Excerpt
CHAPTER I. UNDER THE MEXICAN EAGLE.—EXIT THE FOREIGNER.—MONTEREY, 1840.
"Caramba! Adios, Seflores!" cried Captain Miguel Peralta, sitting on his roan charger on the Monterey bluffs. A white-sailed bark is heading southward for Acapulco. His vaqueros tossed up their sombreros, shouting, "Vive Alvarado! Muerte los estrangeros!"
The Pacific binds the hills of California in a sapphire zone, unflecked by a single sail in sight, save the retreating trader, which is flitting around "Punta de los Pinos."
It is July, 1840. The Mexican ensign flutters in the plaza ofMonterey, the capital of Alta California.
Miguel Peralta dismounts and crosses himself, murmuring, "Sea porDios y la Santissima Virgen."
His duty is done. He has verified the departure of the Yankee ship.It is crowded with a hundred aliens. They are now exiles.
Gathered in by General Vallejo, the "pernicious foreigners" havebeen held at Monterey, until a "hide drogher" comes into the port.Alvarado permits her to anchor under the guns of the hill battery.He then seizes the ship for his use.
Captain Peralta is given the honor of casting out these Ishmaels of fortune. He views calmly their exit. It is a land which welcomes not the "Gringo." The ship-master receives a draft on Acapulco for his impressed service. These pioneer argonauts are warned (on pain of death) not to return. It is a day of "fiesta" in Monterey. "Vive Alvarado!" is the toast.
So, when Captain Miguel dashes into the Plaza, surrounded with his dare-devil retainers, reporting that the vessel is off shore, the rejoicing is unbounded.
Cannons roar: the yells of the green jacket and yellow scrape brigade rise on the silent reaches of the Punta de los Pinos. A procession winds up to the Carmel Mission. Governor Alvarado, his staff, the leading citizens, the highest families, and the sefioritas attend a mass of thanksgiving. Attired in light muslins, with here and there a bright-colored shawl giving a fleck of color, and silk kerchiefs —fleecy—the ladies' only other ornaments are the native flowers which glitter on the slopes of Monterey Bay. Bevies of dark-eyed girls steal glances at Andres, Ramon, or Jose, while music lends a hallowing charm to the holy father's voice as he bends before the decorated altar. Crowds of mission Indians fill the picturesque church. Every heart is proud. Below their feet sleeps serenely good Fray "Junipero Serra." He blessed this spot in 1770;—a man of peace, he hung the bells on the green oaks in a peaceful wilderness. High in air, to-day they joyously peal out a "Laus Deo." When the mystery of the mass rehearses the awful sacrifice of Him who died for us all, a silence broods over the worshippers. The notes of the choristers' voices slowly die away. The population leaves the church in gay disorder.
The Bells of the Past throw their spells over the mossy church—at once triumph, tomb, and monument of Padre Junipero. Scattered over the coast of California, the padres now sleep in the Lethe of death....