The Little Lady of Lagunitas | Page 6

San Francisco in 1578,
and remained till the early months of 1579. Under the warrant of "good
Queen Bess" he landed, and set up a pillar bearing a "fair metal plate"
with a picture of that antiquated but regal coquette. He nailed on the
pillar a "fair struck silver five-pence," saluting the same with discharge
of culverins, much hearty English cheer and nautical jollity. The land
was English--by proscription.
Sir Francis, gallant and courtly, was, like many travellers, as skilful at
drawing the long bow as in wielding the rapier. He was not believed at
home.
Notwithstanding, he tarried months and visited the inland Indians,

bringing home many objects of interest, announcing "much gold and
silver," his voyage was vain. His real discovery was deemed of no
practical value. The robust Indians swarmed in thousands, living by the
watersides in huts, wearing deerskin cloaks and garments of rushes.
Hunters and fishers were they. They entertained the freebooter, and like
him have long since mouldered to ashes. Along the Pacific Coast great
mounds of shells, marking their tribal seaside feasts, are now frequently
unearthed. Their humble history is shadowed by the passing centuries.
They are only a memory, a shadow on Time's stream. Good Queen
Bess sleeps in the stately fane of Westminster. Sir Francis's sword is
rusted. The "brazen plate" recording that date and year is of a legendary
existence only. "Drake's Bay" alone keeps green the memory of the
daring cruiser. Even in one century the Spanish, Russian, Mexican, and
American flags successively floated over the unfrequented cliffs of
California. Two hundred years before, the English ensign kissed the air
in pride, unchallenged by the haughty Spaniard.
Miguel Peralta was happy. He had invited all the officials to attend the
nuptials by the Golden Gate. Venus was in the ascendant. The red
planet of Mars had set, he hoped, forever. The officers and gentry
contemplated a frolicsome ride around the Salinas bend, over the
beautiful passes to Santa Clara valley and the town of Yerba Buena.
Peralta's marriage was an excuse for general love making. A display of
all the bravery of attire and personal graces of man and maid was in
order.
The soldier drifted into the land of dreams haunted by Juanita Castro's
love-lit eyes and rare, shy smile. No vision disturbed him of the
foothold gained in Oregon by the Yankees. They sailed past the
entrance of San Francisco Bay, on the Columbia, in 1797, but they
found the great river of the northwest. They named it after their gallant
bark, said to be the legal property of one General Washington of
America.
The echoes of Revolutionary cannon hardly died away before the
eagle-guided Republic began to follow the star of empire to the
Occident.

Had the listless mariners seen that obscured inlet of the Golden Gate,
they had never braved the icy gales of the Oregon coast. Miguel
Peralta's broad acres might have had another lord. Bishop Berkeley's
prophecy was infallible. A fatal remissness seemed to characterize all
early foreign adventure on Californian coasts.
Admiral Vancouver in 1793 visited Monterey harbor, and failed to raise
the Union Jack, as supinely as the later British commanders in 1846.
French commanders, technically skilful and energetic, also ignored the
value of the western coast. As a result of occasional maritime visits, the
slender knowledge gained by these great navigators appears a
remarkable omission.
The night passed on. Breezes sweeping through the pines of Monterey
brought no murmur from the south and east of the thunder crash of
cannon on the unfought fields of Mexico.
No drowsy vaquero sentinel, watching the outposts of Monterey, could
catch a sound of the rumbling wheels and tramping feet of that vast
western immigration soon to tread wearily the old overland and the
great southern route.
The soldier, nodding over his flint-lock as the white stars dropped into
the western blue, saw no glitter of the sails of hostile Yankee frigates.
Soon they would toss in pride at anchor here, and salute the starry flag
of a new sovereignty. The little twinkling star to be added for
California was yet veiled behind the blue field of our country's banner.
Bright sun flashes dancing over the hills awoke the drowsy sacristan.
The hallowed "Bells of Carmel" called the faithful to mass.
Monterey, in reverse order of its social grades, rose yawning from the
feast. Fandangos and bailes of the day of victory tired all. Lazy
"mozos" lolled about the streets. A few revellers idly compared notes
of the day's doings.
In front of the government offices, squads of agile horses awaited
haughty riders. A merry cavalcade watched for Captain Miguel Peralta.

He was to be escorted out of the Pueblo by the "jeunesse doree" of Alta
California.
Clad in green jackets buttoned with Mexican dollars, riding leggings