
or gallantly died for Dixie. Garnett laid his life down at Rich
Mountain. Calhoun Benham was a hero of Shiloh. Wild Philip Herbert
manfully dies under the Stars and Bars on the Red River.

The stain of cold indifference is lifted by these and other
self-devoted soldiers who battle for the South.

With heavy sighs, the wounded colonel still mourns for the failure
to raise the Southern Cross in the West. Every day proves how
useless have been all efforts on the Pacific Coast. Virginia is
now the "man eater" of the Confederacy. Valois is haunted with the
knowledge that some one will retrace the path of Rosecrans. Some
genius will break through the open mountain-gates and cut the
Confederacy in twain. It is an awful suspense.

While waiting to join his command, he hungers for home news. Grant,
the indomitable champion of the North, hurls Bragg from Missionary
Ridge. Leaping on the trail of the great army, which for the first
time deserts its guns and flags, the blue-clad pursuers press
on toward Chattanooga. They grasp the iron gate of the South with
mailed hand.

The "Silent Man of Destiny" is called East to measure swords with
stately Lee. He trains his Eastern legions for the last death-grapple.
On the path toward the sea, swinging out like huntsmen, the columns
of Sherman wind toward Atlanta. Bluff, impetuous, worldly wise,
genius inspired, Sherman rears day by day the pyramid of his
deathless fame. Confident and steady, bold and untiring, fierce
as a Hannibal, cunning as a panther, old Tecumseh bears down upon
the indefatigable Joe Johnston. Now comes a game worthy of the
immortal gods. It is played on bloody fields. The crafty antagonists
grapple in every cunning of the art of war. Rivers of human blood
make easy the way. The serpent of the Western army writhes itself
into the vitals of the torn and bleeding South. Everywhere the
resounding crash of arms. Alas, steadfast as Maxime Valois' nature
may be, tried his courage as his own battle blade, the roar of
battle from east to west tells him of the day of wrath! The yells
and groans of the trampled thousands of the Wilderness, are echoed
by the despairing chorus of the dying myriads of Kenesaw and
Dalton. A black pall hangs over a land given up to the butchery
of brothers. Mountain chains, misted in the blue smoke of battle,
rise unpityingly over heaps of unburied dead from the Potomac to
the Mississippi. Maxime Valois knows at last the penalty of the
fatal conspiracy. A sacrificed generation, ruined homes, and the
grim ploughshare of war rives the fairest fields of the Land of
the Cypress.

Fearless and fate-defying, under ringing guns, crashing volley, and
sweeping charge, the Southern veterans only close up the devoted
gray ranks. They are thinning with every conflict, where Lee and
Johnston build the slim gray wall against the resistless blue sea
sweeping down.

There is no pity in the pale moon. The cold, steady stars shine down
on the upturned faces of the South's best and bravest. No craven
blenching when the tattered Stars and Bars bear up in battle blast.
And yet the starry flag crowns mountain and rock. It sweeps through
blood-stained gorges and past battle-scarred defile. Onward,
ever southward. The two giant swordsmen reel in this duel of
desperation. Sherman and Johnston may not be withheld. The hour of
fate is beginning to knell the doom of the cause. Southern mothers
and wives have given up their unreturning brave as a costly sacrifice
on the altar of Baal. Valois, once more in command, a colonel now,
riding pale and desperate, before his men, sees their upturned
glances. The dauntless ranks, filing by, touch his heroic heart.
He fears, when Atlanta's refuge receives the beaten host, that
the end is nigh.

Bereft of news from his home, foreseeing the final collapse in
Virginia, assured that the sea is lost to the South, the colonel's
mood is daily sadder. His hungry eyes are wolfish in their steady
glare. Only a soldier now. His flag is his altar of daily sacrifice.

Port after port falls, foreign flatterers stand coldly aloof,
empty magazines and idle fields are significant signs of the end.
Useless cotton cannot be sent out or made available, priceless
though it be. The rich western Mississippi is now closed as a
supply line for the armies. The paper funds of the new nation are
mere tokens of unpaid promises, never to be redeemed.

Never to falter, not to shun the driving attacks of the pursuing
horse or grappling foot, to watch his battle-flag glittering in the
van, to lead, cheer, hope, inspire, and madly head his men, is the
second nature of Valois. He has sworn not to see his flag dishonored.

It never occurs to him to ask WHERE his creed came from. His blood
thrills with the passionate devotion which blots out any sense of
mere right and wrong. His motto is "For Dixie's Land to Death."

CHAPTER XII.

HOOD'S DAY.--PEACHTREE CREEK.--VALOIS' LAST TRUST.--DE GRESS'
BATTERY.--DEAD ON THE FIELD OF HONOR.

A lantern burns dimly before the tent of Colonel Valois on the night
of July 21, 1864. Within the lines of Atlanta there is commotion.
Myriad lights flicker on the hills. A desperate army at bay is
facing the enemy. Seven miles of armed environment mocks the caged
tigers behind these hard-held ramparts. Facing north and east,
the gladiators of the morrow lie on their arms, ready now for the
summons to fall in, for a wild rush on Sherman's pressing lines.
It is no holiday camp, with leafy bowers and lovely ladies straying
in the moonlight. No dallying and listening to Romeos in gray and
gold. No silver-throated bugles wake the night with "Lorena." No
soft refrain of the "Suwanee River" melts all the hearts. It is
not a gala evening, when "Maryland, my Maryland," rises in grand
appeal. The now national "Dixie" tells not of fields to be won.
It is a dark presage of the battle morrow. Behind grim redan and
salient, the footsore troops rest from the day's indecisive righting.
The foeman is not idle; all night long, rumbling trains and busy
movements tell that "Uncle Billy Sherman" never sleeps. His blue
octopus crawls and feels its way unceasingly. The ragged gray ranks,
whose guns are their only pride, whose motto is "Move by day; fight
always," are busy with the hum of preparation.

It is a month of horror. North and South stand aghast at the
unparalleled butchery of the Wilderness and Spottsylvania. The
awful truth that Grant has paved his bloody way to final victory
with one hundred thousand human bodies since he crossed the
Rapidan, makes the marrow cold in the bones of the very bravest.
Sixty thousand foes, forty thousand friends, are the astounding
death figures. As if the dark angel of death was not satisfied with
a carnage unheard of in modern times, Johnston, the old Marshal
Ney of the Confederacy, gives way, in command of the Southern army
covering Atlanta, to J.B. Hood. He is the Texan lion. Grizzled
Sherman laughs on the 18th of July, when his spies tell him Johnston
is relieved. "Replenish every caisson from the reserve parks;
distribute campaign ammunition," he says, briefly. "Hood would
assault me with a corporal's guard. He will fight by day or night.
I know him," Uncle Billy says.

The great Tecumseh feels a twinge as he whips out this verdict.
Hood's tactics are fearful. There are thousands of mute witnesses of
his own fatal rashness lying at Kenesaw, whose tongues are sealed
in death. On that sad clay, Sherman out-Hooded Hood. But the
blunt son of Ohio is right. He is a demi-god in intellect, and yet
he has the intuition of femininity. He has caught Hood's fighting
character at a glance.

There's no time to chaffer over the situation. McPherson, the pride
of the army, Thomas, the Rock of Chickamauga, and wary Schofield,
draw in the great Union forces. Gallant Howard is in this knightly
circle. "Black Jack" Logan, the "Harry Monmouth" of this coming
field, connects on the 19th. There has been hot work to-day. Firing
in Thomas's front tells the great strategist that Hood has tasted
blood. Enough!

Sherman knows how that mad Texan will throw his desperate men to
the front, in the snapping, ringing zone of fire and flame. Hooker
receives the shock of the onset, reinforced by heavy batteries, whose
blazing guns tear lightning-rent lanes through the Confederates.
Not a second to lose. The gray swarms are pouring on like mountain
wolves.

Fighting sharp and hot, the Union lines reach the strong defences
of Peachtree Creek. Here Confederate Gilmer's engineering skill
has prepared ditch and fraise, abattis and chevaux-de-frise, with
yawning graves for the soon-forgotten brave.

McPherson, Schofield, Howard, Hooker, and Palmer are all in line,
deployed with strong reserves.

Anxious Sherman sends clouds of orderly officers and scouts, right
and left. Hood's defiant volleys die away. Will the rush come to-day?
No; the hours wear away. The night brings quiet along the lines.
Though a red harvest lies on the field, it is not the crowning
effort of the entire enemy. It is only a rattling day of uneasy,
hot-tempered fight.

But the awful morrow is to come. Sherman soon divines the difficulty
of fathoming the Texan's real designs. Hood is familiar with the
ground. Drawing back to the lines of Atlanta, Hood crouches for
a desperate spring. The ridges of the red clay hills, with little
valleys running to the Chattahoochee in the west, and Ocmulgee
in the east, cover his manoeuvres. Corn and cotton patches, with
thick forests between, lie along the extended front. A tangled
undergrowth masks the entire movements of the lurking enemy.

Tireless Sherman, expectant of some demoniac rush, learns that the
array before him is under Hood, Hardee, and the audacious cavalry
leader, Wheeler. Stewart's and Smith's Georgian levies are also in
line.

Every disposition is made by the wary antagonists. Sherman,
eagle-eyed and prompt to join issue, gains a brief repose before
the gray of morning looses the fires of hell. McPherson, young and
brilliant, whose splendid star is in its zenith, firmly holds his
exposed lines along the railroad between two valleys. In his left
and rear, the forest throws out dark shades to cover friend and
foe. Between the waiting armies, petty murder stays its hands. The
stars sweep to the west, bringing the last morning to thousands.
They are now dreaming, perhaps, of the homes they will never see.
A thrill of nervous tension keeps a hundred thousand men in vague,
dumb expectancy. The coming shock will be terrible. No one can tell
the issue.

As the worn Confederate sentinel drags up and down before the tent
of Colonel Valois, he can see the thoughtful veteran sitting, his
tired head resting on a wasted hand.

Spirit and high soul alone animate now the Louisiana colonel. Hope
has fled. Over his devoted head the sentinel stars swing, with
neither haste nor rest, toward the occident. They will shine on
Lagunitas, smiling, fringed with its primeval pines.

In her sleep, perhaps his little girl calls for him in vain. He is
doomed not to hear that childish voice again.

A bundle of letters, carelessly tossed down at head-quarters,
have been carried in his bosom during the day's scattering fight.
They are all old in their dates, and travel-worn in following the
shifting positions of his skeleton regiment. They bring him, at
last, nearly a year's news.

Suddenly he springs to his feet, and his voice is almost a shriek.
"Sentinel, call the corporal." In a moment, Valois, with quivering
lip, says, "Corporal, ask Major Peyton to be kind enough to join
me for a few moments."

When his field-officer approaches, anticipating some important
charge of duty, sword and revolver in hand, the ghastly face of
Valois alarms him.

"Colonel!" he cries. Valois motions him to be seated.

"Peyton," begins Valois, brokenly, "I am struck to the heart."

He is ashy pale. His head falls on his friend's bosom.

"My wife!" He needs not finish. The open letters tell the story.
It is death news.

The major clasps his friend's thin hands.

"Colonel, you must bear up. We are fallen on sad, sad days." His
voice fails him. "Remember to-morrow; we must stand for the South."

The chivalric Virginian's voice sounds hollow and strange. He sought
the regiment, won over by Valois' lofty courage and stern military
pride. To-morrow the army is to grapple and crush bold Sherman.
It will be a death struggle.

Yes, out of these walls, a thunderbolt, the heavy column, already
warned, was to seek the Union left, and strike a Stonewall Jackson
blow. Its march will be covered by the friendly woods. The keen-eyed
adjutants are already warning the captains of every detail of
the attack. Calm and unmoved, the gaunt centurions of the thinned
host accepted the honorable charges of the forlorn hope. Valois'
powder-seasoned fragment of the army was a "corps d'elite." Peyton
wondered, as he watched his suffering colonel, if either would see
another sparkling jewel-braided night.

The blow of Hood must be the hammer of Thor.

"To-morrow, yes, to-morrow," mechanically replied Valois. "I will
be on duty to-morrow."

"To-night, Peyton," he simply said, "I must suffer my last agony.
My poor Dolores! Gone--my wife."

The tears trickled through his fingers as he bowed his graceful
head.

"And my little Isabel," he softly said; "she will be an orphan.
Will God protect that tender child? "Valois was talking to himself,
with his eyes fixed on the dark night-shadows hiding the Federal
lines. A stern, defiant gaze.

Peyton shivered with a nervous chill.

"Colonel, this must not be." In the silence of the brooding night,
it seems a ghastly call from another world, this message of death.

Valois proudly checks himself.

"Peyton, I have few friends left in this land now. I want you to
look these letters over." He hands him several letters from Hardin
and from the priest. With tender delicacy, his hands close on the
last words of affection from the gentle dark-eyed wife, who brought
him the great dowry of Lagunitas, and gave him his little Isabel.

Peyton reads the words, old in date but new in their crushing force
of sorrow to the husband. Resting on the stacked arms in front
of his tent, the colors of Louisiana and the silken shreds of the
Stars and Bars wait for the bugles of reveille calling again to
battle.

Dolores dying of sudden illness, cut off in her youthful prime, was
only able to receive the last rites of the Church, to smile fondly
in her last moments, as she kisses the picture of the absent soldier
of the Southern Cross. Francois Ribaut, the French gentleman, writes
a sad letter, with no formula of the priest. He knows Maxime Valois
is face to face with death, in these awful days of war. A costly
sacrifice on the altar of Southern rights may be his fate at any
moment.

It is to comfort, not admonish, to pledge every friendly office,
that the delicate-minded padre softens the blow. Later, the priest
writes of the lonely child, whose tender youth wards off the blow
of the rod of sorrow.

Philip Hardin's letter mainly refers to the important business
interests of the vast estate. The possibility of the orphanage of
Isabel occurs. He suggests the propriety of Colonel Valois' making
and forwarding a new will, and constituting a guardianship of the
young heiress. In gravest terms of friendship, he reminds Valois
to indicate his wishes as to the child, her nurture and education.
The fate of a soldier may overtake her surviving parent any day.

Other unimportant issues drop out of sight. Hardin has told of
the last attempt to fit out a schooner at a secluded lumber landing
in Santa Cruz County. They tried to smuggle on board a heavy
gun secretly transported there. An assemblage of desperate men,
gathering in the lonely woods, were destined to man the boat. By
accident, the Union League discovers the affair. Flight is forced
on the would-be pirates.

Valois' lip curls as he tells Peyton of the utter prostration of
the last Confederate hope beyond the Colorado. All vain and foolish
schemes.

"I wish your advice, Major," he resumes. In brief summing up,
he gives Peyton the outline of his family history and his general
wishes.

A final result of the hurried conclave is the hasty drawing up
of a will. It is made and duly witnessed. It makes Philip Hardin
guardian of the heiress and sole executor of his testament. His
newly descended property he leaves to the girl child, with directions
that she shall be sent to Paris. She is to be educated to the time
of her majority at the "Sacred Heart." There in that safe retreat,
where the world's storms cannot reach the defenceless child, he
feels she will be given the bearing and breeding of a Valois. She
must be fitted for her high fortunes.

He writes a fond letter to Father Francisco, to whom he leaves
a handsome legacy, ample to make him independent of all pecuniary
cares. He adjures that steadfast friend to shield his darling's
childhood, to follow and train her budding mind in its development.
He informs him of every disposition, and sends the tenderest thanks
for a self-devotion of years.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29