Читать книгу Folded Hills - Stewart Edward White - Страница 26

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Andy had become a pretty good californio. His attitude toward the internal politics of the time was that of his neighbors. A few, like Alvarado and Vallejo, took things seriously; and occasionally these managed to get the country stirred up to some kind of half-action. But the ranchos and haciendas were remote and withdrawn from such things. They could not scare up any real interest. Indeed half the time they did not learn the news until weeks or months after the event, and then probably in garbled form. A lot of things happened; but somehow they seemed to have no intimate, no vital concern, though they were interesting to talk about and sometimes gratifying to learn.

Thus Andy’s Monterey friend, Alvarado, had fulfilled Don Sylvestre’s joking prediction and become governor. Mexico had at last gone a little too far; made the mistake that gave Alvarado his excuse. After Figueroa’s death she sent as his successor a most peculiar individual named Mariano Chico. He was a queer little man, wore goggles, spent a lot of his time grubbing among flowers, from which he invented remedies for what he supposed were his ailments. He had strong political views as to Mexico’s powers; was a martinet; and extremely punctilious of his personal dignity. These things need not have mattered; California had seen much worse. But Chico’s contempt—or indifference—to California society finally permitted him to appear at a formal Monterey dance with his mistress, Doña Cruz. Now nobody cared that Chico had brought with him a mistress, though mistresses were against the California idea; and nobody did more than shrug the shoulder when the fair lady proved complaisant to many. But to attempt to force her on formal society was too much. Doña Cruz was a vivid and vulgar creature. She brought with her to the ball as companion a local light o’ love. The assembly promptly dissolved. There were indignation meetings that became more indignant the more they talked about it. Even Chico’s pig-headed arrogance became alarmed. He sent messengers to the military commanders, Vallejo and Portilla, summoning the troops. Both sent back polite messages to the effect that they were fighting Indians and could not come, though the students of documents can find none recording any such troubles at that time. Matters became more threatening. The caballeros of Monterey were highly incensed over this insult to their ladies. Alvarado smiled sardonically at this sudden ebullition over a social error succeeding the bland indifference to crying injustice; but he seized the occasion. He managed to scare Chico into what amounted to abdication. The governor took ship—with Doña Cruz—with the announced intention of seeking reinforcements in Mexico. His departure was as peculiar as his administration. On the beach, before the grim and silent assemblage of caballeros, he embraced Alvadaro and presented him with a recipe for a cure-all; but as he set foot in the small boat he turned a contorted face on the político.

“May crows peck your eyes out!” he yelled.

He bowed ceremonially to the caballeros; then rushed forward to kiss a wrinkled old Indian squaw, shouting:

“I thus take leave of the best man in California!”

“May I never set eyes upon this accursed land again!” he snarled at them; and yet, after he had gone, it was discovered that he had left a fine gold watch to be regulated, “pending my return.”

His next in command was Nicolás Gutierrez who, naturally, took over as acting governor until Chico’s return, or until his successor was appointed. Nicolás was a Californian, and was well liked as a hacendado. He was a stout man of light complexion and reddish hair, wearing a long beard sprinkled with gray. A peculiar cast in his right eye gave him the nickname of El Tuerto. On his rancho he lived a grand, devil-may-care, bibulous, roaring, hospitable life that he thoroughly enjoyed and that was but mildly deprecated, for Nicolás was a jolly soul. Chico had made him a military commandant, much against his inclination. He had no use for public office. Responsibility too much interfered with wine, women, and song. In office his foibles became scandals. His habit of having his own way with his own became petty tyranny. The situation was made to order for Alvarado’s adroitness. The político had not long to wait for Gutierrez to supply him with an excuse. Any excuse would do, if it were a good enough talking point. In no time Gutierrez had tangled himself up in a row about revenue. Alvarado rode the country preaching his slogan, California for Californians. He was disappointed in his hope of immediate support by Vallejo. Vallejo, with his usual caution, held off. He waited to see how the cat would jump. Vallejo has been criticized for this invariable policy, especially later at the time of the American conquest. The criticism is unjust. Vallejo followed, to be sure; but his country and his countrymen were near to his heart, and his wider vision showed him that it is sometimes better to work with than against the forces of the inevitable. Be that as it may, Alvarado came back alone to San José. There he managed to collect just thirteen enthusiasts, and with this army he marched toward Monterey!

But Alvarado’s political acumen was sound. The hour had struck. Others joined him en route. Among them, you may be sure, was Ramón Rivera, joyous at the prospect of “essport.” By the time he had reached the outskirts of Monterey he had with him seventy-five young rancheros, animated, it is to be feared, less by burning patriotism than desire for a lark. There they were joined by Isaac Graham and the miscellaneous lot of Americans, Indians, and Mexican renegades that hung around his distillery. This was an unexpected pleasure. They too had turned out for what fun there might be in it.

It was a wonderful army. The Californians were armed with lances and a few old muskets. With Isaac Graham were six American hunters, useful men with the rifle. The rest of the lot, to the number of about thirty, were sailors of all nationalities. These were armed, but not one of them could be relied upon to hit a barn from the inside. On the other hand the army was plentifully supplied with fifes and drums from the mission of San José. Also they had a cannon. The only drawback to that was that there was only one cannon ball, and no one knew anything whatever about cannons. On the other side Gutierrez had a large force of soldiers behind the walls of the presidio which was defended by artillery, some of it in a moderate state of efficiency.

Nevertheless the revolutionists entered into the affair zestfully. There was any number of bright ideas. They were carried out with enthusiasm. They marched and countermarched across open spaces—at a safe distance—to give an impression of numbers. They primed Indians to pass the word from mouth to mouth that this was just the advance guard of a force under Vallejo. Nothing like a good rumor or so. They mounted their lone cannon conspicuously. Alvarado and Ramón and Castro and Buelna and Noriega and some others put their heads together to compose a satisfactorily high-sounding pronunciamiento of the sort dear to the Latin soul, which they caused to be delivered to Gutierrez under a flag of truce. The messenger put on all the dog he could invent. Envoys were sent to the ships in harbor, soliciting support. The American captains were favorably inclined: their commercial interests were with the Californians. Steele of the Caroline and French of the Europe contributed powder and ball. Hinkley of the Don Quixote furnished no ammunition, but he sent a band of music. That helped. Also a dozen bottles of brandy. The besiegers were about to consume the latter, but Francisco Soto, a citizen of the town, had a better idea, so the drinkables were laid aside for the moment.

All this took time. About dark the leaders woke up to the fact that no reply had been received to the pronunciamiento. After earnest consultation it was resolved to stir matters up a bit with the cannon ball. A gentleman named Pina was confident he could get results, as he knew where there was a book on artillery practice. They gave him fifteen minutes to read up. Pina must have been a good student, for he managed to hit the commandant’s house. Almost immediately came a note from Gutierrez. It was rather pathetic. He wrote that he had never wanted the command; that it had been forced on him; and he had no desire to fight; but that now Alvarado was using force he would have to stay with it. Which might be considered as the end of round one.

The “siege” lasted until midnight. The investing army took the affair light-heartedly; as why not? They could go home any time they did not like it. In the meantime they did various pranks as occurred to them; so that Gutierrez, sitting in continuous council with his officers, was the recipient of various and alarming reports. The enemy was being constantly reinforced; it was mounting two more cannon; the ships in the harbor were landing their crews to help the attack. None of these was true; merely the exuberant youngsters were staging various shows of countermarching, of log dummies and of boats. However, the actual and provable news from within was not so good. The soldiers were deserting. The wily Francisco Soto was busy with the twelve bottles of brandy he had insisted on saving. As soon as he had a deserter drunk enough and impressed enough and scared enough, he turned him back into the presidio to spread the glad tidings. Part of this treatment was a glimpse of Isaac Graham, who was rapidly becoming drunk and disorderly. When drunk, Ike roared. By nine o’clock twenty-nine soldiers had deserted. There were only thirty-five left, and they were strongly for surrender. At midnight Gutierrez gave in. The show was over; except that Isaac Graham was, as the chronicler has it, “turbulent and had to be restrained.” Gutierrez followed Chico back to Mexico, together with some seventy others.

All these things Ramón told Andy later with great gusto and laughter.

“But it should be that you were there, valedor!” he lamented. “So soon as I hear I send here a message to Fol-ded Heels.”

“I know,” said Andy regretfully. “I was off after wild horses over in the valley. I’d like to have been there.”

Then they both proceeded to forget about it. That was settled. Andy was glad Alvarado had achieved his ambition. From time to time he listened to garbled news from visitors and neighbors that led him to believe his friend was not having too easy a time. He was sorry for that, but it was none of his immediate concern. According to the best informed it was the south again. They pretended to believe Carlos Carrillo had an appointment from Mexico. But there was some mix-up. Alvarado had gone south with Castro and considerable of a force. Some said the político was trying to set up California as a state independent of Mexico; others that Mexico had appointed him as soon as she had found out what kind of a fellow was Carlos Carrillo. What was the matter with Carlos? Nothing: nothing at all as a man, they hastened to tell him. But he listened to the one who was near him. Juan Bandini and those of la otra banda twisted him as they pleased. The first thing he did was to name Los Angeles as the capital! When Alvarado went south they did their best to keep Carlos away from him. There were a few cannon fired at long range. A valuable mule was killed. The appointment of Carlos was forged—it did not have a proper seal—it was signed by the wrong official—no one had seen it: thus came to him the various “stalls” by which Alvarado avoided recognizing the authority of Carlos until his own agents in Mexico should get results. The record of intrigue and counter-intrigue; of excursions south and excursions north; of conference and disruption—was too much for Andy even to attempt to follow. He knew that Alvarado finally won out, and was formally appointed as governor, and was glad. He liked the político and admired his advanced and enlightened ideas.

But Alvarado, whatever his enlightenment or his intentions, had no chance. He was kept much too busy by the upflame of small jealousies and ambitions. He sometimes wished the south would sink into the sea. Apparently they had much more time and inclination for politics than the north. Perhaps even then there was something in the climate! They were always, led by that pest Juan Bandini, thinking up new grievances and conspiracies and proceeding to intrigue together to the most astonishing results. They seemed to think of everything; but when it came to the showdown they were none too bold. Carlos Carrillo was enthusiastic for one or the other, depending on whom he had seen last. Alvarado kept Castro for a time at Santa Barbara, which the great personal influence of Señor Noriega kept neutral or for the constituted government of the north. On several occasions he had to go south himself, and there were alarums and excursions and a “battle” or so in which were one or two unfortunate accidents, so that some of the more careful parents began to feel the sport was becoming unnecessarily dangerous. But some of the more spirited took foolish chances. The ranges were extreme and the powder of a very low quality. It was considered sporting to try to stop the cannon balls with the hands as they rolled somnolently across the terrain.

Then too the business of the missions had come to its crisis. Alvarado was, on the whole, friendly to the missions. But his hands were tied by Mexico’s policy toward them; and under cover of the petty squabbles just described, the grafters, who had at last appeared, were very busy.

Under the scheme each mission had appointed over it a civil administrator. Immediately he had taken possession, one half of all the horses, cattle, sheep, or other animals were at once distributed to the Indians. Which finished that much, and very promptly; for few knew the value of what they received, and fewer still cared to keep it. They sold out to the first man who came along at the first price he offered. Then the most of them wandered off into the hills. That much damage was inevitable, whether the appointed administrator was honest—as many were—or out for his own, as in the majority of cases. Some of them were pretty bad. Strutting in Mexican pomposity, they ousted the padres from the rooms they had always occupied, and themselves took over all authority. Everything portable gradually disappeared. Cattle were slaughtered “to pay expenses” and “to meet the demands of the government.” Cattle in great numbers were “lent” to friends, of which few were ever repaid. The padres themselves, in self-defense, turned their remaining wealth, as far as they could do so, into money, which they concealed beneath the tilings. It had long been the accepted custom that the missions, on demand, supply provisions for the troops. Now many of these requisitions must be denied on the plea of poverty; they could hardly feed their own Indians, said they, and that denial furnished excuse for added oppression, if the civil administrator was unfriendly. Most of the Indians disappeared as soon as they had received their one half; of those who remained, who came back after squandering their shares, the great majority were intractable, mutinous against discipline. The gardens fell into neglect. The surrounding walls, the very buildings, their upkeep withdrawn, crumbled. The construction material of adobe bricks, together with the violence of the winter rains, lent aid to California’s speeded time ratio; so that swiftly the missions became venerable as with the weight of centuries, and so took on the ruin of remote antiquity. Their former grandeur, actually less than a decade past, moved sighing through their decaying and grass-grown corridors almost as a tradition.

Such was the picture at its worst and at its ultimate. But the change came to some more quickly than to others. Not all of the administrators were dishonest or indifferent; not all of the friars took it lying down. Even after such important missions as San Miguel, San Luis Obispo, San Diego had been wholly abandoned, even after nine others had been almost wholly destroyed, a few, like San Fernando, Santa Barbara, San Buenaventura, Santa Ynez, managed to hang on, to function moderately well equipped. But the institution, in its glory, had perished. By the time Alvarado had extricated himself from the maze of intrigues and petty revolutions that occupied all his attention until 1839, it was too late. He then appointed an American, Hartnell, as visitador, with authority over the various administrators as a body. Hartnell made a tour of what was left; then resigned. Matters had gone too far; the case was hopeless.

It is interesting to know that in all these years of mutiny and desertion, of destruction and pillage, wherein the Indians were allowed to run wild, there is no instance on record of the killing, or even an attack, on any of the padres.