The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

Doña Eustaquia seldom gave balls, but once a week she opened her salas to the more intellectual people of the town.  A few Americans were ever attendant; General Vallejo often came from Sonoma to hear the latest American and Mexican news in her house; Castro rarely had been absent; Alvarado, in the days of his supremacy, could always be found there, and she was the first woman upon whom Pio Pico called when he deigned to visit Monterey.  A few young people came to sit in a corner with Benicia, but they had little to say.

The night after the picnic some fifteen or twenty people were gathered about Doña Eustaquia in the large sala on the right of the hall; a few others were glancing over the Mexican papers in the little sala on the left.  The room was ablaze with many candles standing, above the heads of the guests, in twisted silver candelabra, the white walls reflecting their light.  The floor was bare, the furniture of stiff mahogany and horse-hair, but no visitor to that quaint ugly room ever thought of looking beyond the brilliant face of Doña Eustaquia, the lovely eyes of her daughter, the intelligence and animation of the people she gathered about her.  As a rule Doña Modeste Castro’s proud head and strange beauty had been one of the living pictures of that historical sala, but she was not there to-night.

As Captain Brotherton and Lieutenant Russell entered, Doña Eustaquia was waging war against Mr. Larkin.

“And what hast thou to say to that proclamation of thy little American hero, thy Commodore”—­she gave the word a satirical roll, impossible to transcribe—­“who is heir to a conquest without blood, who struts into history as the Commander of the United States Squadron of the Pacific, holding a few hundred helpless Californians in subjection?  O warlike name of Sloat!  O heroic name of Stockton!  O immortal Frémont, prince of strategists and tacticians, your country must be proud of you!  Your newspapers will glorify you!  Sometime, perhaps, you will have a little history bound in red morocco all to yourselves; whilst Castro—­” she sprang to her feet and brought her open palm down violently upon the table, “Castro, the real hero of this country, the great man ready to die a thousand deaths for the liberty of the Californians, a man who was made for great deeds and born for fame, he will be left to rust and rot because we have no newspapers to glorify him, and the Gringos send what they wish to their country!  Oh, profanation!  That a great man should be covered from sight by an army of red ants!”

“By Jove!” said Russell, “I wish I could understand her!  Doesn’t she look magnificent?”

Captain Brotherton made no reply.  He was watching her closely, gathering the sense of her words, full of passionate admiration for the woman.  Her tall majestic figure was quivering under the lash of her fiery temper, quick to spring and strike.  The red satin of her gown and the diamonds on her finely moulded neck and in the dense coils of her hair grew dim before the angry brilliancy of her eyes.

The thin sensitive lips of Mr. Larkin curled with their accustomed humour, but he replied sincerely, “Yes, Castro is a hero, a great man on a small canvas—­”

“And they are little men on a big canvas!” interrupted Doña Eustaquia.

Mr. Larkin laughed, but his reply was non-committal.  “Remember, they have done all that they have been called upon to do, and they have done it well.  Who can say that they would not be as heroic, if opportunity offered, as they have been prudent?”

Doña Eustaquia shrugged her shoulders disdainfully, but resumed her seat.  “You will not say, but you know what chance they would have with Castro in a fair fight.  But what chance has even a great man, when at the head of a few renegades, against the navy of a big nation?  But Frémont!  Is he to cast up his eyes and draw down his mouth to the world, whilst the man who acted for the safety of his country alone, who showed foresight and wisdom, is denounced as a violator of international courtesy?”

“No,” said one of the American residents who stood near, “history will right all that.  Some day the world will know who was the great and who the little man.”

“Some day!  When we are under our stones!  This swaggering Commodore Stockton adores Frémont and hates Castro.  His lying proclamation will be read in his own country—­”

The door opened suddenly and Don Fernando Altimira entered the room.  “Have you heard?” he cried.  “All the South is in arms!  The Departmental Assembly has called the whole country to war, and men are flocking to the standard!  Castro has sworn that he will never give up the country under his charge.  Now, Mother of God! let our men drive the usurper from the country.”

Even Mr. Larkin sprang to his feet in excitement.  He rapidly translated the news to Brotherton and Russell.

“Ah!  There will be a little blood, then,” said the younger officer.  “It was too easy a victory to count.”

Every one in the room was talking at once.  Doña Eustaquia smote her hands together, then clasped and raised them aloft.

“Thanks to God!” she cried.  “California has come to her senses at last!”

Altimira bent his lips to her ear.  “I go to fight the Americans,” he whispered.

She caught his hand between both her own and pressed it convulsively to her breast.  “Go,” she said, “and may God and Mary protect thee.  Go, my son, and when thou returnest I will give thee Benicia.  Thou art a son after my heart, a brave man and a good Catholic.”

Benicia, standing near, heard the words.  For the first time Russell saw the expression of careless audacity leave her face, her pink colour fade.

“What is that man saying to your mother?” he demanded.

“She promise me to him when he come back; he go to join General Castro.”

“Benicia!” He glanced about.  Altimira had left the house.  Every one was too excited to notice them.  He drew her across the hall and into the little sala, deserted since the startling news had come.  “Benicia,” he said hurriedly, “there is no time to be lost.  You are such a butterfly I hardly know whether you love me or not.”

“I no am such butterfly as you think,” said the girl, pathetically.  “I often am very gay, for that is my spirit, señor; but I cry sometimes in the night.”

“Well, you are not to cry any more, my very darling first!” He took her in his arms and kissed her, and she did not box his ears.  “I may be ordered off at any moment, and what may they not do with you while I am gone?  So I have a plan!  Marry me to-morrow!”

“Ay!  Señor!”

“To-morrow.  At your friend Blandina’s house.  The Hernandez like the Americans; in fact, as we all know, Tallant is in love with Blandina and the old people do not frown.  They will let us marry there.”

“Ay!  Cielo santo!  What my mother say?  She kill me!”

“She will forgive you, no matter how angry she may be at first.  She loves you—­almost as much as I do.”

The girl withdrew from his arms and walked up and down the room.  Her face was very pale, and she looked older.  On one side of the room hung a large black cross, heavily mounted with gold.  She leaned her face against it and burst into tears.  “Ay, my home!  My mother!” she cried under her breath.  “How I can leave you?  Ay, triste de mi!” She turned suddenly to Russell, whose face was as white as her own, and put to him the question which we have not yet answered.  “What is this love?” she said rapidly.  “I no can understand.  I never feel before.  Always I laugh when men say they love me; but I never laugh again.  In my heart is something that shake me like a lion shake what it go to kill, and make me no care for my mother or my God—­and you are a Protestant!  I have love my mother like I have love that cross; and now a man come—­a stranger! a conqueror! a Protestant! an American!  And he twist my heart out with his hands!  But I no can help.  I love you and I go.”