The Splendid Idle Forties: Stories of Old California

On August twelfth Commodore Hull arrived on the frigate Warren, from Mazatlan, and brought the first positive intelligence of the declaration of war between Mexico and the United States.  Before the middle of the month news came that Castro and Pico, after gallant defence, but overwhelmed by numbers, had fled, the one to Sonora, the other to Baja California.  A few days after, Stockton issued a proclamation to the effect that the flag of the United States was flying over every town in the territory of California; and Alcalde Colton announced that the rancheros were more than satisfied with the change of government.

A month later a mounted courier dashed into Monterey with a note from the Alcalde of Los Angeles, wrapped about a cigarito and hidden in his hair.  The note contained the information that all the South was in arms again, and that Los Angeles was in the hands of the Californians.  Russell was ordered to go with Captain Mervine, on the Savannah, to join Gillespie at San Pedro; Brotherton was left at Monterey with Lieutenant Maddox and a number of men to quell a threatened uprising.  Later came the news of Mervine’s defeat and the night of Talbot from Santa Barbara; and by November California was in a state of general warfare, each army receiving new recruits every day.

Doña Eustaquia, hard and stern, praying for the triumph of her people, lived alone in the old house.  Benicia, praying for the return of her husband and the relenting of her mother, lived alone in her little house on the hill.  Friends had interceded, but Doña Eustaquia had closed her ears.  Brotherton went to her one day with the news that Lieutenant Russell was wounded.

“I must tell Benicia,” he said, “but it is you who should do that.”

“She betray me, my friend.”

“Oh, Eustaquia, make allowance for the lightness of youth.  She barely realized what she did.  But she loves him now, and suffers bitterly.  She should be with you.”

“Ay!  She suffer for another!  She love a strange man—­an American—­better than her mother!  And it is I who would die for her!  Ay, you cold Americans!  Never you know how a mother can love her child.”

“The Americans know how to love, señora.  And Benicia was thoroughly spoiled by her devoted mother.  She was carried away by her wild spirits, nothing more.”

“Then much better she live on them now.”

Doña Eustaquia sat with her profile against the light.  It looked severe and a little older, but she was very handsome in her rich black gown and the gold chain about her strong throat.  Her head, as usual, was held a little back.  Brotherton sat down beside her and took her hand.

“Eustaquia,” he said, “no friendship between man and woman was ever deeper and stronger than ours.  In spite of the anxiety and excitement of these last months we have found time to know each other very intimately.  So you will forgive me if I tell you that the more a friend loves you the more he must be saddened by the terrible iron in your nature.  Only the great strength of your passions has saved you from hardening into an ugly and repellent woman.  You are a mother; forgive your child; remember that she, too, is about to be a mother—­”

She caught his hand between both of hers with a passionate gesture.  “Oh, my friend,” she said, “do not too much reproach me!  You never have a child, you cannot know!  And remember we all are not make alike.  If you are me, you act like myself.  If I am you, I can forgive more easy.  But I am Eustaquia Ortega, and as I am make, so I do feel now.  No judge too hard, my friend, and—­infelez de mi! do not forsake me.”

“I will never forsake you, Eustaquia.”  He rose suddenly.  “I, too, am a lonely man, if not a hard one, and I recognize that cry of the soul’s isolation.”

He left her and went up the hill to Benicia’s little house, half hidden by the cypress trees that grew before it.

She was sitting in her sala working an elaborate deshalados on a baby’s gown.  Her face was pale, and the sparkle had gone out of it; but she held herself with all her mother’s pride, and her soft eyes were deeper.  She rose as Captain Brotherton entered, and took his hand in both of hers.  “You are so good to come to me, and I love you for your friendship for my mother.  Tell me how she is.”

“She is well, Benicia.”  Then he exclaimed suddenly:  “Poor little girl!  What a child you are—­not yet seventeen.”

“In a few months, señor.  Sit down.  No?  And I no am so young now.  When we suffer we grow more than by the years; and now I go to have the baby, that make me feel very old.”

“But it is very sad to see you alone like this, without your husband or your mother.  She will relent some day, Benicia, but I wish she would do it now, when you most need her.”

“Yes, I wish I am with her in the old house,” said the girl, pathetically, although she winked back the tears.  “Never I can be happy without her, even si he is here, and you know how I love him.  But I have love her so long; she is—­how you say it?—­like she is part of me, and when she no spik to me, how I can be happy with all myself when part is gone.  You understand, señor?”

“Yes, Benicia, I understand.”  He looked through the bending cypresses, down the hill, upon the fair town.  He had no relish for the task which had brought him to her.  She looked up and caught the expression of his face.

“Señor!” she cried sharply.  “What you go to tell me?”

“There is a report that Ned is slightly wounded; but it is not serious.  It was Altimira who did it, I believe.”

She shook from head to foot, but was calmer than he had expected.  She laid the gown on a chair and stood up.  “Take me to him.  Si he is wound, I go to nurse him.”

“My child!  You would die before you got there.  I have sent a special courier to find out the truth.  If Ned is wounded, I have arranged to have him sent home immediately.”

“I wait for the courier come back, for it no is right I hurt the baby si I can help.  But si he is wound so bad he no can come, then I go to him.  It no is use for you to talk at all, señor, I go.”

Brotherton looked at her in wonderment.  Whence had the butterfly gone?  Its wings had been struck from it and a soul had flown in.

“Let me send Blandina to you,” he said.  “You must not be alone.”

“I am alone till he or my mother come.  I no want other.  I love Blandina before, but now she make me feel tired.  She talk so much and no say anything.  I like better be alone.”

“Poor child!” said Brotherton, bitterly, “truly do love and suffering age and isolate.”  He motioned with his hand to the altar in her bedroom, seen through the open door.  “I have not your faith, I am afraid I have not much of any; but if I cannot pray for you, I can wish with all the strength of a man’s heart that happiness will come to you yet, Benicia.”

She shook her head.  “I no know; I no believe much happiness come in this life.  Before, I am like a fairy; but it is only because I no am unhappy.  But when the heart have wake up, señor, and the knife have gone in hard, then, after that, always, I think, we are a little sad.”