Читать книгу Folded Hills - Stewart Edward White - Страница 13

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“Why, yes,” said Larkin a little later. “What you hear is more or less true. Things are in a good deal of a mess. But it is inevitable. At least that is how it seems to me. The theory on which the missions were established was bound, sooner or later, to bring this state of things about.”

“I know nothing of these things,” said Andy. “I wish you’d tell me.”

“It is interesting,” agreed Larkin, settling back more comfortably. “Why, you see when the Spanish first came to this country the general idea was that the padres were to convert the Indians, and while they were doing that they were to be protected by the soldiers. The missions were built for that purpose. The theory I spoke of was this: that the land really belonged to the Indians, and they were to have it eventually, but only after they had been converted and civilized and taught so that they would be capable of running it. Until then the friars were to run it. The missions, really, owned only the land they were built on. Practically, of course, they owned it all. Now they were to control it all for ten years. That was supposed to be long enough to educate the Indians to take care of it for themselves. After that the missions were legally to become pueblos, towns, and the friars were merely to conduct the churches.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Exactly,” Larkin approved the shrewdness of Andy’s comment. “It was a long time ago, a lot longer than ten years. The friars, and every inhabitant of California, soon realized perfectly that ten years—or twenty, or thirty, for that matter—was too short a time to educate these Indians to take care of anything. But the ruling powers in Spain, and later in Mexico, were too far away. What did they know about it? Or care, for that matter? But there was always someone, for one reason or another, who wanted the letter of the law enforced.”

“That would be a sweet mess,” said Andy.

Larkin nodded agreement.

“So obvious a mess that nobody even considered it—in California. They passed a law, in Spain, in 1813 I think it was, that all missions that had been established ten years or over should turn over all their lands and all their wealth. Some of them by then had a lot of it, too. It was so silly that it was not even published in California until eight years later, and then it was not enforced. Nobody paid any attention to it. Then there was the revolution, and Spain was defeated, and Mexico took over the government. By this time the missions were very rich indeed. The Mexicans began to press matters.”

“What were they so interested in the Indians for?” asked Andy.

Larkin laughed shortly.

“Come now, Burnett, you’re not as simple as that!”

“You tell me,” said Andy, unruffled.

“The friars were all Spanish,”—Larkin was curt—“and Mexico had just gained independence and was fanatically distrustful of everything Spanish. The wealth of the missions was now enormous. Isn’t that enough?”

“The last will do,” said Andy dryly. “Go on. It’s interesting.”

“They kept sending governors up here with instructions. When they got here, the governors, if they had any sense at all, saw it wouldn’t do. So they did as little as they could. But they had to do something. They appointed committees to report on conditions—your friend Alvarado was on one of them; they gave a certain few picked Indians permission to leave the missions and hold land under certain conditions—if they had been Christians for fifteen years, and could prove they could support themselves, and I don’t know what all. In that way a few small pueblos were established. They were very small, and very few, and they did not amount to much, and they did no great immediate harm; but in another way they did a lot of harm.”

“How was that?”

“You know Indians. If you were to turn over to an Indian a certain amount of land and a certain number of cows and implements and so on, what would you expect to happen?”

“I’d expect him to sell the whole caboodle and get drunk,” said Andy.

Larkin popped out of his chair, hit Andy’s shoulder a resounding whack, and sat down again.

“By God!” he cried. “It’s like a breath of fresh air to talk with a man who can use his head!”

“Surely anybody can see that!” expostulated Andy.

“Most do not think of it one way or another,” said Larkin. “Of the few who do, only a small proportion care. Mañana, mañana! They are beginning to take notice lately, however,” Larkin presently went on after a short pause, “—and to take sides,” he added. He fell again into a brown study. Andy waited in Indian patience.

“This governor we have now, Figueroa,” Larkin resumed, “he really takes an interest. He was instructed to ‘proceed with secularization.’ He took the trouble to make a tour of the missions in person. You’ve stopped at a mission?”

“Yes,” said Andy, “at Santa Clara and San Juan Bautista.”

“Then I don’t need to tell you anything about their wealth and prosperity and their hospitality to the traveler. But Figueroa is shrewd enough to see below the surface. He talked to me about it. His opinion was that mischief beyond repair had already been done. By what we were talking about, I mean—the turning over some property to a few; the small pueblos. Except in a very few cases the Indians had done just what you said—sold everything and got drunk, and were back on the missions in no time at all. All the other Indians had become restless, and they wanted their ‘freedom’ too. Freedom to their simple minds meant no more work, no more punishment, and food from the padres just the same. It was becoming increasingly difficult to get anything out of them. Discipline had all gone to pot. So Figueroa tried a plan of his own, a sort of compromise. It was,” said Larkin, “a good idea; but it didn’t work.”

“What was it?” asked Andy.

“To give such Indians as seemed fitted for it their share of land and implements and seed and so on; but the Indians to remain under the authority of the Church.”

“Yes,” agreed Andy after a moment’s consideration, “that seems like a good plan; the padres could keep them from selling out. Why wouldn’t it work?”

“Because the Indians wouldn’t do it. They were offered the chance. At San Diego there were just two applicants. I think the most they got anywhere was ten. That was at San Luis Rey.”

“Those Injuns didn’t want land and hard work: they wanted a drunk,” observed Andy with a laugh.

“Exactly. It looked like a complete demonstration. The padres had known it, of course, all along. So had any of the Californians who had bothered to think about it at all. Figueroa saw it. He wrote to Mexico opposing all further steps in the matter; and he advised passing a law that in no case were any of the mission lands ever to come legally into the hands of white men—if any Indian got rid of them it must be to some other Indian. He got an immediate answer.”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” echoed Larkin dryly. “It was an order to complete secularization within four months. No ifs and ands about it.”

Andy whistled.

“So there you are!” said Larkin. “And that’s where this Hijar and Padres colony outfit comes in.”

“Anon?” queried Andy.

“Why, a good many people think—that is, the few who do think,” amended Larkin with a trace of bitterness—“that they have been collected with the sole idea of getting in on the loot. Some people claim to know positively that Hijar has with him twenty-one men to be appointed as civil administrators of mission property.”

“Is that so?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Larkin. “It looks reasonable. This Padres is a great talker. He is very active among the younger men. He doesn’t say much about missions direct; but he theorizes a lot about the rights of man, and the wrongs of the neophytes, and the tyranny of the friars. Right out of Rousseau. Ever read Rousseau?”

“I never read much of anything,” Andy reminded him.

Larkin nodded.

“I’m sorry for Figueroa,” he submitted. “He has his orders; and he has to obey them. If he does not, he will be recalled and someone else sent who will do as he is told. I think only the change of government in Mexico saved him as it is. He’s moving as slowly as he dares. If the Californians would only wake up to the situation—they like their padres well enough. But only a few of them—your friend, Alvarado”—he shrugged his shoulders—“most of the friars know the situation. Some of them are clear-sighted enough. Your friend Father Viador has given up in despair and gone back to Spain. He has been here for forty years.”

“Father Viador!” cried Andy. “But I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes; he, and others—Father Peyri at Santa Barbara; it is reported that, when he left, his people, weeping, waded out into the sea after his boat. At San Gabriel they say Father Sanchez is having all the mission cattle slaughtered. Father Duran—he is the head of the order, you know—is fighting desperately against the change.”

“Why, I had no idea——” exclaimed Andy.

Larkin lighted a cigarette.

“It is interesting,” said he, “but, I think, inevitable. The conduct of human affairs—what we call history—is always interesting: and inevitable.” He suddenly threw away the cigarette and sat forward in his chair. “It’s the most interesting thing there is! Why, Burnett, the very air is full of change. You and I will live to see it; your son will see more of it.” He waved his hand through the open window through which could be seen the somnolent plaza and the blue waters of the bay. “I’m going to tell you something, Burnett,” said he impressively. “That looks quiet and peaceful enough, doesn’t it? Looks as though it had been that way forever; as if it would stay that way forever. It won’t.”

Andy’s eyes followed his.

“What do you mean? What are you expecting to happen, sir?” he asked.

“I’m waiting to see,” said Larkin.

Andy arose to go. He was strangely stirred; stirred as he had not been since a day long past when, in another library of books, in another little city far away, he had listened to the words of another man, Benton of Missouri, groping as this man groped into a dim and troubled future. He drew a deep breath.

“Well, sir,” he said. “I thank you. This has been for me most interesting.”

Larkin aroused himself.

“Good-bye,” said he, “I am glad you came. It has been good to talk. Do not concern yourself too much with these matters. Who are we to meddle with destiny? But we can at least stand prepared—prepared to fall in step when she moves forward on her appointed way.” His mood fell from him almost visibly. “After all,” he said whimsically, “it is not our affair. You have your rancho and your son to make into a man. I am a merchant. It does not greatly matter whether the Mexicans or the friars win.”

“I like the padres,” said Andy.

“Some of them,” corrected Larkin. “There’s more than one kind. I could tell you things—I won’t: there are always two sides. I don’t know.”