The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

Doña Eustaquia slipped from the crowd and out of the house.  Drawing a reboso about her head she walked swiftly down the street and across the plaza.  Sounds of ribaldry came from the lower end of the town, but the aristocratic quarter was very quiet, and she walked unmolested to the house of General Castro.  The door was open, and she went down the long hall to the sleeping room of Doña Modeste.  There was no response to her knock, and she pushed open the door and entered.  The room was dimly lit by the candles on the altar.  Doña Modeste was not in the big mahogany bed, for the heavy satin coverlet was still over it.  Doña Eustaquia crossed the room to the altar and lifted in her arms the small figure kneeling there.

“Pray no more, my friend,” she said.  “Our prayers have been unheard, and thou art better in bed or with thy friends.”

Doña Modeste threw herself wearily into a chair, but took Doña Eustaquia’s hand in a tight clasp.  Her white skin shone in the dim light, and with her black hair and green tragic eyes made her look like a little witch queen, for neither suffering nor humiliation could bend that stately head.

“Religion is my solace,” she said, “my only one; for I have not a brain of iron nor a soul of fire like thine.  And, Eustaquia, I have more cause to pray to-night.”

“It is true, then, that José is in retreat?  Ay, Mary!”

“My husband, deserted by all but one hundred men, is flying southward from San Juan Bautista.  I have it from the wash-tub mail.  That never is wrong.”

“Ingrates!  Traitors!  But it is true, Modeste—­surely, no?—­that our general will not surrender?  That he will stand against the Americans?”

“He will not yield.  He would have marched upon Monterey and forced them to give him battle here but for this base desertion.  Now he will go to Los Angeles and command the men of the South to rally about him.”

“I knew that he would not kiss the boots of the Americans like the rest of our men!  Oh, the cowards!  I could almost say to-night that I like better the Americans than the men of my own race. They are Castros!  I shall hate their flag so long as life is in me; but I cannot hate the brave men who fight for it.  But my pain is light to thine.  Thy heart is wrung, and I am sorry for thee.”

“My day is over.  Misfortune is upon us.  Even if my husband’s life is spared—­ay! shall I ever see him again?—­his position will be taken from him, for the Americans will conquer in the end.  He will be Commandante-General of the army of the Californias no longer, but—­holy God!—­a ranchero, a caballero!  He at whose back all California has galloped!  Thou knowest his restless aspiring soul, Eustaquia, his ambition, his passionate love of California.  Can there be happiness for such a man humbled to the dust—­no future! no hope?  Ay!”—­she sprang to her feet with arms uplifted, her small slender form looking twice its height as it palpitated against the shadows, “I feel the bitterness of that spirit!  I know how that great heart is torn.  And he is alone!” She flung herself across Doña Eustaquia’s knees and burst into violent sobbing.

Doña Eustaquia laid her strong arm about her friend, but her eyes were more angry than soft.  “Weep no more, Modeste,” she said.  “Rather, arise and curse those who have flung a great man into the dust.  But comfort thyself.  Who can know?  Thy husband, weary with fighting, disgusted with men, may cling the closer to thee, and with thee and thy children forget the world in thy redwood forests or between the golden hills of thy ranchos.”

Doña Modeste shook her head.  “Thou speakest the words of kindness, but thou knowest José.  Thou knowest that he would not be content to be as other men.  And, ay!  Eustaquia, to think that it was opposite our own dear home, our favourite home, that the American flag should first have been raised!  Opposite the home of José Castro!”

“To perdition with Frémont!  Why did he, of all places, select San Juan Bautista in which to hang up his American rag?”

“We never can live there again.  The Gabilan Mountains would shut out the very face of the sun from my husband.”

“Do not weep, my Modeste; remember thy other beautiful ranchos.  Dios de mi alma!” she added with a flash of humour, “I revere San Juan Bautista for your husband’s sake, but I weep not that I shall visit you there no more.  Every day I think to hear that the shaking earth of that beautiful valley has opened its jaws and swallowed every hill and adobe.  God grant that Frémont’s hair stood up more than once.  But go to bed, my friend.  Look, I will put you there.”  As if Doña Modeste were an infant, she undressed and laid her between the linen sheets with their elaborate drawn work, then made her drink a glass of angelica, folded and laid away the satin coverlet, and left the house.

She walked up the plaza slowly, holding her head high.  Monterey at that time was infested by dogs, some of them very savage.  Doña Eustaquia’s strong soul had little acquaintance with fear, and on her way to General Castro’s house she had paid no attention to the snarling muzzles thrust against her gown.  But suddenly a cadaverous creature sprang upon her with a savage yelp and would have caught her by the throat had not a heavy stick cracked its skull.  A tall officer in the uniform of the United States navy raised his cap from iron-gray hair and looked at her with blue eyes as piercing as her own.

“You will pardon me, madam,” he said, “if I insist upon attending you to your door.  It is not safe for a woman to walk alone in the streets of Monterey at night.”

Doña Eustaquia bent her head somewhat haughtily.  “I thank you much, señor, for your kind rescue.  I would not like, at all, to be eaten by the dogs.  But I not like to trouble you to walk with me.  I go only to the house of the Señor Larkin.  It is there, at the end of the little street beyond the plaza.”

“My dear madam, you must not deprive the United States of the pleasure of protecting California.  Pray grant my humble request to walk behind you and keep off the dogs.”

Her lips pressed each other, but pride put down the bitter retort.

“Walk by me, if you wish,” she said graciously.  “Why are you not at the house of Don Thomas Larkin?”

“I am on my way there now.  Circumstances prevented my going earlier.”  His companion did not seem disposed to pilot the conversation, and he continued lamely, “Have you noticed, madam, that the English frigate Collingwood is anchored in the bay?”

“I saw it in the morning.”  She turned to him with sudden hope.  “Have they—­the English—­come to help California?”

“I am afraid, dear madam, that they came to capture California at the first whisper of war between Mexico and the United States; you know that England has always cast a covetous eye upon your fair land.  It is said that the English admiral stormed about the deck in a mighty rage to-day when he saw the American flag flying on the fort.”

“All are alike!” she exclaimed bitterly, then controlled herself.  “You—­do you admeer our country, señor?  Have you in America something more beautiful than Monterey?”

The officer looked about him enthusiastically, glad of a change of topic, for he suspected to whom he was talking.  “Madam, I have never seen anything more perfect than this beautiful town of Monterey.  What a situation!  What exquisite proportions!  That wide curve of snow-white sand about the dark blue bay is as exact a crescent as if cut with a knife.  And that semicircle of hills behind the town, with its pine and brush forest tapering down to the crescent’s points!  Nor could anything be more picturesque than this scattered little town with its bright red tiles above the white walls of the houses and the gray walls of the yards; its quaint church surrounded by the ruins of the old presidio; its beautiful, strangely dressed women and men who make this corner of the earth resemble the pages of some romantic old picture-book—­”

“Ay!” she interrupted him.  “Much better you feel proud that you conquer us; for surely, señor, California shall shine like a diamond in the very centre of America’s crown.”  Then she held out her hand impulsively.

“Mucho gracias, señor—­pardon—­thank you very much.  If you love my country, señor, you must be my friend and the friend of my daughter.  I am the Señora Doña Eustaquia Carillo de Ortega, and my house is there on the hill—­you can see the light, no?  Always we shall be glad to see you.”

He doffed his cap again and bent over her hand.

“And I, John Brotherton, a humble captain in the United States navy, do sincerely thank the most famous woman of Monterey for her gracious hospitality.  And if I abuse it, lay it to the enthusiasm of the American who is not the conqueror but the conquered.”

“That was very pretty—­speech.  When you abuse me I put you out the door.  This is the house of Don Thomas Larkin, where is the ball.  You come in, no?  You like I take your arm?  Very well”

And so the articles of peace were signed.